WHITE A TUNISIAN By Timothy Ryan Illustration by IT WAS THE SPRING OF THE R UM O R S OF D E A T H . VO ICES C O L D A N D DRY AS SPEAKERS ON SHIPS OR BUS STATIONS RANDOMLY AN N O U N C IN G THE FUTURE FROM THE REMAINS OF THE P R E S EN T. TH IS WAS IN 1983, WHEN THE OCEAN 'S VASTNESS REPRESENTED THE FUTURE TO ME, AND THE PECULIAR MELANCHOLY ATMO SPHERE OF AIRPORTS THE P A S T. MY TU N IS IA N H O L IDAY CHANGED ALL THAT. I S PEN T MARCH IN SICILY, WHERE THE PAPERS ' A C COUN TS OF T H E MA F IA'S DEMISE WERE SURELY EXAGGERATED. T HERE WAS KILLI N G ALL R IGHT , BUT THE PEOPLE DYING AT THE BLACK HANDS OF ANONYMOUS CARBOMBERS AND ASSASSINS ON VE SPA M O P E D S W E R E R ESPECTED JUDGES AND C O M MUNIST OFFICIALS. At this time I was a sales representative for a textbook company based in Athens and was travelling through Italy on business. I thought an excursion from Palermo to Tunis on the overnight ferry to see some old friends would be relaxing, a bargain vacation. I stayed the first night at the shabby Hotel Bristol in the heart of the capital—a spiral-staircased pension along the alley running in the shadow of the main thoroughfare, Rue Habib Bourguiba. The rumors in the city were of the President- for-Life’s impending demise. Frail, in his eighties, Bourguiba seemed to be “ losing his grip” and was expected to go very soon. What most worried the madam who ran this best little whorehouse in Tunis (with the miniskirted vinylbooted feather- boaed girls always in and out) was the gossip that Bourguiba had signed an agreement handing his country over to Moammar Gadhafi at the event of his death. I later heard this same stuff taken very seriously by U.S. Embassy people, and thought it the kind of diet that naturally feeds expatriate paranoia. Slipping off to sleep, I thought of the night before, sailing away from the empire of lights that is Europe and waking in the gray morning to mosques, sand, an alien tongue, the blue and white shores of ancient Carthage. I felt truly outside fam i l ia r cu ltu re , history, expe r ien ce. . .reflected upon the first time I left America for any length of time—how it felt to be outside the fortress of narcissism, the eternally self-reflecting mirror. For life on the outside seemed so clear-eyed and basic. The second day I stayed with friends from the embassy, Ted and Stevie Richardson. Stevie picked me up at the hotel in their red VW, telling me how lucky I was to come now—April was a perfect month to visit Tunisia. Unfortunately, her father had been seriously injured in a motorcycle accident in the States. She apologized, saying she had to leave the next day. But Ted, she said, would be around. Ted was the Agency for International Development Science Officer, a big bear of a man with a bushy black beard and eyes that seem to pierce all surfaces with the force of sheer curiosity. He was struggling with a recalcitrant scuba pump motor when we arrived. The Richardsons lived in a large house in La Marsa, Tunis’ diplomatic community of white-washed, blue-trim residences enclosed in fortified gardens above the sea. Ted’s avid, almost lurid interest in strange creatures—garish, I REFLECTED UPON THE FIRST TIME I LEFT AMERICA FOR ANY LENGTH OF TIME —HOW IT FELT TO BE OUTSIDE THE FORTRESS OF NARCISSISM, THE ETERNALLY SELF-REFLECTING MIRROR. FOR LIFE ON THE OUTSIDE SEEMED SO CLEAR-EYED AND BASIC. neon-vibrant macaws, a tarantula in a fishbowl, African beetles the size of boxers’ fists mounted on plaques—made the place even more exotic than it seemed at first. We went into the kitchen, poured a toast of red wine and set about making dinner. Ted talked about his work, energy surveys, the fragile condition of Tunisia; how its “ most stable Arab nation” epithet was a dangerous illusion. Tunisia’s future, he said, was oil and tourism. “At least it has a future, however precarious.” I complained about the hassles of incessant air travel, demanding sales managers, deadbeat customers. Then we talked about travel—Israel, Italy, the Greek Islands. At five o’clock Stevie switched on the black short-wave radio, the only thing in the room to distinguish this kitchen from one in the States. The clipped, comfortable tones of the BBC World Service issued forth, the thread of authority linking up the far-reaching web of the Western World. The sound of this deep, controlled voice created in me an ethereal sense of connectivity, at once familiar and repulsive, tenuous reassurance to those caught up in the siege mentality. The BBC voice reported a car bombing of the American Embassy in Beirut. More than 60 people were dead; Islamic Jihad had claimed responsibility. Ted and Stevie gasped, then tried to reassure themselves. It seemed they had two friends who had just been transferred to Beirut—one Tunisian, one American. Within hours we discovered their Tunisian friend had been killed and the task of notifying the family had fallen to the Richardsons. When they returned from this grim duty they were beside themselves. “Oh God, it was terrible,” said Ted, pouring a drink. “ They leapt all over us. ‘You did it to her, you filthy Americans,’ that sort of thing. My God, Jemilla was our friend too. Nothing I could say had any effect, which I imagine is unders tandab le . ‘The Americans are to blame.’ What could I say? We were the ones who transferred her. . . . They asked us if we were satisfied that we had killed their daughter.. . . ” “They said she didn’t want to go, but she went anyway,” said Stevie, her voice moving slowly in that measured space of shock and regret and loss. Her face was sprinkled with freckles and under normal circumstances it gave one the impression that her nature was relentlessly happy, upbeat. Now she just looked drawn. She passed her hands through the thick bush of her auburn hair, as if 6 Clinton St. Quarterly
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