Editor’s Note: This play was originally written and produced for radio. It has been slightly edited for this print version. The characters of the play tell their stories in two different, yet resonantly similar, times – now and during the Algerian Revolution. They interweave, often within the same scenes, and it is up to the director and creative team making the play to decide how best to present this on stage.
Characters
FATIMA
FIFI (Fatima as a young woman)
JOSEPH (Fifi/Fatima’s brother)
YUSUF (Fatima’s grandson, a security guard)
PAUL (a tenant in the building where Yusuf works)
RAYMOND (Fifi/Fatima’s ex-lover/pimp)
POLICEMAN
HAMMAM ATTENDANT
REVOLUTIONARY
VENDOR
1. The Beach (THEN)
FATIMA: He knew about the clothes. We walked along the beach and practised saying: jupe, blouson, chemise, combinaison…
FIFI: …combinaison, chandail, chiffon…
JOSEPH: …pantalon, smoking, veste. That’s what I need, a blue pantalon and a veste like a sailor’s, please.
FIFI: And a beret to match.
JOSEPH: (Laughing) You would. And a pair of espadrilles.
FATIMA: Everything Joseph wanted I got him and what wouldn’t I do for a new dress?
FIFI: …lime green and décolletée, the skirt all in dentelle. Walk and turn heads, walk slowly and quickly turn heads.
JOSEPH: Fifi!
FIFI: (Distracted) Mmm?
Fifi shrieks as Joseph splashes her, and they chase up the beach.
FATIMA: There was a wooden chalet which Joseph and I admired. We would stop walking and gaze at it until a strong wave soaked our ankles. We imagined ourselves inside it, living so close to the sea, spending whole days at the plage. Now when I remember the French in Algeria, I think of this beach house and I understand them better. I imagine myself rich enough to own a holiday chalet. It is an extension of my belongings but not my permanent city flat. As I go about my everyday life, the chalet remains in my mind as empty, waiting for my visit. I know, in a vague sort of way that there are people who live on the beach all year, but to me they are only a background. They might be watching, or having their own lives, but they are not important.
2. A Flat in Algiers (NOW)
A telephone rings.
FATIMA: Yusuf!
The telephone continues to ring.
FATIMA: (exasperated) Yusuf! Yusuf!!!
Fatima hauls herself to her feet and starts to walk slowly to the phone, muttering under her breath. As she approaches the telephone it goes to answering machine.
PAUL: (on the machine) It’s Paul. Paul Sintès. Have you changed your mobile? I’ve been trying all day. Listen, I’m back from Paris. If you were at your post this morning, you could have helped with the luggage. And the lift still hasn’t been fixed, so… so what’s new. Anyway… call me, Joe. Okay?
The machine beeps.
FATIMA: Sintès.
FIFI: Raymond Sintès?
FATIMA: No, he said Paul. It must be a wrong number.
FIFI: No, it’s for Yusuf. He’s calling him Joe instead.
FATIMA: Why not? I used to be Fifi myself.
FIFI: Fatima has too many syllables. Fatima sounds backward. Fatima is not chic.
FATIMA: I refused my mother’s veils and went out in the street wearing lipstick.
FIFI: I turned heads and not only Arab ones.
FATIMA: Then came nationalism and war.
FIFI: Veils, you said. Talk about clothes, not war. Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten… the first décolleté he ripped open, that robe with the stain you couldn’t wash out…
FATIMA: War made us rough and bitter. But we got our aspirations. Our young speak Arabic now instead of French. We have our own tyrants and they are not French.
FIFI: The city. It started with the city. Dreaming of it, hanging on every word that was said about Algiers. I didn’t belong in this village. Every fortune teller said so.
FATIMA: The city showed up in Mother’s coffee cup. In every single cup. A black whorl of grains, delicate rectangles for buildings, the sea clean bare china without a single speck of coffee.
FIFI: She would suck it with a slurping sound, put the saucer on top then flip it over. Wait a bit. Let those fine grains settle into tiny maps, a route to the sea, a woman flaunting her hair wild all the way to the rim of the cup. And me holding my breath.
FATIMA: To hear what you wanted to hear. Nonsense. These fortune tellers peddled with people’s hopes. They read their eyes.
FIFI: What did they read in Mama’s eyes?
FATIMA: That her young daughter was becoming a handful. Too much breast and thigh for the stepfather to handle.
FIFI: He hated me.
FATIMA: He hated the temptation. Day in, day out. Making a mockery of his sense of honour.
FIFI: And I wanted Algiers.
FATIMA: And that’s what the fortune teller said. She said: ‘Fatima won’t be with us for long. She will go far and up’.
FIFI: Far and up. Marriage was the first thing that came to Mama’s mind.
FATIMA: Yes, she would have approved of that. Marriage to a young lad from another village.
FIFI: I was through with villages. Our village was pushing me out. Its animal smells and early nights.
FATIMA: Ein Fakroon. Named for the hill that was shaped like a turtle. Yusuf used to go there to fly his kite, his cheeks would go red with the cold.
FIFI: Like an apple but the skin all chapped. But after…
FATIMA: Ten lashes with his belt…
FIFI: One across his cheek because he twisted…
FATIMA: Mama said we had to thank him for putting food on the table...
FIFI: Thank him for beating Yusuf? For not letting me go to school?
FATIMA: We ran away the two of us—
FIFI: Fifteen years old and ten.
FATIMA: At the end the city was even more cruel.
FIFI: But at the beginning the city was Life. Crystallised, lit up, jumping. Algiers, the buildings, the sea, the cafés, the beach and the French women… their clothes. What wouldn’t I do for a new dress? The sleeves just right, the swish of the skirt, high heels and new words to learn, jupe, blouson, chemise, combinaison…
FATIMA: I’m remembering too much.
FIFI: …combinaison, chandail, chiffon, corsage… What wouldn’t I do for a new dress?
4. Outdoor Balcony of Flat (NOW)
FATIMA: (calling) I’m out here!
YUSUF: (bending down to kiss her on both cheeks) Aren’t you cold?
FATIMA: Not at all. Oh God, what happened to your face?
YUSUF: (pulling a chair to join her) That’s nothing. They smashed my phone.
FATIMA: Who?
YUSUF: The police. Because the fancy madam up in the penthouse was burgled last night. She left her window open and some kid made off with her laptop and her microwave.
FATIMA: But you weren’t on duty last night.
YUSUF: That’s why they let me go. But I’m fired. The night shift and the day shift – all four of us are out.
FATIMA: You’ll find a new job, don’t worry. You look handsome in your uniform.
YUSUF: Thanks for trying to make me feel better.
FATIMA: Is that the telephone?
YUSUF: No.
FATIMA: (standing up) A Frenchman called you. He left a message on the answering machine. He said his name was Raymond Sintès.
YUSUF: Raymond? It must be Paul.
FATIMA: Yes... Paul, that’s what he said. It’s there you can hear it. He said Paul Sintès.
FIFI: Raymond, Raymond…
FATIMA: Stop.
FIFI: Oh, Raymond dressed well. Remember… straightening his tie in front of the mirror, the cigarette almost falling from his mouth. And that buckle on his belt – I used to shine it till I could see bits of my face in it. Lick it and wipe. Lick it and wipe.
/> FATIMA: Enough.
YUSUF: He’s one of the tenants.
FATIMA: Maybe he can help you get your job back.
YUSUF: I doubt it. Grandma.
FATIMA: Yes, darling.
YUSUF: Sit down, you’ve just been standing, or do you want to go inside?
5. The Phone Call, Flat (NOW)
Yusuf is on the phone.
PAUL: There you are! New number.
YUSUF: Yes. Sorry.
PAUL: I heard what happened. Are you okay?
YUSUF: Yeah.
PAUL: With the police and everything?
YUSUF: It’s cool. I’m home.
PAUL: Wow.
YUSUF: I’m fine.
PAUL: Joe… What can I say?
YUSUF: You could talk to them. Maybe. I mean I – I didn’t know anything – I wasn’t even there—
PAUL: Sure. Sure, I’ll do that.
YUSUF: Really?
PAUL: Really. Of course. Can we meet?
Pause
YUSUF: Yes.
PAUL: Okay.
6. The Flat (NOW)
Fatima is watching a daytime chat show on TV.
FATIMA: I used to lie to Raymond that I had friends and that I was meeting them for coffee. He believed me.
FIFI: The brothel is not a place to make friends. Remember the fights. Remember the girl who had acid thrown in her face? Poor thing, she was no use any more.
FATIMA: We competed for the most generous men, the ones who behind Raymond’s back spared us a franc or two.
FIFI: Or a cadeau. Remember the cloche hat..
FATIMA: Snug in winter..
FIFI: Plis on the sides, a trim of gold brocart all around.
FATIMA: Chic. I don’t remember who gave it to me.
FIFI: The sweaty one…
FATIMA: They were all sweaty.
FIFI: The one with the scar all along his armpit.
FATIMA: That scar I can remember but nothing else.
FIFI: He was a sailor from Marseille. He knew a bit of Arabic.
FATIMA: I remember.
FIFI: He was easy to please, that one.
FATIMA: It was a life soaked in sin.
FIFI: It made sense. My body had a value, a use. Strip naked for the money. Lie down for a cadeau. Coax them. Ease their anger, release the build-up inside them…
FATIMA: As good as a commode…
FIFI: But worth it for a new dress. There is nothing like putting on a new dress. I have to close my eyes, I smell the fresh material and then my head comes out. My hair has come undone. I stand in front of the mirror and turn this way and that. I raise my arms up like a dancer. I turn sideways like a model. Oh, I could look at myself for hours.
FATIMA: Such vanity…
FIFI: Vanity? Sin? You never used those words in the old days.
FATIMA: I’ve changed.
FIFI: You should go on this show. You could phone in.
FATIMA: ‘A Prostitute Repents?’ I don’t think so.
FIFI: Or, ‘I Too Played My Part in the Revolution?’
FATIMA: The Revolution was the last thing on my mind. I certainly never spoke up except for that one time.
FIFI: ‘I can get you into the warehouse.’ I was wearing my black skirt.
FATIMA: By the time I got to those meetings, I was always in black.
7. The Kitchen (NOW)
YUSUF: Move, Grandma, let me lift this.
He lifts a bucket from the sink. Fatima closes the tap.
FATIMA: I’ve done the bathtub and six large bottles.
Yusuf rummages in the kitchen cabinets.
YUSUF: Here – these too.
He’s taking out saucepans.
FATIMA: It’s only eight hours, they said.
YUSUF: And they keep their promises, do they?
Fatima sighs, takes the pans and starts to fill them from the tap.
YUSUF: I hate coming home to no water.
FATIMA: What can we do? This is the situation the country is in. I don’t know how families with five or six children are coping. It’s bad enough they’ve got them in tiny twobedroom apartments, then the council cut the water and the power…
YUSUF: I ran the washing machine.
FATIMA: Thank you, Yusuf. I do pray that you would find a job soon but I’m actually enjoying your company. It’s like when you first came to live with me. I would tell you, ‘Go down and play football with the neighbourhood children.’ And you would just shake your head.
YUSUF: I was nervous.
FATIMA: But you settled in. At first you were sitting on my lap watching from the balcony the children playing football. Then one day you didn’t need my lap any more. And one day, you let me take you downstairs and you stood apart just watching. Then you joined in.
YUSUF: What would I have done without you?
FATIMA: You don’t need to say that.
YUSUF: But it’s true. I was an orphan and you took me in.
FATIMA: You’re my grandson and my responsibility.
YUSUF: I didn’t even know you.
FATIMA: My daughter was ashamed of me. That’s why. I don’t hold it against her and you mustn’t. She had the respectability I didn’t have. And because people will always gossip I agreed to keep away. When she named you Yusuf it was her way of telling me that she loved me in spite of everything.
JOSEPH: It’s Joseph in Algiers, don’t forget. We’re not villagers any more. And I am finished with begging. No more sitting on the sidewalks. No more holding out my palm and looking sad.
YUSUF: Grandma?
JOSEPH: You’re right, Fifi, I need to learn a skill. I want to be a railway mechanic.
YUSUF: Sit down Grandma. You’re looking pale.
Fatima heaves herself into a chair.
FATIMA: I’m fine. I’m fine. Time to make my coffee and I’ll perk up, that’s all.
YUSUF: I’ll make it for you, sit.
Clatter as he makes the coffee.
FATIMA: You’ve brightened my life, you have. And one day soon, I hope, I will help you get married.
YUSUF: I’m out of a job and you’re talking about marriage!
When did they say the water would cut?
FATIMA: At one. So we have about … let’s see…
She as she peers at her watch.
YUSUF: Ten minutes. Enough for a shower.
He heads off hurriedly.
FIFI: How can you have a shower when I just filled up the bathtub?
8. The Beach (THEN)
Fifi and Joseph are walking on the sand.
FATIMA: I paid for Joseph’s apprenticeship in instalments. It included food and lodging. When he finished and earned his first wage, we went to the plage together. We ate grilled corn and walked on the sand.
JOSEPH: It’s good, right?
FIFI: It even smells wonderful. I bet if you cook it indoors it won’t taste the same.
JOSEPH: If we lived in that chalet you could have your morning coffee looking out at the sea. And there’s a little garden at the back too, look. I want to be rich and buy one.
FIFI: They’re not for us.
JOSEPH: I’ve been to these meetings where they say – well they’re more like discussions really – they say if we want to be French citizens we shouldn’t have to give up Sharia. Like we can’t be us, like we don’t exist.
FIFI: What meetings?
JOSEPH: I’ve been to three. All of us go, the railway workers, even in our overalls. A few women too. You should come.
FIFI: What use would I have for a bunch of low-paid Arabs? And you should stay away from trouble.
JOSEPH: They’re my friends. One of them lent me ten francs.
FIFI: You just got paid, why are you borrowing money?
JOSEPH: I’m sorry.
FIFI: Joseph! And you didn’t even buy yourself a new shirt. Look at you, all hot in your boiler suit because you’ve nothing else to change into.
JOSEPH: I got you a present.
FIFI: What?
JOSE
PH: It’s in my pocket. Guess.
FIFI: A lottery ticket.
JOSEPH: How did you—
FIFI: It’s the only thing I’d wish for which could fit in your pocket. Merci.
JOSEPH: I hope you win.
FIFI: What else did you squander your first wage on?
JOSEPH: I bought a pocket knife. It’s a beauty. Honest. Look. It’s heavy. It’s not cheap. And yo! Look how that blade is catching the sun.
FIFI: Alright, I get it. Put it away. It’s a waste of money.
JOSEPH: (impersonating gangster slang from a Hollywood film) Kitten, there are goons in this city, there are hatchetmen and there are coppers ready to fill the likes of me with daylight. There are grinches and gunsels, there are those who’re plenty rugged and even gents these days are wearing metal.
FIFI: So you’ve been to the cinema too.
JOSEPH: Yes, I have. (in slang) Stick ’em up, Greaseball. Or else bang. Bang.
Fifi laughs.
JOSEPH: Stick ‘em up, I said.
FIFI: Okay, okay. There…
JOSEPH: (sudden change in tone) What’s that bruise?
FIFI: Where? Oh it’s nothing. That yellow dress I have, its sleeve is too tight. It must have pinched me. Ouch, let it be.
JOSEPH: Sorry.
FIFI: Forget it.
JOSEPH: Someone did this. Someone hurt you.
FIFI: Of course not.
JOSEPH: Swear to God.
FIFI: I swear.
JOSEPH: I don’t believe you.
FIFI: Come on, I’ll race you to the pier.
JOSEPH: No one should hurt you.
FIFI: He just stood there in his boiler suit. The knife in his hand. That funny expression on his face. Confused. Like he couldn’t really and truly for the life of him understand why anyone would squeeze my arm so tight and twist it and pin it above my head.
The Things I Would Tell You Page 10
