Catherine Vincent
I arrive in front of Hotel Peron where I have an appointment with Vincent. The façade is sublime, white and majestic, facing the sea. I can imagine the sun-covered bed. I hurry upstairs. I want to arrive before him so I can write “I was on the bed; I read, and I was smoking,” as Walter Benjamin writes in his account. We had been promising ourselves this elegant daytime rendezvous in a hotel for a long time, so we may love each other passionately by day, and under the influence of hashish.
Vincent Commaret and Catherine Estrade in front of Marseille’s Hotel Peron (all photos courtesy of Farah Alimi, unless otherwise noted). Click each image to listen to a Catherine Vincent song.
In Berlin, where Vincent and I spent a month last year, we also listened to our footsteps. I wore heeled boots, which hit the pavement smartly, making it resonate. We walked at night through the dimly-lit streets of Kreuzberg. Vincent showed me how to hold the recorder, how to orient it as I recorded my steps. We were happy with this sonic find that would later evoke our stroll. We used this sound to pace our conversations about our character in the making, Jamel Ibntrewan (an anagram of Walter Benjamin).
Café in Berlin…(click here to listen).
So we moved away from Mediterranean sweetness, its blue sky and bright light, and dived into the German capital with its short days and pale glow. We were certain that it was in this city that we would find Jamel Ibntrewan. Walter Benjamin had to flee Berlin, because he was Jewish and opposed to Nazism, and today it is home to thousands of Syrian refugees. Since 2015, we have been impressed every time by the large presence of Syrians in Berlin’s neighborhoods, from Schonberg and Neukiln to Grunewald. In January 2020, we hung out mostly in Sonnenalle, “Street of the Arabs.” Everything reminded us of Damascus: the people, pastries, chicha bars, jewelry stores, and restaurants of course, where all of a sudden we felt less foreign because we could order in Arabic — we who do not speak German.
In crossing Tiergarten that marked Walter Benjamin’s childhood, we find, on one side of the park, the building that houses the archives on the second floor of a very austere grey building. On the wall of a corridor hangs a large map of Berlin: the black dots indicate all the places in the city where Benjamin lived, and the white dots show the public places he frequented. On the other side of the park lies the Philharmonic which offers free concerts every Tuesday at 1 pm. The hall is regularly filled with a heterogeneous crowd, relaxed but also very attentive in anticipation of a concert that lasts a little less than an hour. We loved the atmosphere of this weekly event, the sober décor, the hushed light of this vast building.
Catherine Estrade (Photo courtesy Judy Al Rashi).
Walter Benjamin circa 1928
_________
Night is falling. On the horizon, the hills of the blue coast on the other side of the harbor of Marseille remind me of Damascus. I know it has nothing to do with Damascus—only the urge to think of it. And yet it is I find myself still suspended in memories of Berlin. That memorable evening with R and F, two Syrian friends, spent in shisha bars. We had been there with F for some time and I was observing. There were only Arab men, all dressed similarly, wearing tailored garments to highlight their very muscular bodies, sleeked-back hair, well-cut beards. When R, who lives in Berlin, joined us, I asked him the question in Arabic. How is it that there is not a flag of the revolution, a poster, something to indicate the political color of this café? And his answer came in a voice even more hushed than I used to ask my question: they are all pro-Hezbollah here! Frightened, the three of us took a leap backwards and our reaction made us burst out laughing!
Berlin, city of exiles; Marseille, city of emigrants. Are these emigrants the exiles of yesterday? In 1940 Walter Benjamin had come to Marseille for the last time. He who had loved to visit was this time only passing through. The city was teeming with foreigners fleeing Europe, who were waiting for the many permits needed to leave. Having not obtained the exit visa from France, he crossed the border clandestinely to Spain. Arrested by the police in Portbou he chose to commit suicide so as not to be handed over to the Gestapo.
Catherine and Vincent stroll along the Corniche.
__________
This essay is written with four hands by Catherine Vincent, a folksong duo based in Marseille, with Catherine Estrade and Vincent Commaret. Their duo was born in Damascus, Syria, where they lived in the early 2000s.
Click to listen…
pdata-rte-preserve-empty=”true”
Recommended Reading
Books by Walter Benjamin:
A Berlin Childhood Around 1900
On Hashish
Reflections: Essays, Aphorisms, Autobiographical Writings
About him:
On Walter Benjamin’s Legacy in the Los Angeles Review of Books
La vie de Walter Benjamin wbenjamin.org
