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alluring. You were a woman.
    Could you possibly be that little girl I had last seen in Tunis in 1962, right after independence, when Si Sharif had called me from Constantine and asked me to sell Si Taher’s house, which was no longer needed? He had bought it a few years previously as a refuge for his small family after the French had exiled him from Algeria in the 1950s, once he had spent a few months in prison for political incitement. So I had gone as usual to check you were all fine and to keep an eye on the arrangements for your return to Algeria. How old were you then? Could you possibly have changed this much, grown up this much in twenty years?
    I gazed at you again, unwilling to admit your age – maybe my own, too, and the man I had become since those bygone days.
    What brought you to this city and this gallery on this day in particular? A day I had awaited, for a reason unrelated to you. A day for which I had made a thousand calculations that had not included you. In which I had expected all surprises except you.
    I was stunned, afraid to meet those eyes of yours that were following my confusion with some astonishment. I decided to turn the question around and continue my conversation with the girl who had just introduced herself. I knew that if I found out who she was, the puzzle would be solved, and I would automatically know who you were. One of you had a name that I had known for twenty-five years. I just needed to learn which one. I asked her, ‘Are you related to Si Sharif Abdelmoula?’
    As if realising I was interested in her, she answered gaily, ‘He’s my father. He couldn’t come today because a delegation just arrived from Algeria yesterday. He’s told us so much about you. We were so curious to meet you that we decided to come to the opening in his place.’
    Despite the spontaneity of what she said, it provided two answers. First, she wasn’t you. Second, it explained why Si Sharif hadn’t come. I had noted his absence and wondered whether it was for personal or political reasons. Or whether he was avoiding being seen with me.
    I knew our paths had diverged years ago when he had entered the corridors of politics. His only goal was to reach the leading ranks. Even so, I couldn’t ignore our being in the same city. He had been part of my childhood and youth, part of my memory. Because of this, and for purely sentimental reasons, he was the only Algerian personality I had invited.
    I hadn’t seen him for a few years, but news of him had always reached me since his appointment, two years previously, as an attaché at the Algerian embassy. Like all postings abroad, this required serious connections and a power base. Si Sharif could forge a path to such posts – and more important ones – by means of his past alone and by his name, which Si Taher had immortalised with his own martyrdom. Yet it seemed that the past alone was not enough to guarantee the present. To make progress, he had to adjust constantly to the way the wind was blowing.
    All of this occurred to me as I tried to absorb the emotional shocks that had rocked me in the last few moments. It had started with my wanting to say hello to a pretty girl who was visiting my exhibition, nothing more. Then, suddenly, I was saying hello to my memory.
    I returned to my initial surprise at you: to all the details that caught my eye and the particular picture that you were standing in front of for so long. It was more than coincidence, more than fate, more than destiny.
    Was it really you? In a gallery looking at my paintings. Studying some and pausing before others, turning to the catalogue in your hand to find out the names of the pictures that most caught your attention.
    Might it be you lighting up each painting that you passed? The spotlights directed at the paintings seemed to point at you, as though you were the genuine work of art.
    Yes, you. You paused before a small painting that no one else had stopped at. You scrutinised it, moved