destitute magnificent those Palestinians with the heavy boots what a story I wonder if it’s true Intissar washes Marwan’s body it’s very sad all that so sad, I’d have liked to wash Andrija’s body caress it with a sponge one last time, the stories intersect, Marwan’s clothes burning in the Beirut sink like my uniforms in my Venetian bathroom, one more coincidence, poor Intissar, despite the victory cries of some people the summer of 1982 must not have been one of the more cheerful ones, I wonder if Rafael Kahla the author of the story was in Beirut then, no doubt, it’s likely, how old is he, fifty-four says the back cover, yes it’s possible he was just going on thirty at the time, Marwan’s age perhaps, September 1982 the shadow is looming heavily over the Palestinians, they’ll take refuge in Algiers then in Tunis, all those fighters scattered in the Zone — Rafael Kahla about whom I know nothing left Lebanon maybe at the same time as Intissar, maybe to go into self-imposed exile in Tangier, Tingis of the Phoenicians where he will meet Jean Genet, with whom he will talk again about the Palestinians: in September 1982 Jean Genet spends a few days in Beirut in the company of Leila Shahid the diplomat for the Cause, the very active representative of the PLO in Paris who had a file with us as long as your arm, I forget how but the two lightheartedly send Genet to Shatila on Sunday, September 21st, the first day of autumn and the day after the massacre, Jean Genet the heavenly gravedigger strokes the bluish corpses swollen from flies in the narrow streets of the death camp, he walks around, his gaze follows the deceased over to the common grave, he discovers silence and stillness, the smell of flesh in the scent of the sea, maybe that’s the meaning of Rafael Kahla’s story, Marwan’s body abandoned at a crossroads, unreachable, Intissar washes Marwan’s body just as Genet washed the bodies of the old men and children who were killed in Shatila, in front of the eyes of Israeli soldiers who provided the bulldozers to erase the blunder — Andi old friend I couldn’t go look for you, I couldn’t, we heard the volley of gunfire we saw you there, lying in your excrement, and we began fighting, the shots whistled around us, the same bullets that had just gone through your chest, I didn’t have time to cry, no time to caress you, ten seconds after seeing you and hurrying towards you I was stretched out on the ground weapon in hand forced to crawl to escape, to run away leaving you there because we were almost surrounded, trapped, outnumbered, overwhelmed by the pack of mujahideen around us, the last time I saw you your eyes were wide open to the Bosnian sky a smile on your face a contraction I didn’t have Intissar’s luck, I fled in a cowardly way maybe because I didn’t love you enough maybe my own life mattered more than yours maybe life isn’t like it is in books, I was a crawling animal frightened by the sight of blood I had often thought that I could die but not you, we thought you were immortal like Ares himself, I was afraid, all of a sudden, I fled in a cowardly way, an insect trying to escape a boot, we all ran away abandoning you there in the countryside quivering with spring, but don’t worry you are avenged, you are doubly avenged for Francis the coward is in the process of disappearing, after his long journey among the shadows of the Zone he is erasing himself, I will become Yvan Deroy, I owe you this new life, Andi, it’s over, I’m off, we’ll see each other again on the White Island at the mouth of the Danube, when the time comes, farewell Marwan farewell Andrija and shit now I’m crying, this story made me cry I wasn’t expecting this, it’s unfair I rub my eyes turn my head to the window so no one sees me I’m not in very good shape I’m exhausted probably I can’t manage to stop the tears it’s ridiculous now all I need is the conductor to show up, how foolish I’d look, crying like Mary Magdalene a few kilometers outside Florence, it must be the effect of the gin, a trick of perfidious Albion, no, that story is taking me back without my realizing it, too many details, too many things in common, better set the book down for now, even in Venice in limbo in the depths of the lagoon I didn’t cry much and now almost ten years later I’m weeping like a schoolgirl, the weight of years, the weight of the suitcase, the weight of all those bodies collected right and left preserved embalmed in photography with the endless lists of their lives their deaths I’ll bury them now, bury the briefcase and all it contains and farewell, I’ll go join Caravaggio in a pretty harbor at the foot of a little mountain, stuff myself with pasta till it’s coming out of my nose, learn the
The Divine Comedy by heart and write my Memoirs and poems like Eduardo Che Rózsa the international warrior, just after Iraq I saw him again on TV, by chance, in a British documentary that Stéphanie almost forced me to watch, she wanted to know, Stéphanie wanted to know what I had seen what I had done in the war, for her those two years of my existence were the key, the heart of the mystery, she wanted to cure me of it, she was convinced I had to talk about it, that I had to empty myself of my memories and confess and she’d listen to me and everything would be all better, of course I knew she wasn’t ready to hear me, so I said nothing, but she returned to the attack trying by every means possible to make me speak, she invented pretexts, today I read a very interesting article about Eastern Slavonia returning to Croatia, I could see her coming a mile off, I’d say Oh? she’d insist what is it like, over there? and so on, I’d get irritated without understanding that at bottom her questions were legitimate, and also she was so beautiful I liked being with her so I was patient, at the time out of respect for the Agency we were living in hiding so to speak, obviously everyone must have known, Lebihan the paternal boss winked at me, he who was so discreet, so professional — I dry my tears, that’s it I’m not crying any more, thank you Mr. Lebihan, it’s over, nothing like your reddened face to soothe my aching heart, on the other side of the aisle the flautist is still sleeping, her husband apparently hasn’t noticed anything, he is looking out the window, trying to pierce the darkness of the countryside, soon Florence, then the train won’t stop any more, it will go fast now, I hope, in a little over two hours I’ll be at the Piazza lost in the crowd of tourists, when I think that I could have been there at ten in the morning if I hadn’t missed the plane, a trick of the gods without a doubt, a prank of Fate to punish me with twelve hours on the train, this morning scarcely had the TGV gotten underway than I fell asleep to awaken in the Alps, in the middle of snow and ice peaks around Megève, it’s the effect of the amphetamine that woke me up probably, I feel as if it’s been a constant night for forty-eight hours for days for years will I see the dawn will I see the dawn will Yvan Deroy the madman see the dawn tomorrow morning as he leaves his hotel room like a good tourist he’ll go to the Forum or to Saint Peter’s, Rome city of autocrats of assassins and sermonizers, I hope tomorrow it will be broad daylight, I hope daybreak will come too for Intissar, the rosy-fingered dawn will envelop Beirut and Tangier, Alexandria and Salonika, one after the other, will draw them out of the shadow, in our war there weren’t many women, a few cold savage ones and others who were tender and friendly, who came as nurses, as cooks, the women were mostly widows mothers sisters, victims, the others were just the exception to the rule, women were mainly images in wallets like the sister of Andi the brave, or Marianne whose photograph I too carried, like all soldiers since there have been painted images — I never looked at it, the photo, I never took it out of my pocket that image of Marianne taken in Turkey by the sea, it was slowly growing moldy along with my credit card, between the folds of leather bleached by sweat, in the beginning I wrote letters, we wrote letters, except Andrija whose parents were right nearby: unlike Marcel Maréchal and the