Later, Selma and Mathilde would believe that fate was against them. That even chance was on the side of men, the side of power, the side of injustice. Because in that spring of 1955 Amine rarely went into the new town. The rising number of killings and kidnappings, and the increasingly violent response of the French military to the nationalists’ actions, had created an oppressive atmosphere in the town and Amine preferred to stay away. But that day, he broke with his usual habits and went to Dragan Palosi’s office because the doctor had decided to order some young fruit trees from Europe. “Come to my office. We can talk business and then I’ll go with you to the bank to negotiate the credit you need.” And that was what happened. Amine sat, steeped in shame, in the waiting room filled with women, at least half of whom were pregnant. He talked for nearly half an hour with the doctor, who showed him a glossy catalog displaying varieties of peach, plum, and apricot trees, and after that they walked side by side to the bank, where they were greeted by a man with scaly skin. According to Dragan this man was married to an Algerian woman and lived just outside the town, near one of those orchards rented by city dwellers so they could picnic there on Sundays. The banker asked about Amine’s agricultural plans with an enthusiasm and precision that surprised him. At the end of the interview they shook hands on the deal and Amine left the bank with a feeling of great satisfaction.
He was happy, and that was why he walked slowly along the Avenue. He deserved to stroll for a while, he thought, to look at women, to stand so close to them that he could smell their scent. He didn’t want to go home yet and that was why, hands in pockets, eyes dwelling on the shop windows, he kept walking, forgetting the news, forgetting his brother, forgetting Mathilde’s criticism of his latest investments. He gazed at the window of a lingerie shop, at the pointed bras and satin knickers. He admired a display of chocolates and candied cherries in a patisserie window. And then, in the window of a photography studio, he saw the picture. For a few seconds he couldn’t believe it. He laughed nervously and thought: How strange, that girl looks just like Selma! She must be an Italian or a Spaniard, he thought—a European girl, in any case—and she’s very pretty. But then his throat tightened. He felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach and his whole body stiffened with anger. He moved closer to the window, less to observe the details of the picture than to block it from the view of passing pedestrians. He had the impression that his sister was standing naked in public and that his own body was the only thing that could preserve her modesty. It took all his self-restraint not to smash the window with his forehead, grab the photograph, and run away.
He went into the shop and found Lucien playing solitaire behind the wooden counter.
“Can I help you?” the shop owner asked. He looked anxiously at Amine. What could this frowning, sullen-looking Arab possibly want? Just his luck: the studio was empty and now one of those nationalists—perhaps even a terrorist—had come in to attack him just because he was alone, defenseless, and French. Amine took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead.
“I would like to see the photograph in the window. The one with the young girl.”
“This one?” Lucien walked slowly to the shelves, picked up the photograph, and placed it on the counter.
Amine stared at it for a long time, in silence. At last he asked: “How much?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How much for the photograph? I would like to buy it.”
“Oh, it’s not for sale. That couple paid for the photograph and the man was supposed to come in and claim it. They haven’t dropped by yet. But we mustn’t give up hope,” Lucien added sourly, before starting to laugh.
Amine glared at him.
“Tell me how much you want for this photo and I’ll pay it.”
“But I just told you—”
“Listen to me. That girl,” he said, pointing, “that girl is my sister and I have no intention of leaving her for one minute longer in the window of your shop. Tell me how much I owe you and I’ll be on my way.”
Lucien didn’t want any trouble. He’d left France after being blackmailed, and he’d come to this new world—a world just as mean as the old one, but with better weather—with the idea of sticking to his vows to be discreet. He’d heard far too much about the Arabs’ sense of honor to dare provoke them. “Touch their women and you’ll regret it,” a customer had told him just after he opened the studio. No risk of that, Lucien had thought. A few days before this, he’d read in the newspaper about a French bureaucrat, in Rabat or Port Lyautey, who’d been stabbed by an old Moroccan man. When asked why he’d done it, the Moroccan said that the Frenchman had touched the headscarf that concealed his wife’s face, then laughed and said: “But she’s as blonde as a German, the fatma. And blue eyes too!” Lucien shivered and handed the picture to Amine.
“Take it,” he said. “She’s your sister, after all. You can give it to her. Or do whatever you want with it—it’s no business of mine.”
Amine took the photograph and left the studio without saying good-bye. Lucien drew down the blinds and decided to close the shop early.
When Amine got back to the farm it was dark and Mathilde was darning in the living room. He stood in the doorway for a long time, watching her, while she remained unaware of his presence. He swallowed mouthfuls of his own saliva; it was sticky and salty.
At last Mathilde saw him and almost immediately looked down at the cardigan she was mending. “You’re back late,” she said, and she wasn’t surprised when he didn’t reply. Her husband came up to her. He stared at the cardigan with the torn sleeve, and then at his wife’s middle fingertip, protected by a silver-plated thimble. He took the photograph from his jacket pocket, and when he placed it on top of the cardigan Mathilde covered her mouth with her hands. The thimble banged against her teeth. She looked like a murderer, caught in the act. She was confused, trapped.
“It’s completely innocent,” she stammered. “I’d been meaning to talk to you about it. That boy has serious intentions. He wants to come to the farm, to ask for her hand in marriage. He’s a good boy, I promise you.”
Amine stared at her and Mathilde had the impression that his eyes were growing bigger, his features distorting, his mouth becoming enormous, and she jumped when he started yelling: “Are you completely insane? My sister isn’t going to marry a Frenchman!”
He grabbed Mathilde by the sleeve and pulled her out of the chair. He dragged her toward the dark hallway. “You humiliated me!” He spat in her face and then slapped her with the back of his hand.
She thought about the children and stayed silent. She didn’t throw herself at her husband or scratch his face or defend herself. Don’t say a word, she told herself. Wait for his anger to fade. Pray that it gives way to shame and that the shame is enough to stop him. She let him drag her, like a dead weight. But her passivity only increased Amine’s rage. He wanted a confrontation, he wanted her to defend herself. With his large dark hand he grabbed a fistful of her hair, forcing her to stand up, pulling her face close to his. “This isn’t over,” he said, punching her in the face. At the entrance of the hallway that led to the bedrooms he let go of her. She kneeled in front of him, her nose bleeding. He unbuttoned his jacket, then started to shake. He knocked over a little wooden bookshelf. It smashed and the books scattered all over the floor.
Mathilde looked up and saw Aïcha watching them from the doorway. When Amine looked in his daughter’s direction his face relaxed and it seemed for a moment that he was about to burst out laughing, to claim that this was just a game he played with Mama, a game that children couldn’t understand, and that she should go back to bed now. Instead he stepped furiously toward the bedroom.
Mathilde stared at the cover of a book on the floor. The Wonderful Adventures of Nils, which her father used to read to her when she was little. She focused all her attention on the drawing of young Nils sitting on a goose’s back. She d
idn’t raise her eyes when the sound of Selma’s screams reached her. She didn’t move when her sister-in-law called for help. Then she heard Amine’s voice threatening them.
“I’m going to kill you all!”
In his hand was a revolver, the barrel pointed at Selma’s beautiful face. A few weeks before this he’d applied for a firearms license. He’d said it was to protect his family, that the countryside was a dangerous place, that they couldn’t rely on anyone but themselves. Mathilde put her hands over her eyes. It was the only thing she could do, the only idea that came to mind. She didn’t want to see this, didn’t want to look death in the face, didn’t want to see her husband, the father of her children, become a murderer. Then she thought about her daughter, about her infant son sleeping peacefully, about Selma who was sobbing now, and she turned toward the children’s bedroom.
Amine followed her gaze and saw Aïcha, her hair illuminated by a faint halo of light. She looked like a ghost. “I’m going to kill you all!” he yelled again, waving the gun around dementedly. He didn’t know who to kill first, but once he’d made that decision he would shoot all of them, one after another, with coldness and determination. Their sobs and screams fused, Mathilde and Selma begging for his forgiveness, and then he heard his name, he heard “Papa,” and he started sweating in his suddenly too-small jacket. He’d already shot someone before. A man, a stranger. He’d already shot someone so he knew he could do it, that it would be over very quickly, that the fear would fade and be replaced by an immense feeling of relief, a sort of omnipotence. But he heard “Papa” and it came from over there, from the doorway where his child stood in her soaked nightshirt, her feet in a puddle of urine. For an instant he thought about shooting himself. That would solve everything. There would be no need for any more words or explanations. And his best jacket would be covered in his blood. He dropped the revolver and, without looking at them, left the room.
Mathilde put her finger to her lips. She was weeping silently and she gestured for Selma to stay where she was. She crawled over to the gun. Her vision was blurred by tears, her nose was pouring with blood and she was struggling to breathe. Flashes of pain ran through her head and she had to hold her hands to her temples for several seconds to stop herself from fainting. She picked up the revolver. It was very heavy and she started frantically turning it in her hands. She looked around, in search of something, a way to make the gun disappear. She stared desperately at her daughter and then, standing on tiptoe, she reached up to grab the enormous terra-cotta vase that sat on top of the large bookshelf. She tipped it slightly and tossed the revolver inside. Then she let go of the vase, which slowly swayed from side to side, and for those few seconds the three of them stood paralyzed, terrified by the thought that the vase would smash and Amine would return, see the gun amid the shards, and kill them all.
“Listen, my darlings.” Mathilde drew Selma and her daughter toward her and held them to her heart, which was beating so hard that it scared the child. The smell of piss and blood. “Never tell him where the gun is, you hear me? Even if he begs you or threatens you or promises something in exchange. Never tell him it’s in the vase.” They nodded slowly. “I want to hear you say, ‘I promise!’ Say it!” Mathilde looked angry now and the girls obeyed.
Mathilde led them into the bathroom. She filled a large bowl with warm water and put Aïcha into it. She washed the stained nightshirt; then she soaked a cloth in alcohol and cold water and wiped it over both girls’ faces. Her nose was burning with pain. She didn’t dare touch it, but she knew that it was broken. And—despite her pain, despite her anger—she couldn’t help feeling sad at the thought that she would always be ugly now. Not only had Amine stolen her dignity; he had given her a boxer’s nose.
Aïcha knew about women with bruised faces. She’d often seen them: mothers with half-closed eyes, purple cheeks, split lips. At the time, in fact, she thought that was why makeup had been invented. To conceal the effects of men’s fists.
All three of them slept in the same room that night, legs intertwined. Before falling asleep with her back leaning on her mother’s belly, Aïcha said her prayers out loud. “O Lord, bless the sleep that I will take to recover my strength so that I can better serve you. Holy Virgin, mother of God, and after Him my greatest hope, my good angel, my patron saint, protect me all through this night, all through my life, and at the hour of my death. Amen.”
They woke in the same position, as if they’d been frozen by the fear that he would return, somehow convinced that together the three of them formed an invincible body. In their restless sleep they had transformed into a sort of animal, a hermit crab protected by its shell. Mathilde hugged her daughter tight, wishing she could make them both disappear. Sleep, my child, all this is nothing but a bad dream.
* * *
All night long Amine walked through the countryside. In the darkness he bumped into trees and the branches scratched his face. As he walked he cursed every acre of this barren earth. Delirious, he started counting the stones and he felt certain that they were conspiring against him, multiplying in the shadows, thousands of them spreading through every field in his domain, making the soil impossible to plow, ridding it of all hope of new life. He wished he could crush all those rocks with his bare hands, with his teeth, chew them up and spit them out in an enormous dust cloud that would cover everything. The air was cold. He sat at the base of a tree, his whole body trembling. He hunched over, curled into a ball, and fell into a half-sleep, dazed by alcohol and shame.
He didn’t return to the house until two days later. Mathilde didn’t ask where he’d been and Amine didn’t look for the revolver. For several days the house was filled with a thick, deep silence that nobody dared break. Aïcha spoke with her eyes. Selma didn’t leave her room. She spent her days lying in bed, weeping into her pillow, cursing her brother, and swearing vengeance. Amine had decided to take her out of school. He didn’t see the point in disturbing the girl even more by filling her head with crazy ideas.
Amine spent his days outside. He couldn’t bear to look at Mathilde’s face, the purple rings under her eyes, her nose that had doubled in size, her cut lip. He wasn’t sure, but he thought she might have lost a tooth. He left at dawn and went home when his wife was asleep. He slept in his office and used the outside toilets, to the disgust of Tamo, who didn’t want to share her bathroom with a man. For days he surrendered to cowardice.
The following Saturday he was up before the sun. He washed himself, shaved, splashed cologne on his neck. He went into the kitchen, where Mathilde was frying eggs, her back to him. She smelled his scent and she couldn’t move. Standing in front of the cooker, wooden spatula in hand, she prayed that he wouldn’t say anything. It was the only thing she cared about. Please don’t let him be stupid enough to open his mouth, she thought. Please don’t let him say something banal and act as if nothing has happened. If he says, “I’m sorry,” I will slap him. But the silence remained unbroken. Amine walked about behind Mathilde. She couldn’t see him, but she could tell that he was pacing the kitchen like a wild beast, nostrils flared, breathing heavily. He leaned against a large blue cupboard and watched her. She ran her hand through her hair and tightened the string of her apron. She let the eggs burn and coughed into her fist when the smoke made her choke.
She was ashamed to admit it, but the silence between them was having a strange effect on her. She thought that if they never spoke again they might become animals once more, opening up all kinds of possibilities. They could learn new ways to love, they could roar, fight, scratch each other until they bled. There would no longer be any need for those endless explanations and debates that never resolved anything. She had no desire for vengeance. And her body—the body that he’d damaged, that he’d broken—she wanted to surrender it to him completely. For days they didn’t say anything, they just fucked. Up against a wall, behind a door. Even outside, once, leaning against the ladder that led to the roof. To shame him
she abandoned all inhibitions, all modesty. She threw her lust, her vice, her womanly beauty in his face. She gave him orders so crude that he was shocked, and excited. She proved to him that there was something mysterious inside her, something dirty that he had not made that way. A darkness that was hers and that he would never understand.
One evening, while Mathilde was ironing, Amine went into the kitchen and said: “Come with me. He’s here.”
Mathilde put down the iron. She left the kitchen, then retraced her steps. Watched by Aïcha, she leaned over the kitchen tap, splashed water on her face and smoothed down her hair. She took off her apron and said: “I’ll be back.” Of course, the child followed her, quiet as a mouse, and her eyes shone as she walked through the dark hallway. She sat behind the door and through a crack in the wood she glimpsed an old, stocky, badly shaved man with spots on his skin, wearing a brown djellaba. There were bags under his eyes, so swollen that she imagined the brush of a fingertip or a breath of wind would be enough to burst them and for viscous liquid to ooze from the flabby sacs. He was sitting on a chair in the office, with a young man standing behind him. There was a large yellow stain on the young man’s khaki jacket, as if a bird had shat on him. He handed the old man a large leatherbound notebook.
“Your name?” said the old man, looking at Mathilde.
She answered, but the adoul turned to Amine. Frowning, he repeated: “Her name?” and Amine spelled out his wife’s name.
“Her father’s name?”
“Georges,” said Amine, and he leaned down over the notebook, embarrassed at having to reveal this Christian first name, so impossible to spell.
In the Country of Others Page 22
