by Monia Mazigh
The aura of wealth that emanated from the place took my breath away.
“Come this way,” he said. With an accent I could barely understand. “Madame Donia told me you were coming. This way.”
He closed the high, white, sheet-metal gate as he continued to talk to me. He adjusted his burnouse, which had slipped to his left side. I followed him timidly.
The garden was being prepared for winter. Tall clay pots planted with fat-leaved succulents lined the front walk like sentinels. The walkway was white, spotless, and gleaming. At the far end was a massive broad wooden door. The gatekeeper pressed the doorbell and in a few seconds a young lady opened the door. She was wearing an apron similar to those worn by maids in the old films we’d see on television.
“Good morning, Am Salem. Wait a minute and I’ll call Madame Donia.”
I found it ridiculous that everyone used the word “Madame” when they spoke about Donia, as if she were a much older woman. I turned around and noticed, to my surprise, that Am Salem, the gatekeeper, had vanished. He must have returned to his sentry box. I stood in the vestibule of that beautiful house, a bit dazzled. The girl in the white apron hurried off to call Donia. I was stunned at the sight of so much wealth, of such luxury. Chandeliers dangled from the ceilings. Gold-framed mirrors hung from the walls. An antique chair stood in one corner, a rosewood chest in another. What would Uncle Mounir think if he were to see me in this house, talking to the people who live here? I promised myself to ask him the question that evening.
I heard footsteps coming toward me. Donia. The one everybody calls “Madame.” She threw her arms around me.
“How happy I am to see you, sweetie! How are you?”
“I’m fine. You?”
Suddenly Donia’s face seemed to lose its colour, her eyes to glaze over. I hadn’t seen her in a mood like this since I first met her.
Carried away by curiosity, I ventured: “What is it? Some kind of trouble?”
Donia put her finger to her lips, as if to instruct me to be silent. Then she looked to her right and to her left to make sure that no one was listening. She drew nearer to me, and took me by the shoulder.
“Come to my room,” she whispered.
Her pallid face and her strange behaviour gave me goosebumps. My curiosity was growing. I followed her into the house, which looked like a palace straight out of One Thousand and One Nights. Chandeliers, art, and statuettes graced the walls and the corners. It was as if I was strolling through a museum. Donia opened a wooden door engraved with arabesques.
“This is my room.”
I found myself in the middle of the Disney film Aladdin. A bed fit for a princess occupied the middle of the room. Curtains of white muslin cascaded from the ceiling. Donia sat down on a light pink velvet sofa and pointed me to a fine matching chair. I sat down without saying a word.
“This is my realm,” she whispered, looking a bit calmer now.
“It’s so pretty and so original!”
I was still looking around admiring the feeling of serenity her room gave me. Her eyes were shining; she was pleased with the compliment.
“Thanks,” she said in a low voice, “that means a lot. Especially when it comes from a Canadian, like you.”
I blushed, but Donia didn’t even notice. Eyes half closed, she continued: “Do you know why I wanted you to come to my place, Lila, and especially here, in my room? Because I see in you the kind of goodness and innocence I don’t find in my friends in this country. I feel I can trust you. You don’t know the prejudices of this society. The rich on one side, the poor on the other, and the weight of tradition pulling us down into the past.”
Donia hesitated for a few seconds, searching for the right words, her forehead showing a concern that I hadn’t noticed before, and then she picked up where she’d left off: “I trust you like a sister. You’re like the sister I never had.”
My heart began to beat harder. I didn’t know whether to be pleased with Donia’s confession, with the confidence she showed in me, or to be nervous about the responsibility she was putting on my shoulders. Wasn’t it a considerable duty to be the confidant or the sister of someone I’d known for only a few days?
“You saw Reem and Farah? The way they were behaving in the café the other day? Believe me, what I’m telling you isn’t gossip or something I made up. But I can’t hide it from you: they don’t understand anything about life. They’re big zeroes, all they care about is boys, the latest fashion, and keeping up appearances. So much the better for them! It’s their right, you say. So be it. But me, that’s not what I want. I want to get to the bottom of things, to talk about politics, about ideals, to reach out to people, to understand, to ease their pain. And you, you’re just the opposite of those girls. I’d like to offer you my friendship. I’d like for us to do things together.”
Motionless, I looked at Donia. “Thanks, Donia, for your kind and sincere words, but I really don’t understand what I could possibly do here, in a country I barely understand, with people who are always taking me for a foreigner. I don’t have a clue about Tunisian politics.”
She smiled a smile of gentle exasperation.
“Oh, don’t be so pessimistic, Lila. You can work miracles! You can help me in my search for justice. You can join Jamel and me. We can change the world.”
She stopped short, and pushed one of her curls back into place. Her face was glowing. The sadness of a few moments ago had disappeared. How was I to describe this new Donia sitting across from me? She wasn’t the calm and generous girl who rescued me from Am Mokhtar any longer. Now across from me sat a strong-willed, self-assured young woman, ready to meet challenges head-on, a young woman extending her hand to me, offering a pact to sign. But deep down, behind her strength and her energy, I thought I detected apprehension. Like the loose end of a thread that always catches on the button of a coat.
“So how do you think I can help you?”
Donia smiled. That was the question she’d been expecting since the start of our conversation.
“Lila, look at the house I live in, these walls and the decorations, the fine paintings, the curtains, the fabrics, the furniture. All this luxury and extravagance doesn’t impress me. It all belongs to my parents. It’s their life, and they sweated blood to get where they did. They give me everything I need, and I’m grateful, but something’s missing. Meaning in my life, the search for happiness, sharing with others, a sense of justice. Do you hear what I’m saying? Didn’t you ever feel that way?”
She paused for a moment, then went on: “I want to help the people around me, I don’t want to live in a country where injustice rules.”
A torrent of ideas came surging through my mind. Donia was right. I’d always looked far beyond my home. I wanted something else, something my parents couldn’t give me. But the poor? To be truthful, I’d never thought of them. And even less the poor people here around me. But how could you change the world? Wasn’t it all pure idealism?
“It all sounds very nice, all these lofty emotions, but what do you really intend to do? This country is a mess. You think it’s easy to change things? You want to get involved in politics, is that it? Maybe you’ll end up in jail, like the blogger Jamel was talking about the other day. I just don’t know. Aren’t you playing with fire, Donia?”
Donia shook her head. “You’re right — the whole country is going to the dogs, but what do you think I should I do? Stay at home and twiddle my thumbs? I could do it and my parents wouldn’t say a word. I’d be like everybody else.”
She paused for a moment, then continued in a low voice: “Jamel and I have started writing a blog. We make up stories. Satires. Articles that denounce injustice and ridicule this dictatorship.”
Things had now begun to come into focus. An image was dancing in front of my eyes. I could make it out more clearly now. Jamel and Donia were an item. The poor boy and the rich g
irl working hand in hand to get rid of the dictator. What a touching dream! But just where did I fit in?
I struggled to understand. “If Jamel is with you, what do you need me for? I’ve only got a few weeks left before I go back to Canada.”
“Jamel is my hero. He comes from a poor family in Ettadamoun Township. I’m proud of him because he thinks things through. Other boys aren’t so lucky. A lot of them are in the streets. The girls work as prostitutes or as supermarket cashiers or textile workers. The boys end up as peddlers or drug dealers. Some of them risk their lives at sea trying to get to Lampedusa, in Italy, and others become delinquents. Zoufris, if you get my meaning.”
I couldn’t move. My life in Canada had given me everything I needed. Peace and quiet. A home that wasn’t as fine as Donia’s but was comfortable enough. An education. A cold climate, one I liked, but also warmth. The warmth of my parents and my friends. There I could handle my existential crises, my doubts about who I was. Now, here I was in Tunis trying to polish my Arabic . . . well, mostly. But suddenly I’d learned about injustice, about corruption. About Uncle Mounir and Aunt Neila.
“Lila, are you still there? What are you thinking? My stories bore you, isn’t that right?”
“Not at all. I was thinking about all these coincidences. Your story, Jamel’s, mine, and plenty of others. I don’t know how to interpret them. Maybe they’re all connected in some way. But you didn’t answer my question. How do you think I can help you, specifically?”
Donia cleared her throat and leaned forward to draw closer to me.
“As I said, Lila, something tells me you’re not like the other girls. You can help me with online searches, writing articles, and sending out messages on social media to encourage young people not to put up with the status quo anymore. You can help me when I go with Jamel to Ettadamoun to give private lessons in math, French, and English to kids who are having problems at school. I’m sure you’d love it.”
I looked outside. The French door in Donia’s room opened out onto the garden. I spotted a couple of birds swooping across the sky. Climbing and diving, like the movement of my heart. My enthusiasm rose and fell. I had to leave, to be alone.
“So, what do you say?” Donia asked.
“I don’t know, I’m all mixed up. I need to think things over. I’m a bit at a loss. You know, the real reason I came here in the first place was to please my mother and work on my Arabic. But for the last few days, I’ve felt like I need to find out whether I should stay or, on the other hand, whether I should leave as fast as possible. Should I be getting involved in this adventure? Is it really worth it?”
“Of course it is,” Donia shot back.
I took her hand. We were like two little girls alone in the classroom, far from inquiring eyes. Tunis had embraced us. Suddenly I let her hand go and got up.
“I’ve got to leave.”
“But I didn’t even have a chance to offer you tea, or coffee, something to drink . . .”
She wanted to bring me something, but I restrained her.
“Thanks Donia, but I’ve absolutely got to go. It can wait until another time.”
She smiled. This time she laid her hand on mine.
“Fine, another time,” she said. “You’ll be back, won’t you?”
“I promise.”
Once again, Donia seemed pensive. The same look on her face that welcomed me at the front door had returned. The excitement of a few moments ago had slipped beneath a thick layer of reserve and caution. In silence, Donia led me back to the metal door to the street. I felt her hand seeking mine. For a moment we stood there facing one another, hand in hand.
“I’ll send you an SMS. See you soon!”
I heard myself answer, “For sure!”
The heavy door swung shut behind me. I closed my eyes for a second. I was trying to register every word and image of our strange conversation. A car sped by very close — a few more inches and it would have hit me. Imagine ending my life here of all places. I stepped back and snapped out of it. Then I set out briskly. I needed to get back to Aunt Neila’s.
ELEVEN
Tunis, January 6, 1984
“And now that social peace has returned thanks to the efforts of the Tunisian people . . . and after these disturbances, we shall go back to where we began . . . just as before, with no increases in prices for bread, semolina, or macaroni . . .”
There we were, all seated in the living room, eyes riveted to the television set. The black-and-white images flickered across the screen as if in slow motion. We were at the mercy of the weather, which affected reception. If the weather was fine, the picture was clear and bright, and images marched uninterrupted across the screen. But if the east wind began to blow, our antenna would begin to pivot, swinging this way and that. All the cardinal points — east, west, north, and south — seemed to merge into one. It wasn’t long before the picture blurred, zigzagged, and finally disappeared, white on one side of the screen, and total black on the other. The sound came in fits and starts: “Today . . . done well . . . We . . . thanks . . .” I was seated straight up on my chair, fingers crossed on my thighs, ears straining to catch every word. I wasn’t in the habit of listening to political speeches, but this time, it was different. My father sat to my left, looking depressed as he watched without saying a word. I could see the swollen veins of his hands. And Mother hovered vigilantly, ready to respond to each new word with a tirade of abuse.
“Flea-bitten old fox! Why are you even still alive?” she shot back at the sound of President Bourguiba’s words.
As for Bourguiba, he couldn’t have cared less about my mother and her lowly housewife’s insults. He was the one on television; he was invincible, invested by a divine mission, or so he thought. The venerable father was speaking to his children. We were all his children. That’s what they kept telling us: the Father of the Nation would speak to his children to tell them the good news. He was speaking of the bread riots and had just cancelled the recent price hikes with a snap of his fingers. “Back to where we began,” were the words he used. For some people, perhaps, but not for me.
Back to where we began for the price of bread and couscous, well, so much the better for the people. So much the better for Mr. Everyman and Mrs. Everywoman, for my father, my mother, their friends, those poor civil servants who could now fill their shopping bags with baguettes and couscous to feed their families, all the better for the workers on the rich men’s construction sites, who could eat bread and drink Coca-Cola that burned their esophagus and caused them to belch noisily. All the better for the rich, who could save a few dinars and squeeze more out of their housemaids, their gardeners, and their drivers. All the better for these fine people. But not for me. This “disturbance” of theirs wasn’t going to happen without breakage. This disturbance had opened my eyes to a reality that I’d been refusing to see for years.
This “disturbance” wasn’t going to be painless. It wasn’t about the poor against the rich or about bread instead of a piece of meat. No, this “disturbance” had hit me in the gut. Awakened something in me. It lifted the veil from my life, from my parents and my friends. I really didn’t want to go back to where we began. Was I an egoist, a spoiled brat? I couldn’t tell. But at that moment I took a decision: to keep the bread riots going every day of my life.
“Poor guy, that Bourguiba, he’s not getting good advice,” Father exclaimed finally.
“Poor? You call that man ‘poor’?” Mother shot back. “He’s stuck fast to power like a postage stamp on an envelope. All he has to do is resign! Let the wind take him away!”
Papa stopped talking. He could never win against Mother. She sighed, then continued: “Bourguiba or someone else, there’s no difference. At least the price of bread is going back down.”
As far as Mother was concerned, that was what counted. That evening — I was sure of it — thousands of people reacted
just as she did. Money, that was what mattered. How much did you make, how much was left over, how much you could accumulate? Dignity, equality, justice — all that was for the intellectuals, the philosophers, and the crazies. The little guys only wanted to eat, to live; that was all there was to it.
Najwa was sniffling again. She wiped her nose on her cuff.
“Don’t do that!” Mother cried out with a grimace of disgust. “Use your hanky!”
“I can’t find it,” whined Najwa. “I think I lost it.”
“Well, borrow one of Nadia’s. Next time, watch what you’re doing. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know. You think all your mother can do is buy, buy . . .”
Najwa bounded off to my room, as light-footed as a Saharan gazelle. She didn’t understand a word of what Mother had told her. She was happy enough to spend another evening at our house.
Father sunk deeper into his armchair, like a ship sinking in deep water. Mother got to her feet and went off after Najwa. The story of the lost hanky was only just beginning.
There I was, sitting close to my father. I wanted to talk to him, to turn a new page with him, learn from him and really feel his presence. Not just see his ghost.
“Papa, what do you think of all this? The demands of the young people who are in the streets, do you agree with them?”
How diminished, how fragile he appeared. He looked me in the eye. I could feel his distress, his humiliation. Bizarre; I’d never felt it before. The “disturbance” Bourguiba was talking about had given me a new way of seeing.
“What do you want me to say? I think we’re entering a new phase. Our country will never be the same again. I feel it, but I can’t explain it.” He hesitated, as though he already regretted the daring words coming out of his mouth. “Concentrate on your studies, that’s what matters most. You’ve got an exam to write at the end of the school year. Don’t let those things distract you.”
