The Scents of Marie-Claire by Habib Selmi

Author:Habib Selmi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The American University in Cairo Press
Published: 2010-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

12

I tried not to make a sound as I opened the door. The room was dark, but there was a faint light entering from the street through the curtains, which were not completely closed, and which also allowed me to see the bed clearly. I approached it slowly. I removed the cover and slid into bed.

As soon as my head hit the pillow, I realized that I was wearier than I had thought, and that the day, which would be over after a few endless minutes, seemed very long. Unlike other days, my work at the hotel had worn me out. And the lecture that I was to give to the students tomorrow, after a long absence from teaching, had taken longer to prepare than I had expected.

Marie-Claire was lying on her right side facing the window. I listened for her breathing and deduced from its evenness that she was fast asleep. I lay on my back and began thinking of what I had just read as I waited to join her. Suddenly I felt her move and turn to face me. I felt her hand fall heavily on the top of my shoulder; I heard her mumble:

“What was your relationship with her like?”

I did not say anything and I did not move. I thought she was dreaming. But I was surprised by her warm fingers sliding over my shoulder, and I heard her ask the same question again, this time with a clearer voice.

“What was your relationship with her like?”

“Whom are you talking about?”

She fell silent for a while as though afraid to reply.

“Your mother.”

“My mother? What made you think of her now?”

“I don’t know.”

I no longer remembered when I had first spoken to Marie-Claire about my mother. I also do not know why I had once told her that what remained in my memory of her facial features had begun to fade, and that I could not recall those features from photographs, as my mother had never stood in front of a camera. But ever since I had told her all that, my mother had became a topic that Marie-Claire enjoyed talking about.

It was obvious from the many questions she heaped on me that what she felt for my mother was part compassion and even part affection. I cannot deny that I sometimes admired her as I listened attentively to what she had to say, and it seemed to me that she paid far greater attention to my mother than to her own, who was forgotten in some rural village.

Sometimes I was annoyed by all this attention, however, because I felt that Marie-Claire was subconsciously turning my mother into an exotic, attention-grabbing topic, an interesting, curious one that satisfied her curiosity, enriched her imagination, and fed her inquisitive nature.

Here she was returning to the subject again, and because I was certain she would not stop asking her questions until I had answered her, I said in a very low voice so that she could understand that I was very tired, “It was an ordinary relationship.

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