by Faïza Guène
A group of Mexican musicians set up their equipment on the square. They started messing around with their foot pedals while finishing up their last little adjustments. They're laid out a few feet from me and they're mad funny with their gigantic sombreros. I thought listening to them would let me distract myself a little. I didn't have any trouble guessing what they would start playing. In general, it always starts with "Guantanamera." As soon as they let out those first notes, I recognize the tune and tell myself: won, that wasn't hard to figure out. A few happy people are gathered around and partially block my view, while I'm getting impatient waiting for a nasty character who is incredibly desirable...
The worst is that I can't get hold of him because he doesn't have a phone. Every time he called me it was from a telephone booth. It's too horrible to have no control. This guy doesn't even know it but he holds all the strings for my marionette. I have no mercy for latecomers usually, but him, I'll wait for him. More than once to give myself courage I tell myself: "Fine, go, I'm getting out of here, I'm no victim waiting thirty years for a guy I barely know, this pisses me off!" But for all that, I don't get up. I stay planted there like a sad rusty nail. And during this whole painful wait, I can't count how many guys, including boys who haven't even hit eighteen, came to hit on me, asked me for a light, told me I was charming, asked me if I had a minute to let them get to know me...
With a cynicism that comes from the depth of my guts, I tell them: "I don't have a light, I'm sexy on the outside but inside I have AIDS, you still interested?" and also "If you think you can get to know me in a minute, I must not seem all that interesting..."
And then there it is, I see a familiar silhouette from afar, wandering in the middle of the crowd. He's running. He was just a little late, after all, a good hour anyway ... I start to seriously worry about myself in this whole scenario, not only did I stay here, alone, waiting nearly an hour in total turmoil, but on seeing him arrive I didn't even want to scream at him or make a scene. I only want him to wrap me up in his arms with all the passion in the world. Maybe I've seen too many TV movies but I don't care, I'm grabbing on to him and I've decided that I don't want to let go. He comes closer and in one jump I get up like a starving person you're holding a chunk of bread out for and I walk in his direction thinking of all the most beautiful wedding-march scenes in the movies. In truth, this guy could be a hustler with no kind of conscience, an assassin, a rapist, a slasher, or a guy who carves up his victims to steal their kidneys and sell them on the Internet ... And me, I continue walking toward him, a smile on my lips, my arms spread, and my heart in my hands. Then, just at this minute, I realize for the first time: "I'm in love with this stranger, he can make jelly out of me."
Before I even had to make the first move, he surrounds me in his reassuring arms and squeezes me hard, not too much, and not just enough, just hard, like I imagined. He smells like musk, his hair's flattened in the back, a single strand falls on his forehead and then there's his breath that I feel in his neck ... all that sets my head spinning. You could say that he knows exactly what I've been waiting for from him.
The afternoon we spent together was surreal. If he hadn't needed to leave, I would have even spent the evening with him, maybe the night, or even my whole life. He read the lines in my hand, invented a life for me. In my opinion he doesn't know how to read palms, or even the lines in your feet. But I let him keep going anyway, it was nice, it tickled my palm.
And then just before we were about to part, he took off his old chain and put it around my neck. I kissed him with all of my one hundred percent sincerity to thank him for the gift. Afterward, he told me that I was a princess and that it was right for a princess to be treated like one.
It was very smooth but in my head all I could manage to think was: "You're very sweet, my man, but could you tell that to the slut from the employment agency, the woman at the family benefits counter, or even to the fat bitch who I had as a boss the other week at my last temp job at the Paris Bakery, I'm not sure that all these people share your opinion."
He left a little quickly for my taste, promising to call me the next day, which I believed without question, without even being tempted to shoot him my legendary "Yeah, yeah, right" like I always do with all the guys. I was on a cloud ... My God, please let me stay there a little while.
Love Goes Around and Comes Around
Since she made up with Issam, Linda has disappeared from circulation a little, she's now more scarce than a solar eclipse. According to Nawel, I get the idea that she is even more glued to her man than she ever was before. I talk to them both on the phone because they still think about getting all my news, but I get the feeling that they're drifting apart a little bit. We don't do as much together lately. The little cash I managed to get my hands on, I blew on physical-therapy appointments for The Boss, who's been complaining a lot about his back pain for a while. I told myself oh well, I'd rather let the girls enjoy themselves, take advantage of these beautiful days coming to them without my holding them back. And anyway it hurts me a little that they feel guilty every time they're with me, that they feel bad spending their money, telling themselves I'm jealous, even if they never stop offering me their help.
Foued and me, we're slowly getting back on speaking terms after our big fight. We're doing our best at pretending, but I can see that it's all for show, all belâani, as they say around here. A few syllables here and there, some jokes, asking to go buy some bread, to change the channel on the TV, or to take the trash downstairs. He doesn't hang out much outside anymore, I think it's been hard on him. His boys must be a little pissed at him, but they're not paying him much mind anymore because he was pushed out by big dogs. So he's home a lot, he doesn't even go play soccer at Coubertin.
This morning I received a letter from my aunt Hanan. Every time she writes, she never stops giving me a hard time, telling me to come back to Algeria with my brother and The Boss, and using her favorite technique: the guilt trip. In our family it's the fundamental basis for any education.
Your grandmother is old and sick. What are you waiting for? For her to die without seeing you again? We miss you enormously. Every time we reminisce about you here, it's the whole house that cries, with tears even pouring down the walls. Come see us, so we can get to spend some time with you and finally reunite our whole family. Our sister, whose soul is with God, left you orphaned, she surely didn't want us to be separated for so long. We wait for your return with great impatience, this great day, inchallah, when we will celebrate before God and joyfully make our reunion. My oldest children are all married, you haven't been here for a single wedding, and they have sincerely regretted your absence. According to my youngest children, they have grown up not even remembering their own cousins ... So if God wishes, maybe this summer, fate will reunite us again. Please, Ahlème, can you send us a package with some medicine for your grandmother, the blue bottles like last time, because you know that it's too expensive here?
May God give you mercy, dear Ahlème, you will be rewarded, inchallah, your cousin Souriya wants to ask you to think about putting in two or three bras, Playtex Cross Your Hearts in lace, please, may God keep you safe, you know that she's going to be married soon. Sabrina and Razika, our Kabyle neighbors, the ones who work at the Aïn Témouchent hair salon, say hello, they would like you to look at the prices for turbo blow dryers, they promise to pay you back as soon as they can. Naïma, who celebrated her seventeenth birthday last season, asks you for something she's calling "strings," I don't know what that means but she said that you would surely know and then just to finish, I would like you to send me the French cream for fighting aging that I asked for, I think the brand is Diadermine. May God protect and guide you, may he compensate you for all your kindness, and may he send good luck to your house. Take good care of our little brother and your poor father.
I wonder if this letter was really meant for me or if she should have had it expedited directly to Santa Claus. As usual, it looks more like a birt
hday list than anything. I feel like I didn't share anything big with them, just a few memories. All that seems pretty far away.
The day we left, I wore a little blue dress that Mama had sewn. I remember that I begged her for something that "turned."
It was Uncle Mohamed who drove us to the Oran airport. He turned us over to the hostesses, who were covered in makeup and who promised to take good care of us until we arrived in Paris. Then he squeezed me in his arms very hard. I think it was only at this moment that I really understood, while his beard tickled my neck and he whispered that I had to be brave. I realized that it would be really hard because before that day, Uncle Mohamed, out of modesty, had never allowed himself any display of affection toward me, except one kiss a year at Aïd el-Kebir.
I left my country, leaving behind me a whole part of my life. For the last time, I watched the Algerian sky from the window and I thought I would be going back soon. Since I arrived in France, I never took the road back to the bled, and if I decided to return, I don't know how but I would make a big comeback. But lately, I'm seriously considering it.
Nawel's maybe going to pull some strings so I can work in her uncle Abdou's shoe store on the boulevard de la Chapelle. He's about to fire his saleswoman because he found her in the stockroom with a customer. If the tip comes through, I could maybe finally get some long-term work and manage to save a little bit. With this I could take The Boss and Foued to Algeria, to our mother's village, near Sidi Bel Abbès, to our family home, Dar Mounia.
Right now I'm spending most of my time with The Boss because I'm not working. I savor these moments with him, I read his life in the lines of his hollow face, in his moist eyes, in his falling eyelids, in the curls of his hair that's gone all white, I tell myself that I would really miss him if he kicked it. When we spend this time together, exchanging pleasantries, he tells me his stories, and me, I sing him some songs. I listen to him with attention and I wait for him to take his siesta before I run off to the Café des Histoires to write down all his little tales. I've become a regular at this place, and it's rare that I get familiar with anything. When I arrive, Josiane already knows what I want to drink. She brings me my espresso and most of the time, if it's empty in the afternoon, she sits down at my table. She says that I listen well, that I inspire confidence quickly, and that it's a wonderful quality to be interested in others like I am.
The problem is that she continues to call me Stephanie Jacquet and bug me for copies of the papers where my stories are published. I can't bring myself to confess everything I've been brewing for so long.
Josiane never wanted to have a child, and when I asked her if she ever regretted it, she answered very precisely: "At forty-eight it's a little late to have regrets and then I know that I'm not stable, and it's better not to have kids if you're not giving them a real family. Anyway, you know that a pregnancy completely changes your body ... I think that was part of it too, I didn't want to have flabby skin and hopeless breasts."
It's true that she's a pretty woman and that she's very stylish. Now and then she brings to mind old, bygone France, but I like that a lot. Josiane is on her fourth marriage and admits that she's thinking about divorce again, but she doesn't exactly know why she wants to do it. She says that she has never had a single valid reason for her previous divorces. I think she loses herself a little in all her stories. She wants to keep her first husband's name because she thinks that Josiane Vittani sounds like the name of a movie star from the '60s. She's funny and she's open. So like that, at the café, it's all good, but I tell myself that to live with her every day, that must really be something else.
"And anyway, at my age, it's not so easy, I'm getting senile, my poor girl! Just take the other day, he made the effort, the poor guy, to make a surprise and bring me breakfast in bed, and because I love surprises you would think I was very happy! Coffee, croissants, apple juice, the whole works! Oh! It was a beautiful spread, I'm telling you. The problem is that early in the morning, my head's all a jumble, like anyone. So when I wanted to thank him, I don't know why, I didn't know my memory played hide-and-seek with my mouth, but instead of saying 'Thanks, Arnaud!'—because my husband's name is Arnaud. Anyway, guess what I said to him: 'Thanks, Bertrand!'—except that Bertrand, oh God, he's my ex-husband. But I didn't tell you what happened after. Fortunately, I didn't make any other mistakes, I didn't add Frédéric and Gilles, the two before, the first ones. And the cherry on the top is that I didn't say I was sorry because I don't like to do that and it wasn't such a big deal anyway. Yes, that's right, I didn't even take the trouble to say that I acted poorly on that front. I never say 'I offer you all my apologies' because if I offer all of them, there won't be any left for afterward, for more important things..."
Then she plays out a sketch from the marriage service. She tells me about her husband's older son, who is, according to her, a sublime young man of twenty-five. She's certain that I'll like him and he would like me too. If I know what she's talking about, he's a subtle cross between Brad Pitt and Bill Clinton. Josiane says that she can introduce me to him. After all why not? I can give it a shot. I already wasted my time dozens of times letting the true social-work cases that Linda and Nawel insisted on bringing over to me try their luck, it would be hard for this to be any worse. And as far as Tonislav goes: no news.
After that, Josiane goes back to work, and me, I write in my little spiral notebook.
This is the story of a girl who grew up too fast and who was often sad. The littlest pleasant things were what saved her from her everyday worries, things that other people would think were boring, but her, they made her crazy with joy. She often dreamed of something else and she hoped that this something else would come soon.
One day, in the middle of a long waiting line, she met a foreigner, a violinist whom she liked in fast-forward. This poor girl, a little sheltered, grabbed on to him like the girl on the Titanic grabbed on to her plank of wood in the frozen water. She believed in him, in their story, something that had never happened to her before, and she told herself that maybe finally it was her turn to know the rapture of love.
Alas, just when she thought she was waiting for nirvana, when she had allowed her heart to beat a little, that heart she thought had been rusty for a long time, it happened that the violinist disappeared without leaving a trace. She was so sad that she discovered it didn't even do any good to be sad and she promised herself to forget him forever.
I told Auntie this story, in its full length, in its full breadth, and in verlan. She thought it was unbelievable, knowing me so well, that I could have succumbed so quickly, so hard. Usually I nitpick for months and months before I crack, lots of people put down their weapons before the end of the battle. Anyone interested in me has to be extremely patient and motivated to win a little of my heart, a little of my trust, or to finally start a story together ... And once it starts, in general it never lasts for very long. Either the guy runs off before I can even learn his number by heart and give him several ridiculous nicknames, or I bolt first, because I got bored with him too quickly. So now it looks like Tonislav broke the record. European Champion of Rapid Exits, in the heavyweight category for mysterious disappearances...
Honestly, I have a real dazzling hatred in me. I don't usually need to cry at night before I go to bed because some clandestine tramp from the East didn't call me back. It's ridiculous ... Nothing but bastards, all the same and, like Linda said the other day, "It's when you believe you've found the exception that you risk the biggest raid." In other words, it's when you least expect it that they give you the biggest fine.
Auntie Mariatou says that I have to let it be for a while, but I've been left hanging for two weeks already. For someone who was supposed to call me the next day, I think that's a little long ... And she has an answer for everything, she makes an inventory of everything that could have happened to him, poor Tonislav, like he misplaced my number, had an accident, or fell ill ... Maybe he had to go swimming or something, while she's at it
. I've had enough of making excuses for everyone. And me, I don't give myself any. There's no reason.
I insulted him with all my soul, this crazy bastard, I used all the worst words that I knew, I even worked them into a few languages. I cursed him and his descendants, I prayed for the next seven generations to be born eunuchs, with four eyes and seventeen fingers.
Auntie says that I'm acting like I'm in a movie, that I'm not even thinking about what I say, because I'm not a bad girl and I'm only capable of giving people the benefit of the doubt.
Me, I say that he should never come back. And I am almost sure to run into him at the town hall one day or another. I didn't even notice in all this that my appointment date isn't here yet. I persuaded myself that if I see him, he will die of fear in front of me, and he will be ashamed, so ashamed that he will hide. And then, finally, I tell myself that it's all for nothing. The only thing I'm going to be able to do is to make myself more ridiculous in his eyes. If I do that, I will have given up my dignity for good, I will have condemned my pride to death. Negative. I'm forgetting him. Besides, I promise never to talk about him again, I won't even call up his memory anymore. I've decided to totally eject him from my mind, as if he never existed. Between Tonislav and me, there will be no regrets, a little like between the Danone factory and its two hundred laid-off employees.
The Life of a Stray Dog
I'm starting to like the fact that I have a real job.
I was hired for totally unjust reasons, nothing to do with my qualifications. I have this job only because I'm friends with Nawel, the boss's dear niece, and also because I speak fluent Arabic, and it's true that in this neighborhood, that can always be very useful. For once I can benefit from knowing people, and I'm not going to cry. Nawel's uncle Abdou is a very nice man, I like him a lot—at the store I call him Monsieur Kadri, because it's important not to get everything mixed up anyway.
