He saluted me, turned on his heel and went back to his office.
I didn’t know what he was referring to. I reached out my hand, turned the handle and slowly opened the door. The hinges creaked. Daylight streamed into the windowless cell and a wave of heat flooded out. There was a shadow huddled in a corner; dazzled at first, he brought his hand up to shield his eyes.
‘Get out of here,’ roared a guard I had not noticed standing next to me.
The prisoner moved with difficulty, leaning against the wall to get to his feet. He had trouble standing. As he walked towards the door, my heart leapt in my chest. It was Chris – Jean-Christophe Lamy, or what was left of him. He was a broken man, scrawny and shivering, wearing a filthy torn shirt, a tattered pair of trousers with the fly undone and shoes with no laces. His face was pale, gaunt and unshaven, he smelled of sweat and urine, his lips were hidden by a crust of dried spittle. He gave me a black look, surprised to see me here to witness the state to which he had been reduced. He tried to lift his head but was too exhausted. The guard grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him from the cell.
‘Leave him alone,’ I told him.
Jean-Christophe looked me up and down.
‘I didn’t ask you for anything,’ he said.
As he limped away towards the exit of the barracks, I couldn’t help but remember all the things we had shared, the memories of our youthful innocence, and a sudden wave of sadness came over me. I watched him shamble away, stooped and stumbling, and as he went, a whole life went with him. I realised that the reason the stories my mother had told me long ago had seemed unsatisfying was because they ended with the era Jean-Christophe had chosen to ally himself to – an era that now shuffled away with him towards some uncertain destiny.
I walked through the teeming streets, through the singing and the shouting, beneath the fluttering green and white flags as the trams clanged and clattered past. The next day, 5 July, Algeria would have an identity card, a symbol, a national anthem and a thousand other things still to devise. On the balconies, women whooped and wept tears of joy. Children danced in the squares, climbing over monuments and fountains, up lamp posts and on to car roofs. Their cries drowned out the fanfares and the tumult, the sirens and the chatter; they were already tomorrow.
I went down to the port to watch the exodus. The quays were crowded with passengers, luggage and waving handkerchiefs. Steamers waiting to lift anchor groaned beneath the weight of the sorrow of those leaving. Families searched for each other in the crowds, children wept, old men slept on their suitcases, praying in their sleep that they might never wake. Leaning on a railing overlooking the port, I thought of Émilie, who might well be here in this crowd of helpless souls jostling before the door to the unknown. She might already have left; she might be dead; she might still be packing her cases in one of the buildings I could see around me. I stayed at the port until the dawn broke, leaning over the railing, unable to reconcile myself to the idea that something that had never really begun was truly over.
4. Aix-en-Provence (Present Day)
‘MONSIEUR . . .’
The angelic face of the air hostess smiles at me. Why is she smiling at me? Where am I? I must have dozed off. After a moment of hesitation I realise I am on a plane, white as an operating theatre, and the clouds I can see flashing past the window are not some glimpse of the hereafter. And it all comes back to me: Émilie is dead. She passed away on Monday in Aix-en-Provence hospital. Fabrice Scamaroni had phoned a week ago to let me know.
‘Could you bring your seat back up, monsieur, we’re about to land . . .’
The gentle voice of the flight attendant echoes dully in my mind. What seat? My neighbour, a teenage boy in a hooded top emblazoned with the colours of the Algerian football team, points to a button on the armrest and helps me adjust my seat.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘No problem, Grandad. You live in Marseille?’
‘No.’
‘My cousin’s picking me up at the airport. We can give you a lift somewhere If you like.’
‘That’s very kind, but there’s no need. There’s someone meeting me.’
I look at his head, bizarrely shaved to conform to some curious fashion, with a single tuft of hair at the front held upright by a thick layer of gel.
‘You scared of flying?’ he asks me.
‘Not particularly.’
‘My dad can’t even watch a plane land; he puts his hands over his eyes.’
‘That bad, really?’
‘You don’t know my dad. We live on the ninth floor of Jean de la Fontaine, the housing estate in Gambetta in Oran, you know it? Those huge tower blocks facing away from the sea. Anyway, nine times out of ten my dad won’t even take the lift – even though he’s pretty old, he’s, like, fifty-eight and he’s had prostate surgery.’
‘Fifty-eight isn’t all that old.’
‘Yeah, I know, but where I come from we don’t say dad, we say the old man . . . How old are you, Grandad?’
‘I was born so long ago I’ve forgotten.’
The plane is swallowed up by thick cloud, there is a flurry of turbulence and it goes into a nosedive. The boy next to me pats the back of my hand, which is clutching the armrest:
‘Don’t worry, Grandad, it’s like we’ve come off the motorway on to a back road. It’ll be fine in a minute. Flying is the safest way to travel.’
I look out of the window, watch the fleecy clouds become an avalanche, then mist, thinning out only to reappear thicker than ever, then disappear again. The blue sky returns, scuffed with frayed streaks of white. Why have I come here? I hear my uncle’s voice above the roar of the engines: If you wantyour life to be a small part of eternity, to be lucid even in the heart of madness, love . . . Love with all your strength, love as though it is all you know how to do, love enough to make the gods themselves jealous . . . for it is in love that all ugliness reveals its beauty. These were my uncle’s last words, the words he said to me on his deathbed in Río Salado. Even now, half a century later, his cracked voice still rings in my head like a prophecy: A man who passes over the great love of his life will only be as old as his regrets, and all the sighing in the world will not be enough to soothe his soul. Is it to disprove this truth or to face it that I have come so far? The plane wheels and turns and suddenly, out of nowhere, I see France. My heart stutters, and an invisible hand closes around my throat. It is so intense that I can feel my fingers ripping through the fabric of the armrest. Now I see rocky mountain peaks reflecting the sunlight, perpetual, implacable sentinels that keep watch over the shore, indifferent to the raging sea that dashes itself against the cliffs at their feet. Then, as the plane wheels, Marseille . . . like a vestal virgin lazing in the sun. Sprawled over the hillsides, radiant, dazzling, her navel bared, hip exposed to the four winds, she pretends to sleep, pretends not to notice the murmur of the waves and the whispers that drift in from the hinterland. Marseille, the legendary city, the land of titans, the landing place of the gods of Olympus, the crossroads of lost horizons, manifold because she is boundless in her generosity; Marseille, my last battlefield, where I finally had to lay down my arms, crushed by my inability to accept a challenge, to be worthy of my own happiness.
Here, in this city, the miraculous is a state of mind, the sun illuminates all consciences willing to take the trouble to unbolt their hidden trapdoors. It was here that I realised the extent of the pain I had caused, pain I have never forgiven myself. Forty-five years ago I came to this city to find the broken shards of my destiny, to try to put them back together, fill in the missing pieces, tend to the cracks, to make amends to fortune for failing to seize my chance when I had it, for having doubted, for having chosen to be prudent when it was offering me her heart; to beg for forgiveness in the name of that which God places above all accomplishments and all misfortunes: love. I came here distraught, uncertain but sincere, in search of redemption, mine first and foremost, but also that of those I still loved, despi
te the hatred that had come between us, the greyness that had clouded our summers. I still remember this port, its flickering lights welcoming steamships from Oran, the darkness that shrouded the quays, the shadows on the gangways. I can still see clearly the face of the customs officer with his curly moustache who asked me to empty my pockets and stand with my hands up like a criminal; the policeman who obviously disapproved of his colleague’s zeal; the taxi driver who drove me to my hotel and swore at me because I slammed the car door too hard; the woman at the reception desk who had me wait half the night while she checked to see if there was a room available somewhere nearby, because I had failed to confirm my reservation . . . It was a terrible night in March 1964. The mistral howled and a coppery sky growled thunderously. My room had no heating. Though I rolled myself up in the blankets in search of a glimmer of warmth, I was freezing. The window creaked with every gust of wind. On the bedside table, faintly lit by an anaemic lamp, was my leather bag. Inside it was a letter from André Sosa:
Dear Jonas,
I’ve done what you asked and found Émilie. It took a long time, but I’m glad I’ve found her. Glad for you. She works as a secretary to a lawyer in Marseille. I tried to call her, but she refused to speak to me!! I’m not sure why. We were never really close, or at least not close enough to have fallen out. Maybe she mistook me for someone else. The war swept away so many of the country’s points of reference that I sometimes wonder if what we went through was not just some group hallucination. But let’s leave time to do its mourning. The wounds are still too fresh to insist that those who survived show restraint . . . Émilie’s address is: 143, Rue des Frères-Julien. It’s not far from La Canebière, you’ll find it easily. Her building is opposite a café called Le Palmier, which is pretty well known. It’s where all the pieds-noirs go now. Can you imagine, that’s what they call us these days – ‘pieds-noirs’ – as though we’ve spent our whole lives trudging through mud . . .
Call me when you get to Marseille. It would be wonderful to see you and give you a kick up the backside.
Much love, Dédé.
The Rue des Frères-Julien was five blocks from my hotel. The taxi driver took me on a scenic trip for half an hour before dropping me off outside Le Palmier. The café was heaving. After the storm the previous night, Marseille glittered in the sunshine, light dappling the faces of the people. Wedged between two modern structures, number 143 was an old building of faded green with ramshackle windows and rickety shutters; a few flower pots bravely attempted to liven up the balconies shaded by drooping awnings. It had a curious effect on me. It was as drab and gloomy as though it repelled the sunlight, despised the exuberance of the street. I found it difficult to imagine Émilie laughing, smiling behind those dreary windows.
I took a table by the window in the café so that I could watch the coming and going opposite. It was a glorious Sunday – the rain had scoured the pavements clean and the streets were steaming. Around me, people with nothing better to do than set the world to rights over glasses of red wine; their accents were those of the Algerian suburbs, their faces were weathered still by the southern sun, they rolled their Rs with relish like stirring couscous. Though the conversations ranged across the planet, they invariably circled back to Algeria. It was all they could talk about.
‘You know what I keep thinking, Juan? I keep thinking about the omelette I forgot on the cooker while I was rushing to pack my suitcase and get out of there. I’m wondering whether the house burned to the ground after.’
‘Are you serious, Roger?’
‘Of course I’m serious. You’re always banging on about all the things you had to leave back in the bled. You never talk about anything else.’
‘What do you want me to talk about? Algeria is my whole life.’
‘In that case, why don’t you drop dead and give me a bit of fucking peace? I’ve got other things to think about.’
At the bar, three drunks in Basque berets were drinking to their wild life as young men in Bab el-Oued. They were doing their best to be quiet, but people could hear them on the far side of the street. Next to me, twin brothers talked in thick, slurred voice over a table covered with empty beer bottles and full ashtrays. Their swarthy faces reminded me of the fishermen in Algiers in their faded sweaters, unlit cigarette butts dangling from their lips.
‘I told you she was just using you, little brother. The girls here aren’t like they are back home. Back home women respect men, they won’t let you down. Anyway, I can’t think what you saw in that frigid bitch. I feel cold just thinking about you with her. And she couldn’t cook . . .’
I drank three or four cups of coffee, never taking my eyes from the door of 143. Then I had lunch. No sign of Émilie. The drunks at the bar had left; so had the twins. The chatter and the noise died away a little, only to pick up again when a group of half-drunk friends piled in. The waiter broke a couple of glasses, then spilled a carafe of water over a customer who took this as an opportunity to tell anyone who would listen exactly what he thought of Le Palmier, of pieds-noirs, of Marseille, of France, of Europe, of Arabs, of Jews, of the Portuguese and of his own family, ‘a bunch of selfish hypocrites’, who hadn’t been able to find a wife for him even though he was about to turn forty. Everyone waited until he had spewed all the bile he had to spew, then he was politely asked to leave.
The day was drawing in; night was preparing to besiege the city. Every bone in my body was starting to ache from sitting waiting in the corner, when finally she appeared from the door of 143. She had no hat, her hair was piled into a chignon, she wore a raincoat with a flared collar and boots that came up to her thighs. Hands in her pockets, clearly in a hurry to be somewhere, she looked like a schoolgirl off to play with her friends.
I left all the change I had in the bread basket the waiter had forgotten to clear away and rushed to catch her up.
Suddenly I felt scared. Did I have the right to intrude in her life? Had she forgiven me?
Desperate to drown out the questions in my head, I heard myself call out: ‘Émilie!’
She stopped abruptly, as though she had met an invisible wall. She must have recognised my voice, because her shoulders tensed and she drew her head in. She did not turn. She listened for a moment and then walked on.
‘Émilie!’
This time she turned so quickly that she almost fell. Her eyes shimmered, her face was pale, but she quickly composed herself, choking back her tears. I smiled stupidly at her, having no idea what else to do. What would I say to her? Where could I begin? I had been in such a hurry to see her again that I not thought what I might do when I found her.
Émilie stared at me, wondering if I were really flesh and blood.
‘It’s me.’
‘And . . . ?’
Her face was a mask of bronze, a cloudy mirror; I could never have believed she could react to my presence with such indifference.
‘I’ve looked for you everywhere.’
‘Why?’
The question caught me unawares. I lost the power of speech. How could she not see what was staring her in the face? I was reeling, like a punch-drunk boxer. I was dumbstruck. I did not know what to do now.
‘What do you mean, why?’ I heard myself stammer. ‘The only reason I am here is because of you.’
‘We said everything we had to say back in Oran.’
She was perfectly still, only her lips moved.
‘Things were different in Oran.’
‘Oran, Marseille, it’s all the same.’
‘You know that’s not true, Émilie. The war is over, life goes on.’
‘For you, maybe . . .’
I was sweating now.
‘I really thought that—’
‘Then you were wrong.’ She cut me off.
Her coldness froze my thoughts, my words, my soul.
‘Émilie . . . tell me what I have to do, but please, don’t look at me like that. I’d give anything to—’
‘You can only give what y
ou have. Sometimes not even that, and you don’t have anything . . . Besides, what good would it do? We can’t solve the problems of the world, and it has taken much more from me than it can ever repay.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘They’re just words. I think I told you that before.’
My grief was such that it filled my whole being; there was no room left for anger or resentment.
Against all expectations, her dark look softened and her features relaxed. She stared at me for a long time as though she were going far back into the past to find me. Finally she came towards me, her perfume hanging heavy in the air. She took my face in her hands the way my mother used to do to kiss me on the forehead. Émilie did not kiss me on the forehead, or on the cheek; she simply stared at me. Her breath mingled with mine. I wanted her to hold my face like this until the Last Judgement.
‘Nobody is to blame, Younes. You don’t owe me anything. It’s just the way the world is, and I don’t want that any more.’
She turned and walked away.
I stood on the pavement, speechless, frozen, and watched her walk out of my life.
It was the last time I ever saw her.
That night I took the boat back to Algeria, and not until today did I set foot in France again.
I wrote letters to her, sent her cards for her birthday and every holiday . . . Not once did she reply. I told myself she had moved, that she had gone away, as far away as she could from her memories of me, and that perhaps it was for the best. I missed her terribly, thought about the life we might have made together, the wounds we might have healed and those that would have healed themselves in time, the old demons we would have exorcised. Émilie had nothing she wanted to save, no page to turn, no pain she needed to grieve over. The few moments she had granted me on that pavement beneath the blazing sun had been enough for me to realise that there are doors that, once they close upon some sorrow, become an abyss that even the light of heaven cannot penetrate. For a long time I suffered over Émilie; I felt her pain, her self-denial, her decision to live shut up in her own tragedy. Later I tried to forget her, hoping to temper the pain in both of us. I had to accept it, had to confront what my heart stubbornly refused to face. Life is a train that stops at no stations; you either jump aboard or stand on the platform and watch as it passes, and there is nothing sadder than an abandoned station. Was I happy after that? I think so. I experienced moments of pleasure, moments of unforgettable joy; I loved again and dreamed again like a wide-eyed boy. And yet I always felt that there was something missing, something that left me somehow crippled, in short that I only ever hovered on the fringes of happiness.
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