Speaking of Flies Is Forbidden

I didn't keep track of the days I spent in my prison cell; I thought much more about torture than about the passage of time, however ponderous.
      More than two hours have elapsed. Now I realize that I could lose my sense of time and of my relationship to the external world altogether, without even knowing it was happening. Already I often ask myself: "What's taking them so long? Why haven't they begun to torture me?"
       I sense that the van has stopped. The door opens. I cannot see who it is who barks the order:
       --Get Down!
       I think: "This is probably the procedure they follow before the torture begins."
       I hesitate. I hear the cry a second time:
       --Get down, I said!
       I hop down, trembling all over, head lowered. Dizziness makes me lose my balance. I have a feeling of heaviness. An icy evening breeze nips at me. I feel myself shoved from behind. The van has started to roll forward. I almost fall. I hear the door slam shut.
       A vast place. Desert. Signs of wealth and poverty interblended. Where can this city be? In the north, no doubt. Why have I been transferred to another city? Do they intend to provoke still other incidents by this move?
       Out of obscurity into obscurity. I was arrested in the dark, and released in the dark. I hear voices behind me. A man is talking to a woman.
       --Night has fallen, he says. Now you are going to get to know me.
       --You can do what you like with me, but I'm telling you again: you've got it wrong. We've only had a drink together. I'm not going to sleep with you.
       --Tell that to someone else!
       They pass close by. Their voices gradually die away. They stagger, they stop, they muse. He draws her to him and nuzzles her. She tries to repel him. She gives out little cries of pain and pleads with him:
       --Oh! Please, not here!
       --You deserve what is happening here . . .You deserve much worse!
       --The people . . . the people can see us. Don't do that! Not here!
       --Screw the people. I'm going to do it here!
       He throws her to the ground and unbuckles his belt.
       --I beg you, do what you will with me, but not here!
       He gets up unsteadily. She does the same and follows him.
       Anything that is possible to imagine on earth already exists. This is perhaps true, but does it really matter?
       I walk slowly, prudently. A man overtakes me and stops a few feet in front of me. He leans against a railing which runs along the street, and says:
       --What is it with you? You've been dug up, again, huh? From your hole. Who dug you up, anyway? You don't want to tell me the truth? But the whole world knows. They made a hole for you and left you in it. Tell me, my darling stiff, you were left for dead, weren't you?
       He shoots me a piercing look. I can tell he is imagining that he is wringing my neck, mine or someone else's. From a distance, he turns towards me one last time and disappears.
       Along the wall, at the mouth of the street, is an enormous photograph. That of a celebrity, naturally: a singer or an actor. But . . . it's me! It's a photo of me! Why?
       The nearer I get to it, the clearer it becomes. I don't understand how it can have been made, with such clarity, such precision, without my having been aware of it.
       "Amarouche Temsemani. All fraternization with this individual is prohibited, under any circumstances. Violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law."
       Is this, then, the torture? Is this what they have cooked up to inflict on me? Other photos are plastered here and there the whole length of the street. From some of them, the message has been clawed off; from another, my eyes have been scratched out. The persons who mutilated the photo surely did so wishing they could gouge out my eyes in actuality. It is moreover probable that they would, if they could. They would do that and more. Who would prevent them?
       Examples of this same photo are pasted or nailed everywhere: the stores, the restaurants, the banks, the bus stations, inside and out. They have been distributed throughout all the other cities.
       I arrive at the plaza of the cafes. Small, it nevertheless appears larger than before. My photo is everywhere, on the walls and in the windows. I notice that someone is pointing me out. I feel completely harrassed. I pull up a chair, on the terrace of the Cafe Central. The waiter is sleeping. Another waiter steps from behind the cash register, and goes to wake him. He stirs and says to me, while rubbing his eyes:
       --Please, do not stay here.
       I look at him. He adds:
       --You know why . . .
       I shake my head and go.
       Anyway, people don't want me around. They are obliged to refuse to have anything to do with me. If I try to sit on the terrace of another cafe, I am sure to be chased away in the same manner. And if someone treats me with contempt or scorn, there is nothing I can do about it.
       I duck down a sidestreet and stop in front of the window of a restaurant. The serving trays are beautifully arrayed: fried fish, roast chicken, trenchers of glazed meats; eggs and condiments. Inside, men and women smoke and drink. Before them plates cleaned of all but a few scraps of nourishment. They laugh, make jokes, tell stories.
       All of a sudden, a doorman of glum demeanor gets up and discreetly moves towards the entrance. Without a word, he contemplates me with curiosity. He scrutinizes me from head to foot. His eyes say: "Go away! Get out of my restaurant!"
       I continue on my way. Behind me, voices and laughter. I turn around and see five or six heads peeking from the doorway. Their eyes follow me without budging from the threshold.
       Do I have to bang my head against the walls until I bash it in? At least that would be a torment I had chosen for myself. Might this, in fact, be the only solution to my problem?
       I go from one street to another. I climb some stairs with difficulty.
       A very beautiful terrace. From here, one has a marvelous view of the sea. The reflections from the lights of the boats on the water are like fragile mirages. I take a seat on a stone bench.
How can I face my destiny? Was there ever a form of torture the equal of this? How long will it last?
       I stretch out on the bench. Fatigue overtakes me. This condemnation is nothing perhaps but a comedy of which I am the hero and the inhabitants of this city, the spectators. The enactment of my predicament is perhaps a prelude to the establishment of a new law. Just as there are people who seek to amuse themselves at the expense of others, this business might well be at the same time a punishment and an entertainment. Anything is possible.
       I doze. I feel a hand removing my wallet from the inside pocket of my coat. I awake from my chimeric dream.
       --Don't move! says a voice. You won't be harmed.
       --You know very well that, asleep, you have no need of money, states another voice. Just as you have no more need of yourself.
       I keep silent.
       --You may continue to sleep, resumes the first voice. No one will disturb you.
       They go away. They are well-dressed, elegant. They descend the stairs, laughing. They disappear as down a well.
       There are those, then, who are acquainted with my entire history and experience. They know more about me than I know about myself. How could an article about mendicancy have started all this? I had completely forgotten about my wallet. Odd. Why would those who imprisoned me or those who freed me have to resort to being sneaky with me? My offense must have been more serious than I had thought.
       Voices approach: two, three . . . five . . . Brusquely, they begin to strip off my clothes. One of them coughs continually in my face. I am afraid. Seeing that they don't mean to violate me, I feel reassured. Strange. Even these tramps treat me with kid gloves. They are courteous and pleasant.
       They go off one after the other, each examining the articles he has taken from me. They have left me completely nude. They too are thoroughly familiar with my case. They know that it is no longer necessary for me to protect my skin. If it is true that I have no further needs, I won't begrudge them theirs. They are welcome to take possession of that which will no longer serve me.
       I start to shiver. My adventure is nothing but a comedy concocted to amuse the public.
       Three men. The first carries a bucket, the second a white cushion, and the third a little red box. They take their places on the nearest bench, to my left. They smoke and stare indifferently at the vacant air. I shift position. They turn and look in my direction. Their glances are restless.
              --Listen, one says to me, if you like, we can begin with you before sunrise.
       --It's going to be very hot, adds the second. Like always around here. Take my word for it, the next few days will be hotter still.
       --No one will show you pity, the third chimes in. They may perhaps manifest some sympathy for you, but only from afar. Under these conditions, no one will come to your aid.
       --In a day or two, three at the most, you will give in. I cannot see why you should put yourself through all of this. You can imagine yourself, all naked, seated on this bench, having to shuffle about from here to there. No one will harm you, but people will treat you like a bizarre animal in a cage. Wouldn't it be better to start the execution of the sentence immediately? That way, you won't suffer so much, and you will spare yourself a long and tedious ordeal.
       I address myself to the first who spoke:
       --I cannot understand why they have inflicted such a punishment upon me.
       --You are truly the height of impertinence! Surely you must be joking!
       --Not at all! I have written about the facts as they are!
       --Or so you believe. Before you came along, no one paid the slightest attention to the matter in question.
       --It's true, you've gone too far, affirmed the others. No one can boldly break the law, even if only in a story.
       --Absolutely! Ignorance of the law excuses no one from punishment. This clause, in spite of its antiquity, is always in force.
       --You are lucky insofar as you seem to have benefitted from mitigating circumstances.
       --Perhaps, I said, but I don't deserve chastisement such as this.
       --In what way don't you deserve it? Isn't it true that you know very well that flies haven't existed here for almost twenty-five years?
       I am stupefied.
       --Flies?
       --Yes, flies. They disappeared a quarter of a century ago and, today, you write about their sexual activity.
       Flabbergasted, I protest.
       --But, look! It's not the sexual activity of flies which interests me! I wrote an article about mendicancy.
       --Ah! If that were true, you would probably not have been subject to reprisals. Because in that case, at least, you would have been discussing something real. But you chose to write about that which doesn't exist--that is a crime.
       --I assure you I have never written a word about flies.
       --Listen, don't try to drag us into your leaky boat. Whether you made inquests about flies, mendicants, or nice ladies who pee in the streets, we couldn't care less. We are simply trying to make you comprehend the gravity of your situation.
       --Surely an error has been made somewhere . . .
       --And supposing there has, you still have no chance. The verdict has been pronounced.
       After a moment of silence, I ask:
       --Then, is it you who will execute the sentence?
       No, we are simply charged with carrying out surveillance and offering some alleviation of your suffering before you surrender yourself to the executioners.
       --Where?
       --Come on, then.
       All business, they get up and march away. I stride ahead of them.
       --Hey! one of them yells to another. You have forgotten the soap.
       Finally I understand that he has been carrying a bar of camphor soap. They have brought all the items necessary for a proper burial. I am surprised that they observe such traditions when interring a man who is, after all, a sinner.
       Once again we pass by the little plaza of a while ago. This time, I feel miserable and macabre. People emerge from huge holes, like rats, and follow us. Two workers in the process of opening a conduit for floodwater pause to stare at us. A sickening odor fills my nostrils. I do not hold my breath, as I normally would. What does it matter, now, whether this odor is agreeable or repugnant?
       Throughout the grand plaza, other rats scurry everywhere. They converse, shout, laugh.&
       Slipping on some refuse, I fall on my back. Howls of derision rise all around us. Two of my companions help me to my feet.
       --Are you alright? one of them asks me.
       --Yes, I can walk.
       The macaques! They are munching fruit like monkeys! They scamper in the streets like dogs. And we pretend that the flies have disappeared!
       I continue to walk along in front of them, limping. There is a pain in my left foot, but I don't care about anything anymore. Words waft past my ears--interment, victim, chastisement, new law . . .
       We walk for about half of an hour in the green night. Only three or four men continue to tag along in the convoy, far behind us. By the time we arrive at the white field, no one is left.
       --We're here, says the one carrying the soap.

       The portal of the world of eternal silence is open. As I cross the threshold, I am smacked by the breeze of another night, perfumed and cold. The door of a little house now opens and two powerful individuals appear. Giants dressed in black.

Translated from the French
by Gilbert Alter-Gilbert