wouldnât begin in Constantinople. He wouldnât begin with his arrival in New York, or even with his introduction to the Dredging Club of the Brooklyn Institute. He would begin in the outpost of El Kef, in that godforsaken dirt alley where he lost his way in 1879 after making the mistake of smoking a rare hashish offered to him by a proprietor of a tea shop.
But it could hardly be called smoking when all heâd done was take one quick puff, the bamboo stem still moist from the lips of the old Berber who had offered him the pipe. He hadnât felt any change in the quality of his consciousness after that single puff, but he eventually felt something ⦠was it three days, or three hours, later? The hashish had followed him and spun its web, snaring his thoughts, so he couldnât remember how heâd come to this place, or where he was supposed to be.
Back then he was still a naive traveler and hadnât learned the importance of always mapping out his route. He knew, at least, that he was in an outpost called El Kef, in the northwest corner of Tunisia. But in his muddled state that day he could not posit a self capable of remembering why he had come here in the first place. He remembered that once as a sublieutenant for the French military he had visited El Kef. He wasnât a sublieutenant anymore, so why was he back? He had the vague impression that heâd returned to the village to search for something heâd misplaced, but he couldnât remember what it was.
He stumbled along a path bordered by polished black stones. For no good reason, he tried to catch up with a goat that was trotting urgently, as though fleeing the slaughterhouse. At the juncture of the path and the hard-packed road leading out of the palm grove, he lost sight of the goat and wasnât sure which way to turn. He turned left, crossed between beds of dense, spiky aloe, and passed through a low archway, entering a corridor that curved endlessly into the darkness and promised to lead nowhere.
As he moved forward, he was reminded of walking down a beach into the water. The ground was soft-packed sand like a beach, and the walls were a lemony, dimpled limestone. Moving farther along the corridor, he expected the darkness to be impenetrable. But as he rounded a bend, he saw a glow trickling in from a distant opening.
For a man who didnât know where he was going or how he had ended up in his current location, light was a more appealing destination than darkness, and he quickened his pace. Now at least he was a man with a sense of direction. With each step his purpose intensified. He was not just a man walking forward toward the source of light. He was a man who for a reason he couldnât yet articulate was hopeful that soon his whereabouts would be clarified. Hope, then, was a welcome attribute, and as a hopeful man whose boots crunched the top layer of sand he proceeded along the corridor.
He was increasingly hopeful as his senses had more to identify. There was the faint, greasy smell of his own sweat, the bitter taste of lime dust in his mouth, the occasional crumbling when his hand rubbed along the wall. Eventually he heard what he thought was the rustling of palm leaves in the breeze. But the source of the sound wasnât the wind moving through the palms, he realized as he drew closer. It was human breath moving from the lungs and emitted through pursed lips as murmurs.
Murmurs signaled that he had reason to be wary. He was hopeful and wary as he approached the source of the light and the murmuring. New questions came to mind. Should he be silent and observe the scene ahead of him without revealing his presence, or should he arrive with a bellow of a greeting?
He didnât have a chance to decide, for he was suddenly there, where the corridor opened up to a doorless entrance and the white light of the sun created a cube amid the shadows occupied by three white-robed, turbaned men. Two were
But it could hardly be called smoking when all heâd done was take one quick puff, the bamboo stem still moist from the lips of the old Berber who had offered him the pipe. He hadnât felt any change in the quality of his consciousness after that single puff, but he eventually felt something ⦠was it three days, or three hours, later? The hashish had followed him and spun its web, snaring his thoughts, so he couldnât remember how heâd come to this place, or where he was supposed to be.
Back then he was still a naive traveler and hadnât learned the importance of always mapping out his route. He knew, at least, that he was in an outpost called El Kef, in the northwest corner of Tunisia. But in his muddled state that day he could not posit a self capable of remembering why he had come here in the first place. He remembered that once as a sublieutenant for the French military he had visited El Kef. He wasnât a sublieutenant anymore, so why was he back? He had the vague impression that heâd returned to the village to search for something heâd misplaced, but he couldnât remember what it was.
He stumbled along a path bordered by polished black stones. For no good reason, he tried to catch up with a goat that was trotting urgently, as though fleeing the slaughterhouse. At the juncture of the path and the hard-packed road leading out of the palm grove, he lost sight of the goat and wasnât sure which way to turn. He turned left, crossed between beds of dense, spiky aloe, and passed through a low archway, entering a corridor that curved endlessly into the darkness and promised to lead nowhere.
As he moved forward, he was reminded of walking down a beach into the water. The ground was soft-packed sand like a beach, and the walls were a lemony, dimpled limestone. Moving farther along the corridor, he expected the darkness to be impenetrable. But as he rounded a bend, he saw a glow trickling in from a distant opening.
For a man who didnât know where he was going or how he had ended up in his current location, light was a more appealing destination than darkness, and he quickened his pace. Now at least he was a man with a sense of direction. With each step his purpose intensified. He was not just a man walking forward toward the source of light. He was a man who for a reason he couldnât yet articulate was hopeful that soon his whereabouts would be clarified. Hope, then, was a welcome attribute, and as a hopeful man whose boots crunched the top layer of sand he proceeded along the corridor.
He was increasingly hopeful as his senses had more to identify. There was the faint, greasy smell of his own sweat, the bitter taste of lime dust in his mouth, the occasional crumbling when his hand rubbed along the wall. Eventually he heard what he thought was the rustling of palm leaves in the breeze. But the source of the sound wasnât the wind moving through the palms, he realized as he drew closer. It was human breath moving from the lungs and emitted through pursed lips as murmurs.
Murmurs signaled that he had reason to be wary. He was hopeful and wary as he approached the source of the light and the murmuring. New questions came to mind. Should he be silent and observe the scene ahead of him without revealing his presence, or should he arrive with a bellow of a greeting?
He didnât have a chance to decide, for he was suddenly there, where the corridor opened up to a doorless entrance and the white light of the sun created a cube amid the shadows occupied by three white-robed, turbaned men. Two were
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