by Faïza Guène
It makes me think of that movie Grease with Olivia Newton John and John Travolta. In that story, it's summer. Olivia and Trav really dig each other, as in kiffer, right. They run along the beach, sing happy songs, and kiss on the lips over by the rocks. Then school starts again, and Olivia's still feeling all kiffe-d up, but Trav, to show off in front of his crew at school, he doesn't look at her anymore because he's ashamed of her. He totally laughs in her face. And she, like a fool with her ponytail and pink dress, runs off to bawl her eyes out. Weak woman. But the real bastard's Trav, with his tight black leather pants and cartoon haircut. When I told Mme Burlaud the whole story about Nabil on Monday, she cheered me up real good. Without even meaning to...
"Maybe Nabil prefers boys. Had you thought about that?"
Oh yeaaaah ... Like Jarod. Maybe that's it. A mother like his, that could turn a boy gay, couldn't it? If it's true, he probably knows all Madonna's songs by heart and wears tight underwear.
Psssh ... Whatever. Actually, Mme Burlaud hasn't got a clue if Nabil's gay or not. Me, all I know is I'm kind of disappointed because I thought he really liked me, that's all...
Our neighbor Rachida, the biggest gossip in the projects, came to the house the other night. She brought us thirty euros and some groceries for the week. From time to time, people from the area give us donations and it kind of helps us out. But what's good about big Rachida is that as well as giving us charity, she gives us "Celebrity Gossip," the Paradise Estate remix. She's the one who brings us the latest news and when she's got an especially juicy piece of gossip, she's as proud of it as if it were her firstborn son.
Rachida talked to Mom again about Samra, the prisoner of the tenth floor, the one who ran away from home to be with her guy. It seems she actually got married to him.
Samra's dad, a retired torturer now that his daughter left, one morning while buying the paper, happens to turn to the "Congratulations to Young Couples" column and there's his daughter's last name, and so his last name, right next to the toubab guy's. The old guy couldn't take it and fell sick, they said part of his body was paralyzed. It had to be the shock of seeing his name "dirtied" like that. The name his father, his grandfather, and others before them had borne. Another question of honor, I guess...
Samra's dad's going to paralyze the other half of his body the day he happens to land on the "Welcome Newborns" column in the paper. If he could put his pride aside, he'd see that the most important thing is his daughter's happiness. (I'm using American TV series morality but I don't care, I'm cool with that.)
And with all these stories about fate, I'm starting to think there's no such thing as chance.
It's all bullshit. It's not luck if Passe-Partout, the midget in that game show Fort Boyard, turns out to be a civil servant working for the RATP in real life and his name's actually André Bouchet. You shit a brick the day you're fare-hopping at the Gare du Nord and then there's some tiny inspector asking to see your ticket, and you don't see anybody at first, but then you look down and see Passe-Partout. Plus, you know there's no point trying to skip it, because the guy runs crazy fast, I've seen him on the Fort. For all we know, maybe all the guys from the show are civil servants in real life. Imagine Dad Fouras as a cop? I'm telling you, if they cut off our TV like they did with the phone, it will be too much. It's all I have. When we did the Middle Ages with M. Werbert, my geography teacher from last year, he told us the church used stained-glass windows as the poor person's Bible, for people who couldn't read. For me, TV today is like the poor person's Koran.
When I watch TV, Mom listens to Enrico Macias and knits. Oh yeah. Forgot about that, she's started knitting again. She used to do it a lot before Dad took off. Now she knits at home with "Jéquiline," as in Jacqueline, the teacher she's now friends with. Jacqueline was blond before she was old and gray. She told me. Some Sundays she makes rhubarb jam and her neighbors are soccer fans, so on game nights she has problems getting to sleep. She's nice, Jacqueline. Once, Mom told Jacqueline she needed a waxed tablecloth, just like that in the middle of a conversation, and the next week, Jacqueline brought a waxed tablecloth over to the house. Yeah, OK, so it was pretty ugly. There were these hunting scenes, with big stags and lots of Bambis getting shot at ... But I thought it was nice of her, all the same.
And another thing, Jacqueline's interested in bunches of stuff. She asks Mom questions about religion, Moroccan culture, and lots of other things like that..."It's so I know if what they're saying on the TV is true ... you know..."
And sometimes she tells Mom stories from the Bible. The other day, she told her the story of Job. I remember one time we read an extract in our French class with Madame Jacques. She shouted at me because when it was my turn to read, instead of pronouncing it Job-rhymes-with-globe, I said "Jahb." Like what they call your work in America or the name of the fat guy in Star Wars. And that crazy old bag of a Mme Jacques accused me of "sullying our beautiful language" and other stuff just as stupid. Nothing I can do, I didn't know even know this Job guy existed. "It's the faaaaulttt of people like yooouu that our Frrrench herrrritttage is in a coma!"
Thanks to Lila, Hamoudi's come through his bad spell. He's got a new job: security at Malistar, the minimarket under our building. But it's just for now while he's waiting to find something else and then quit dealing for good. He's smoking a lot less. We see each other less too. But he's better and that's the most important thing. He's the one who was always saying how it was all fucked anyway, there was no way out. But when he said that, he'd always apologize right away after.
"I've got no right to say things like that to a fifteen-year-old kid. You can't listen to me, understand? You've got to believe! OK?"
It was sort of like a threat. But he was right. He's found his emergency exit, now. He talks seriously about making a life with Lila. That means there isn't just rap and soccer. Love's another way to get out of this mess.
The first day back at school is one of the worst days of the year along with Christmas. I had diarrhea for three days beforehand. The idea of going to a new school you don't know, with lots of people you don't know and, worse, who don't know you either, well, it gives me the shits. Sorry, upset stomach. That sounds less disgusting.
Lycée Louis-Blanc. Who is this guy anyway? Louis Blanc? I looked it up. With a name like that, he just had to be in the dictionary of proper names.
"Louis BLANC (1811–1882). Journalist and socialist activist."
In France, being described with three words ending in "ist" is all you need for them to name a school, a street, a library, or a metro station after you. I thought it might be a good idea to do a little research, you never know when a thug might ask me: "Hey! You there! Who's Louis Blanc?" Then I'd look the dumbass straight in the eye and I'd say to that sandpit of a scumbag who thought he was scaring me: "Journalist, socialist, activist..." And with an American accent too, like in those films we used to watch in English class. That shut you up, right? Even if you're not circumcised, clown.
The morning of the first day back, Mom was too cute. She wanted her daughter to be the most beautiful for "Ze new skool, the jdida..." The new place. "Hamdoullah..." Thanks be to God. She ironed my least ugly clothes, especially the fake Levi's jeans (very good imitation) she picked up for me at La Courneuve market. "Coooome on, ladies 'n' gents, it's too good to be true! Just too good to be true! We're giving them away, Levi's jeans at twelve euros! They're seventy in the stores! It really is just too good to be true! Get 'em while stocks last! Cooooome and get 'em!" She fixed up my long black hair. Hers was just like it when she was younger. After, as she got older, she lost some of it and it wasn't all black anymore. She did my hair up in a ponytail, after she'd brushed it with olive oil. That's old-school hairdressing. Like they do in the bled. Me, I don't like it so much, but I didn't say anything to her because she was too happy making me all pretty. It reminded me of the mornings we had class photos at elementary school and she used to do the same thing. My hair was all silky and shiny in those photos, lik
e in the Schwarzkopf ads: "Professional quality care for your hair." But actually, it was greasy and smelled of food fried in Zit Zitoun olive oil. When the teacher patted me on the head for giving a good answer, she'd wipe her hands on her jeans. On class picture day, all the teachers wore jeans.
I don't care. For a little while I was pretty in Mom's eyes. When people say I look like her, I get proud. I hardly look anything like my dad at all. Except my eyes, which are green like his. In my father's eyes, there was always some nostalgia. So when I look at myself in the mirror, I see him and his nostalgia too. All the time. Mme Burlaud told me I'll be completely cured the day I see me in the mirror. Just me.
So that people see my eyes better, Mom drew around them with liner. She kissed me on the forehead and closed the door, asking that God go with me. I hope he's got his own ride because public transport, man, it stresses me out. I walked down to city hall to catch the bus to Louis-Blanc. And there, in the bus, who do I see spread out across four seats, Walkman jammed into his ears? Nabil the loser. Some luck.
Our eyes cross paths and, like in the movies, he makes this guy-full-of-guilt face. He struggles to nod his head and gives me this tiny..."Uh, how y'don?" So now he's being a lazybones too. Too annoying and bored to pronounce the letters O and U and I and G? My answer's to screw up my eyes and pinch my lips really tight, so he gets: "I'm over you, Nabil the fat bastard, you pizza-faced microbe, homosexual, and total ego-trip." Hope he knew how to translate all that.
Then I went and sat next to an old African man holding these wooden prayer beads in his hand. He was turning the beads slowly through his fingers. Reminded me of my dad in his rare moments of piety, even if he was nothing like a good Muslim. You don't pray after demolishing a pack of Kronenbourg 1664. There's no point.
So, anyway, Nabil got out three stops before me. He didn't say good-bye, or see you, or beslama. Nothing, walou. It must have already taken it out of him saying: "How y'don?" Not even a real "How are you?" So "see you" was too much to ask. I admit that pissed me off so much I was feeling some hate. But the worst was to come.
I got to the Lycée Louis–Blanc, man of the proper-name dictionary, and found myself in the middle of thirty bleach-blond bitches with big perms. It was all liberty, equality, fraternity. It didn't look like the first day of school. It felt more like a casting call. They were all so decked out, sporting "the look," as they say on TV. And there's me with my kohl eyeliner and fake jeans. I didn't exactly feel with it.
Then they called us up by group to go to our classrooms. Our principal's a woman. Her name's Agnès Bernard, but there's no connection to the designer Agnès B. She's a young teacher, barely thirty, blond, who talks with a lisp and dresses kind of like the students. Yeah, she's common. Lucky she talks funny, or else there'd be nothing original about her at all, poor thing. She explained what the hairdressing certificate program involved and what the hell we were going to be doing all year. "Product technology: regulation of personal hygiene products, primary ingredients used in hair-care products ... Equipment technology: instruments for drying and styling the hair, cutting tools and implements, styling accessories ... Professional techniques, of course: shampooing, bleaching, coloring, perms, drying, styling..." She might as well be speaking Chinese, right? Cracked-out Chinese. What the hell was I going to do in that place?
By the time I got home, I was seriously depressed. I don't like busting into tears but I couldn't help myself anymore. I was hardly through the front door when I started blubbering. I'm surprised I didn't set off an emergency flood alert in the building. Luckily Mom wasn't there. I know her, she'd have started blubbering too without even knowing why I was blubbering.
A few days later, I stopped baby-sitting. I've been too busy, busy doing lots of stuff. Completely overbooked. No more time to spend worrying over a kid. Sorry.
Nah, I don't watch Sarah anymore because Hamoudi's doing it now instead of me. Since he works in the complex and finishes at four o'clock, he can pick the little one up. It's cool. Yeah. Plus, it makes them like a real family.
I saw Hamoudi when I went shopping downstairs. He talked to me in front of Malistar while he unloaded some boxes of rice. After about five minutes I felt like I was bugging him, so I headed out. I have to say, he talks to me like everybody else now. He's not Hamoudi from number 32 anymore. And he knows it. The other day, I found a note in my mailbox, along with a twenty-euro bill. It was signed "Moudi." A nickname. A shitty nickname. I could have definitely come up with something better. And when I think how Hamoudi used to say he thought nicknames were ridiculous. And here he is signing as "Moudi." Lila could at least have found something more interesting. Moudi. Moody ... schmoody ... doody ... what? Doesn't mean anything, doesn't say anything. He doesn't say anything either, not anymore. Nicknames are so bourgeois: "Do you want some more rabbit, my little duck?" That line works the other way around too. How sad is that?
So long story short, he wanted to clear his conscience because he felt guilty for kind of having dropped me, so he put this note in the mailbox along with twenty euros. He thinks money can fill a hole or what? He's got to stop reading the psychobabble cases in those women's magazines on Lila's coffee table. Even what he wrote was nonsense: "If you need me, you know where to find me..." Yeah, and, well, what I know, Hamoudi, is you're not over at number 32 anymore. You've dropped us, Rimbaud and me. You traitor. All the same in every way. Traitors.
And even Mme Burlaud. If she wasn't paid to see me at a set time once a week, I'm sure she'd have cut me loose by now.
Walking past the bar in the center of town, I noticed a piece of paper stuck up in the window. It said: "LOTTO WINNER HERE: 65,000 EUROS." They always write "WINNER HERE," but they never put who it is. The guys who work at the bar-tabac are good people. They aren't snitches. They'd never name names. Except this time, I know who it is, the lucky bastard to hit the jackpot. It's our very own international Shérif. He's definitely going to have to go on TV and become famous. That way, he'll get around the identity checks. Yeah, if he's a big shot, no one will need to ask for his name or I.D. anymore. Still, he deserved it. He's been gambling for so long. I'm kind of curious to know what he'll do with the money. Change his baseball cap? Jeans? Apartment? Neighborhood? Country? Maybe he'll buy a villa in Tunisia, settle down over there and find himself a wife who's a genius with couscous...
Hey, speaking of marriage, I grilled my mom on it. She's in love with the mayor of Paris. She likes, no, she kiffes, Bertrand Delanoë ever since she saw him on TV laying the memorial plaque at Saint-Michel. It was in honor of the Algerians thrown into the Seine during the demonstration on October 17, 1961. I borrowed books about it from the Livry-Gargan library.
Mom thought it was really good and big of Bertrand to do something in memory of the Algerian people. Very dignified, very classy. Now that she's single, I'm thinking of giving Bertrand Delanoë a call. A big poster campaign with Mom's photo (the black-and-white one in her passport) and below, the slogan: "I kiffe you for real, Monsieur Mayor, call me..." It'll drive Bertrand wild if he sees the poster. Plus, I think he's single too. It's true, you never see him out on the town with chicks. And Mom, she's like a trifecta: "You can win it all." She cooks, she cleans, and she even knits. I bet nobody's ever knitted a pair of wool boxers before for "M. the Mayor, I have the honor to inform you that..." He'll be way happy about those come winter.
The other night, I ran into Hamoudi by the recycling bins. He told me he was just looking for me. Pffffff. That's so not true. I could easily see he was headed for Lila's.
"Hamoudi, what a liar!"
No, actually, I didn't say that. I just said: "Oh, cool..." We talked for a little while. He told me he was sorry he's not around as much as he used to be ... Big picture is, he made me see he's got a new life now and I also got the message I wasn't really part of it anymore.
"Hamoudi, I liked you better when you were a ghetto thug and gave the finger to all the keepers of the peace."
No, I didn't really say
that. I just said: "Yeah, OK."
Lila and Hamoudi are even making marriage plans. His mom must be happy. She'll have managed to marry off all her children. "Final level reached. Bonus. You're a winner." The old lady's completed her mission. And it came at just the right time. Twenty-eight's fine, it's right before his mom starts asking questions..."Allah, my God, perhaps my son he iz a ... maggot?! Hchouma..."
Hamoudi had better invite me to his wedding. If he doesn't, I'll turn him over to the Five-o ... No, I'm joking. That's too far. There's this guy in the neighborhood who turned in his boys to the cops. Ever since, he's been persecuted and the guys in the projects call him "the harki," aka an Algerian who fought for France, a deserter. Me, I'm not that low. Poor guy, his turncoat rep is going to follow him as long as he's on the Paradise Estate. Here, you just have to do one thing that's not so cool and it's all over for you. You get pigeonholed until you die.
It reminds me of the story of a girl who lived around here a few years back. They even wrote about her in the newspaper. She was a good student in school, everybody in the neighborhood respected her family, and the kids from the center of town, known to be real tough crews, would even help her dad with his shopping bags when he came back from the market on Sunday mornings. This girl was in a theater group funded by the Livry-Gargan town council and her parents let her follow her passion no problem. Sometimes they even went to see her performing in the end-of-year show. So, basically, things weren't going too badly for her, even if her parents did think these activities were just a hobby, like painting on Wednesday afternoons at the rec center when you're in nursery school. But this girl, she really loved to act and wanted to make a career out of it. When she was eighteen, she even performed in different towns across France with her company.
