Free The Bridges of Constantine by Ahlem Mosteghanemi

have at the time.
    There was a brief, uneasy silence at this first confession. Then, as if to break the silence or arouse my curiosity, you said, ‘Guess what? I know lots about you.’
    Happy and surprised I said, ‘What do you know, for example?’
    Like a teacher trying to confuse a pupil, you answered, ‘Lots of things that you may have forgotten yourself.’
    I said, with a hint of sadness, ‘I don’t believe I’ve forgotten anything. Actually, my problem is I never forget!’
    You answered with an innocent admission.‘Well, my problem is I do forget. I forget everything. Imagine, yesterday, for example, I forgot my Métro ticket in my other handbag. And a week ago I left my keys at home and had to wait outside for two hours till someone came to let me in. What a disaster.’ At the time I wasn’t aware of what all this would mean for me.
    I said sarcastically, ‘Thanks for remembering this appointment.’
    With the same sarcasm you replied, ‘It wasn’t an appointment. Just a possible appointment. You should know I hate certainty. I hate to fix anything or stick to it. The most beautiful things are born as possibilities and maybe stay like that.’
    ‘Why did you come then?’ I asked.
    You looked at me and your eyes lingered over my face as if in search of the answer to an unexpected question. With eyes laden with promises and seduction you said, ‘Because you might possibly be my certainty!’
    I laughed at this way of putting it, loaded with shameless feminine contradiction – at the time I didn’t know this was your signature. Your eyes had charged me with masculine pride and arrogance, and I said, ‘Well, I hate possibilities, so I’m determined to be your certainty.’
    With a woman’s insistence on having the last word, you said, ‘It’s hypothetical, a certainty like that!’ We laughed.
    I was ecstatic, as if I hadn’t laughed for years. I had anticipated different beginnings for us and rehearsed many lines and ideas to try on you at this first meeting. But I confess I hadn’t expected it to be like this. Everything I had prepared vanished when you arrived. I became tongue-tied at your language and I was at a loss as to how you’d acquired it.
    There was something light-hearted and lyrical about you. A spontaneity and simplicity verging on the childish that didn’t dispel the constant presence of a woman. You possessed an extraordinary ability, after one meeting, to level our ages. It seemed I’d caught your youth and vitality.
    I was still under the influence of your previous statements when your words took me by surprise. ‘Really, I wanted to study your paintings that day, not share them with crowds of people. When I like something, I prefer to be alone with it!’ That was the most beautiful proof of appreciation for an artist, the most beautiful thing you could have said to me that day. Before I could get lost in my joy or say thank you, you added, ‘Apart from that, I’ve wanted to get to know you for ages. My grandmother sometimes talked about you when she reminisced about my father. It seems she loved you a lot.’
    I asked you eagerly, ‘How is Amma Zahra? I haven’t seen her for years.’
    With a hint of sadness you said, ‘She died four years ago. Afterwards my mother moved to live with my brother Nasser in the capital. I came to Paris to study. Her death changed our lives to some extent. She was the one who actually raised us.’
    I tried to forget that news. Her death was another thorn plunged into my heart that day. She had something of my own mother, her secret perfume, her way of tying her silk headscarf to the side, her concealing a silver locket in her full bosom. She had that reflexive warmth that our mothers exude, those words that in one sentence give you enough tenderness for a lifetime. But this was no time for sadness. You were with me at last. This was time for joy. I said to you, ‘God rest her soul. I loved her a lot too.’
    Perhaps at that moment you