Street of Thieves by Mathias Enard Page B

bawling over The Life of the Prophet, or Sexuality in Islam. We looked at each other for a little while without saying anything, I wanted to hate him, I wanted to take him in my arms, like when he was a kid, he was fourteen now, I just held out my hand a second time, he took it sadly, simply said, see you sometime, yes, till next time, I felt like that meant never, good riddance idiot, you have Mom and even Dad, Nour who just turned twelve, and Sarah, the last one, who’s two years younger, you have all thosepeople around you and even a grocery store that’s waiting for you with open arms, a bright future thanks to me so don’t go busting my balls, I wanted to offer him a book as a souvenir, but he was gone, the people you want to insult always leave too quickly, or I’m the one who’s not prompt to insults and violence, that’s possible.
    For the time being I trembled as I stacked and unstacked the piles of books, a pure rage in my heart, without understanding a thing, as usual, I didn’t understand the excessiveness of their hatred; I didn’t see that I was missing pieces of the puzzle; I naively imagined that it all had to do with our two naked bodies, mine and Meryem’s, and nothing else, for men are dogs, blind and mean, like my brother Yassin, like me, ready to bite but, above all, not to talk, Friday noon on the esplanade of a suburban mosque, in Tangier or anywhere else. And everything I didn’t know, Sheikh Nureddin knew, he who, as soon as Yassin had left, came over to me, asked me if that was indeed my brother with whom I was speaking and offered me a compassionate look, a tap on the back, and a few verses to comfort me. My chest tight and my eyes burning, I felt like a child again, a child ready to call for his mother, that mother whom I missed while a crowd of faithful hurried into the mosque, and only at that instant did I realize that I no longer had a family, that I could shout till I was dead and no one would come, never, nevermore, and that even if my father or mother were in that crowd they would ignore me, and I was so focused on myself, a wounded brat, that I was absolutely unable to see the waves of unhappiness that had billowed up around me.
    I sold Heroines of Islam to a guy who bought it for his wife, I remember, he asked me if I could wrap it for him, he made a face when I said no: for five meager dirhams he wanted a book and wrapping paper, I had a burning desire to tell him he could go fuck their asses, his heroines, his money, and even his wife, if he wanted, but I didn’t dare. The revolution wasn’t happening anytime soon.
    I listened to the sermon that was retransmitted over the loudspeakers, it was about the Sura of the People of the Cave and Alexander’s trips to the land of Gog and Magog; the Imam was scholarly and pious, a wise man not much schooled in politics; he annoyed the hell out of Sheikh Nureddin and our friends.
    I waited for Judit to appear, I was convinced she’d come, she had to come. I hoped she had remembered the place, the name of the neighborhood. It was for her I had chosen to lug a pile of Stories of the Prophets, I was planning on offering her one, it was a handsome book for someone studying classical Arabic, and not too difficult, I thought.
    Everyone came out of the mosque, Bassam first; I sold a few books, as usual, time passed slowly, I kept looking in all directions to see if she was coming, not too focused on my work. Bassam kept teasing me, he knew very well what I was hoping for.
    At two o’clock, the time to put things away, I had to face the obvious: she wasn’t coming. Life’s a bitch, I thought. My sole visitor was my idiot of a little brother.
    I started putting things away, death in my soul. Bassam kept gently teasing me. I wasn’t in a good mood. Sheikh Nureddin invited us to lunch at a little neighborhood restaurant, like every Friday, with the rest of the “active members” of