Street of Thieves

We headed off for the lower part of the city, and a bit further on Bassam pulled up short opposite the display window for an art gallery, in front of an immense photograph that measured two meters by three: a strange scene, eight people behind a table loaded with empty cans of beer, drained glasses, bottles of wine, leftovers, dirty bowls and spoons, crumpled wrappers, bottles of spirits, containers of fruit juice, ashtrays overflowing with butts and burnt matches: two girls in bras standing, holding joints; three guys with bare chests, one of them very hairy, in the background, who had climbed up on chairs, the picture cut off at his shoulders; a pensive bearded guy, on the right, with a cigarette, his head turned to the others, absorbed in contemplation of the disaster, and opposite him, at the left edge, a naked guy smiling at the camera, hat on his head, while at his side an elegant couple — jacket, light-colored shirt, black cardigan for the woman — seemed so drunk that they had to support each other, shoulder to shoulder, like the junkies on the Street of Thieves. In the back on the left, a window showed a glimpse of an orangey glow, an apocalyptic lighting, you couldn’t tell if it came from a sunset, a sunrise, or a light bulb in the stairwell. The whole group, in these giant proportions, gave off an extraordinary force; a movement rose diagonally from the smile of the guy in the hat to the hairy chest in the opposite corner; the hairs shone on the yellowish skins, the red cans of beer exploded on the table; the girls in lacy bras had rolls of flesh, tired faces, heavy breasts; the well-dressed woman was closing her wrinkled eyes, her long, dirty-blonde hair spilled onto the filth on the table, into the tobacco ash, old fries, wine stains.

Bassam was very close to the image, he looked at each of these characters and then shook his head incredulously, muttering; he stepped back to look at the entire photo and turned to me, questioningly — he asked with an air of disgust, what is this? An ad? I replied, laughing, I don’t think so, it’s art, my friend. Bassam wasn’t laughing, he seemed frightened, he said to me Lakhdar if you stay here you’ll end up like that, like them, that made me laugh even harder, I said Bassam you’re completely crazy, but he said don’t you see, it’s a parody of the Sura of the Laden Table, O God Our Lord, said Issa, son of Maryam, make a laden table come down from heaven that will be a celebration, for the first of us as well as for the last, it’s a disgrace. He looked completely serious, frightened and angry at the same time.

I didn’t know much about art, but aside from the table, obviously, it was hard to see anything religious in this photo, on the contrary, it was totally decadent, obscene and decadent.

“Come on buddy, you’re raving, let’s go.”

But he couldn’t manage to tear his eyes away from the image; he was staring with hatred at the girls in underwear, the bottles of wine, and the man with the hat — if he could have he would no doubt have broken the window.

“You want us to buy it, is that it? You want me to ask them to make a little copy for your place? Should I take a picture of it with my cell?”

He shot me a furious look, this thing is an offence to God, this country is an offence to God, he raised his eyes to the sky.

“Come on, let’s go.”

I began walking and he ended up following me; he was muttering curses.

I knew where to take him to make it pass away. So much for the risks of shared transport, we took a bus headed for La Barceloneta — when Bassam asked me where we were going, I replied, to Paradise. That didn’t make him laugh at all and he barked, stop with your blasphemies, before returning to that silence of his from the beginning of our afternoon.

When we arrived, he couldn’t hold back a whistle of admiration at the immense sail-shaped hotel, at the edge of the embankment, at the façades glimmering in the sun, and at the cable car that crossed the harbor, off to the right, disappearing in the greenness of the hill of Montjuïc.

“Wait, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

A Saturday, I knew the beach would be swarming with people. I took off my shoes and dragged Bassam toward the sea.

“What the hell are you up to, you’re not going swimming are you?”

I walked straight ahead, in the burning sand; the light was blinding despite the late hour; the sun hadn’t set yet, over there in the west, behind the Street of Thieves. I knew, as I started walking, that I was missing Bassam’s expression and exclamations; the bodies were so close together that we had to set one foot in front of the other to pass between the bare breasts and oiled thighs. I found an open spot, a dozen meters from the water; I threw myself onto the ground. Bassam sat cross-legged, facing the sea; over there’s where the show is, I said. Turn around and look.