The Bridges of Constantine Read Online Free PDF Page B

nothing in his hands but his weapon, nothing in his pockets but a few worthless notes, nothing round his neck but the honour of martyrdom. Symbols acquire their value at their death. Those who act on their behalf acquire their value from ranks and medals, and quickly line their pockets with the proceeds of secret accounts.
    His murderers carpet-bombed the besieged town of Dachra for six hours so that they could put a photograph of one of the rebels France had vowed to destroy on the front page of the next day’s papers, as proof of their crushing victory. Was the death of this simple man really a victory for a great power which, in a matter of months, would lose all of Algeria?
    He was martyred in the summer of 1960 and did not enjoy the fruits of victory. He gave everything for Algeria, which did not even give him the chance to see his son walking beside him. Or see you fulfil his dream and become a doctor or teacher.
    That man loved you so much! With the passion of a father at forty. With the great tenderness of one whose severity concealed much tenderness. With the dreams of one whose dreams had been confiscated. With the pride of a fighter who, when he sees his firstborn, realises that he will never completely die.
    I still remember the few occasions he stole visits to you all in Tunis for a day or two. I would race to see him, desperate to hear the latest news from the Front. At the same time, I would restrain myself so as not to steal the few precious hours that he had risked his life for, so that he could spend them with his small family.
    I discovered a different man from the one I knew. A man in different clothes, with a different smile and words. He sat so you could easily sit in his lap for him to play with. He lived every second to the full as though he were squeezing every drop of happiness from the meanness of time, stealing in advance hours of life that he knew would be few, and giving you in advance a lifetime’s supply of tenderness.
    I saw him for the last time in January 1960. He had come to witness the most important event in his life and meet Nasser, his second-born child. It was a secret wish of his to be blessed with a boy. That day, for some reason, I studied him closely, but spoke little. I preferred to leave him to his delight and his stolen happiness. When I went back the following day, I was told he had returned to the Front in a hurry, saying he’d definitely be back soon for longer.
    He didn’t come back.
    The generosity of that miser fate came to an end. Si Taher was killed a few months later without seeing his son again. Nasser was eight months old at the time, and you had just turned four.
    In the summer of 1960 the nation was a volcano, dying and being born every day. More than one story crosses paths with its death and its birth, some painful and some amazing. Some came late, like my story that one day crossed paths with you. An offshoot of a story, written in advance, that changed the course of my life after a whole one had ended, by the action of what might be called fate or mad passion. It came out of the blue, surprising us both and overwhelming our principles and values. It came later on, when we were no longer expecting anything, but it turned everything in us upside down.
    Today, now that time has burned the bridges of communication, can I resist the insane desire to combine these two stories together in writing, just as I lived them, with you and without you, desiring, loving, dreaming, hating, jealous, disappointed and with tragedies to the point of death?
    You loved listening to me, turning me over and over like an old notebook full of surprises.
    I have to write this book for your sake, to tell you what I didn’t find the years to say. To tell you about those who, for various reasons, loved you and whom, for other reasons, you betrayed. Even to tell you about Ziyad. You wouldn’t admit it, but how you loved talking about him. There is no need for evasion any more. Each of us