I didn't live a long time as a flounder, on the bottom, just a couple of days. I've been so ill that I asked to be tested for COVID, and it came out negative, just to give me the insight on how quiet and efficient the things are here in the West, at the height of an apocalypse. It was the very same day that the vaccine was announced, and it was as if I suddenly realised that Christmas is coming.
Maintenant c'est moi qui descends Rue Descartes, quand la Ville se comporte toujours fidèle à sa nature, Gardłowym śmiechem odzywając się w ciemności, / Wypiekając długie chleby i w gliniane dzbanki nalewając wino, / Ryby, cytryny i czosnek kupując na targach, / Obojętne na honor i hańbę i wielkość i chwałę,
J'ai acheté des crevettes et du vin blanc, et je n'ai pas voulu des patates douces, je les deteste (mais ils sont en promotion, Madame, seulement pour ce weekend). J'ai l'envie de la viande de crocodile pour le Noël, accompagnée des feuilles vertes de manioc. Je fais l'amour pendant qu'ils font la guerre. En Pologne - c'est à dire nulle part - wiadomo: na świętego Marcina zadyma się zaczyna.
Ce que ce pays donne au monde, c'est moi. Juste comme Roumanie a donné au monde Cioran, qui ne voulait parler roumain à personne. Ils m'appelleraient traîtresse de la race, s'ils savaient combien je désire les mains poilues d'un de ces frères à moi. Et pourtant, to wszystko już było i zmieniło się / W pomniki przedstawiające nie wiadomo kogo. Et la civilisation, c'est moi, pour eux à jamais perdue, moi et cette sacoche et les livres qui sont dedans.
Opieram łokcie o szorstki granit nabrzeża quand je suis de retour du pays souterrain et je vois en lumière. J'écoute une cantate de Bach pour me sentir européenne, car c'est ça, l'Europe, une cantate de Bach ouie entre le souvenir des feuilles de manioc et des huitres passées par le feu et du rougir des lions et les mains poilues de ce frère à qui j'ai promis tous les plaisirs de ce monde et de l'autre. Et je ne veux surtout pas qu'on me parle roumain au lit.
It's the second (third?) day that I am sick. Is it the virus? Or just the triumphal return of my nose problems? Brought about by a strange return of the old memories of Poland?
The statistics, made public very late last night, indicate almost 87 thousand of new cases in the last 24 hours. Out of the depths of his Bedouin survival instinct, my husband says: it is the sign that the end of this pandemic is nigh. Is it? Constant exponential growth exists only in mathematics. In reality, there is always a point of breaking the wave.
I've been living on the bottom, honestly speaking, since I came to this flat and this country, six weeks ago. I really wonder what happens to me. My hands tremble, and I feel a strange disinterest in life. Not only in the books I've brought from the library. It is a singular void of dreams, fancies, desires.
Perhaps the only positive aspect of the current crisis is that the other Veronique finally died. It was difficult to break my relation with the old country, as difficult as it was, in a time, to break the relation with my family. Both inevitable, if I want to survive.
Poland is far from me now, the discourses that they go on reproducing like yet another viral machine, distant and isolated from the world. And it leaves me homeless and lost in the middle of the current situation, in the world in mutation. I am here, but I lack any attachment, including the attachment to the ground under my feet.
I should be attached to my studies, to my projects. I should grasp them as the only stable thing, I should be attached to my identity as a scholar, the only one that remains. Yet books don't captivate me, and my brain is like white cotton. I wish I was the scholar I used to be, I wish I could write learned articles again. But everything is empty, like this flat with white walls. I hate white walls. I miss a home in dark red, an Afghani carpet under my feet. I only want my life back, as it was, with only a tiny correction.
I suppose my salary, the biggest salary I ever touched in my life, is landing smoothly on my French account. One day, when the pandemic is over, I might be able to use this money to rebuild my life. To discover that, after all, the bottom was a metaphor.
For Poland, I postulate referendum w sprawie dobrowolnego rozwiązania wspólnoty narodowej. Who wants to give birth, let go to a country that grants dignity and health care. The rest may stay till the end, or go. Those who want, may pray.
There is no Poland, and the only thing that remains is to liberate my brain from this toxin, from this black ink that inundates my life, that encroaches upon my time, that prevents me from going on with my studies.
Je reviens à Kieślowski, et je suis pourtant la deuxième Véronique. Celle qui ne vit aucune tragédie, parce qu'on l'a operée quand elle était petite, elle ne s'en souvient même pas. Elle ne va pas mourir sur la scène, dans le moment le plus sublime. Elle va vivre, et elle va aimer.
C'est de l'amour que je m'occupe. Je lis Onze minutes, de Paulo Coelho, et un livre de Jean Starobinski sur Montaigne. Je m'occupe de la vie et du vivant.
Et juste à ce moment, en Pologne, c'est à dire nulle part...- Laissez les morts ensevelir leurs morts.
Je suis la deuxième Véronique, celle qui ne meurt pas.
It is highly probable that the lockdown that started this Friday prevented me from perpetrating my zina. Finally, I got dearly attached to those exquisite, non intrusive manners of my banlieusard lover, named after that old Arabic poet Ibn Mamar who loved Busaina. The only love affair of those last 15 years, and who knows, maybe the last love affair of my life. At least it provides me with a good recollection, even if it is only of those avid kisses the first time he came chez moi.
As I said, it is the religion that tears us apart, so that I hesitate on the brink of committing my zina, for the first and only time in my life. Perhaps it would be easier if we lived in the Bedouin Arabia, in the time of Jamil and Busaina. But it is the Parisian banlieue, 15th century Hijri, and I am afraid of disillusionment. I got too much used to those extra sophisticated erotic gadgets that my husband sends me through the Amazon to enjoy an intercourse with a live man. The thing would be obviously too short and of too little excitement, and it would cost me my religion.
On the other hand, the events in Poland cause me a creepy sensation. As if my zina could put me in a real danger of unwanted pregnancy. It is not like this, of course, I have my pills and my condoms and my right to abortion granted by my religion and entirely covered by my medical insurance. But it brings me bad memories, the memories of my youth, of that creeping anxiety I used to experience as a young woman.
I was 21, if I calculate correctly, when the abortion became illegal in Poland. And even when it was legal, oh, how much abuse, how many traumas I could bring to my narration. We never felt safe, me, my mother, whoever. Certainly, now, as I am 48, the probability I might ever become pregnant in my life slowly goes down to the round zero. But I lived all my womanly life in the shadow of Polish fundamentalism. Only now the women of my country are awaken from that long slumber. Awaken only to see their rights shrinking.
I do not believe in the victory of this Polish revolution. To the contrary, I follow with increasing preoccupation the growth of violence against women. Those fascist boys of Poland got an explicit permission to attack, an invitation. They have metal bars and steel rosaries. They are told to "defend their churches" against the protesters that are explicitly qualified as "satanic".
There is an abysmal difference between my religion and their religion. Perhaps because mine creates those smoothly mannered, non intrusive men who kiss avidly and keep telling me: Tu n'es pas obligée... And of course, this is what creates the biggest temptation of all.
The Catholic fundamentalists of Poland are having their glorious day, stampeding over the women's rights. A Muslim fundamentalist like me feels just contempt. I have no words to qualify them. The scum of humanity.
There is no alternative, I say, and every day dawns to strengthen this persuasion. There is no alternative to the life I'm living, and the only practicable way is the way up. I am condemned to become even better scholar, hemmed in my small world of the best universities. Otherwise, what? I won't let the Poles have me at their mercy.
That long macabre story of Polish aborted foetuses accompanies me since I was a child. All along my adult life, I smuggled packages of contraceptive pills into Poland: from Portugal, from Spain, later on from Saudi Arabia. I haven't been to gynaecologist for over a decade.
This is a country to turn my back on, biblically: leave that place and shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them.
I've seen, I've checked, and I know for sure. I got the utter certainty based on careful examination. THERE IS NO ALTERNATIVE. No alternative to my marriage, to my way of life, to my aspirations. Either I keep my Leiden and my Oxford well in mind, or I commit suicide right as I stand, or rather sit on my sofa in this Parisian banlieue.
I've just touched the bottom. It was a catabasis, the utter descent into the abyss. I pulled the brake right on the brink of depression. The Great Plague is something that I might mention as my justification. Yet sincerely speaking, I just came out of my own free will right to the brink and looked beyond. How my life could have been different. If I were actually lonely. If I were actually an immigrant. If I actually had no money on my account. If I actually belonged to this banlieue.
Yet I am a solvent citizen in my own Europe. An international scholar. An attractive, sexually active woman adored by her husband all along these last 15 years or so.
As soon as the pandemic is over and the flights out of Arabia operate again, I promise myself to offer a beautiful marriage, generously, bravely, by the ample standards of that God who loves beauty and who seems so absent in this Parisian banlieue (in spite of heads being cut off in His name). I will take my husband to the Concertgebouw, like in old times, and to Casa Rosso. I will pay for the two tickets from my own pocket, in an ostensive way, licking the traditional penis-shaped Amsterdamer lollipop.
Bon, et alors, quelle est la conclusion ? La conclusion générale is that all those men on Tinder et al. are not there to find a real woman or to build an authentic relationship, even one based on sexual affinity or good quality sex taken seriously. They are very far from that horizon of expectation, they have no faith that such things might come true, might be real. It is their lack of faith, paradoxically, that utterly prevents me from committing my zina.
All those dating sites are great producers of solitude, keeping people at ever increasing distance from fulfilment. Maybe this is the reason why they are so popular. They utterly channel and legitimize the fear of vagina dentata. For love hurts, even good quality sex hurts. Grandeur and braveness are required to face it.
So all those people distract themselves making believe they are searching. Yet they are constantly at one step from their great love and their great sex. They are almost touching it with the tips of their fingers. But it never comes true, keeping away from them the burden of commitment.
Meanwhile, the real life goes on, elsewhere.
And this is how, at 48 years of age, I finally get clear what I do truly appreciate in men. Manners, I say, and sexual ethics. And what it takes to be a good friend.
In other words, what makes a man is inside, just the way it happens to be with computers. Certainly, I also appreciate a lot of other things, such as bravery and that kind of entrepreneurial / engineering spirit (the equivalent of hunting capacity of our ancestors, and more, since it's men who make our lives go on, they pump the oil and make the tomatoes come to the supermarkets on time), and good communication skill. Yet on the other hand, it surprises me of how many attributes I am able to abdicate. First thing, I don't expect them to speak 20 languages and to have read all those books I read myself. I accept them lacking in intellectual terms, just as in ancient times men used to accept their concubines to be silly. It is long time ago that I understood there is no such thing as learned debates at breakfast. I don't seek any sort of social stance through being a couple. Perhaps I'm wrong in this, perhaps I miss greatly that sort of additional push, yet I've got used to make my career at uniquely my own personal expense.
And at the outcome of all these adventures, I have got what I bargained for. Certainly, many better things might be possible, greater, more dignified love is always a mirage on the horizon. Well, sexual ethics is a way of speaking, purity is a construct. Manners as well. Constructs. But what I got makes me feel comfortable. Gosh, I never expected my life would be like this at 48. I ended up liking my age, the age of greater insight.
And who knows, what kind of dashing adventure might be just around the corner, a surprise of that God who loves beauty.
In those remote times when I was still busy in doing research and writing learned essays, I wrote, among other topics, on women in the Orient, on how their oriental adventure was a way of adopting a male gender identity: that of a desert sheikh, not that of an Arab woman. This recollection leads me to the question what did I actually learn, adopt or engage during those last fifteen years of my desert marriage. It is something that comes to the fore as I am here in Paris and try to negotiate the reality to which I am exposed.
What strikes me is that somehow, anachronistically and through a peculiar gender inversion, I have adopted the characteristic prejudices of a desert sheikh. And now I talk to those men here, and I experience a surprizing, inverted cultural shock, as if I were attacking this City of Men from the East rather than from the West. What is more, as if I were myself an Oriental man rather than woman. We talk and they tell me things about them, their life, and the latter invariably includes stories of "having had" various -rather numerous- sexual partners. Narrated in plusquamperfectum, such stories should do nothing to a western woman. We are not supposed to be jealous of the past; almost to the contrary, the vastness of experience should be appreciated. Yet those confessions end up giving me that typically oriental feeling of vague repugnance. Those men are sullied, impure, in quite a substantial way, independently of any moral appreciation of what they did and what they did not, of what could be forgiven or justified, or simply considered as a normal life of an adult male. I just have that oriental feeling in the guts.
Apparently there exists a flourishing market of hymen reconstruction, producing false virgin brides for the benefit of Oriental men. I wonder if there exists a technique of restoring male virtue for the benefit of the uncompromising Oriental women like me.
Et voilà, my ephemeral love is gone, even sooner than the red roses of passion are gone. No, not him. In that delicate field, he has both directness and refined manners that I never, or very rarely, saw among much more educated, upper class men. How much paradoxical it is to say that it is religion that tears us apart.
Whatever Polish journals might say about it, France is not a caliphate, and truly the Islamic sexual ethics as I saw during this brief survey oscillate flatly around the zero line. It is so strange that I must come here to say this. After talking intimately to hundreds of men, I did not come across a single fundamentalist.
It is a strange feeling, as if I were the last woman on earth.
Overall, all these adventures, sweet and bitter, make me understand what actually my longing is, and what an exorbitant price I am disposed to pay for that utter luxury of having a God.
A God? Or perhaps that minoritarian, elitist, yet entirely earthly privilege of having a sexual dignity. Acquired at an exorbitant price of tears and living flesh torn apart.
Yet in a long lineage of women, I am the first one to have a sexual dignity. My mother, and the mother of my mother, and the mother of the mother of my mother had neither sharaf nor effective control over their bodies; they lived lame, dirty and bitter sexual lives. With all those restrictions I've imposed upon myself, I am not only better served, but also infinitely freer to give myself to whoever I chose than any of them. Infinitely more senhora de mim (just to use the expression of the Portuguese feminist poet, Maria Teresa Horta). And all this made possible, since I've decided to leave behind the country and culture in which I was born. Where many of these acquired freedoms are about to be withdrawn just as I write these words.
I distinctly remember a lesson about sex that my mother gave me when I was a teenager. Myślisz, że seks to coś pięknego, she said, bo jeszcze nikt cię nie zerżnął tak, żeby cię wszystko bolało. It wouldn't be unfundamented to say that it is against the crudeness of this sentence that I converted, years later, to the religion of God. Because I wanted to live and to love differently, far away from my country, culture and spiritual void into which I had been born. Because I wanted to believe, against all evidence if necessary, that sex is beautiful and brings the grace of that God who loves beauty.
Last woman over the face of the earth as I may be, I stick to my sexual dignity so tightly, because I still believe that a moment might come in which such things matter.
In conclusion, the exorbitant price I pay is the price of hope. The price of keeping intact the belief in things that one day may matter.