Street of Thieves by Mathias Enard Page A

her hazel eyes, her lips, and teeth, up close. I rushed to the computer, looked for her on Facebook, there were lots of Judits in Catalonia, some without photos, others with, not one who looked like her.
    I ended up landing on pages devoted to Barcelona, I traveled through the city, from the harbor to the hills, walked up La Rambla looked for the university, the Barça stadium, contemplated the Gaudi façades; I suddenly discovered a modern, strange skyscraper right in the middle of the city, a huge iridescent penis, a brightly colored phallus full of offices that stood facing the sea, a disproportionate organ that made me wonder for an instant if it was the obscene farce of a mad hacker or the excessive fantasy of a porndirector, how could they have built that tower in the center of such a beautiful city, an insult, a provocation, a game, and this building seemed there for me, to remind me painfully of what I had in place of a brain, an omen, perhaps, an obscure mark of Fate, Barcelona was under the sign of the penis, I turned off the computer. Bassam had fallen asleep on the rug; he was snoring a little, on his back, a half-smile on his face, calm.
    I went to bed; the night was spinning a little, there were shooting stars on the ceiling, I fell asleep.

FRIDAYS were always exhausting days, I had to make two or three trips with a hand cart to bring the books and CDs, stack them first inside the mosque, then move the trestles, then the big boards with someone’s help, all of which took a good two hours. Then I had to set up the books in nice piles, after having covered the tables with paper, and be more or less ready when they made the call to prayer; Sheikh Nureddin would lend me a hand, then bring me the cashbox and the rolls of brand-new ten-cent pieces on which a bee calmly gathered nectar from a saffron flower.
    Of course, I always had to renew my supply, the clients were usually the same. That morning I had brought one box of Sexuality and another of Heroines, of course, the mainstays of my sales, but also some beautiful Korans with commentaries in the margins, a few brochures by Sayyid Qutb, The Life of the Prophet in two large volumes, three illustrated books for children ( Prayer, Pilgrimage, The Fast ) and a pretty book I liked a lot, Stories of the Prophets, tales from Noah up to Mohammed. Plus some chanted versions of the Koran on CD and DVD.
    Usually, clients would glance quickly over the offerings as they went into the mosque and would linger when they came out; during prayer and the sermon, aside from a few passersby, there was no one, and in any case according to Nureddin I wasn’t supposedto sell anything during prayers, Muslims are supposed to stop all commerce.
    The weather was ominous; I had taken care to bring along the big plastic tarp to protect the books in case of a shower even though, according to the weather reports, it wasn’t supposed to rain.
    There weren’t many people on the esplanade, a teenager was staring at me, it was my little brother Yassin, this day was off to a great start. He was carrying a bag with some bread, it had been almost two years since I’d seen him. He realized I’d seen him, turned his head away, hesitated, walked away a few steps, then came back, I was waiting for him with a big smile, I held out my hand over the books, he didn’t take it, just spat:
    â€œYou should be ashamed to show yourself here again.”
    Enough was enough, all this because I had been found naked with Meryem.
    â€œWhat the hell business is it of yours, you little shit?”
    Hearing the curses, a few onlookers turned to look. Sheikh Nureddin, who was a few feet away, did too.
    Yassin’s attitude suddenly changed 180 degrees.
    â€œYou know, despite the unhappiness you caused, Mom misses you terribly.”
    He looked quite moved all of a sudden.
    I didn’t really know what to say.
    â€œTell her I miss her too.”
    We weren’t about to start