Albert Camus is in my Toilet

by | Jan 24, 2023 | Uncategorized | 0 comments

Photograph by Henri Cartier-Bresson / Magnum

Certain objects used to remind me of people in the strangest of ways. For example, the shower called to mind the ex-fiancé of my young friend Lina Alrabab’h. I would finish my ablutions and be drying off when his presence would appear. Although there was no actual conversation, I would get the message that he was there to make sure that the cubicle was cleaned thoroughly upon my exit.

Then, there was the bar of Glysolid soap that would evoke images of her sister as I was washing my hands. Just a fleeting apparition, you understand. Nothing as deep as Ali’s shower cleaning exploits.

Then, there was the credit card, which I only used to purchase petrol and bus tickets. As I removed it from my wallet, the silver rectangle of plastic would conjure up my other friend’s twin sister Sahra Delikhan; someone whom I had fatefully seen for the first on the metro last week, prompting my story, “Priceless”.

This all changed, one day, with the appearance of a French philosopher in my toilet, not least because it was the first occurrence which actually involved a conversation. Let me tell you the story from the beginning.

I have always liked to take a book into the lavatory with me. It’s a man thing, so I’m told. I can imagine that there are many reasons for this phenomenon, which I will not go into here. For some time, my read of choice was Gut Reaction by Gudrun Jonsson and Tessa Rose, a non-fiction book about food combination and ailments of the digestive system; an appropriate choice, I hear you say. My late wife, God bless her, could never understand the habit of reading on the loo. In fact, she voiced her disgust on many occasions, both publicly and privately about That Gut Rot Book. I could never see the harm in it and assured her that there were far more obnoxious habits I could have adopted.

One day, I was wrestling with a tiny publication, Creating Dangerously, a selection of speeches by the French philosopher Albert Camus. Yes, I forgot to mention, the smallest room in the house always reminded me of him. Suddenly, a voice came to me. I wasn’t sure if it was in my head or if I had actually heard the words with my ears. The sensation was so alien, that I could not distinguish the source or indeed, how I had received the words; which were in French.

“I see that you are reading my acceptance speech, my friend,” (Mon Ami, nice) the voice declared. Obviously, I didn’t reply. I wasn’t in the habit of talking to myself. 

“Do not believe everything you read. I wrote that speech in a hurry and what is more, I never thought I would win the prize. There were several writers whom I thought should have been recognized by the Nobel Committee before me,” continued the utterance.

“This is crazy,” I said, closing the book and placing it on the tiny pedal bin beside me. My French was a bit rusty but I got the gist of the statement.

“It is indeed, my friend. I understand your exasperation. I get it all the time,” came the ethereal response.

Finishing up, I went to the basin to wash my hands. No sooner had I picked up the soap, but Rana’s voice warbled in her high pitched Arabic.

“He’s right you know, people never believe that we actually exist.”

Subconsciously, I did Lina’s sister the courtesy denied to the French scholar. I answered.

“Not you too, Inch Allah. What next? A Chinese man in my shower? An Iranian twin in my wallet?” I enquired of the enchanted soap.

“It’s just that we do not materialise that often and very rarely together,” M. Camus said.

“So true Monsieur, nice to speak to you,” Rana interjected.

“The pleasure is all mine mademoiselle, is that a Levantine dialect you have there?” The philosopher transferred seamlessly into Arabic for Rana.

“Is this really happening? I interrupted. “Am I conversing with two people? One alive and one dead?”.

“We are not people, we are not even the people we represent. We are spirits, residues of the life that those people have led so far. Their experiential cast-offs as it were,” the young Jordanian woman replied.

“Well said miss, although what you have stated is not entirely accurate. This you will find out at the end of your life, which I hope will be long, happy and fruitful,” responded the philosopher. He continued, “we are reunited with our spirits when the soul leaves the body. The moment of our demise is the moment of our ultimate creation.”

As I dried my hands, Rana’s voice faded, “existential indeed sir.”

I put the lid down on the bowl, sat on it and placed the tips of my fingers against my forehead.

“Forgive me for interrupting your routine,” the philosopher continued, in French. “I am here for a reason. This is not just an act of random visitation. If I may return to the speech. Even the title was made up, erm, how do you say in English, on the hoof? Create Dangerously. I mean, what sort of title is that? I skimmed through five paragraphs until I
found something suitable.”

“OK, let’s assume this is real, and I’m not going mad,” I stuttered in my best French. “What exactly is the reason for your visit?” My eyes wandered around looking for places an Algerian-born academic could possibly hide. The room was bigger than the usual bathroom, and therefore crammed with things I couldn’t put elsewhere. Needless to say, the clothes horse, ironing board, or Dyson vacuum cleaner could not conceal the man.
“I am afraid, my friend, that I have no answer for the latter, but the former is well within my powers of explanation.”

As the words were spoken, I closed my eyes and tried to locate the source to no avail. I decided to continue the conversation, concluding that the
potential content far outweighed any uneasiness I felt about its nature.

Go ahead M. Camus, I am all ears. I wonder if you could speak slowly as my French is rusty. It has been some time since I visited France, what with the pandemic,” I said, convincingly, (convincing myself, really).

“My pleasure, young man.” This statement threw me somewhat as I am sixty-four, and the learned gentleman was killed in a car accident at the tender age of forty-six. I reconciled this by doing a quick calculation in my head. He would have been one-hundred￾and-nine now. The voice continued, “Pandemic? Interesting, you must fill me in on events. I don’t see the world as you do. It’s not as if I am a ghost or something. Yes, I am going to enjoy this. I notice that you have the tiny book published by Penguin that bears the name of that damned
speech.”

“I do indeed. In fact, I don’t know what came first: your presence here or the book. I think it was the former and I kind of bought the book to scratch that itch, as it were.” I responded with confidence.

“Itch? Ah, yes. Bravo my friend. I like your style.” With that, the voice gave a brief
chuckle which was curtailed by a hacking cough. “Damn those cigarettes.”

“Are you OK?” I enquired before realising the absurdity of my query.

“Yes, thank you for asking. It is all part of the role, I’m afraid. As you know, I am synonymous with smoking cigarettes. You must have seen my most famous photograph bymy friend, Henri Cartier-Bresson. Do you know Gitanes offered half-a-million francs to sponsor me? Needless to say, I turned them down. I had my reputation to think of.”

Then, as if to underline his statement, he barked another lung-busting hack. “Back to the book. The thing that annoys me most about that publication is that one of my best speeches is featured within its pages. However, on the rear cover, some smart-arse has written this.”

Camus argues passionately that the artist has a responsibility to challenge, provoke
and speak up for those who cannot in this powerful speech, accompanied by two others…

“Two others indeed!” the voice exclaimed, with indignation. “As if these words were some kind of filler to make up the numbers.”

“Would you like to elaborate, M. Camus?” I was beginning to enjoy this.

“The very reason why I am here,” the voice replied. “You see, the second speech, one of ‘the two others’, I consider to be one of my most important orations. It was at a gathering held by the French Friendship Society in Paris in March 1945, during the war. I
had been invited to speak about their work.”

To be continued…

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