On my first day in the city I couldn’t get enough of looking around. As soon as I checked into the hotel and set my bags down in my surprisingly decent room, spacious and with a large window facing the street, a good bed, a thick green carpet on the floor and, at a comfortable distance from the bed, a bathroom that neither smelled nor appeared shabby, I decided to go outside for the rest of the day. In high spirits due to the excellent condition of the room, but also from the fine weather, I entered the city’s twisted labyrinth of alleys and passageways and steps. It is no secret that the city lies on a mountain slope, and I delighted in all the climbs and descents, in how the city changes character depending on the height from which it is seen. Bathed in sunshine and dry haze, the city reminded me in a tangible, almost poignant way how everything depends on who’s looking and where they’re looking from. And I thought: that is so incredibly banal, and so important.

I bought a red scarf at the bazaar. I noticed hens and ducks in small cages, waiting for whatever their fate might be, most likely to be murdered and baked, chewed and digested, ending up in the earth or a porcelain toilet bowl in a very different form. I drank tea from small ornamental glasses. I ate cakes dipped in honey. Then later, in a more civilized restaurant, spiced lamb and rice. My hunger was sated in every way. I clambered up narrow steps, I continued to climb while sweat trickled down my back under the thin shirt I was wearing. I reached the great mosque that soared against the sky like a stern and sealed-off monument, but also like something ethereal and free; it made me think of how we live our lives within these two polarities, these opposing paradigms. But I have—and I was nearly euphoric when I thought these words, I said them to myself, slowly: I have united these opposites through an act that has granted me both control and freedom. Everything around me held an unremitting charm: the aromatic flowers and wild herbs growing between stones and asphalt; the men’s dark faces, irises swimming in the whites of their eyes; glimpses of a naked foot or hand sticking out from under the closed garments of women, the buildings’ ancient, thick walls. Even the obvious poverty charmed me, for it spawned an awareness of an important fact: life unfolds in a myriad of ways, yet it’s always life. And I had need for this consolation, partly for personal reasons, because I was in no way free of feelings of guilt. The simple fact, however, is that those of us living in affluent societies fear decline and death, despite our demonstrably long lifetimes and the many advances and miracles in medicine. Such were my thoughts as, feeling pleasantly tired and filled with new impressions, I enjoyed a drink on a small, open square shaded by an enormous acacia tree. Not a hint of a breeze stirred. The lazy heat of the afternoon wrinkled the air. A few children played with balls. A man loaded vegetables onto a flatbed truck. And though I had the sense, however faint, of being observed, since people farther up the mountain could easily see me without me necessarily being able to see them, I felt liberated from the troubles that had plagued me for so long.

 

           ––Translated by Mark Kline