by Monia Mazigh
“Shnua, Am Mokhtar!” she said, in a familiar, almost disrespectful, tone. “She’s my guest, can’t you see what a nice girl she is, just like me!”
She’d spoken glibly, like a little girl trying to butter up her father or grandfather. I just stood there, startled. I didn’t know this girl with the sand-coloured skin, the radiant smile, and the black curly hair that fell to her shoulders. Why had she come to my defense? Why had she pretended I was her guest when I didn’t even know her? And, as if by magic, it had worked. Donia’s words seemed to have bewitched the café owner, Am Mokhtar. His gaze softened. He turned toward me with a resigned look on his face.
“I’m going to overlook it this time, because I respect Donia and because I’m really fond of her — she’s like a daughter to me. You’re her guest. So I’ll forget the two dinars.”
I felt like protesting, like showing that crook that I could do without his sudden politeness, but Donia didn’t give me time to react. She guided me gently to the door, holding my arm as if we were old friends. I made no effort to stop her. The “poor little Canadian” gets fooled again, I thought. Outside, the wind was blowing as I’d never experienced it in this city. The clouds formed a thick grey blanket in the sky, one that would fall on our heads any minute. Fine grains of sand grated in my eyes.
“Donia’s my name. Sorry about pretending to know you and all, but it was the only way I could rescue you from that guy Mokhtar. He knows he can’t touch me. But I don’t like him doing his shady dealings in front of me. I know them too well.”
I stood there for a moment, startled, a blank look on my face. What could I say to this girl, who was about my age? Then, almost stuttering, I managed: “I’m Lila, and I’m here in Tunisia to improve my Arabic. I’m staying with friends who live down the street. Over there, see? The yellow building with the maroon windows.”
I pointed to the building where Aunt Neila and Uncle Mounir lived. Donia, with her laughing eyes, shook her head. She seemed surprised to hear me speak with a slight accent.
“But what are you? Tunisian or foreigner?”
Even though I’m not entirely Tunisian, being called a “foreigner” ticked me off. I forced myself to smile and told her, “Well, I’m a little bit of both.”
Donia noticed my reaction immediately. She put her hand to her mouth, by way of regret, then hurriedly added, “Really, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but I had no idea where you were from, I only wanted to help you.”
And is if to make up for her comment about my background, she came closer to me. “You see that house across from us? That’s where I live. If you want to use the Internet, come over. It’s no problem.”
Then she gave me her number and assured me I could call her whenever I felt like it.
Donia lived in a fine white house, with a white metal gate that protected a Mercedes 4x4 and a BMW sport model. A man wearing a burnouse was sitting in a plastic chair in front of the gate. He must be the watchman. The whole thing reeked of money. I slowly pulled out my phone to enter Donia’s number. I didn’t know what to do or what to think about this spontaneous girl who contradicted everything I’d learned about this city and its people.
“Thanks, Donia,” I was finally able to articulate. “It’s really nice of you to help me out. I’ll call you, that’s a promise.”
Was I really going to keep my promise? Not a morning went by that Aunt Neila didn’t warn me about people who seem too eager to help. I believed every word she said. I’d been had more than once. There was something in my appearance, something about the way I looked at people, about my accent — something that told people that I was not really from here. So they tried to fool me, to raise the price, to convince me that their product was the best. Some even asked me to marry them! But Donia was different: she radiated kindness. My mother would say, “She’s a nice girl.” Well, well! I may have been far away, but here I was, using her expressions. What was happening? Was this city casting a spell over me?
Donia waved goodbye and turned away. Am Mokhtar came out in front of his shop and gave us a dirty look. When he saw me, he attempted to smile. He was missing two front teeth. Below his receding hairline, his forehead was furrowed with wrinkles. Funny, I almost felt sorry for him. But I quickly forgot his smile and made straight for Aunt Neila’s building. A few drops of rain had begun to fall. The damp wind chilled my cheeks. This wasn’t the kind of cold I was used to — it was nothing like the north wind that burns the tip of your nose in Ottawa. No, it was a damp, intense wind that penetrated right to the bone and chilled you from within.
This was another kind of nature. And it could be hard and unpredictable. Just like the people.
THREE
Tunis, January 3, 1984
I could barely find my way back to the classroom. The corridors of the lycée looked more like a railway station with passengers rushing every which way. I was shaking with fear but doing my best not to give in to panic. Everyone was pushing and shoving. From across the room I could see Sonia weeping and lamenting at the top of her voice. No one paid her the slightest attention. By now, the whole lycée was like a souk at peak shopping hour. Rocks were sailing in from all directions. I hid behind a pillar. I couldn’t see hide nor hair of the principal, or the superintendent for that matter, the man we called Botti. All I could see were groups of shouting, frantic students rushing in all directions. What should I do? Heart pounding, legs quaking, I made for the fence to the west of the school. That was where Neila and I would clamber over the low wall when we were late for class — to avoid using the main entrance at the front of the building. We tried to make ourselves as tiny as possible to escape Botti’s eagle eye, for he always lurked, ready for ambush, at that very spot, as though in a watchtower, the better to nab tardy students and would-be truants. Luckily for me, on that day Botti was nowhere in sight. The school authorities had vanished outright. Mustering what was left of my courage, I dashed down the corridor that passed behind the toilets. Usually, the foul stench would stick in your nose for several minutes. I didn’t even notice this time. I could hear shouting. The students that had joined up with the terrifying hordes of hard-faced young men dressed in next-to-rags — who had emerged from God knows where to attack our lycée — were chanting political slogans: “Degree, no degree — no future!” Their words reverberated like the thud of a war drum. And all I wanted was to get my degree! What did these demonstrators really want?
I hid behind a bush. My whole body was shaking; I was holding my breath. But just as I was about to climb over the fence a powerful hand gripped me. Stopped in my tracks, I made no attempt to struggle. I thought it was the end of me; I could feel the sweat pouring down my back. Slowly I turned my head and, to my astonishment, saw Mounir. Neila’s boyfriend, her lover. He lived up on the hillside that overlooked our neighbourhood in one of the slum dwellings built from pieces of sheet metal, stone, and dried mud. The families that lived there had left their native villages in the dry, dusty hinterland. They had a few sheep and goats, chickens and geese. The women tended the animals and the men sold charcoal from donkey carts. But ever since new housing projects had invaded the area — which used to be called Kerch Al Ghaba, “belly of the forest” — those same families had been forced out, moving from one temporary shack to another. Over time, the men began to sell manure, which was used in the gardens of the high-class villas that were popping up all around us like mushrooms. The women and girls would find work as maids or cleaning ladies in those same villas.
Mounir was the only member of his family to graduate from high school. He was tall, dark-skinned, with honey-coloured eyes, and he wore a perpetual sad smile on his face. Nights he worked as a security guard in the new shopping centre that catered to a well-to-do clientele from the more affluent areas. But he hadn’t given up his studies; he attended university where he was studying law. His aim was to become a lawyer. Neila and Mounir had met at the shopping
centre where she shopped for her family. Mounir was posted at the entrance to the supermarket where he inspected the bags of suspicious-looking customers. It had been love at first sight. “His eyes electrified me!” Neila told me later with a mischievous smile. From that moment on, they were always together. They would meet in secret, far from the terrifying gaze of Neila’s father, Monsieur Abdelkader. It was an oasis of tenderness in the blazing desert of her father’s rage. And I was the only one who knew their story — a simple, innocent love story that comforted me and amazed me, for in it I saw the power of love and how it could make people dream and inspire them with courage. Neila and Mounir’s story, with their secret outings, the messages scribbled on pages torn from their school notebooks, and the strolls along the beach at La Goulette, reflected another reality, one that I knew only from the books I read and the films I saw with Neila. But there was nothing else in my life that spoke of love. Certainly not the marriage ceremonies my mother made me attend during the summer!
“Nadia, who’s going to marry you if no one sees you at weddings?” And as though that wasn’t enough to terrify me, mother went on, “You’ll end up like your Aunt Rafika, that nasty old biddy.”
So, against my will, fearing I would end up like my Aunt Rafika, I would put on my ruffled pink dress because it demurely displayed my narrow shoulders and my frail neck. Mother would always insist that I go to the hairdresser first. The “salon” occupied a rented garage at the end of our street.
“You’re not going to attend my cousin’s wedding with that frizzy hair of yours, are you? It looks like a horse brush. What will the guests think? That I can’t even afford a two-dinar permanent for you?”
My mother always won. I never had the strength to resist her snide remarks and her devouring will. After being subjected to the burning hot air of the dryer and the curlers that pricked my scalp like hedgehog spikes, my hair came out straight and smooth, and fell down my back. So, dressed in my ridiculous pink gown, which had shrunk from repeated washing and drying and ironing, my hair straightened and fluffed up by the summer evening humidity, I tagged along with my mother to those fabulous weddings. The newlyweds would never kiss. “It’s ib, you don’t do it in front of others,” my mother would hiss by way of disapproval at the kisses we’d occasionally see on TV. As if to confirm her judgment, my father would abruptly shut off the set and send me to my room to finish my homework even when I didn’t have any homework or I’d done it all. The weddings I attended seemed dull, monotonous. The bride sat there in a gilded armchair, a bad copy of a Louis XVI fauteuil. A clothesline with red, green, and blue light bulbs stretched above her head. She held a lavish bouquet of jasmine and rarely smiled. Was she afraid of the new life that awaited her? The groom, too, stayed seated for the entire ceremony. He always wore a black suit and his hair was always combed carefully to one side. His bouquet was much smaller than the bride’s, and he would constantly bring it up to his nose, either to breathe in its perfume or conceal his anxiety. The music was deafening. The band, which generally performed for a pittance, played all the popular songs I’d heard on the radio ever since I was five or six years old. The only part of the whole ceremony that really interested me was the moment when they served the crunchy almond baklava with fresh-squeezed lemonade, strawberry juice, or gazuz. The newlyweds never danced, never held hands. I never saw the slightest sign of love or affection. Nothing at all like the long, loving looks Neila traded with Mounir. Their wedding would be different. I was sure of it.
But there, perched on the wall that encircled our lycée, one arm around my school bag, and the other in Mounir’s powerful grasp, weddings were the last thing on my mind.
“You shouldn’t have come to school today. Hurry, get home as fast as you can,” he told me.
His eyes were bloodshot, his hair tousled. I’d never seen him that way before. If I hadn’t known him, I would just as well have taken him for a peasant, or for a member of the gang of young men I’d just avoided in the schoolyard. I couldn’t utter a word. I sat there mute, paralyzed with fear. Mounir released my arm, and I nearly fell to the ground, but he held me by a shirttail. Finally I answered him,“I had no idea this was going to happen, no one told me there would be demonstrations.”
Mounir’s face grew darker still.
“Come on, let me help you climb over the wall,” he said, as if to hide his concern. With one rapid movement he jumped to the ground, then held his hands together to make an impromptu step. “Put your left foot here, and don’t be frightened, I’m strong enough to hold you.”
I obeyed Mounir without a second thought. I was in shock; I had no idea what he was doing there, or why he was in such a state.
“Listen carefully, Nadia. There are huge demonstrations all over the city. The poor are rising up against the rich, against the people who have it all. We’ve come out into the streets for justice, and for bread. The police are everywhere — they’re shooting people. Be careful, and go home as fast as you can. And don’t tell anyone you saw me.”
He hesitated.
“If you see Neila, say hello for me. Most of all, give her a kiss for me.”
I blushed. “Ib!” mother would have said. But Mounir’s words calmed me instead of making me tense.
“For sure. I promise!”
There was no time for another question. Mounir had already vanished behind the bushy eucalyptus that lined the other side of the wall. Lost like an ant in the dark foliage, swept up by a whirlwind. I had no idea what was going on. Revolt; the rich; the dispossessed.
Who was against whom? Was I rich in Mounir’s eyes? And if I was, why had he helped me? And what was his role — what did he have to do with all this? What group did he belong to? “We’ve come out into the streets for justice and for bread,” is what he told me. Who exactly was “we”? My eyes began to blur. I felt a lump in my throat blocking my vocal chords. My clean and meticulously ordered world was collapsing, one organ at a time. In rapid succession. So, there were things I should have known but didn’t. A loud crack made me jump. Gunfire. I set out as fast as my legs would carry me, faster than during physical education class at the lycée. My brain had sent out a distress call, and my feet, my legs, and my arms were responding.
FOUR
Tunis, December 4, 2010
What a gorgeous café with a view out over the Tunis lagoon! I could hardly believe I was in the same town. I couldn’t stop looking at the lake. The dwarf palms planted randomly on the lawn made the view even more striking. Inside, the atmosphere was warm and enveloping, the people civilized, the drinks exquisite. Boys and girls were sitting together, side by side. Most were speaking French with the odd expression in Tunisian Arabic thrown in. I couldn’t hear a single discordant voice. For the first time since I’d arrived, I felt calm, relaxed, and far away from the suffocating feel of the streets of Tunis that I passed through every day on my way to my Arabic courses or to go shopping with Aunt Neila at the market. The day after the incident with Am Mokhtar I called Donia to thank her. Before she hung up, she insisted I go with her to the Mezza Luna.
“It’s a café for young people, I go there with some friends. We spend the afternoon, and later we go bowling. You’ll get to know them. You’ll like them — they’re cool, just like you!”
I wasn’t entirely certain that I wanted to go with Donia or get to know her friends. What did I possibly have to say to them? Why would I possibly like them, what could I possibly have in common with them? Sure, my mom was Tunisian, but my dad was Canadian. I’d lived my whole life in Canada. Most of my friends were Canadian. I spoke Arabic with an accent. In spite of my mom’s attempts to give me a Tunisian identity, I really couldn’t identify with the Tunisians around me.
And yet, sitting in the roomy café, I felt almost at home. The peals of laughter, the sound of coffee cups clinking against their saucers, the tinkle of ice cubes, the hiss of mint tea being poured, foaming, into handsome small
tumblers decorated with arabesques. I slouched back in my armchair, at ease, feeling almost relieved, and looked around me. Donia was seated to my left. She was the leader of the group; that much was clear. Politely but firmly she held the attention of the young men who looked up to her as though she was one of them. Two boys and two girls made up the group. One of the boys, Jamel, was closest to Donia. Slender, seething with energy, words came out of his mouth easily. His glasses made him look like an intellectual; he appeared to be the smartest of the lot, the one to watch. Was he Donia’s boyfriend? Could they be lovers? I suspected it, but there was nothing to confirm it except for the odd glance that lasted a little bit longer than it should, or a word that brought a smile to both of their faces. Call it a barely concealed sign of complicity, the kind of body language only the two of them could decipher. The other boy, Sami, had a shy, reserved look about him. His fine hair framed his face, giving him the appearance of a well-behaved young girl. He smiled frequently at Donia and continually nodded his head to agree with everything she said, but he spoke very little. The two girls were called Reem and Farah. They giggled to themselves as they glanced at one another, flickering their eyelids. One had her hair done pageboy style, slicked down, and a button nose, light-coloured skin, and slightly slanted eyes that made her look like a cat about to pounce. The other was constantly adjusting her abundant chestnut hair with the back of her hand. Her black eyes accentuated the whiteness of her skin; a few reddish blotches marked her oval face. Reem and Farah looked me over carefully when they saw me come in with Donia. Even before we were introduced, I knew they wouldn’t like me. My ripped jeans, my multiple earrings worn in a line along my earlobe, the high forehead I’d inherited from my mom, and my blues eyes, just like my dad’s: everything about me told them just how foreign I was. Even my brown and hopelessly curly hair that stood out in corkscrew-like tufts from my head — another hand-me-down from Mom and a source of wonder, of compliments, and admiration during my childhood in Canada — was not enough for them to see me as a Tunisian. Me, the daughter born of the marriage of Nadia the Tunisian and Alex the Canadian. In their eyes, I was some kind of strange mix, a hybrid, a monstrosity produced by the meeting of two distinct worlds but clearly belonging to neither. For the time being I tried to forget the wrenching adolescent metaphysical dilemmas that kept me awake at night; it was enough to bathe in the warm and welcoming atmosphere of the café. Next to me, Jamel was speaking in a low voice.
