A Country for Dying by Abdellah Taïa

Author:Abdellah Taïa
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: france;french;french literature;gay fiction;sexuality;translation;lgbt fiction;literary fiction;book club recommendations;book club books;top books;novels;fiction;transgender;gay;fiction books;lgbt;lgbt books;books fiction;literature;realistic fiction books;good books;transgender fiction;lgbtq books;lgbtq;gay books;gay book;feminism;short stories;classic;friendship;drama;gender;family;literary;obsession;power;romance books;jazz;love story;relationships;affair;feminist;turkish;philosophy;art
Publisher: Seven Stories Press
Published: 2020-05-11T15:01:53+00:00

2. Green Everywhere

Mojtaba. That’s his name.

He fled his country, Iran. A year ago.

He had always dreamed of going to France to visit the Jardin du Luxembourg. And to do so, he had to go to Paris.

Mojtaba wants to live in London or Stockholm. He doesn’t know yet which of those two cities to choose. But he must make a final decision in a few days. Between now and the end of the month of Ramadan.

Mojtaba was lost near the Couronnes metro stop when I met him. He was standing at the station exit. He looked completely disoriented, in a huge panic. All around him, nothing but Arabs who had come to that neighborhood, the night before the beginning of the sacred month, to buy the necessary provisions: dates, dried fruit, honey cakes, little bottles of orange blossom water, special herbs, essences, oils, and countless other things. Like everyone else, I had also come to do some grocery shopping, pretend, convince myself for no reason that Ramadan in Paris had meaning, was worthwhile. I was lying to myself, of course. But by now it had been a long time since that bothered me.

I don’t know why I walked towards Mojtaba. A need to do good? To save someone? Perhaps.

I planted myself in front of him. I looked at him. He lifted his eyes towards me. And then, I saw what he really looked like. In a word: he was sublime. A magnificent young man. And, clearly, lost.

I could tell right away that he wasn’t Arab. Muslim, yes, but not Arab. He was also tender, sweet, melancholic. That was obvious immediately. Something in him was similar to me, familiar.

It wasn’t love at first sight.

Compelled by some kind of fraternal sentiment, I moved towards him. I had no control over it.

His eyes were tired, his cheeks very hollow. He had a soft beard that asked to be caressed. His limbs were weary. He seemed to be beyond exhaustion. It was clear he was going to fall over, faint, any second now.

Mojtaba kept looking at me.

I grasped every part of his soul. I watched his destiny unfurl entirely in front of me.

He comes from far away, this boy, very far away. He’s been wandering for a long time. He sets off. He moves around permanently. He no longer has a center. He no longer knows where to find the energy that will keep him alive.

I drew closer to him. I linked my arm through his. He needed it. He asked me a question, in broken, charming French:

“Is Barbès far?”

I answered with a big smile:

“Not really. A little farther on the 2 line.”

He didn’t have time to hear my response. He lost consciousness.

Outside of a moment of sexual ecstasy, I had never seen that before. A fainting man who loses control of his body, his mind, his energy. A falling man.

I fell with him, trying to hold him up, to slow the downward momentum of his body. I succeeded.

Now my butt was on the ground and the young man in my arms.

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