The Network - Jason Elliot [94]
‘You don’t deny your religion and civilisation because there are some fanatics who call themselves Christian? You don’t deny all the goodness and beauty because there is some ugliness. You don’t have to feel guilty because the Church ordered the crusades, or a massacre, or – I don’t know – a Hiroshima or a Srebrenica, or because your Christian leaders built concentration camps or enslaved millions of innocent people? But if a Muslim is involved in something unspeakable, in the West they always point out his religion. They talk about Muslims as if a single word could describe a billion people, as if the word was really useful.’
We pull up outside her home. The engine is still running, so I reach towards the ignition and turn off the engine. Jameela turns to me. She’s still upset. The issue has caused a division between us like an argument, and cast a shadow over the closeness I feel for her.
‘Do you know who the most extreme ones are?’ she’s asking. ‘They’re from Saudi, Egypt, Palestine. The ones who have the closest contact with the West. That’s where they learned their politics and their violence. And they’re always the ones you hear about. You never hear about the millions and millions of people who live quietly and tolerantly and peacefully and with the happiness that Islam brings to the heart of their lives.’
But I’m not really listening. I lean across, reach behind her head with my hand, and draw it gently towards my own. Then I kiss her on her lips.
‘I am in love with you,’ I say quietly. ‘And each time I say goodbye to you, it hurts.’
She looks at me in stunned silence. Her breath is uneven.
‘Go,’ she says. ‘Just go, please. Va t’en, je t’en prie.’
11
Her letter arrives the next day. Kamal brings it to me while I’m drinking tea on the balcony.
À mon très cher Antoine,
I cannot describe my feelings at this moment so I will not try. I am happy that we have met and I will always treasure the time we have spent together. But soon you will leave Khartoum and we will both be alone. When that happens, I know only that for one of us, or both of us, there will already be too much pain. Let us not make that pain greater than it needs to be. Please respect my wish that we not meet again.
Je t’embrasse,
J.
Her housekeeper is outside, watering the bougainvillea, and greets me with a smile. Jameela is not at home, she says. I know, I tell her. I just want to leave her a present, I explain, and take the bags upstairs to her bedroom. The rose petals are fresh and fragrant. They are mixed with hibiscus and jasmine. I plunge my hands into them and scatter them over every surface, across the bed and dresser and bookshelves, until there is a thick layer of them from one side of the room to the other. The note which I leave on her table, by way of an answer, reads: ‘Please come to a picnic on Friday morning, to discuss your important letter (bathing suit optional).’
On the Friday, when I drive to her house Jameela is still in bed. She descends a few minutes later in a pair of white silk pyjamas, brandishing the note I’ve left.
‘Why are you doing this?’ she asks. She’s trying to look angry.
‘Trust me,’ I say. ‘We’ll be back by this evening. Just one picnic and then I’ll leave you alone.’ Which I have no intention of doing.
At the airport an official leads us to the plane. It’s a Cessna 172R with just enough range to get us to our destination and back. I’ve already filed a flight plan and the plane is chartered for twenty-four hours. I haul my bags into the hold.
‘Are you at least going to tell me where we’re going?’ asks Jameela.
I pull open one of the bags and show her a pair of diving fins.
‘You wanted the sea. I’m taking you to the sea.’
She shakes her head very slowly, but she can’t conceal the faintest of smiles.
‘You’re crazy,’ she says.
I press a hundred-dollar bill into the hand of the official, who mimics a machine gun as he warns me thoughtfully not to stray into Eritrean airspace. After a few minutes of pre-flight checks we’re airborne, heading north-east from the city and watching the