From here I see the faded mosaic of a lion on the bottom of the empty fountain, coloured in weak yellow and traced in chipped black.
Laforche says, ‘Animals have always been our others, no matter what the Church instructs. In battle, wherever you saw lions rampant on silk parasols, you saw a king.’ He gestures at the courtyard. ‘Once this was a garden with fabled greenery, an oasis in the desert. Did you know that a garden appears in nine hundred of the one thousand and one stories of the Arabian Nights?’
He looks at the dry plain, his eyes half closed. ‘They say there were oceans filled with fish. Then savannas with animals. The gardens of Abu N’af ran in terraces all the way down to a vast lake. Orchards to the horizon, with the finest apricots and dates and oranges.’
‘Fresh water?’
‘Fresh water.’
We are silent, awed by the richness of the image. Near the shadows of the chicken, I see paws moving under the dirt.
‘In the desert,’ says Laforche, ‘there is no greater wealth than water and flowers. Loss of the oasis is banishment from the garden paradise. Homelessness.’
‘But this isn’t home.’ I rub my neck. ‘It’s dust.’
He turns quickly, the fastest I have seen him move. ‘It is an entire country underground. Everything in the desert buries itself to survive: animals, plants, people.’ He puts down his coffee. ‘We have always buried our art: relics and statues, the locations passed down from father to son. We buried libraries in the sand. Any person could pick up a handful of sand and feel knowledge trickling through their fingers. There were families who, even though they had nothing, walked with the arrogance of those who were rich in treasure.’
He raises both arms, as though he is holding the desert and the sky. ‘Returning travellers fell to their knees and kissed the earth. They knew the desert is a secret life waiting to be found.’
‘I don’t have time,’ I say. ‘Don’t you understand?’
His arms drop. ‘Maybe it is beyond your control. Maybe you don’t have the right to make decisions about – ’ He pauses.
‘About her?’ I step forward. ‘And you think you do?’
‘Take off your tie, Monsieur,’ he says. ‘That would be a start.’
The generator begins its steady thudding beat. Laforche shakes his head irritably but somehow, in between the dulled strokes, I am more aware of the silence of the desert, how far we are from the city, from Mitch’s bullet-point memos and deadlines. Even the word “silence” is misleading. I hear whispers inside the sky; I imagine the wind pressing down on lost civilisations, solitaries, map-makers. Criminals.
The Asylum has ten patients, Laforche says, all women. Six novices at the most, instructed under Sister Antony. ‘This from a century ago, Rimbaud’s time, when a hundred, two hundred, would be cared for here. Travellers, leprosy sufferers, French soldiers with the usual desert sicknesses: syphilis, opium addiction.’
He takes out an immaculate white handkerchief and pats his face although there is no sweat that I can see. I shift uneasily; my shirt is sticking to my back.
‘The good Sister thinks prayers will be enough to save the Asylum,’ says Laforche. ‘The Church, of course, hears so many prayers it has become immune. “Asylum” is not a friendly word.’
‘Sister Antony will go?’
‘To a bed in a less desirable convent. She made enemies thirty years ago with her criticism, her attempts at improvements. True solitaries are always feared. And the Church has a long memory. She will be working until the day she dies.’
We walk through the archway, climb two circles of broad stone steps and come out into a hexagonal room. There are narrow windows set in every wall. Light pours in yet the stone keeps the heat out, so far. The shutters are clipped back and here, finally, is the wind. It flows across the room, pressing sand flecks into my cheek.
There are two long desks piled with books
Laforche says, ‘Animals have always been our others, no matter what the Church instructs. In battle, wherever you saw lions rampant on silk parasols, you saw a king.’ He gestures at the courtyard. ‘Once this was a garden with fabled greenery, an oasis in the desert. Did you know that a garden appears in nine hundred of the one thousand and one stories of the Arabian Nights?’
He looks at the dry plain, his eyes half closed. ‘They say there were oceans filled with fish. Then savannas with animals. The gardens of Abu N’af ran in terraces all the way down to a vast lake. Orchards to the horizon, with the finest apricots and dates and oranges.’
‘Fresh water?’
‘Fresh water.’
We are silent, awed by the richness of the image. Near the shadows of the chicken, I see paws moving under the dirt.
‘In the desert,’ says Laforche, ‘there is no greater wealth than water and flowers. Loss of the oasis is banishment from the garden paradise. Homelessness.’
‘But this isn’t home.’ I rub my neck. ‘It’s dust.’
He turns quickly, the fastest I have seen him move. ‘It is an entire country underground. Everything in the desert buries itself to survive: animals, plants, people.’ He puts down his coffee. ‘We have always buried our art: relics and statues, the locations passed down from father to son. We buried libraries in the sand. Any person could pick up a handful of sand and feel knowledge trickling through their fingers. There were families who, even though they had nothing, walked with the arrogance of those who were rich in treasure.’
He raises both arms, as though he is holding the desert and the sky. ‘Returning travellers fell to their knees and kissed the earth. They knew the desert is a secret life waiting to be found.’
‘I don’t have time,’ I say. ‘Don’t you understand?’
His arms drop. ‘Maybe it is beyond your control. Maybe you don’t have the right to make decisions about – ’ He pauses.
‘About her?’ I step forward. ‘And you think you do?’
‘Take off your tie, Monsieur,’ he says. ‘That would be a start.’
The generator begins its steady thudding beat. Laforche shakes his head irritably but somehow, in between the dulled strokes, I am more aware of the silence of the desert, how far we are from the city, from Mitch’s bullet-point memos and deadlines. Even the word “silence” is misleading. I hear whispers inside the sky; I imagine the wind pressing down on lost civilisations, solitaries, map-makers. Criminals.
The Asylum has ten patients, Laforche says, all women. Six novices at the most, instructed under Sister Antony. ‘This from a century ago, Rimbaud’s time, when a hundred, two hundred, would be cared for here. Travellers, leprosy sufferers, French soldiers with the usual desert sicknesses: syphilis, opium addiction.’
He takes out an immaculate white handkerchief and pats his face although there is no sweat that I can see. I shift uneasily; my shirt is sticking to my back.
‘The good Sister thinks prayers will be enough to save the Asylum,’ says Laforche. ‘The Church, of course, hears so many prayers it has become immune. “Asylum” is not a friendly word.’
‘Sister Antony will go?’
‘To a bed in a less desirable convent. She made enemies thirty years ago with her criticism, her attempts at improvements. True solitaries are always feared. And the Church has a long memory. She will be working until the day she dies.’
We walk through the archway, climb two circles of broad stone steps and come out into a hexagonal room. There are narrow windows set in every wall. Light pours in yet the stone keeps the heat out, so far. The shutters are clipped back and here, finally, is the wind. It flows across the room, pressing sand flecks into my cheek.
There are two long desks piled with books
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