The Salt & Water Cure

On the way to the National Theater last night, I began to feel that something was off. I recognized that feeling of congestion in the throat — we are, after all, in the scary month of November.

I arrived late; it had taken me more than 20 minutes to find the right door. In the end I was rescued by a member of the festival crew, who led me down long corridors, through halls big and small. A different kind of music bombarded my ears at every turn.

The place was like a jungle, entangled and complex and filled with humans. I would never have managed to get there on my own, but with the help of this woman (whose name remained unknown) I arrived just in time at the Victory Hall, where I had to give a reading with the other writers and translators.

When our session was over, I left the hall with no map and no idea where I was headed. I was trying to get out of the theater. I began to feel the exhaustion of influenza and a rising fever. I opened a huge door in front of me and found myself on the second floor of the large theater. I sat down in one of the seats to rest. An old man entered, accompanied by a pianist. He sang in a sad voice, like Celine Dion drowning in a ship just off the beach of The Hague. My temperature was rising. I was now sure I had caught the flu and would spent the night between the bathroom and the bed, without my medicines, in the grip of fever and its hallucinations.

I was starting to doubt the truth of everything. I left the hall, looking for an exit, and found myself in another hall. The rhythms rising from it sounded like rock musicians trying to play the blues.

In a corner was a table lined with albums, mostly by Dutch musicians. I couldn't read the names but I think I stayed for over half an hour, pondering the posters and images, before realizing that all the walls of the theater were covered in pictures: photographs as well as oil paintings.

The congestion in my throat increased and I began to feel like there was a small river coming out of my nose. All I could think of was going back to the hotel. Again, I looked for an exit, but every time I walked through a door I found myself in a corridor that led to a small stage or another hall.

So this is how things look after crossing borders: facts fuse with the imagination and meanings of languages are lost, but the images they create remain.

Finally, I found the exit — but with the first step outside I let out a massive sneeze. I was done for. It was cold, but I finally made it back to the hotel. I woke up in the morning feeling like there was a rock in my throat. I went to the breakfast room, where I met Wiam, who told me that I was not the only one in the group who had a cold. But the problem is that I don't have my medicines. After her usual hesitation she advised me to gargle with warm water and salt.

I feel really sad: I was planning to go to the sea today. Now my highest hope is to recover my voice in time for my reading tonight.