Sherazade

by Leïla Sebbar

  In the evenings, when Djamila talked about herself, Sherazade said, 'Djamila, you say you don't like working for a boss or waiting on customers but these blokes, they make use of you, OK? You do what they ask you to, you're working for them.'

  'No. I make use of them. I give them a blow job. I take their dough.'

  'But you don't take it for nothing, you satisfy their kinky fancies with your body.'

  'I'm telling you, I make use of them, and if you want to know, I think that girls who sleep with blokes for free are sluts who give themselves for nothing and haven't even thought their bodies are worth something and the blokes must cough up if they want them, you understand?'

  'No.'

  'OK. Drop it. It's not worth trying to explain to you.'

  Sherazade asked Djamila to tell her about Richard. Djamila told her she was waiting for him. He'd gone off one morning, leaving a note on the pillow. 'I'm leaving for Thailand on business. I'll be rich and you too. Wait for me. Richard.'

  She'd had no word from him for three months. She didn't know what he was doing or why he'd left like that, without warning. She thought the police might be after him. She added that she wanted to break if off, she was fed up with it all, it was a bad scene, and turning tricks . . . she was going to get shot of all that and attend lectures properly at the university . . . Several times she'd made herself similar promises that she'd never kept. This time she really meant it, she promised Sherazade. She'd go back soon to Marseilles. Her sister wrote to her in Paris, poste restante, to say she'd be welcome to share her two-room flat and she'd find her a job where she worked. She wouldn't Wait for Richard. Besides, she'd soon be going to Algeria.

  'Me too,' said Sherazade.

  Vanves

  'You coming to my place?' Julien said to Sherazade at the door of the bookshop.

  'If you like.'

  'Those are super earrings you've got. The same green as your eyes.'

  'Yes. That's what Pierrot says.'

  'Who's Pierrot?'

  'A buddy.'

  Suddenly Julien was no longer keen to take Sherazade home with him. She'd scarcely said a word but he didn't feel like it any more. He'd have left her standing there; he'd have broken into a run and vanished. Sherazade was looking at him. He gave up the idea of running away.

  Julien was preparing avocados in the kitchen and cutting mangoes in two. He wondered if Sherazade liked kiwis and even if she'd ever eaten them. He rinsed the lamb's lettuce and took out a bottle of bordeaux. He switched on the radio. He swore because he couldn't get France Musique on account of all the independent radio stations whose wave lengths were so close. He switched off Rock Boulevard on 92.6 MHz and went to put on a record in the room next to the kitchen. He chose Siegfried.

  'D'you like Wagner?'

  'Who's he?'

  'Listen, that's Wagner, Richard Wagner. A German.'

  Sherazade had taken off her tight red shoes and was sitting in the wicker armchair, rubbing her feet, near the round table which Julien was going to lay.

  'D'you like kiwis?'

  'What's that?'

  'You'll see. They're delicious.'

  'Where they come from?'

  'A very long way.'

  Sherazade got up, took off the biking jacket and threw it on the bed in the comer of the room next to the white wooden bookcases. She was wearing a red shirt, like the ones worn by the Southerners in the American Civil War and she'd turned a flap back on the left. She fingered the delicate gold chain she'd worn ever since the evening when they'd shared out the spoils. When Pierrot tipped the contents of the dustbin liner out on to Sherazade's red bedcover, they'd all shouted in chorus, 'Wow!' and Pierrot said, 'This isn't a hold-up,' and Basile, 'It's a miracle!'

  They'd all fallen on their knees beside the bed, anxious to plunge their hands into the glittering heap, but not one of them put a hand out. Sherazade, as dazzled as they were, carefully sorted everything into piles, watches, necklaces, dress rings, signet rings, earrings. Then she'd separated the jewellery and watches into: Women, Men.

  Pierrot said, 'We'll let Sherazade choose,' and he offered her the pair of emerald earrings.

  'You've got pierced ears and you never wear anything in them.'

  'I left mine at home. An aunt in Algeria gave them to me before I left for France, I was three I think.'

  'You like them?'

  'Yes.'

  Sherazade also took a solid gold chain to wear round her neck, a plain gold keeper ring and an antique ring. She never wore a watch and what she chose she'd keep. When they'd each taken whatever they fancied, the rest would be sold to the fences that Krim knew over at Montmartre. Krim thought about his French girlfriend, Pierrot took some ladies' jewellery which he intended for Sherazade. Driss and Basile chose signet rings, gold watches and chain bracelets. Driss had woken up just in time to take part in the share-out from the raid. He put an antique watch on one side for Eddy who collected them.

  After the remaining jewellery had been sold, the proceeds were shared out equally. Pierrot said they had to keep some pieces for a rainy day. They found a hiding place that they all swore never to reveal. As for the table napkins and the silver cutlery, they decided it would be nice to eat with such fine tableware, so each of them would be entitled to their own set. They put a dozen of each on one side, the rest would be flogged at the flea market, together with the napkins that they wouldn't keep as they'd have to be washed and ironed, and nobody would do that.

  So, one Sunday morning, Pierrot, Basile and Sherazade, the others were still asleep or had left, went off to the poorest flea market so as not to risk being spotted by specialist second-hand dealers who might have heard of the Oliver affair. They each squatted down in front of their box of goods that they sold to antique-dealers and foreign tourists. Sherazade's box was empty. Early on she had swopped two table napkins for a pair of black harem pants from the woman selling next to her, she was eating a merguez sandwich and chips, when Pierrot saw her suddenly run for it and disappear.

  'What's up with her?'

  'Who?' asked Basile.

  'Sherazade, she's vanished.'

  'Leave her . . . You hang around her a bit too much.'

  'Me? Hang around her? Just say that again . . .'

  Pierrot yelled.

  'Yes, you hang around her.'

  'You think so. Really?'

  'It's too bloody obvious. Just look out.'

  'Why?'

  "Cos she'll land you in the shit.'

  'That's not so sure.'

  'You'll see.'

  'You jealous or what?'

  'Me? Jealous? That'll be the day . . .' Basile burst out laughing and went on, 'If she tells you she's in love with you, then I'll be jealous, but now . . . has she said she's in love with you?'

  'No,' Pierrot said softly.

  'So, you see. I'm telling you you're hanging round her too much.'

  'Shall we go and look for her?'

  'No.'

  When they got back to the squat, Sherazade wasn't there. Pierrot decided to go and look for her. Basile told him not to be a bloody fool.

  'Where are you going to look? You've no idea where she might be.'

  'That's true.'

  'We never know where she goes when she leaves here, so what's the use?'

  'It's not so complicated. We just have to hang around Saint-Michel, Bastille, République, the Halles, always the same places, Strasbourg-Saint-Denis, all those places.'

  'You go by yourself, I'm staying to watch TV. Don't forget the meeting this evening; we've got some important decisions to take, and tomorrow we're rehearsing with Eddy . . . If she comes back before you, what do I tell her?'

  'Nothing. Don't say I was looking for her. Right?'

  'OK. Right.'

  That evening, Sherazade met Zouzou and France.

  She'd run off because she'd thought she recognized her parents and her little sisters in the distance. She'd forgotten that the flea markets constituted the regular Sunday-mor
ning outing for immigrant families. But her family usually went to Montreuil. Why had they decided on Vanves that morning?

  Feraoun

  At Julien's place, Sherazade looked at the wall hung with little pictures. She'd put the headphones of the walkman on again. Her earrings were no longer visible. She swayed to the rhythm of music inaudible to Julien. She was wearing the black toreador pants from the flea market that Josiane had chosen for her. 'You're slim, they'll fit you, they're a small size 36 or 38.'

  The phone rang.

  Julien carried on a long conversation while Sherazade walked around the room, stopping to look at some of the books on the shelves; she'd recognized some by Algerian writers that she'd read in the Municipal Library at Aulnay-sous-Bois, recommended by the librarian, a warm jolly young woman who thought of her as soon as she read an article or a new book arrived on North Africa. Just because Sherazade had once asked for a book by Mouloud Feraoun that her grandfather had told her about when she'd gone to stay for an extended holiday in the little village in Eastern Algeria, where the writer came from, and where she'd stayed for nearly the whole school year with her sister Meriem, at her maternal grandfather's who'd been a teacher at the Qur'anic school and could read and write French – he used to write letters for the families of men from the village who'd emigrated to France.

  When she read the form that Sherazade had filled up to get her reader's ticket, the librarian realized she'd be able to lend Sherazade, who would read them, certain books that she, the librarian, had bought and catalogued, books that French people never read because they didn't know about them or because anything that didn't belong to their national heritage didn't interest them. She'd had to keep completely up to date, as Sherazade read quickly, returned the books punctually and always asked for more. Besides more and more girls from North African immigrants' families came to the library, and not only to escape from their parents' supervision. It was a place to meet, where they would chat, read, help each other choose books, dip into newspapers and some of them had suggested subscriptions to Libération and Sans Frontière as they didn't read L'Humanité or Le Monde. They'd also asked for magazines and they'd been provided for them.

  "Bye Enrico. See you tomorrow.' Julien rang off.

  Sherazade was standing near the window looking at a watercolour that she'd taken down. It depicted an Arab woman with a baby in her arms. A woman from the south, a Berber most likely, not wearing a veil.

  'You like it?'

  'Yes.'

  'Would you like it?'

  'Dunno.'

  'You can have it if you like, I'll give it to you. I very nearly didn't get it. One Saturday morning I went to the flea market in Montreuil. I walked round several times and spotted this woman. There were other watercolours by the same artist, but I liked this one. It cost quite a lot and I hadn't any cheques on me that day. I kept my eye on it until I had to leave, and I told myself I'd go back and buy it the next day. On Sunday, I got up early and went back to the place where I'd seen this picture the day before, and it had gone. I asked the dealer and he said he'd sold it last thing Saturday evening. I was miserable and felt prepared to buy anything as long as it had an Algerian woman . . . An Arab woman.

  'But why are you so keen on all those women?'

  'I love them.'

  'You love pictures of them?'

  'Yes, that's right . . . Let me finish. You don't find portraits of women every Sunday at the Montreuil market. I wandered around without seeing anything, then suddenly, I felt she was there . . . I looked up. I was quite right. The watercolour had been bought by another dealer who knew the first one. He was asking twice as much for it. My knees were shaking. It was the same picture all right, with the price marked double that of the previous day. I bargained with the dealer, explaining what had happened. He was busy selling a very fine Napoleon III dinner service to some Germans. He did well out of it so he lowered the price of the watercolour and I took it home without even a glance at it. When I got home I took off the newspaper it was wrapped in; I cleaned the glass with spirit and put the picture in front of the books before hanging it on the wall with the others. You can choose, if you want another one. Take anything you like.'

  They'd nearly finished eating. Julien had switched Wagner off some time ago, and at the same time Sherazade had put her walkman down on the edge of a whatnot.

  The phone rang.

  It was Enrico again, asking if he could drop in to see a Godard or an American film that evening at Julien's. Julien had a video and nearly all his favourite films. He also recorded programmes on TV that he couldn't see when he was working. In his bedroom, near his desk, he had a computer that he'd managed to buy cheap. He didn't explain all that to Sherazade, he knew she'd be bored.

  'No, I don't feel like watching a film this evening, you know. I think I'll go out; we can meet at the Rex if you like. It's Thursday, so I'll see all the other chaps . . . I've not seen for a long time . . . 'Bye for now!'

  Sherazade thought the kiwis 'really, really t'riff'; she ate them all. Julien didn't want any, he preferred the mangoes which Sherazade left for him .

  'Where d'you sleep? Here? Sherazade asked.

  'No, I've a bedroom next door and at the end I've set up a lab for my photography. It's a very big room, with a double bed.'

  'You've got a wardrobe?'

  'No.'

  'In my mother's bedroom, there was a big wardrobe, huge, it went right up to the ceiling. She put everything in it. We're nine in the family, we each had a drawer with our name on and our own colour. Mine was red. My mother hid her jewellery in a false bottom. I knew where it was. Jewellery she'd brought from Algeria, some that my father had bought for her here. Arabs like gold and the women like jewellery. When I left, I took my mother's jewellery. In case I needed money . . . I've still got it all. I'm holding on to it. I don't wear it, I don't sell it. Perhaps one day . . .'

  Julien spent part of the night at the Rex.

  Sherazade didn't want to go. Julien told her to slam the door behind her when she left.

  Eddy

  Eddy turned up just in time for the encounter. He'd recognized Djamila from a distance. What was she doing in the middle of this scuffle and screams that could be heard from level four? He rushed up to the group. Djamila, who was bigger than the other girls, had spotted Eddy and was waving to him frantically while she continued to struggle with a punk who was raining punches on her. This girl, the leader of a gang, was strolling about the Forum with her hangers-on, brandishing bicycle chains and amusing herself spitting on suburban sightseers and other people. A gob of spit, probably not aimed at her, had landed on Djamila, who hadn't waited to find out the truth about the girl's intentions; she'd flown at her and they began to fight with a violence that Eddy would never have suspected the first time he saw Djamila at the squat. Eddy was about to intervene, because Djamila was outnumbered and was beginning to weaken, when the commotion around them indicated a bunch of cops arriving at the double.

  The punks, who were probably all juveniles, ran off towards the escalators but Djamila had to show her papers. They were in order. She was not a minor. She went off with Eddy in the opposite direction to the punks.

  Djamila hadn't noticed how attentive Eddy had become to her since she'd been sharing Sherazade's room at the squat. As she was still thinking about Richard, she hadn't taken the trouble to look at Eddy. He was a pal. In the streets around the Halles, she had the impression she was seeing him for the first time. As Driss said, he looked more Arab than himself.

  'Where you from?'

  'Sarcelles.'

  'You sure?'

  'I was born in Sarcelles, my parents are Tunisian, Tunisian Jews; they'd been living there for generations. My grandparents still speak Arabic. They've got a shop in Belleville. You'd like to go there? It'll be a change.'

  The grandfather sat them down, gave them Tunisian cakes and a glass of tea . . . It was in Rue Ramponeau, where they passed as many squads of cops as isolated pushers
, that Eddy realized his blunder. He'd come with Djamila to just the wrong place. Djamila didn't say anything. They went back to the Metro without a word.

  'I'm going back,'Djamila said.

  'So'm I . . . You know, Djamila, I've been thinking, s'pose we went to Tunisia. My parents have never been back and I don't know their country. It's a bit my country too and then, Algeria is just nearby and we could go on there . . . Would you like to?'

  'Yes. Why not.'

  Eddy kissed her on the neck. Djamila didn't push him away. Suddenly she fancied him.

  Back at the squat, they found Pierrot and Krim kneeling on the floor, looking at a map of the outskirts of Paris.

  'What the hell are you doing on all fours?'

  'You can see. We're looking at a map of the Paris suburbs,' Pierrot said. 'You know our group publishes a paper called The Suburbs are Fine'

  'I'd no idea. I knew about Rock Police Against and the paper for the Lyons girls Zâama, but not The Suburbs are Fine, no. I've never even seen it mentioned in the Agit'Presse ads in Libé.'

  'You never see anything. That's why. Anyway, piss off. We're busy.'

  Pierrot hadn't seen Sherazade for several days. He'd got a job as a courier for a super cool magazine, and he hadn't got time to go and look for her. He'd written her a long letter and put it on her red bedcover, where she couldn't miss it, but every morning when he glanced through the half-open door he saw the envelope with her name Sherazade. He'd written several, one a day, with a different name every time: Rosa, Kahina, Olympia, Suzanna, Leïla, Roselane, mixing up, unknown to Sherazade who'd never heard of any of these famous women, the revolutionary, the prophetess and warrior, the odalisque, the member of the Italian Red Brigade, the Arab poetess, the Turkish Sultana . . . In this way he forgot to be miserable. Basile was right, he'd really been hanging round her too much. Pierrot had also cut out for Sherazade messages that appeared in Libé. Messages signed Meriem. The same message that appeared nearly every day. She must have seen them but Pierrot still put them next to the letters, in the order of their appearance. The sub-editor in charge of the ad pages had entered them under the heading Arabian Nights, printed in bold type; Pierrot had left the heading which he thought dreadfully corny.