Gertrude by Hassan Najmi

Author:Hassan Najmi [Najmi, Hassan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781566569712
Publisher: Interlink Publishing Group Inc

8. GERTRUDE’S SALON

Saturday, after a normal, event-free Friday.

The day before and even the day before that had gone by without his doing anything worthwhile. Usually, if Muhammad had nothing to do inside the house and no requirements for Gertrude, he would go out and find something to do far removed from the routine in his rooftop room. True enough, once in a while he would prefer to put up with Alice’s chatter about cooking or women’s stuff, while she would listen to him talking about his country, about Tangier, his childhood, his family, his revelations about life and people, his readings, his first attempts at art, and other things.…

Muhammad would enjoy spending time wandering the streets of Paris and its empty back alleys. He used to meander slowly from one quarter to another, looking at the buildings, the bridges over the Seine, and the rush of people. He could feel the heavy burden of the present and the dust of history on the walls, some of which stood lofty and strong while others were chipped away at the edges or in the sculpted façade. Everything drew him in—clotheslines full of washing, colored shirts, shops and stalls in rows under the arches of tall buildings, vegetable markets, fishmongers, sellers of roasted pork, and vendors of novelties. The things that most attracted him about Paris were the fiacres and the gypsy suburb. He was unable to conceal his silent desire for a leather vest like Moldovan’s, a violin like Alalto’s, a plaintive flute like Emilian’s, or a soft-toned drum like Helena’s. Why did he not own a leaden horse with heavy hooves pounding on the asphalt and a cart with rubber wheels? Why was he not a gypsy cabdriver who would spend his days on the Paris streets and return home in the evening to the gypsy suburb?

All the time Muhammad spent in Paris, the gypsy suburb was, as far as he was concerned, the very heart of Paris! The entire universe of tin, wood, verdant arbors; those grave robbers, barbers, trainers, clowns, troubadour singers, beggars, servants, thieves, fortune-tellers, exchangeable escorts—all of them found within his heart a haven for love and interaction. It was only there, either on his own or in other people’s company, that he actually discovered his own self.

Within the scope of that mire, made up of dust kneaded together with rainwater and the sweat of people’s brows, he was able to contemplate another kind of humanity, one that lived in life’s suburbs, not acknowledging time or anything else—as though, in shifting from Gertrude’s apartment to a totally different scenario, he were leaving the twentieth century and returning to another, earlier one. Families with lots of children; semi-naked women, breasts exposed; men unconcerned about sinister looks, with scruffy hair, bushy moustaches, and sharp-eyed expressions. Their clothes looked soiled, covered in the dust of roads and frequent travel; smoke drifted from many fires; and children were charging around in clumps like multicolored pieces of cloth. This man from Tangier

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