What the day owes the nigth

by Yasmina Khadra

  ‘You were right, Mahi. My son has no future with me.’

  My uncle stared at him open-mouthed.

  My father crouched down beside me, digging his fingers into my shoulders so hard that it hurt. He looked me in the eye and said:

  ‘It’s for the best, son. I am not abandoning you, I am not disowning you; I simply want you to have a chance in life.’

  He kissed me on the forehead – a gesture usually reserved for venerable elders. He tried to smile, and finding that he could not, he quickly got up and almost ran out of the shop to hide his tears.

  5

  MY UNCLE lived in the European part of the city, in a quiet cul-de-sac lined with neat brick houses with wrought-iron railings and shutters on the windows. It was a beautiful neighbourhood. The streets were bordered by neatly trimmed ficus trees; there were benches where old men could sit and watch the world go by and leafy squares where children could play. These children were not dressed in rags like the children in Jenane Jato, their rosy faces were not pitted with the marks of damnation; they took in life in great lungfuls and seemed to genuinely enjoy it. The neigh-bourhood seemed impossibly hushed, the only sounds the burbling of babies and the chirp of birdsong.

  My uncle had a two-storey house with a small front garden and a lane running down the side. Bougainvillea spilled over the fence, its purple flowers tumbling into space, and a grapevine grew in a dense tangle over the veranda.

  ‘In summer, there are grapes everywhere,’ my uncle told me as he opened the gate. ‘If you stand on tiptoe, you’ll be able to pick them.’

  His eyes were shining. He was in seventh heaven.

  ‘You’ll like it here, boy.’

  The door was opened by a red-haired woman of about forty. She was beautiful, with an oval face and huge aqueous green eyes. Seeing me standing on the step, she clasped her hands to her heart and stood for a moment, speechless, then glanced at my uncle, who nodded.

  ‘He’s so handsome!’ she cried, crouching down to study me more carefully.

  She threw her arms around me so suddenly that I almost fell over backwards. She was a powerful woman, with quick, brusque, almost masculine gestures. She hugged me to her, and I could feel her heart beating. She smelled as wonderful as a field of lavender, and the welling tears simply accentuated the green of her eyes.

  ‘Germaine, darling,’ my uncle said, his voice tremulous, ‘this is Younes. Yesterday he was my nephew, today he is our son.’

  I felt the woman’s body tremble, saw a glittering tear quiver on her lashes then roll down her cheek.

  ‘Jonas,’ she said, choking back a sob, ‘Jonas, if you knew how happy this makes me.’

  ‘You have to speak to him in Arabic, he’s never been to school.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, we’ll soon fix that.’

  Still trembling, she got to her feet, took me by the hand and led me into a room full of grand furniture that to my eyes looked bigger than a cowshed. Daylight streamed through the French windows that led on to the veranda, where two rocking chairs stood either side of a table.

  ‘This is your new home, Jonas,’ Germaine said to me.

  My uncle followed, a parcel under one arm, smiling from ear to ear.

  ‘I bought him some clothes. You can buy him some more tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s fine, I’ll look after him. You’d better go back, your customers will be getting impatient.’

  ‘Well, well . . . so you want him all to yourself?’

  Germaine crouched down again and looked at me.

  ‘I think we’re going to get along just fine, aren’t we, Jonas?’ she said to me in Arabic.

  My uncle put the parcel of clothes on a sideboard and settled himself on the sofa, hands in his lap, his fez pushed back from his forehead.

  ‘You’re not going to hang around here spying on us, are you?’ said Germaine.

  ‘Absolutely. Today is a holiday, my darling. I’ve just become a father.’

  ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘I’ve never been more serious in my life.’

  ‘Very well then,’ Germaine conceded. ‘Jonas and I are going to take a nice bath.’

  ‘My name is Younes,’ I reminded her.

  She gave me a tender smile, stroked my cheek and whispered:

  ‘Not any more, my darling . . .’

  Then, turning to my uncle:

  ‘Since you’re here, make yourself useful and go and heat some water.’

  She led me into a little room where there was a sort of large cast-iron cauldron, turned on a tap and began to undress me.

  ‘Let’s get rid of these old rags, shall we, Jonas?’

  I didn’t know what to say. I watched her pale hands working, removing my fez, my gandurah, my threadbare vest, my rubber boots. I felt like a bird plucked of its feathers.

  My uncle came back with a bucket of scalding water. Out of decency, he stayed in the hall. Germaine helped me into the tub, soaped me from head to foot, rinsed me over and over then rubbed me energetically with some perfumed lotion and wrapped me in a huge towel while she went to get my new clothes. When I was dressed again, she stood me in front of a large mirror. I was a different person. I was wearing a sailor’s pea jacket with a high collar and four brass buttons down the front, a pair of short trousers with pockets, and a beret like the one Ouari wore.

  When I reappeared in the living room, my uncle got to his feet to greet me. He looked so happy it almost scared me.

  ‘My little barefoot prince,’ he said. ‘Isn’t he handsome?’

  ‘Stop that, you’ll draw the evil eye on him . . . And speaking of bare feet, you forgot to buy shoes.’

  My uncle clapped his hand to his forehead. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Where was my head?’

  ‘In the clouds, probably.’

  My uncle immediately went out again and a little later reappeared with three pairs of shoes of different sizes. The smallest pair – black leather lace-up shoes that scraped my heels – fitted me perfectly. He didn’t take the other pairs back; he was keeping them, he said, for me to grow into.

  Like two moths flickering around a flame, Germaine and my uncle flitted around me constantly. They took me on a tour of the house, any one of whose vast high-ceilinged rooms was large enough to accommodate all of Bliss’s tenants. Each spotless window was adorned with heavy drapes and framed by green shutters. It was a beautiful, sunny house, though a little disorienting, with its hidden doors, its spiral staircases and the built-in wardrobes that at first I mistook for rooms. I thought about my father, about our shack and the farm we had lost, about our filthy hovel in Jenane Jato; the difference was so great that I felt dizzy.

  Every time I looked up, I saw Germaine looking down. She was determined to spoil me. My uncle did not quite know how to behave, but he did not leave my side. They tried to explain everything at once, burst out laughing for no reason at all, or simply stood, holding hands, staring at me with tears in their eyes. Meanwhile, wide-eyed, I discovered the wonders of the modern world.

  That evening, we ate in the living room and I discovered something else strange: my uncle had no need of an oil lamp, he simply pressed a button on the wall and a host of lights in the ceiling lit up. I felt terribly awkward at dinner. At home I had been used to eating from the same plate as my family. Now that I had a plate all to myself, I didn’t know what to do. Ill at ease with the eyes watching my every move, the hands constantly stroking my hair, pinching my cheeks, I barely ate a thing.

  ‘Don’t rush him,’ Germaine kept saying to my uncle. ‘Give him some time to get used to things.’

  My uncle would curb his excitement for a minute, only to get carried away again a moment later.

  After dinner, they led me upstairs.

  ‘This is your room, Jonas,’ Germaine announced.

  ‘My room’ was twice as big as the room my family shared in Jenane Jato. In the middle was a huge bed flanked by two night tables. On the walls were paintings, some dreamlike landsca
pes, others of people praying, their hands clasped under their chins, heads ringed with golden haloes. On the mantelpiece was a statue of a little boy with wings and above it was a crucifix. In one corner was a small writing desk and an overstuffed chair. The room was pervaded by a strange perfume, sweet and ephemeral. Through the window I could see trees and the roofs of the houses opposite.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  I didn’t answer. The lavishness of my surroundings frightened me. Everything seemed to be perfectly, precariously balanced; I was terrified that with one false move I would bring it all crashing down.

  Germaine asked my uncle to leave the two of us alone. She waited until he had left and then undressed me and put me into bed, as though I would be incapable of doing so myself. My head sank into the mountain of pillows.

  ‘Sweet dreams, my son.’

  She drew up the blankets, kissed my forehead, turned out the bedside lamp, then crept out on tiptoe, carefully closing the door behind her.

  As a rule I was not scared of the dark – a solitary boy with little imagination, I usually found it easy to get to sleep – but now, in this opulent room, I felt strangely uneasy. I missed my parents. But this was not the reason I felt fearful. There was something ominous about the room, something I could sense but could not put my finger on. Was it the smell of the blankets, or the scent that hung in the air that made me feel light-headed? Was it the sound like breathing that echoed in the room and wailed in the chimney? I was convinced that I was not alone, that there was something crouched in the shadows watching me. The hair on the back of my neck stood up; I gasped for breath. I felt an icy hand over my face. Outside, the full moon lit the street. The wind whistled through the railings and whipped the trees. I forced myself to close my eyes, clutching the sheets. I could still feel the cold hand on my face, and the impression that there was something else here with me became unbearable. I could sense it standing by the end of the bed, ready to leap on me. The air felt thin, my heart felt as though it would explode. I opened my eyes again and saw the statue of the winged boy on the mantelpiece turn slowly and stare at me through vacant eyes, its mouth fixed in a sad smile.

  Terrified, I leapt out of bed and crouched behind the headboard. The winged boy turned again to stare at me, its monstrous shadow splayed across the wall. I scuttled under the bed, dragging a blanket with me, curled up as small as I could and closed my eyes tight, convinced that if I opened them, I would find the statue on all fours, peering in at me.

  I was so petrified, I’m not sure if I finally fell asleep or simply passed out.

  ‘Mahi!’

  The scream woke me with such a start, I hit my head against the slats of the bed frame.

  ‘Jonas isn’t in his room,’ Germaine shouted.

  ‘What do you mean, he isn’t in his room?’

  I heard running in the corridor, doors slamming, footsteps on the stairs. He can’t have left the house . . . The door is double-locked. My uncle’s voice. The veranda door is locked too . . . Did you look in the toilet? I just checked – he’s not in there. Germaine was panicking. Are you sure he’s not in his room? . . .

  I told you, his bed is empty . . . They searched downstairs, moving furniture, then came back upstairs and into my room.

  ‘My God, Jonas,’ Germaine cried when she saw me sitting on the edge of the bed, ‘where did you get to?’

  My right side was stiff and my joints hurt. My uncle examined the lump on my forehead.

  ‘Did you fall out of bed?’

  I pointed stiffly at the statue: ‘It kept moving all night.’

  Germaine put her arms around me.

  ‘Jonas, my poor little Jonas, why didn’t you wake us? You’re so pale, I feel terrible.’

  The following night, the statue of the winged boy was gone, and with it the crucifix and the holy pictures. Germaine sat beside my bed telling me stories in a jumble of Arabic and French, stroking my hair until I fell asleep.

  As the weeks went by, I missed my parents terribly, though Germaine did everything she could to make my life happy. In the morning, when she went shopping, she would take me with her, and I never came home without a new toy or some sweets. The afternoons she spent teaching me to read and write. She was eager to enrol me in a school, but my uncle was determined not to rush things. Sometimes he let me come to work at the chemist shop with him, and sitting me at a little desk in the back office while he served customers, he had me copy out the alphabet in an exercise book. I was a fast learner, Germaine thought, and she didn’t understand why my uncle was so hesitant to send me to school. After two months, I could read whole words without stumbling over the syllables, but still my uncle would not hear of sending me to school until he was sure my father would not change his mind and come looking for me.

  One evening, as I was wandering around aimlessly upstairs, he called me into his office. It was a dark room, lit only by a small skylight. There were books everywhere. Every inch of wall was lined with bookcases and there were piles of books on the sideboard and on his desk. His glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose, my uncle looked up from the book he had been reading. He perched me on his lap and pointed to the portrait of a woman on the wall.

  ‘You need to know something, my boy. You haven’t fallen from a tree into a ditch . . . You see that woman in the picture there? Her name is Lalla Fatna. She was a woman of money and status, and as domineering as she was rich – one general used to call her Jeanne d’Arch. She owned land enough for a small country, with meadows teeming with livestock. Eminent people came for miles to visit her and she had them eating out of her hand. Even officers of the French army courted her. They say that if the emir Abd al-Qadir had met her, it would have changed the course of history. Look closely at her, boy, because this woman, this legendary figure, was your great-grandmother.’

  The woman in the portrait was beautiful. She lay back against plush cushions, neck straight, head held high, wearing a kaftan embroidered with gold and precious stones. She looked as though she might rule over men and over their dreams.

  My uncle pointed to another photograph, one of three men in opulent burnouses with carefully trimmed beards and eyes so piercing they all but leapt from the frame.

  ‘The man in the middle is my father, your grandfather. The others are his brothers. Sidi Abbas, on the right, went to Syria and never came back. Abdelmoumène, on the left, was a brilliant student. A man so wise he might have been a scholar – one of the great ulemas – but as a young man, he gave in to temptation. He spent too much time with the European bourgeoisie; he neglected his lands and his livestock and squandered his money in brothels. He was found dead in an alley with a knife in his back.’

  He turned and pointed to a third portrait, bigger than the other two.

  ‘The man in the middle, that’s your grandfather, with his five sons. He had three daughters by his first marriage but he never talked about them. On his right is Kaddour, the eldest of the brothers. He and his father did not get on well, and your grandfather disinherited him when he moved to the city to become a politician. On the left is Hassan, who liked to live like a lord. He kept company with women of easy virtue, showering them with jewels, while in secret he was brokering deals that would result in the family losing vast swaths of our lands and a large share in our stud. Your grandfather did not even realise how much damage he’d done until he was dragged before the courts. Your grandfather never really recovered. Next to Hassan is Abdessamad. He was a hard worker, but he left the family because your grandfather would not consent to him marrying a cousin whose family had sided with the French. Abdessamad died somewhere in Europe fighting in the Great War. And the two little boys sitting at your grandfather’s feet, that’s your father, Issa, the youngest, and me, I was two years older. As children we were very close, but then I got sick, very sick . . . I was about your age at the time. The doctors and the healers couldn’t cure me. My father – your grandfather – was desperate, and someone suggested he take me to the Cathol
ic nuns. At first he refused, but I got worse and worse, I was wasting away, and one morning your grandfather found himself knocking on the door of the convent . . .’

  He showed me a photograph of a group of nuns.

  ‘The nuns saved my life. It took years and years. By the time I was well again, I had already passed my baccalauréat. Although he was crippled with debts by then, your grandfather agreed to pay for me to study chemistry. Maybe he realised that I had a better chance of making a future with my books than with his creditors. Germaine and I met when we were at university. I was studying chemistry, she was studying biology. And even though your grandfather had probably planned for me to marry a cousin or one of his friends’ daughters, he didn’t oppose our marriage. When I graduated, he asked me what I planned to do with my life, and I told him I wanted to set up a chemist’s shop in the city. He agreed. He made no conditions. That’s how I came to buy my house here, and the shop . . . Your grandfather never came to the city – not even for our wedding – not because he disowned me, but because he wanted to give me a chance in life. Like your father did when he brought you here to live with me . . . Your father is a brave, honest, hardworking man. He did his best to save the family’s lands, but he was the only one left. It wasn’t his fault. He was simply the last wheel on a cart that was already falling apart. Your father still believes that if I had helped him, if there had been two of us, we might have saved the farm, but fate decided otherwise.’

  He took my chin between finger and thumb and looked into my eyes.

  ‘I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this, boy . . . I’m doing it so that you know who your family are. Lalla Fatna’s blood flows in your veins. Where your father failed, you can succeed, and climb back to the lofty place from where you came.’

  He kissed me on the forehead.

  ‘Now, go and find Germaine. I’m sure she’s missing you.’

  I slipped off his lap and ran to the door.