I convinced Bassam to leave his hotel and move back with me to the Street of Thieves — he’d gain in friendship what he’d lose in comfort. Sheikh Nureddin encouraged him, it’s better to discover a city with its inhabitants, he said, laughing. I found it hard to imagine that he would be in the midst of a crowd of nobility and gentry in elegant salons that very night, glass of orange juice in hand, shaking hands with all those Bourbon-Parmas — him, the beater-up of miscreants, the man who fired us up and urged us to revolt, was perhaps going to dine at the same table as Juan Carlos, the one all the papers were talking about: the King had recently distinguished himself on an elephant safari, in Africa, and photos of the monarch in the company of a dead pachyderm had made the rounds online — it reminded me of Casanova’s Memoirs, from another era. As if monarchies could never rid themselves of violence and cruelty; Fate pushed them to it: in his youth, Juan Carlos had accidentally killed his brother with a gun; his grandson had just accidentally shot himself in the foot; an entire regiment of dead elephants bore witness to the royal passion for firearms. At least the King of Morocco next door had the merit of discretion.
I wondered what the reason was for Nureddin’s trip from the Persian Gulf to this gala dinner straight out of the eighteenth century, but I didn’t dare ask him.
He had brought me Bassam, and that was enough for me.
We decided to walk around a little before going back to Carrer Robadors, Bassam seemed to have emerged from his torpor and opened his eyes wide upon discovering the city he’d been dreaming about for so long, poor guy, muttering Fuck, fuck, in front of the luxury shops, the avenues, the buildings; he turned around to look at the girls on bikes whose skirts lifted up as they pedaled, at the mannequins in the shop windows, at the heavily made-up passersby, lifted his face to the modernist office buildings, shook himself incredulously faced with all this luxury and liberty, it was good to see, I almost forgot about Judit’s illness, as Bassam communicated his childlike enthusiasm to me as he’d done before, he kept exclaiming wow, insane, will you look at her, what a knockout, my God what a fucking knockout, it’s just insane, and I’d reply that’s nothing, you haven’t seen anything yet, pal, you haven’t seen anything, wait, wait. We happily went up Rambla Catalunya, beneath the trees; I bought him a coffee on a terrace so he could enjoy the girls and the nice spring weather, I felt as if we’d gone backward, to the blessed time of our adolescence, transported in Bassam’s dreams as we contemplated the Strait — he used to talk to me about the lights of Barcelona, the girls of Barcelona, the bars of Barcelona: thanks to his presence I finally felt as if I was there, as if I had arrived somewhere, as if I had finally reached my destination. He kept cracking up in delight on his own like a kid, and it was a real joy to see his big fat bearded yokel’s head smiling at the world.
“So my friend, where were you, all this time? What’s the story with those lousy emails you sent me?”
“What? Whoa, take a look at that rack. Nothing, I was out East, with Nureddin.”
“But why did you disappear like that? What the hell were you doing in Marrakesh?”
“In Marrakesh? In Casa, you mean? Check out those legs, they’re incredible.”
“No, in Marrakesh, you remember, the day of the attack? Judit saw you over there.”
“The Marrakesh attack, yes of course I remember. I don’t know anymore, I think we were on our way south.”
Impossible to tear him away from his urban contemplation. Too bad, we’d talk about it later.
