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Authors: Ahlem Mosteghanemi
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hello to him.
Before I had asked him his news, he presented the mutual friend who was with him. ‘See who I’ve brought with me?’
This was an additional surprise. ‘Hello Si Mustafa,’ I exclaimed. ‘How are you? It’s good to see you.’
Si Mustafa embraced me in turn and said with affection, ‘How are you, sir? If we didn’t come to you, we’d never see you or what?’ Out of politeness, I asked him in turn for his news. I took the fact of Si Sharif’s accompanying him and excessive praise for him as proof of the rumours that he was up for some ministerial post.
Si Sharif scolded me with an affection I found genuine. ‘My brother, is it conceivable that we both live in this city and you don’t even once think of visiting me? Two years I’ve been here, and you know my address.’
Half-serious and half in jest, Si Mustafa intervened, ‘Do you think he’s boycotting us? How else to explain his absence?’
I answered honestly, ‘Never! It’s just that it’s not easy for someone living in exile to pack up their things and come back. As they say, exile is a bad habit that people pick up. I’ve acquired several bad habits here.’ We laughed, and the conversation moved politely on to other subjects.
As they toured the exhibition, it was only when they stopped in front of one of the paintings that I realised Si Mustafa had come because he wanted to acquire a picture or two. He said, ‘I want to keep something of yours as a memento. Don’t you remember that you started to paint when we were together in Tunis? I can still remember your first paintings. I was the first person you showed your work to in those days. Have you forgotten?’
No, I hadn’t forgotten. But how I wished right then that I could have. I felt quite embarrassed as he tried to take me back to that period.
Si Mustafa was a mutual friend of Si Sharif’s and mine from liberation days. He was part of the group under Si Taher’s command, and one of the wounded transferred with me to Tunis for treatment. He spent three months in hospital there. Then he returned to the Front, where he remained in the liberation army until independence, rising to the rank of major.
Once upon a time he had honour and believed in the struggle. I had a lot of respect and affection for him. Gradually, his balance with me dwindled, while his other balances ballooned by various means and in various currencies. He was just like those before him who had made it to lucrative positions, which they shuffled among themselves in a studied division of the spoils.
Yet he in particular interested and saddened me. He had been a comrade in arms for two whole years. Lots of minor incidents had linked us in the past, and memory, despite everything, couldn’t ignore them. Perhaps the most moving was when I was leaving the hospital in Tunis. A nurse gave me his clothes, the blood newly dried on them. In the pocket of his jacket I came across his identity card, which was barely readable through the bloodstains. I kept it to give back to him later. But he returned to the Front without knowing I had it, or perhaps without even asking after it. After all, where he was going there was no need for an identity card.
In 1973 I came across that card by chance among my old papers. I was packing up my things at the time in preparation to leave Algeria for Paris. I wavered between keeping it and giving it back to him, for I knew that this identity was not really his any more. I wanted to confront him with memory, but without saying anything. Being on the verge of exile, perhaps I wanted to end my relationship with the ID card that since 1957 had accompanied me from country to country. By placing him and his things outside memory, it was as though I was ending my relationship with the homeland.
Si Mustafa got a shock when, after sixteen years, I took the ID card out of my pocket and handed it to him. Was he more confused that moment or was I? As I was handing it over, I suddenly felt I
Before I had asked him his news, he presented the mutual friend who was with him. ‘See who I’ve brought with me?’
This was an additional surprise. ‘Hello Si Mustafa,’ I exclaimed. ‘How are you? It’s good to see you.’
Si Mustafa embraced me in turn and said with affection, ‘How are you, sir? If we didn’t come to you, we’d never see you or what?’ Out of politeness, I asked him in turn for his news. I took the fact of Si Sharif’s accompanying him and excessive praise for him as proof of the rumours that he was up for some ministerial post.
Si Sharif scolded me with an affection I found genuine. ‘My brother, is it conceivable that we both live in this city and you don’t even once think of visiting me? Two years I’ve been here, and you know my address.’
Half-serious and half in jest, Si Mustafa intervened, ‘Do you think he’s boycotting us? How else to explain his absence?’
I answered honestly, ‘Never! It’s just that it’s not easy for someone living in exile to pack up their things and come back. As they say, exile is a bad habit that people pick up. I’ve acquired several bad habits here.’ We laughed, and the conversation moved politely on to other subjects.
As they toured the exhibition, it was only when they stopped in front of one of the paintings that I realised Si Mustafa had come because he wanted to acquire a picture or two. He said, ‘I want to keep something of yours as a memento. Don’t you remember that you started to paint when we were together in Tunis? I can still remember your first paintings. I was the first person you showed your work to in those days. Have you forgotten?’
No, I hadn’t forgotten. But how I wished right then that I could have. I felt quite embarrassed as he tried to take me back to that period.
Si Mustafa was a mutual friend of Si Sharif’s and mine from liberation days. He was part of the group under Si Taher’s command, and one of the wounded transferred with me to Tunis for treatment. He spent three months in hospital there. Then he returned to the Front, where he remained in the liberation army until independence, rising to the rank of major.
Once upon a time he had honour and believed in the struggle. I had a lot of respect and affection for him. Gradually, his balance with me dwindled, while his other balances ballooned by various means and in various currencies. He was just like those before him who had made it to lucrative positions, which they shuffled among themselves in a studied division of the spoils.
Yet he in particular interested and saddened me. He had been a comrade in arms for two whole years. Lots of minor incidents had linked us in the past, and memory, despite everything, couldn’t ignore them. Perhaps the most moving was when I was leaving the hospital in Tunis. A nurse gave me his clothes, the blood newly dried on them. In the pocket of his jacket I came across his identity card, which was barely readable through the bloodstains. I kept it to give back to him later. But he returned to the Front without knowing I had it, or perhaps without even asking after it. After all, where he was going there was no need for an identity card.
In 1973 I came across that card by chance among my old papers. I was packing up my things at the time in preparation to leave Algeria for Paris. I wavered between keeping it and giving it back to him, for I knew that this identity was not really his any more. I wanted to confront him with memory, but without saying anything. Being on the verge of exile, perhaps I wanted to end my relationship with the ID card that since 1957 had accompanied me from country to country. By placing him and his things outside memory, it was as though I was ending my relationship with the homeland.
Si Mustafa got a shock when, after sixteen years, I took the ID card out of my pocket and handed it to him. Was he more confused that moment or was I? As I was handing it over, I suddenly felt I
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