Page 155 - And the Mountains Echoed (novel)

They lack self-control, you see, they’re vulnerable to physical

temptation. They’re hypersexual beings who must be
restrained lest they jump into bed with every Ahmad and
Mahmood.

EB: But—forgive me for saying this—you did just that, no?

NW: Only as a protest against that very notion.

She has a delightful laugh, full of mischief and cunning
intelligence. She asks if I want lunch. She says her daughter
has recently restocked her refrigerator and proceeds to make
what turns out to be an excellent jambon fumé sandwich. She

makes only one. For herself, she uncorks a new bottle of wine
and lights another cigarette. She sits down.

NW: Do you agree, for the sake of this chat, that we should
remain on good terms, Monsieur Boustouler?

I tell her I do.

NW: Then do me two favors. Eat your sandwich and quit

looking at my glass.

Needless to say, this preemptively quells any impulse I may
have had to ask about the drinking.

EB: What happened next?

NW: I fell ill in 1948, when I was nearly nineteen. It was
serious, and I will leave it at that. My father took me to Delhi
for treatment. He stayed with me for six weeks while doctors
tended to me. I was told I could have died. Perhaps I should
have. Dying can be quite the career move for a young poet.

When we returned, I was frail and withdrawn. I couldn’t be
bothered with writing. I had little interest in food or
conversation or entertainment. I was averse to visitors. I just
wanted to pull the curtains and sleep all day every day. Which