by Faïza Guène
The rusty gate is wide open. The whiteness of the place hits me first, and its reach. It's striking.
But the most frightening is the birth dates, too recent, all the rows of tombs, these stars with five points looking east. It's hard to think about, but there are children under there. I realize then that Foued and me, we could have been buried here. That doesn't add up to much really. There were two hundred deaths that night, so two more...
The Boss is crouched down in front of the tomb, silent, stroking the ends of the white stone fingers. From time to time a sigh escapes from him and you would think that he understands everything, that he knows. I'm convinced that at this very moment he is all back in his head.
Foued stays standing, his eyes lowered, I hear him sniffling but I don't dare look at him to see if he's crying.
And me, I'm sitting on the same red earth, my palms flat on the ground, as if I wanted her to give me strength, the courage to leave again and face life.
We've prepared a prayer for her, for the others who rest here, and also for those who mourn them, for us, for the ones from over there. We will make a sadaqa in her memory this afternoon at the mosque.
***
Time doesn't work the same in Algeria, the hour of our departure sneaks up on us. I promise to come back very soon and not to forget. There are some things in this bled that I wouldn't find anywhere else. The atmosphere is strange, the odor is too and it's especially hot, maybe too hot. After all, it's only a question of climate and the Algerian heat anesthetized me.
Foued wants to stay a couple more days with The Boss. We work out the tickets so they can postpone their return. Me, I have to get back because Uncle Abdou put his foot down and he's waiting for me at the store.
Truce
I'm TKOed, I busted my body all night on the dance floor at the Tropical Club, it was blazing thanks to the talents of deejay Patrick-Romuald. I'm taking advantage of my time alone. I still have a week of liberty before Foued and The Boss come back. I have the apartment all to myself.
Yesterday evening with Linda and Nawel, we really let ourselves go. They managed to escape their boys, Issam and Mouss. It was easy, there was a soccer match on TV.
We spent the evening with some Brazilian dancers, Coco, Miguel, and Sadio. They had real class. Three handsome guys who danced mad well. They taught us two or three steps and bought us two or three fruit cocktails. Coco, the finest of the three, followed me the whole night and it was pretty nice. We danced all freaky and tight, glued together, sweating. It was exquisite.
Around four o'clock in the morning, me and Coco decided to leave the Tropical Club. The others wanted to stay. In the lobby while we were getting our stuff the girls gave me the thumbs-up and winked at me from afar. It was embarrassing.
Coco told me about another party nearby. The boy seemed like he was high, he seemed like he was built to go all night. We climbed into his Golf and it was like it was all custom made for him: the cream-colored leather seats, the Marvin Gaye CD in the stereo, the smooth ride ... It's the Coco way. During the drive, he put his hand on my knee, smiled at me, and asked me in a suave voice if everything was cool.
We finally arrive. He parks the car and gives me a sweet, polite kiss. From here I can see the line. There are a hundred people. I'm too lazy to deal with that whole line. In the end we're not even guaranteed to get in. And now my feet hurt, I'm wearing shoes from the store. I have to remember that I spend my days selling low-quality shoes. Uncle Abdou's a crook after all.
Getting out of the car with Coco, I hear the birds. I hate hearing morning birds.
Coco waves to me and moves away. It's nice of him to drop me off. He seemed disappointed that I wasn't going with him to his party. He promised to call me tomorrow, but if he doesn't, it's no big thing for me. As Auntie often says: "You have to kiss a lot of toads before you can find your prince."
I move toward the line. Always the same tired faces. These weary people. Strangers, foreigners, who come at dawn for a ticket.
It's six o'clock in the morning and I'm in front of the prefecture.
