Some Dream for Fools

by Faïza Guène

  From now on, my job is to sell shoes.

  I spend my days among feet and I'm remembering that I really hate that. I think a foot is a truly disgusting thing. I'm seeing long ones, large ones, bizarre ones, dirty ones, old ones, fat ones, thin ones, and rarely some handsome ones. Some are actually infected. Sometimes I get the idea to take photos of the most horrible ones and make an album or create a list of the most unbelievable feet. Anyway I think I can even organize this whole idea into a commercial strategy: the winner of the contest for the ugliest foot will receive a free pair of shoes. All that just to say that I have some trouble with them, even my own, I even think they're horrible too. I can't bring myself to look at them. When I have to help a customer try on a shoe, sometimes I think about the Cinderella story and tell myself that if she had disgusting feet, with dirty nails and toes covered in blisters, the story wouldn't have turned out the same. The prince would have turned on his heels and run after throwing that dirty glass slipper at the bitch's face.

  Now I spend my life in the middle of shoe boxes and unknown feet but I'm holding up. Uncle Abdou's store is really well placed, it's on the boulevard de la Chapelle, at the heart of the wild neighborhood of Barbès. I love this place. As soon as I have a break, I go walk around. I even make up little rituals for myself. Every day at noon, I eat at Monsieur Yassine's, the old Algerian who has a sandwich place a little farther up. His halal toasts are truly extraordinary.

  Afterward, I walk by Kaïs's kiosk, a really special guy who seems like he's messed up somehow. It's very strange, this man never finishes his sentences but he makes them seem like they're naturally that way. I buy the newspaper from him and go drink a coffee in the tobacconist and bar across the street.

  One day, on a whim, I went looking for Slimane's famous café at the Goutte-d'Or that The Boss talked about so much. I was convinced that I would recognize it right away if I passed it because it was at the heart of so many stories and he described it in such detail ... I looked in the whole neighborhood, making the rounds many times in vain; finally I finished by asking two old Algerians sitting on a bench if they know whether this place or this Slimane even existed. One of them, wearing a checkered cap, told me that some years earlier the café had been bought and turned into a Chinese restaurant. As for the Slimane in question, the previous owner, he surrendered to cancer maybe a few months ago according to what the old man said, and his children decided to bury him back in the bled because that was always their father's wish. I stirred up something very delicate in their spirits because the two old guys started into a big nostalgic dialogue.

  "Slimane, may God rest your soul, miskine. You see, my brother, those of us still waiting will finish the same. After having worked here all our lives like stray dogs, someone will send us there dead, between the four planks of wood in a coffin."

  "Don't talk of unhappiness, God will provide and that's all, you know well enough that we don't decide anything."

  "I know it, my brother. My only dream was to return to my home. Every year I said: next year. Then I said: when I retire. And then I put it off even more saying: when the kids are grown. Now they're grown, thank God, but they don't want to follow me there. They say they're French and their lives are here."

  "What can you offer them in that country? There isn't even work for châab children and you think that franssaouis children are going to find any?"

  "They haven't found any here either."

  One of them turns to me.

  "Tell me, my girl, why are you looking for Slimane? Are you family?"

  "No, but my father knew him."

  "Who's your father?"

  "Moustafa Galbi."

  "Moustafa Galbi ... Galbi ... Where's he from?"

  "He's from Tlemcen, sir."

  "Your father is Galbi the mustache?"

  The two old guys break out laughing. The one wearing the checkered cap starts coughing like an asthmatic pig. He was laughing so hard that at one point I told myself: "We're going to end up losing him."

  "I don't believe it, my friend. You remember him?"

  "Who doesn't remember Sam! The old rascal, I never managed to beat him in a single game of dominoes!"

  "You know, my girl, your father played in the café, I remember he played the guitar..."

  "Yes, he told me about that."

  "Oh, it's a strange omen that you passed by here. Tell your father that Najib and Abdelhamid the Oranais say hello."

  "I'll tell him, inchallah."

  "And tell the old loon he can come see us here, we sit here quite often."

  It's possible that the old loon, as monsieur so affectionately called him, doesn't remember them at all, but I will tell him about our meeting anyway. I told them goodbye and ran off because if not, they would have talked to me for hours about a time I didn't know and had a hard time imagining. Since I'm too emotional, I think I would have been able to shed a little tear or two in front of them. And they would have thought I was the loony one.

  I have to be a little crazy, deep down, because I always think I recognize that bastard Tonislav when I pass in front of the little Serbian bar on the other side of the street. My heart beats as loud as the Tlemcen bendirs and then, as I get closer, I realize it's not him. The worst part is that I'm disappointed.

  The Right to Dream

  What I dreaded most has ended up happening and Foued has been permanently expelled from his high school. They didn't even really hesitate much. There was a hurried disciplinary council to which I was kindly invited and then the decision came down after some deliberation even if, it seems to me, it was made already in advance.

  Here are the facts: during the year-end interview with his teachers and the guidance counselor, Foued explained that he would like to follow a sports-studies program with a section on soccer because it has been his passion forever—he has played on the Ivry team since the age of six. He loves it and what he would like is to become a professional. Here's the advice that the counselor thought appropriate to give him: "Don't go dreaming, it's unrealistic. I can't take the responsibility of sending you over there, not everyone can become Zidane. You should take a technical track in mechanics or electronics instead. I think that will suit you best."

  Result: Foued, who was a little nervous, got worked right up. He stood up, started insulting them with every name in the book, most notably catin, which clicked particularly well with his French teacher—a real bastard if you ask me—who thought it was very ironic that he used a term for "slut" from fourteenth-century Old French when he wasn't capable of writing a sentence without spelling mistakes. He said this in a loud voice and it made some of his colleagues laugh. And there you go, no doubt it made him happy to put my little brother down at a moment when his future was at stake. Foued was expelled from the school system because they condemned his dream in advance.

  I contacted Thomas, one of the special youth teachers who work around Insurrection, to see if he could help my brother find another high school. He explained that at this time of year that's no easy thing, especially given the weight of Foued's file. He said the best plan would be to repeat his grade and for us to look for a place for him starting next year. So that leaves us a little time. I asked Uncle Abdou to give me two weeks off. To convince him, I told him I was ready to never take another day of vacation in the next twenty years for these fifteen days now. He understood the importance that these two weeks had for me and gave me my vacation without any fight. I think now's the time. I reserved three tickets on Air Algerie.

  I had to tell my brother that we were going. I think he was pretty surprised. He was in the middle of drying the dishes and he broke a glass from our Nutella service. It's sensible and practical, their being glasses. We also have a set that came from Maille mustard and another from Garnerth cocktail olives.

  "But I don't really speak Arabic," Foued objected.

  "Most of the people in the bled speak French, don't worry."

  "Are we going to stay long?"

&nbs
p; "No, not long. Two weeks or something like that."

  "What are we going to do with The Boss?"

  "He's coming with us. We can't just drop him down the garbage chute."

  "He knows? You told him that we're going over there?"

  "Yeah, I just told him. Ask him, you'll see, you'll get a laugh out of it."

  We head into the living room to The Boss, who's in the middle of making little paper chicks out of the pages from the TV guide.

  "Papa?"

  "Here I am. Who wants me?"

  "Where are we going, Papa? Do you know?"

  "Gambetta, Les Andalouses, Bel Air ... to Oran. Yes, I know where."

  "We're going to the bled, right? We're going to the village too. I told you. Do you remember?"

  "Yes. I've had it with the commercials on Channel One. Always commercials."

  "Foued's going with us. We're taking a plane."

  "Those crooks! Nine hundred thirty-four euros roundtrip. We're not rich. I can swim. It's not far."

  Foued and me, we cut up at that. The Boss is unpredictable.

  I have a date with Linda and Nawel. It's been forever since I saw their faces, I've missed them. We're meeting up at the Babylon Café near the mall in Ménilmontant where Nawel works. She knows the bar well because she goes there a lot with her co-workers. She says that it doesn't look like anything much but it's a tight spot.

  I get there first, and from the outside I spot that it really doesn't seem all that special. I push open the door and take back what I was going to say, I liked the atmosphere right away: the lighting is soft, the colors are hot, and I hear a Manu Chao song playing. All the ingredients are here. So I'm a fan right off. Near the bar I see a strange character, a man around forty, with sort of a wild feeling about him, an extraordinary appearance, long legs, a sailor cap, and immense blue eyes, the kind of big eyes that tell stories. He sees me and shouts over: "Hello princess! Welcome! Sit down! What can I get you?" I ask him for an espresso.

  "Why an espresso?"

  The wild man has completely thrown me off. It's the first time anyone has ever asked me to justify my order in a bar.

  "Uh ... I don't know. It's what I always order, out of habit."

  "Habit, that's what kills men. My name is Jack. But everyone calls me Jack the Weasel."

  "Mine's Ahléme."

  You'd think he's trying to make me crazy.

  "Welcome. You know, I say 'welcome' because you're here for the first time."

  "Yeah, sure. I'm going to order a tea instead for a change."

  He shoots my order to the bartender like a tennis player serves a ball into play.

  "A tea!"

  Then the bartender, who has a smile Scotch-taped to his face, repeats it to himself like he wanted to remember it for the rest of his life. "A tea! A tea!"

  I like that he's smiling. In general, when I go to cafés in Paris, I get the feeling that the waiters have a slot hidden somewhere in their bodies, where you have to slip a coin to get anything that could be like the hint of a grin. And there's nothing gross about that at all, is there?

  The Weasel comes back toward me with the tea, which he puts on a paper coaster that's made to look like the globe.

  "Thanks a lot, Jack."

  "You've got some luck, you're going to drink your tea on top of the world."

  "Yeah ... I hadn't seen it like that."

  "You must be waiting for someone you really like, it shows."

  "I'm waiting for my friends."

  "Ah! I was right! If you had a date with a court bailiff or an accountant, I would have known that too."

  With these great lines, the Weasel abandons me as suddenly as he first started questioning me and leaves me to meditate quietly on top of the world. Shit, I spilled a little drop of tea on Africa, that's not cool, like they didn't have enough crap like that already. For someone who calls himself Jack, I think his accent sounds a little Algerian around the edges. But I would never ask him where he comes from, even if I became a regular at the café, because that's just something you don't ask. Me, for example, I don't like it when people ask me so I won't ask any questions, first of all because Jack works well for him and that's enough for me, and second of all ... well, no, there isn't any second of all.

  Linda and Nawel finally arrive at the Babylon Café. They're all tricked out, as always, they make a stunning entrance in a cloud of smoke from their cigarettes and their sophisticated perfume, the scent of springtime. They play the scene like girls who know the place, kiss cheeks, go behind the bar like they're at home, and smile to the right, smile to the left. I notice with great regret that Linda has dyed her pretty brown curls; she went all through with these kind of light, bleached, burned streaks and it looks absolutely messed up to me. What a waste. Worse: a crime against humanity. They come toward me in a pair. I think they missed me too, so we give each other big hugs and I invite them to sit on the banquette, like always.

  "Didn't you notice something?"

  "Your hair?"

  "Yeah!" she says enthusiastically.

  "You talking about this piss-blond dye-job? This stickup your hair surrendered to?"

  "No! You're playing with me! You don't like it?"

  "Not at all!"

  "You see! I told you!" adds Nawel.

  "But why? You don't think it's pretty?"

  "Fuck, Linda, you're too much. You had the most beautiful hair in the world and you had to go color it with paint so it would look like all these little grungy super-skanks who go buy their panther-print thongs at the Clignancourt market every Saturday morning?"

  "Oh shit! You're too cruel ... I was aiming for a blond between golden and ash, it's going to be summer soon, that's why I did it."

  "Man, you make me crazy! But what about the hairdresser, you had to see that she missed your color: it's not golden or ash, it's ... smoky, like an old yellow."

  "Fine, forget it. I am disgusting, I can see that it's ruined, but I wanted to convince myself that it was beautiful, but shit, I'm not a very good actress, so there ... It's true, it's out of hand, I admit it. This stupid bitch of a stylist at Jean Louis David, she put these fat round disks in my brain, and I was so bored, she managed to convince me that it was going well. And then I went and left her a five-euro tip! Come on, we're going back there and slap her shit, right? I'm hatin' her now..."

  At that, Nawel the little thug breaks out laughing. Fortunately Linda is far from sensitive. With the girls, you can say anything. Since we aren't villains at this point, we suggest buying her a Movida rinse and giving it to her at home so she can be reborn as the beautiful, dark brunette who causes riots wherever she passes, the one men dream about in the middle of the day, the one who conjures up princesses of a thousand and one nights.

  Maybe I'm exaggerating a little but it's just to emphasize the fact that she's much prettier as a brunette.

  Probably just to give us a change of subject, Linda told us a piece of gossip all fresh, all hot, all wrapped up in golden paper. This one deserves to be relayed by the most successful American soap opera. They could do something with it, true.

  A few days ago, Magalie, her boss at Body Boom, on the occasion of her husband's birthday, decided to go back to her house earlier than expected to surprise him. She asked Linda and the other aestheticians to hold down the fort without her and to close up for her just this once. Of course, like in all the stories that begin with "she decided to go home earlier than expected to surprise," the end is horrible, you can guess that already. So the poor Magalie goes home, she makes all the efforts in the world so that her surprise can be a success: she doesn't take the same way as usual, she's discreet, climbs the stairs without a sound, etc., etc. But of course all these precautions are useless since the husband in question isn't supposed to be there ... You had to imagine too that when Linda told it, she set the whole scene in place, the tiniest details. Me, I prefer to pass over them because it doesn't take anything of the punch out of the punch line.

  Maga
lie, confident and full of herself, enters the dining room to prepare this magnificent table that she had planned to set up so she could give her loving spouse a romantic, candlelit dinner. But so much was her shock on discovering, on the couch that they had bought together at the giant Swedish furniture store, her pig of a husband in the arms of a young Asian boy of seventeen years! If I remember right, the end of the story, it's that she has an epileptic seizure, or maybe that she strangled the Chinese boy ... or maybe that the Chinese boy strangled her instead ... I don't remember anymore.

  After that, Nawel, with no warning, took her turn strangling me. Without wanting to, she killed me. She always keeps really up to date on the news in the world, contrary to Linda who favors news that we'd call more local. On the phone Nawel told me about an article she read a few days ago that talked about a new expulsion of people without papers. She takes the newspaper out of her bag and starts reading out loud.

  "You're going to see, it's some crazy shit. 'The man, twenty-seven years old, presented himself in the morning at the immigration office in the Val-de-Marne prefecture in answer to an ordinary summons. He came with no fear, in possession of a promise of employment that would allow him to obtain the much-coveted ten-year visa. Someone pointed him to the room where he had to wait for someone in the administration but, to his stupefaction, there were two policemen who had come to pick him up. Headed for the local retention center. Then the first plane for Belgrade—'"

  I rip the newspaper from Nawel's hands. The article is titled "When the Prefectures Set Ambushes."

  "Quietly, calm down—"

  "I need to see! I need to see!"

  I immediately landed on the passage I was dreading.

  "...the minister of the interior denies 'having set traps for just anyone.' But the case of Tonislav Jogovic isn't unique. According to the organization Papers for All, his would be the thirteenth case of this kind since the February regulations."