This is a chapter from our translation of Abdellatif Laâbi’s novel/memoir, La Fuite vers Samarkand, coming out soon from Diálogos Books as The Flight to Samarkand.
Forthcoming from Diálogos Books.
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Translators’ note:
“Siesta” is the name we have given to this chapter from the book The Flight to Samarkand by internationally known poet and activist Abdellatif Laâbi. In this memoir Laâbi recalls and reflects upon his life as it nears its end, meditating on his mortality and considering the inevitable question what will remain of his writing after his passing. Laâbi exposes his feelings, fears, and beliefs while reflecting on his childhood in Morocco, his years as a political prisoner, his life in exile in France, his journeys and readings at literary festivals, and his confinement during the ravishing of the world that occurs as he writes in the middle of the Covid pandemic. The famous Iranian tale “The Vizier and Death,” by the 12th-century mystic and poet Fariduddin Attar, underlies this memoir and serves as an echo of his own movement toward the meeting with Lady Death, an experience we all face.
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Yes, you have to breathe. Think of something agreeable. Use tricks that help entice sleep while letting it cook on low in order to soften it, earn its benevolence, increase its unctuousness and its healing virtues.
No wonder Mr. Barde is struggling to fall asleep, considering his job where hypertension goes without saying. So, he suffers patiently, reads until impossible hours, and sometimes plays at cultivating insomnia, gaining thus beaches of meditation, wanderings in thought fostered by silence. That is to say that, despite slight benefits, his nights rarely bring him the hoped-for repose.
Fortunately for him, his Mediterranean genetic heritage has predisposed him to the pressing need for siesta, linked to the strongly anchored culture of gentle idleness. What a marvel, and what relief! After the ritual of the aperitif followed by lunch (his main meal), he is already drowsy and has no other desire than to go lie down. As soon as he puts his head on the pillow, he plunges without prelude or trick into sleep. No tedious dreams or nightmares. A loss of consciousness close to a profound coma, without anesthetic. After an hour, perhaps more, he opens his eyes as if a hypnotist had snapped his fingers before his nose and regains consciousness in an instant, like a flower blooming in fast motion.
A work of homage to the siesta starts to germinate in his mind. Oh! no etymology, comparative history, diverse practices according to the continents and the meridians, anecdotes on celebrities who have been adepts and zealots of it, curiosity about the use that certain insects, or mammals other than the human species, make of it. It is a safe bet that books have been written about all that, largely satisfying that fury to know. No, his motivation comes from a sincere desire to share his pleasure.
The homage will commence, addressed to those men and women who have not yet had the chance to discover the delights of the siesta, with a generic formula like this: Oh you orphans of the siesta, if you only knew!
Then will follow, in a low voice, with muted refined background music, the relationship of the acquaintances, imprinted with voluptuousness, that Mr. Bard entertains in the course of the afternoon, in a semi-darkness, with the goddess of sleep. He will reveal how much he abandons himself to this dispenser of happiness, perhaps more than he ever has done with his beloved at the peak of carnal fusion. It is true that there are conditions (adequate temperatures, quality of the light around and outdoors, proximity to loved ones partaking of the same pleasure or watching and acting discreetly at his side) that promote accession to such a state of grace. This is to say that global warming would have to worsen for it to occur in Siberia, or at least in Finland.
Many of Mr. Bard’s happy memories are associated with siestas and the places where he savored them: one of the Greek Isles (Samos, Hydra or Paros?), a prestigious residence in Istanbul (during the time when the secular left ruled the city), a village in Provence, another in the very depths of southern Spain, Hammamet in Tunisia, Harhoura near Rabat.
If you knew how much the siesta is about the smoothness of the silk! With what fairy fingers it insensibly caresses the eyelids and gets the eyes to close with conviction! With what ease it makes the limbs relax and by how much weight it lightens the chest! How the organs quickly seize the opportunity and immediately indulge in the delights of laziness! How the heart arranges its percussion instruments to get in the nayy accompanied by some judiciously spaced notes from the double bass! If you knew into which cocoon of peace one sinks, into what rocking of waves pushed by the breaths of childhood, aboard a sailboat gliding imperceptibly between sea and sky!
If you knew that the forgetting (provisionary, one understands) of pains, sorrows, anxieties, is obtained infinitely better through a good siesta than by having recourse to the herbs, powders and beverages that many people ordinarily take refuge in, making themselves more ill!
O you orphans of siesta, if you only knew!
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Oui, il faut souffler. Penser à quelque chose d’agréable. Utiliser les astuces qui permettent d’attirer le sommeil en le faisant cuire à feu doux afin de l’attendrir, gagner sa bienveillance, accroître son onctuosité et ses vertus réparatrices.
Quoi d’étonnant à ce que Monsieur Barde ait du mal à s’endormir, vu son métier où l’hypertension va de soi. Alors, il prend son mal en patience, lit jusqu’à des heures pas possibles, et parfois joue à cultiver l’insomnie, gagnant ainsi des plages de méditation, de vagabondage en pensée, favorisées par le silence. C’est dire que, malgré de légers bénéfices, ses nuits lui procurent rarement le repos espéré.
Heureusement pour lui, son patrimoine génétique méditerranéen l’a prédisposé au besoin impérieux de la sieste, liée à la culture fortement ancrée du farniente. Quelle merveille, et quel soulagement ! Après le rituel de l’apéritif suivi du déjeuner (son repas principal), il somnole déjà et n’a d’autre envie que d’aller s’allonger. Dès qu’il pose la tête sur l’oreiller, il plonge sans préalables ni astuces dans le sommeil. Pas de rêves fastidieux ni de cauchemars. Une perte de connaissance confinant à un coma profond, sans anesthésique. Après une heure, parfois plus, il rouvre les yeux comme si un hypnotiseur avait claqué des doigts devant son nez et reprend conscience d’un coup, à la façon d’une fleur en train d’éclore, en accéléré.
Un éloge de la siesta a commencé à germer dans son esprit. Oh ! pas d’étymologie, d’histoire comparée, de pratiques diverses selon les continents et les méridiens, d’anecdotes sur des célébrités qui en ont été des adeptes et des zélateurs, de curiosité pour l’usage qu’en font certains insectes, ou des mammifères autres que l’espèce humaine. Il y a fort à parier que des livres ont été écrits là-dessus, satisfaisant largement à cette furie de savoir. Non, sa motivation part d’un désir sincère de faire partager son plaisir.
L’éloge commencera, à l’adresse de celles, ceux qui n’ont pas encore eu la chance de découvrir les délices de la sieste, par une formule du genre : Ô vous orphelins de sieste, si vous saviez!
Suivra alors, à voix basse, avec une musique raffinée en sourdine, la relation des accointances, empreintes de volupté, que Monsieur Barde entretient en cours d’après-midi, dans une semi-obscurité, avec la déesse du sommeil. Il révélera à quel point il s’abandonne à cette dispensatrice de félicité, peut-être plus qu’il ne le fait avec la bien-aimée à l’acmé de la fusion charnelle. Il est vrai qu’il y a des conditions (température adéquate, qualité de la lumière alentour et dehors, proximité d’êtres chers partageant le même bonheur ou veillant et s’activant discrètement à côté) qui favorisent l’accession à un tel état de grâce. C’est dire qu’il faudrait que le réchauffement climatique s’aggrave pour que cela se produise en Sibérie, ou ne fût-ce qu’en Finlande.
Beaucoup de souvenirs heureux de Monsieur Barde sont associés à des siestes et aux lieux où il les a savourées : une des îles grecques (Samos, Hydra ou Paros ?), de prestige à Istanboul (à l’époque où la gauche laïque une résidence dirigeait la ville), un village de Provence, un autre au fin fond du sud de l’Espagne, Hammamet en Tunisie, Harhoura près de Rabat.
Si vous saviez à quel point la sieste tient de la suavité de la soie. De quels doigts de fée elle caresse insensiblement les paupières et obtient que les yeux se ferment avec conviction. Avec quelle aisance elle fait se relâcher les membres et de quel poids elle allège la poitrine. Comment les organes saisissent vite l’aubaine et s’adonnent aussitôt aux délices de la paresse. Comment le cœur range ses instruments de percussion pour se mettre au nayy accompagné de quelques notes judicieusement espacées de contrebasse. Si vous saviez dans quel cocon de paix l’on se coule, dans quel bercement de vagues poussées par les souffles de l’enfance, à bord d’un voilier glissant imperceptiblement entre mer et ciel !
Si vous saviez que l’oubli (provisoire, s’entend) des douleurs, des peines, des angoisses, s’obtient infiniment mieux par une bonne sieste qu’en recourant aux herbes, poudres et breuvages dans lesquels nombre de gens se réfugient d’ordinaire en se faisant encore plus mal.
Ô vous orphelins de sieste, si vous saviez!
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Abdellatif Laâbi is a poet, novelist, playwright, translator, and political activist. Laâbi’s accolades include the Prix Goncourt de la Poésie (2009), the Académie Française’s Grand Prix de la Francophonie (2011), and the Roger Kowalski Award for Poetry.
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Guillemette Johnston is a professor of French at DePaul University. She is the author of Lectures poétiques: La Représentation poétique du discours théorique chez Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1996), and has published scholarly articles in Romanic Review, French Forum, Studies on Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century, Pensée libre, Études Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and elsewhere. Allan Johnston has published three full-length poetry collections and three chapbooks. Together Guillemette and Allan Johnston have translated two collections of Laâbi’s poems; The Symphony of Resistance: Selected Poems of Abdellatif Laâbi (Shanti Arts) and Near Nothings (Diálogos Books). Their translations have also appeared in Azonal, Consequence Forum, MayDay Magazine, Metamorphoses, Ezra, and Transference.
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Edward Lee is an artist and writer from Ireland. His paintings and photography have been exhibited widely, while his poetry, short stories, non-fiction have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. He is currently working on two photography collections: ‘Lying Down With The Dead’ and ‘There Is A Beauty In Broken Things’. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy.
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