Street of Thieves (32 page)

I imagined an attack, an explosion, with his Pakistani friends from the mosque, as he called them; a revenge for the death of Bin Laden, a coup to destabilize Europe further at a time when it seemed to be wavering, cracking like a beautiful, fragile vase, vengeance for the dead Syrian children, for the dead Palestinian children, for dead children in general, that whole absurd rhetoric, the spiral of stupidity, or simply for the pleasure of destruction and fire, what do I know, I watched Bassam in his solitude and his seclusion, ricocheting like a billiard ball in the Street of Thieves against the sad whores, the addicts, the verminous, and the bearded men of the mosque, I saw him again absorbed in resentment in front of that decadent photograph on Rambla Catalunya,
I saw him ogling Maria's sex on her doorstep, I pictured him carrying suitcases to Marrakesh, and as the killer with the sword in Tangier, and as a fighter in Mali or Afghanistan, or maybe none of the above, maybe just a man just like me lost in the whirl of the Carrer Robadors, a hollow man, a walking tomb, a man who sought in flames the end of an already dead world, a warrior from a theater of shadows, who felt confusedly that there was no more reality around him, nothing tangible, nothing true, and who was struggling, moved by the last breath of hatred, in a cottony emptiness, a cloud, a silent man, a mute man who would blow up in a train, in a plane, in a subway line, for no one,
perhaps the Hour is approaching, I saw Bassam's perfectly round head in prayer, I no longer expected answers to my questions, no more answers, an unknown surgeon would soon open Judit's skull to remove the disease from it, around us the world was on fire and Bassam was standing there, motionless like a snake charmer's cobra, an empty man whose hour would soon toll, a soldier of despair who carried his corpses in his eyes, just like Cruz.

the days were long and silent—Bassam followed his ritual, without saying anything, he was waiting, waiting for a sign or for the end of the world, just as I was waiting for Judit's operation, which looked as though it was going to be longer and more difficult than foreseen; in the evening I'd go out for a walk with Mounir in Barcelona's warm humidity, which was like Tangier or Tunis—relieved, we'd leave Bassam on the Street of Thieves to go to our little sidewalk café a little farther south, on Calle del Cid; we'd drink some beers there, nicely tucked away in that forgotten lane, and Mounir was a great comfort, he'd always end up cracking me up: despite his fragile situation, he kept his sense of humor, his energy, and he managed to communicate some of it to me, make me forget everything I'd lost, everything that had broken, despite the world around us; Spain, sinking into crisis, Europe, destroying itself before our eyes, and the Arab world, not escaping from its contradictions. Mounir had been relieved by the victory of the Left in the French presidential elections, he saw hope in it, he was optimistic, nothing for it, him the small-time thief, the dealer, he thought the Revolution was still underway, that it hadn't been crushed once and for all by stupidity and blindness, and he laughed, he laughed at the millions of euros swallowed up in the banks or in bankrupt nations, he laughed, he was confident, all these misfortunes were nothing, his poverty in Paris, his misery in Barcelona, he still had the strength of
the poor and the revolutionary, he said One day, Lakhdar, one day I'll be able to live decently in Tunisia, I won't need Milan, Paris or Barcelona anymore, one day you'll see, and I who had never really wanted to leave Tangier, who had never really shared these dreams of emigration, I'd reply that we'd always be better off tucked away in the Raval, in our palace of lepers, watching the world collapse,
and that made him laugh.

I
was increasingly convinced that the Hour was near; that Bassam was waiting for a signal to play his part in the end of the world—he would disappear for much of the day, during prayer times; he pretended to be happy when I suggested we go out for a bit, change neighborhoods, enjoy the city that held its arms out to us; he managed to pretend for half an hour, to go into raptures over one or two girls and three shop windows, then he'd become silent again, snapped up by his memories, his plans, or his hatred. When I grilled him he'd look at me with his simpleton's face, his eyes incredulous, as if he didn't have the slightest clue as to what I was talking about, and I began to doubt, I told myself I was exaggerating, that the ambiance, the Street of Thieves, and Judit's illness were beginning to get to me, so I'd promise myself not to mention it to him again—until night came, when he'd disappear for two or three hours, God knows where, in the company of his random Pakistani pals and he'd return, silent, with the lost, tremulous gaze of someone wanting to ask a question, taking Mounir's place on the sofa, and my doubts and questions would reappear. One day I noticed that he had come back with a plastic bag, bizarre for someone who never bought himself anything, who owned almost nothing, aside from a few pieces of clothing which he ritually washed by hand every night before bed—I glanced into it when he went to piss; the package contained four new cellphones of a very simple model, I remembered the
modus operandi of the Marrakesh attack, of course I couldn't resist, I asked him the question, he didn't seem angry that I'd searched through his things, just a little tired of my suspicions, he answered very simply it's a little business with my pals from down there, if you like I can get you one free of charge—the naturalness of his answer disarmed me, and I fell silent.

I was probably going mad, completely paranoid.

ONE
day I couldn't stand it anymore, I talked about it with Judit. She was still in the hospital, the operation kept being delayed: major budget cuts had forced the hospital to close a wing of its operating theaters—and there were always more urgent cases to be operated on.

Núria wasn't there, we were alone in her room; she was sitting in the visitor's chair, and I was on the floor next to her. I hesitated for a long time, and I said to her, you know, I wonder if Bassam is preparing for something.

She leaned toward me.

“Something dangerous, you mean?”