What the day owes the nigth

by Yasmina Khadra

When he saw me stop and turn, he raised his eyebrows.

  ‘What is it, boy?’

  In turn, I stared into his eyes and asked: ‘When will you take me to see my little sister?’

  He smiled.

  ‘The day after tomorrow. I promise.’

  My uncle came home early. Germaine and I were outside. She was sitting reading a book in the rocking chair on the veranda. I was looking for a tortoise I had seen in the garden the night before. Germaine set her book down on the table and frowned. My uncle went into the house without coming over to kiss her as he did every day. She waited for a moment, but when he did not come out, she went inside to find him.

  My uncle was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, elbows propped on the table, his face buried in his hands. Germaine knew something terrible had happened. I watched as she sat opposite him and took his wrist.

  ‘Problems with a customer?’

  ‘Why would I have problems with my customers?’ My uncle was angry. ‘I’m not the one who prescribes their medicine.’

  ‘You’re upset . . .’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising. I’ve just come back from Jenane Jato.’

  Germaine started slightly.

  ‘I thought you were taking the boy there tomorrow?’

  ‘I wanted to get the lie of the land first.’

  Germaine fetched a jug of water and poured a glass for her husband, who drank it, then, seeing me standing in the living room, she gestured upstairs.

  ‘Wait for me up in your room, Jonas. We’ll go over your lessons in a little while.’

  I pretended to do as she asked. I waited on the landing for a minute, then crept down a few steps so I could listen. The mention of Jenane Jato had intrigued me. I wanted to know why my uncle suddenly looked so old. Had something happened to my parents? Had my father been arrested for murdering El Moro?

  ‘So?’ Germaine whispered.

  ‘So, what?’ my uncle said wearily.

  ‘Did you see your brother?’

  ‘He looks terrible, I mean really terrible.’

  ‘Did you give him money?’

  ‘You must be joking. The minute I reached for my pocket, he went rigid, like I was going to pull out a gun. “I didn’t sell you my son” is what he said to me. “I left him in your care.” I was really shaken, I can’t tell you. Issa is going downhill, honestly. I’m starting to fear the worst.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s obvious – if you saw his eyes. He looks like a zombie.’

  ‘What about Jonas? Are you going to take him to see his mother tomorrow?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you promised.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. He’s barely crawled out of the gutter; I’m not about to push him back into it.’

  ‘Mahi . . .’

  ‘Don’t go on about it. I know what I’m doing. Our son has to look to the future. There’s nothing back there but misery.’

  I heard Germaine shift nervously in her chair.

  ‘You can’t give up so easily, Mahi. Your brother needs you.’

  ‘Don’t you think I’ve tried to help him? Issa is like a ticking time bomb – touch him and he’s liable to explode. He won’t give me a chance. If I offered him a hand, he’d cut my arm off. As far as he’s concerned, anything he gets from other people is charity.’

  ‘But you’re not other people, you’re his brother.’

  ‘You think he doesn’t know that? To him, it’s all the same. His problem is that he won’t admit how bad things are. He’s a shadow of the man he was. Besides, he resents me. You can’t imagine how much he resents me. He thinks that if I had stayed with him, we could have saved the farm, the family lands. He’s convinced of it, now more than ever. He’s obsessed with the idea, I know he is.’

  ‘You’re the one who blames himself . . .’

  ‘Maybe, but he’s obsessed. I know him. He’s never said anything, but he nurses his anger. He hates me, he thinks I sold out, turned my back on my family, married a heathen. As far as he’s concerned, I sold my birthright for a house in the city, traded my gandurah for a European suit, and even though I wear the fez, he hates me for giving up the turban. We’ll never get along.’

  ‘You should have given the money to his wife.’

  ‘She wouldn’t take it. She knows Issa would kill her.’

  I rushed upstairs and locked myself in my room.

  The following day at noon, my uncle shut up the shop and came to fetch me. Having slept on it, he had changed his mind, or perhaps Germaine had persuaded him; whatever the reason, he was determined to set things straight. He was tired of living in fear. Tired of watching as my father became more and more withdrawn. Tired of worrying that my father might show up unannounced and take me away without so much as an explanation.

  My uncle brought me back to Jenane Jato, and the place seemed more terrible than it ever had. Here, time stood still; nothing ever happened; the same weather-beaten faces stared into the sun, the same shadows melted into the darkness. When he saw me, Peg-Leg doffed his turban and the barber almost cut off the ear of the old man he was shaving. The street urchins stopped dead, then lined up to stare at us as we passed, their tattered rags hanging from their scrawny bodies.

  My uncle did his best to ignore the abject poverty, walking straight ahead, head held high, his face expressionless. He did not come into the courtyard with me, but waited outside.

  ‘Take all the time you need, son.’

  I dashed inside. Two of Badra’s kids were fighting near the edge of the well; the smaller boy seemed to be trying to dislocate his brother’s elbow. In a corner, near the toilets, Hadda was bending over a pail doing her laundry. Her skirt, hiked up to her thighs, exposed her bare legs to the gentle sun. She had her back to me and didn’t seem to notice the vicious brawl her neighbour’s sons were having.

  I lifted the curtain to our tiny room and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I saw my mother lying on a pallet, blanket thrown over her, her face wrapped in a shawl.

  ‘Is that you, Younes?’ she whimpered.

  I ran over and threw myself at her. She wrapped her arms around me and hugged me close. Her arms felt weak. She was burning with a fever.

  Feebly she pushed me away; my weight was making it difficult for her to breathe.

  ‘Why did you come back?’ she asked.

  My sister was sitting by the low table, so silent and meek that I hadn’t noticed her at first. Her big vacant eyes were staring at me, wondering where they had seen me before. I had barely been gone two months and already she hardly remembered me. My sister had not yet started to talk. She was not like other children her age; she seemed determined not to grow up.

  From my bag I took out the toy I had bought for her and put it on the table. My sister didn’t take it; she simply glanced at it and then went back to staring at me. I picked up the toy – it was a little rag doll – and put it in her hands. She did not even notice.

  ‘How did you manage to find the house?’ my mother asked.

  ‘My uncle is waiting outside.’

  My mother gave a little cry as she sat up, then threw her arms around me again and hugged me.

  ‘I’m so happy to see you again. What is it like in your uncle’s house?’

  ‘Germaine is very nice. She baths me every day and buys me anything I want. I’ve got lots of toys and shoes and I can have jam whenever I want . . . It’s a big house, Maman, there’s lots of rooms for everyone. Why don’t you come and live with us?’

  My mother smiled, and all the pain that lined her face disappeared as if by magic. She was beautiful, my mother, with long dark hair that fell to her hips, and eyes as big as saucers. Sometimes, back when we lived on the farm, and I saw her standing on a hill looking out over the fields, I thought she looked like a sultana. She was beautiful, graceful, and when she raced back down the little hill, the misfortune snapping at the hem of her dress could not catch up.

  ‘It’s true,’
I insisted. ‘Why don’t you come and live with us in my uncle’s house?’

  ‘That’s not how things work with grown-ups, son,’ she said, wiping something from my cheek. ‘Besides, your father would never agree to live in someone else’s house. He wants to get back on his feet by himself, he doesn’t want to be in anyone’s debt . . . You’re looking well,’ she said. ‘I think you’ve put on weight. And you’re so handsome in your new clothes! You look like a little roumi.’

  ‘Germaine calls me Jonas.’

  ‘Who is Germaine?’

  ‘My uncle’s wife.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. The French don’t know how to pronounce our names. They don’t do it to be hurtful.’

  ‘I’ve learned how to read and write.’

  She ruffled my hair.

  ‘That’s good. Your father would never have let your uncle take care of you if he didn’t know that your uncle could give you things he cannot.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s at work. He’s always working . . . You’ll see, one day he’ll come and take you to the house of his dreams. Did you know you were born in a beautiful mansion? The shack you grew up in used to belong to one of the tenant farmers who worked for your father. When your father and I got married, he was rich. The whole village came to celebrate our wedding. We had a proper house with big gardens. Your three elder brothers were born like princes. They didn’t survive. When you were little, you used to run around the gardens until you were exhausted. Then God decided that spring should turn to winter and the gardens died. Such is life, my son. It gives with one hand and takes with the other. But there is no reason why one day we might not get it back. And you – you will be a success. I asked Batoul, and she read it in the ripples of the water. She said you will be a great man. That’s why, whenever I miss you, I know I’m being selfish and I say to myself, he’s better off where he is. He’s safe.’

  6

  I DID not stay long with my mother, or perhaps I stayed for an eternity, I couldn’t tell. Time did not matter; there was something else, something more dense, more fundamental. Like prison visiting rooms, what matters is what you remember of the moment shared with the person you have missed so much. I was young, I had no idea of the pain my leaving had caused, of the wound I had become. When I left, my mother did not shed a single tear. She would find time to cry later. She took my hand, she talked to me and smiled. Her smile was like a benediction.

  We said what we had to say to each other, which was not very much – nothing we did not already know.

  ‘It’s not good for you to be here,’ she announced.

  At the time, I did not understand what she was saying. I was a child; to me, words were simply sounds you made with your lips. Did I take them in, did I think about them? Besides, what difference did it make? I was already elsewhere.

  It was my mother who reminded me that my uncle was waiting outside, that it was time for me to go, and the eternity we had shared winked out so quickly – like a light bulb when you flick the switch – that it caught me unawares.

  Beyond the curtain, the courtyard was silent. There was no fighting, no screaming – had they been eavesdropping on our conversation? As I stepped out I saw most of our neighbours gathered around the edge of the well: Badra, Yezza, Batoul the clairvoyant, the beautiful Hadda, Mama and her children. They stood, staring at me from a safe distance, as though terrified that I would break if they came closer. Badra’s boys hardly dared to breathe – these two little savages stood with their arms stiffly by their sides. All it had taken to confuse them was a change of clothes. Even now, I wonder if the world is nothing but appearances. A man with a face as grey as papier mâché wearing a crude jute tunic over his empty belly is a pauper, but wash his face, comb his hair, give him a pair of clean trousers and he is a different man. Everything is in the details. At the age of eleven, these are the things that puzzle you, and since you can find no answers, you settle on answers that are convenient. Poverty, I decided, had nothing to do with fate; it was simply a state of mind. We accept the world as we see it; we believe it to be immutable. But if we look away from the misery even for a moment, another path appears, bright as a new penny, and so mysterious that we begin to dream . . . The people of Jenane Jato did not dream; they had decided that their fate was sealed, that there was no way up, no way out. Years of poverty had left them blinkered.

  My uncle held out his hand. I grabbed it. The moment his fingers closed around my wrist, I stopped looking behind me.

  I was already elsewhere.

  * * *

  The first year I lived with my adoptive parents passed without incident. Relieved, my uncle enrolled me in a school two blocks from our house. It was an unremarkable building with bare corridors and tall plane trees in the playground. It seemed perpetually dark, as though the sunlight barely reached the roof of the building. Unlike the stern, austere man who taught us French (in a thick Auvergne accent some of the pupils could imitate perfectly), the other teacher was gentle and patient. A plump woman who always wore the same drab pinafore, she would walk up and down between the desks trailing a cloud of perfume behind her like a shadow.

  The only two other Arab boys in my class, Abdelkader and Brahim, were both sons of diplomats and had servants who came and picked them up after school.

  My uncle took a keen interest in my studies; I was the apple of his eye. His joy gave me confidence. From time to time he would invite me into his study and tell me stories whose meaning and import I did not understand.

  Oran was a beautiful city. There was something unique about the place, a charm that was more than simply Mediterranean exuberance. It was brash and vital and alive. When evening came, the city was magical. The air was cool after the sweltering heat of the day, and people would set chairs out on the pavement and spend long hours chatting over a glass of anisette. From our veranda we could see the glow of their cigarettes, overhear their conversations; their scandalous stories streaked across the darkness like shooting stars, their throaty laughter crashed at our feet like waves on a beach.

  Germaine was happy. Every time she looked at me she offered up a prayer of thanks. I could see how happy I made her and her husband, and I felt flattered.

  Sometimes my uncle entertained guests from out of town, Arabs and Berbers, some in European suits, others in traditional dress. They were distinguished, eminent people who talked about some country called Algeria. This was not the same country they taught us about at school, nor the one people talked about in the posh neighbourhoods, but a country that had been ravaged, conquered, silenced; a country that gnawed on its anger like rotting meat. These men talked about the Algeria of Jenane Jato, about the yawning gulf between rich and poor, about whipping boys and scapegoats . . . they talked about a country that was yet to be redefined, a country in which every paradox seemed to live a life of ease.

  I think I was happy at my uncle’s house. I did not miss Jenane Jato. I had a friend who lived across the road. Her name was Lucette. We were in the same class and her father allowed her to play with me. She was nine; she was not pretty, but she was sweet and generous and I loved being with her.

  At school, things settled down in my second year. I managed to blend in with everyone else. I still found roumi children to be strange creatures – they could be all smiles one minute and snub you the next. In the playground they would sometimes fall out with each other, declare themselves sworn enemies, but the moment an interloper appeared – usually an Arab or a ‘poor relation’ from their own community – they joined forces against him. They would ignore him, mock him, bully him. At first, they sent Maurice, a stupid, brutish boy, to bully me. Once they realised I was a ‘sissy’ who would not fight back and would not tell tales, they left me alone. They moved on, found another scapegoat, and now they would tolerate me on the periphery of their group. But I was not really one of them – a fact they were quick to remind me of. Strangely, my chief weapon if I wanted them to be my friends was my lunchbox. The mom
ent I opened it, they would crowd round and treat me with disarming respect. But as soon as I had shared out my food and the last crumb had been eaten, they turned their backs so fast it made my head spin.

  One afternoon, I arrived home from school in a rage, fuming at Maurice, at my teacher, at the whole class. I needed answers and I needed them now. Something had happened to undermine my self-assurance; for the first time I realised that my self-respect did not depend solely on those close to me, but on people whom I did not even know. It had happened during class. We had all handed in our homework, all except Abdelkader, who was embarrassed because he had forgotten to do it. The teacher dragged him to the front of the class by the ear and said: ‘Would you like to tell us why, unlike your friends, you have no homework to give me, Monsieur Abdelkader?’ The boy kept his head down, flushed with humiliation. ‘Why, Monsieur Abdelkader? Why have you failed to do your homework?’ When he got no response, the teacher turned to the rest of us. ‘Can anyone in the class enlighten me as to why Monsieur Abdelkader did not do his homework?’ Without bothering to put his hand up, Maurice yelled: ‘Because Arabs are lazy and shiftless, sir.’ The whole class had erupted with laughter and this had set me brooding.

  As soon as I got home, I went and found my uncle in his study.

  ‘Is it true that Arabs are lazy and shiftless?’

  My uncle was surprised by the anger in my voice. He set down the book he had been reading and turned to me. What he saw on my face moved him to pity.

  ‘Come here a minute, son,’ he said, opening his arms.

  ‘No . . . I want to know if it’s true. Are Arabs lazy?’

  My uncle took his chin between thumb and forefinger and looked at me. He realised that I was serious, that he owed me an explanation.

  He thought for a moment, then sat opposite me and said:

  ‘No, Arabs are not lazy, but we take the time to live life to the full; it is something Europeans don’t understand. To them, time is money. To us, time has no price. We can be happy simply taking the time to share a glass of mint tea, whereas nothing in the world is enough to make them happy. That is the difference between us, son.’