Abdellah Taïa’s latest novel to appear in English is Living in Your Light, translated by Emma Ramaan, published by Seven Stories Press. This brief excerpt is from Taïa’s latest novel in French, Le Bastion des Larmes (Julliard 2024), winner of the Prix Décembre 2024.
Abdallah Taïa
Translated from French by Jordan Elgrably
At the end of night, there is no night. We’re going to Heaven. That’s for sure. We’ve suffered enough in this hell, in this prison they call the world. Society. Life. Soon, we’ll be rid of this endless tunnel and eternal silence. Take heart. There’ll be no more night, Youssef. Promise.
Najib was talking to me. He appeared in my dream, in Paris, three weeks before I left for Morocco.
A decade after our mother’s death, I had to go back to my city, Salé, where I’d lived for twenty-five years, for a very specific reason: to sell my mother’s apartment. To sell the last link that attached me to my former life. To sell quickly and return to France.
Najib in my dream was tall, skinny, very dark-eyed, exactly as I’d known him long ago, in what seemed like another life. My adolescence. He looked at me very hard.
Shame on you, Youssef, you forgot me. You’ve forgotten. How could you? Shame on you, Youssef, you took me out of your heart and out of your love. And out of your head. Why, Youssef? Shame on you, Youssef. Only I could guide you through the jungle of our Hay Salam neighborhood. Teach you how to stay out of danger. Avoid the traps and the murderous words. I was your master, Youssef, and this is how you reward me! I was your brother. Your only gay brother. You left for Paris, to live in freedom, and you never gave me any news. You didn’t try to find me, to renew contact, to resurrect our tenderness. You never came back to recite once more your little Arabic poems, the ones you learned at school. You see, I remember everything. As soon as you left the lycée next to Nasr cinema, you’d come running to me. You didn’t always find me in my usual place, in the Café Gloria, at the far end of the kif-smoking room. Yet you kept looking for me everywhere, with your little gifts. The classic Arabic poems you’d just studied in class and memorized along the way. You wanted to give them to me, those Arabic words written centuries ago. Words that had been extinguished, but now came back to life thanks to you. You, Youssef. You who come to me…
Eventually you find me. I’m in the Aïn Houala forest, opposite the Hay Salam villas. I’ve been lying on the ground for hours now, thinking again and again about how to get through life. Save myself. Write my future.
I’m under no illusions. This is the end for me. I look at it, at this end, it attracts me, it haunts me, I must resist it but I don’t know how. I’m on my own.
I’m twenty-four. You sixteen.
You can’t guess at the dark thoughts and doom-laden plans that run through my head and my heart. Only your old Arabic poem obsesses you. Your gift. Your smile. Your lips. Your eyes. Your hand. Your innocence. Your hope. Your sadness.
I helped you survive Hay Salam. I protected you, sometimes. I spoke to you truthfully, nakedly. I told you that you had every right to be what you were. Against all odds. Gay. A little gay boy. Youssef, look at me. I’m Najib. And I’m like you, too.
The forest is quiet, soft. You lie down on the ground beside me. You rest your head on my arm. For a few moments, we enjoy the silence. We live together in communion with the trees, in the shade, in peace. Far from war.
Then you take a deep breath and go for it. You name the poet: Abu Firas al-Hamdani. And you start reciting his poem. Very slowly. So that I can grasp and understand everything. Such deep verses about love, of course. All the time. Love and its prisons. Love and its downfalls. Love and its ghosts.
I turn my eyes to you. I look at you. I’m more and more moved. I am happy. I know I’ll never get this chance again. An Arabic poem recited just for me. My little Youssef all free and happy just for me.
I close my eyes. I’m listening. The forest is listening too.
I see you fight tears and patient. Love can neither give your orders nor subdue you. Yes, I have lack and fire in me
But I’m one of those people who can’t share their secret.
When the night lights me up, I reach out for love
And I will be humbled by the tears of its greatness. It’s like a fire between my wings
When she fires my desire and my thoughts. She promises union and without her death. If I die thirsty, not a drop will fall.
She asks me who you are, knowing the answer.
Is it easy for a young man like me to be ignored?
I answer him as you wish, you and love.
I’m your victim. Of which she says there are so many.
Maybe that’s what true happiness is, eternal happiness. Just before dying, to remember this, this gesture. A young gay man who gives me a poem in Arabic, enveloping my heart with its tenderness and vivacity. A gay Moroccan who, one day, is no longer afraid and chooses me to accompany him on this path. You, Youssef. I’ll never forget that miracle. And our forest. You’ve finished reciting the poem. We remain silent. Filled with the beauty of Abu Firas al-Hamdani’s verses. At this very moment, we live only for ourselves, between ourselves. Us and the poet. Next to the trees. Without the others, the heterosexuals and their dictatorship. At some point, you get up and leave without saying goodbye. You disappear into the forest. I murmur: Thank you. Choukran.
Youssef. I’m still in your sleep and in your dream. You don’t remember any of this, do ? Open your eyes. Open them and dare to tell me that I no longer exist in you. Nor in your heart. Nor in your memory. Nor on your road. Open your eyes and say my name. Can you hear me?
Have you forgotten my name?
