Sherazade

by Leïla Sebbar

  On the platform the mother checked to see that the twins had still got hold of the big Tati bag that they were almost dragging and which pulled them down on one side. Sherazade was quite close to the family and watched and listened. None of them paid any attention to her. They were completely engrossed in the long journey by Metro.

  In the rush for the train, one of the little girls who'd let go of her sister's hand, was nearly left behind on the platform. The passengers were pushing and shoving. Sherazade just had time to pick up the child and put her down next to her mother on the step of the train. The young woman looked at Sherazade and smiled at her through the glass pane of the door as it slammed. She had blue tattoos between her eyes.

  Esther

  Sherazade walked along the Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis to visit France and Zouzou. In the window of a fashion boutique called NOW she saw a little notice; she stopped to read it:

  Situation Vacant

  Dress-designer and Pattern-cutter

  'Young styles'

  Able to assemble patterns

  She nearly went in to ask for information but thought better of it. She'd ask Zouzou first what training a dress-designer and Pattern-cutter needed. At the main entrance it occurred to her that her friends might have gone out, they rarely spent the evening at home.

  She rang. A tall black girl with a frizzy Afro opened the door. She heard Zouzou shout, 'Who is it?'

  'It's me, Sherazade.'

  'Oh! Hi! D'you know Esther?'

  Her name was Esther, she was African, a journalist in exile in Paris.

  'Prohibited from entering her own country', France explained for the benefit of Zouzou who hadn't the slightest interest in politics. Esther was thirty and worked at Radio France International. With some other women, she was responsible for an Afro-Caribbean magazine. She'd met France at an African evening and they'd seen each other again at meetings for the Franz Fanon Memorial.

  'Come and look, Sherazade! This is teriff.'

  Zouzou was surrounded by her new salvage-acquisitions and was trying things on in front of the mirror propped against the wall. Everything was jumbled together: pink and green plastic mini-skirts, some straight some flounced, flat sequined dance-shoes, Levi 501s, blouses with frilly collars – what d'you call them, pirate or corsair-style? – spray-cans of coloured lacquer -you could turn your hair green, orange, blue, silver, gold, Zouzou was giving herself a gold slightly frizzed hair-do, explaining it would wash out first time – American butterfly specs, a fluorescent green heart, a transparent suitcase, a pink and green fluorescent purse, fluorescent earrings that Zouzou had been wearing all day of so vivid a pink they made France scream, Eskimo key-rings, boxing gloves . . .

  'Your place is a real shop,' Sherazade said, trying on a threadbare machine-made leather jacket that had been given to one of Zouzou's buddies but after a week he'd decided it was really too shabby, grotty. He preferred a biking jacket in padded leather with over-stitching that Sherazade already envied without ever having seen it.

  Esther and France glanced from time to time at Zouzou who was dressing up to the appropriate music; hard rock, Police, Telephone, Blondie, Higelin, Lavilliers, Bashung, Chagrin d'amour . . . They were talking about political groups that Zouzou didn't know and didn't want to know. Zouzou was saying, 'When I hear "Third World", "Undeveloped, Under-development" . . . I reach for my revolver . . .'

  France and Zouzou often argued because France accused Zouzou of being permanently corrupted by Babylon and she wouldn't be surprised to find her a hostess in a bar, then ending up as a call-girl and . . . Zouzou would cut her short, shrieking, 'I can have a ball if I like and live my own life and be super-cool without crying all the time over the immigrants, the Third World and all that . . . Anyway politics isn't going to feed me.'

  France said it didn't matter if she didn't understand it wouldn't stop her being happy. She wasn't the only one who didn't understand there were some people in the world who cared passionately about justice and liberty and that was what made them tick and she wasn't the only one to always be running such people down . . . Zouzou interrupted her diatribe. 'But I'm free, I am, and I don't ask anybody for anything, nobody helps me, I've fought for what I've got, what d'you think . . .'

  'And the others?'

  'They can do like me and anyway stop bugging me you always have to spoil everything with your preaching about militating when you don't even militate yourself and you get worked up about nothing and after all you don't turn up your nose at all the parties and idiotic pals . . .'

  Zouzou, in a fury, started stamping on all the things she'd spread out in front of the mirror, still in her winkle-pickers that she'd just laced up over pink tights of a lighter shade than the flounced mini-skirt that she'd put on a short time ago with a green sequinned blouse, as bright as her fluorescent earrings. France let her carry on. Esther and Sherazade watched her, wondering if she was going to spare the records.

  Esther suggested she take them all to see her magazine. Zouzou, always ready for an excuse to change her outfit, agreed enthusiastically. It was near the Bastille.

  In a café where they stopped after the magazine, Sherazade told them about Omar and Martial getting arrested at Châtelet station.

  Zina

  Esther had put Sherazade up for the night. She lived alone in a large one-room flat where working meetings were often held for the magazine. She didn't ask Sherazade any questions but talked about herself late into the night.

  As she left, Sherazade told Esther she'd come and see her again.

  'Are you interested in the magazine?'

  'I write poems.'

  'Will you send me some?'

  'If you like.'

  Sherazade was late. Dropping in at the library in the morning, she'd caught sight of Julien sitting in his usual place. She tiptoed in and threw her arms round his neck. He jumped. She kissed him behind his ear and said hello. He told her he had to meet his film-director friend about seven o'clock. She could come on later if she liked. He gave her the address.

  Sherazade hurriedly rummaged in her pockets for the name of the street and the number. She put her walkman on again.

  When she arrived they were going over the dialogue of the script. Sherazade had had her hair cut at Rocky's where Zouzou had a pal who'd got the boss to make reductions for her friends and Sherazade had taken advantage of this. Her emerald earrings showed up better; you also noticed her ears now; they were small with nice curled little rims. She was wearing the 501s that Zouzou had lent her – they were supposed to be worn short but they were really too short for Sherazade – over her red sequinned stockings and the sequinned waistcoat that was concealed by the threadbare leather jacket. She'd found an embroidered muslin blouse at Josse-lyne's in the flea market – just the right size – that suited her perfectly.

  'That's her! That's Zina!' exclaimed Julien's friend as soon as he saw her. I've been on the look-out for ages, ever since the first film I've had the idea of a girl like this. You're brilliant Julien. A scenario and the heroine at the same time . . . I've seen lots of girls . . . It didn't necessarily have to be someone pretty, especially not a cover-girl . . . but all the ones who turned up thought they were obliged to look like fashion models or girls in commercials or film stars. Eventually they all became trivial, insipid, boring and there I was thinking every time I was going to find the one who got away from all the stereotypes, rather like the actress in my first film. Finally, as none of them fitted my idea of my heroine, I thought – the first one with green eyes, but really green, not grey-green or blue-green . . . it was ridiculous as girls with green eyes really do exist and I wasn't necessarily going to get exactly what I wanted. Not a single one turned up. I gave it up. I decided I'd leave it to chance. I didn't look for anyone for weeks. I did look at girls in the street, in cafés, you never know, but it was no use. And then Julien showed me some photos. I don't trust photos, unless I've taken them myself. It seemed about right but I needed to see for myself and
there you are, I can see with my own eyes, Sherazade in person . . . Zina. You are Sherazade?' he asked.

  'Yes.'

  'And you'd like to be in films?'

  'Dunno.'

  'Does the girl in Julien's script appeal to you?'

  'Very much.'

  As Sherazade had never done a voice test, nor had an audition as actors normally do for the stage, Julien's friend tried working with the two of them straight away. They chose a scene in which the heroine had a long speech and another in which the dialogue between the girl and her bloke was difficult to say.

  'I've hit on a title!'

  'What?'

  'We'll call it, The Suburbs are Fine.'

  'What?' exclaimed Sherazade. 'That's incredible. That's the name of Pierrot's newspaper.'

  'Who's this Pierrot?'

  'A buddy who wants to bring out a newspaper or a radio station I'm not sure which and the name is The Suburbs are Fine.'

  'This paper doesn't exist . . . nor the radio station . . .'

  'Nor does your film . . .'

  'But I'm going to register the title and the scenario. I don't fancy anyone pinching it off me.'

  Julien's friend had fitted out a room which impressed Sherazade. The equipment was even more up-to-date than that of her squat-mates -and that's saying something as they'd assembled in their sound-proof room the most sophisticated stuff they could find and they knew a thing or two about it . . . She'd tell them what she'd seen here, she thought, without giving them the address, not really believing they'd do a break-in, not at one of her friend's – no not really . . .

  They spent several hours shut up in this room, as artificial and bleak as a recording studio. Julien's friend was persistent, everything had to be just right, he would wear everyone out, but if they continued, by morning he'd be quite certain. He felt reassured before morning. After five hours Julien's friend told Sherazade she'd be a gang leader, rebel, poet, unruly, adept with a knife, expert at karate (like his first prostitute heroine), fearless, a fugitive from ZUPs, hanging around housing estates, basements, underground carparks, wandering the streets, as illusive and frightening as a war-leader . . . His list was endless; he was excited at having the voice, the face, the body, the girl he was looking for, this Zina - the name meant pretty in Arabic -who'd existed so strongly for him every since he'd read Julien's script. He'd heard of delinquent girls, gang leaders in the inner city and the outskirts of Paris, girls who were unhappy and ruthlessly made other boys and girls – as much victims as themselves – pay for everything they'd had to put up with since childhood, and it was a perpetual dog's life for everyone, that lasted until the gang dispersed or ended up in prison, or drug addiction centres, the hospital or the cemetery. They were aware of this but it didn't matter, they were terrifying as a gang and they terrified each other also, it was a game to them, it was their life.

  Julien's friend had recorded Sherazade-Zina on video. Sherazade could see and hear herself for the first time on a screen. It was curious, as if it didn't concern her. The girl she was seeing wasn't her. This person interested her, but remotely. Julien's friend made some comments, so did Julien. Sherazade said nothing.

  'What do you think of it?'

  'Nothing.'

  'I think it's fantastic . . . You really are Zina.'

  Sherazade said nothing.

  'I don't really know.'

  'You are Zina, really, if I say so.'

  'OK. I'm hungry.'

  'Let's eat.'

  Julien and his friend made a salad and grilled a steak. Sherazade was drinking a Coca-Cola, sitting in a huge leather armchair, an old study chair retrieved from the family property. Just as Julien arrived with the salad, she caught sight of a book on the round slatted table made of chestnut wood, she hadn't noticed till then . . . There was a picture of an Arab or Berber woman. It was called Algerian Women 1960. She glanced through it. Faces of women not wearing veils in front of a camera held by a French soldier, taking pictures for the census of several villages in the interior . . . these faces displayed the severity and violence of people who submit to arbitrary treatment, knowing they will find the inner strength to resist. These Algerian women all faced the lens as if they were facing a machine-gun shooting them, with the same intense, savage stare, a fierceness that the picture could only file for posterity without ever mastering or dominating. These women all spoke the same language, her mother's language.

  Sherazade turned the pages of the collection of photographs and in spite of herself the tears streamed down her face.

  Julien's friend brought in the piping-hot steak, grilled with herbs, done to a turn, with a knob of butter. He nearly dropped the wooden tray in front of Sherazade who was weeping like one who has taken leave of her senses – softly, silently, ceaselessly. He glanced at Julien on the other side of the armchair. Julien hadn't noticed Sherazade he was waiting to eat, he was hungry.

  They all sat down at their places, in front of their plates and glasses. Julien's friend cut the meat into three equal portions. Julien served the salad. They drank a Beaujolais in silence.

  Sherazade said she wasn't hungry. She got up, took her jacket and left.

  'So, what about Zina?' said Julien's friend.

  Yasmine

  At the squat Sherazade found her room occupied. Two boys from Lyons, who were on the run, had heard of the place through the bush telegraph and as the room was empty, even if Sherazade slept there some evenings, they'd made themselves at home and refused to move. Pierrot had warned them Sherazade wasn't dead, hadn't run away or gone off on her travels; they'd Wait till she turned up to move into another room which might be free then. Sherazade went into the room to pick up the things she wanted to take with her. The double bed was unmade, not the single one. Sherazade wasn't any more curious about the way they lived than any of the others who hadn't looked in to see if they were sleeping in the same bed, it didn't matter a damn to any of them except the two of them, as just when Vero came with her belongings into the room they'd settled in, as there wasn't anothed bed or mattress free in the squat and she'd just quarrelled with Rachid and decided to split with him as he wouldn't even cut a little bit off his mohican or wear any other shoes than those stupid old clodhoppers that he did everything except sleep in, the Mexican boots which were completely down-at-heel and looked like leaky boats, so when Vero turned up at the door, with her arms loaded, saying there was a bed free for her and she wouldn't bother them they refused categorically to share the room with Vero even temporarily. François said he and Selim each slept in one of the beds and there was no question of changing. Vero dumped her things on the single bed and declared, without more ado, that they didn't have to play silly buggers with her, everybody knew the single bed wasn't occupied and if they both wanted to sleep or do anything else in the big one it was their own business, but for a bed to stay empty while she, Vero, had nowhere to sleep was a scandal. A veritable council meeting had to be called to resolve the question of the single bed; Pierrot knew Vero wouldn't have hesitated to fight with François or Selim if the argument had continued. It was decided that the single bed should be moved into the big communal room where Vero would be allowed to sleep when she wanted to. Rachid wasn't there the day these moves were decided on. For the moment he was alone in one room and in a double bed. He hoped it would last and even that Vero would take herself off somewhere else. She was always reproaching him, making remarks and chasing him round all evening with a pair of hairdresser's scissors in her hand, bugging him about his mohican hair-do which was drooping over his eyes. And if he wanted to keep his mohican he was free to do so, OK? He wasn't going to let her lay down the law to him. He'd told her he wasn't going to spend his holidays with her mother in the South, no way now, she could tell her mother, he'd made up his mind and that was that. Every time Rachid mentioned these holidays which he'd screwed up, Vero did her nut and he left the others to deal with her. He'd got to beat it, he'd got to see someone urgently about a training course, he wasn't
going to miss it for this shag.

  Sherazade asked Pierrot to rescue her red bedspread, she was attached to it and would need it.

  Driss hadn't been discharged from prison yet and Eddy had written from Tunisia, saying he'd finally found Djamila, not in Setif where her father lived, but in the south in Ghardaïa, in a luxury hotel. He hadn't asked what she was doing there; nor who she'd come with to the Oasis Hotel . . .

  He'd more or less kidnapped her.

  Djamila hadn't really made any difficulties and so was living with Eddy in Tunisia in a little square house with a terrace all overgrown with purple and pink bougainvillaeas, overlooking the sea. In Setif, Djamila had seen her father who'd made her welcome where he lived with his new wife, but after a week Djamila had realized she couldn't stay any longer. She sent her mother a card from Setif, giving no news, simply saying she was all right. From Tunisia she wrote to her father saying she'd been pleased to see him again and perhaps she'd stay in Tunisia, that's what she'd decided with Eddy. They'd stay a year or two, Djamila would go to university and he'd make out with his music, in the summer the clubs needed musicians. Eddy told Pierrot and Basile that the house with the bougainvillaeas, which was isolated and hidden away, would make an ideal safe house for them. They just had to let him know. Sherazade could come too. Pierrot let Sherazade read the letter and she made a mental note of the address in Tunisia, forgetting that she didn't know Eddy's surname. She looked at the envelope and saw Pierrot's full name for the first time, it was Pierrot Kovalsky, like many Poles from the North of France. She'd never said what her name was either and nobody had asked her.

  Sherazade heard that Pierrot and Basile were preparing a job.

  'We're not going on a spree, it's political,' Pierrot emphasized without giving any details of what it was all about. . . 'You'll see, it'll make the headlines and the lads won't stagnate in prison here or anywhere else 'cos we're not going to confine ourselves to France.'