The Last Patriarch

by Najat El Hachmi

  They were all rhetorical questions it was best not to answer. And you sat there, in the back seat while your heart started to race again, your hand throbbed with pain, father shouting, and you didn’t know how to keep your tears back, listening to him insulting your best friend and wanting to scream: and haven’t you fucked your share of stinking Christian pigs. Haven’t you had as many as you wanted and even eaten them for dinner? But you couldn’t say that to him. You immediately understood you weren’t the real problem or your friend number two or your clothes or any of that stuff. The problem was he’d gotten those beady eyes he got when he liked a woman, and you’d seen them enough to recognise the look. He liked her and it was such unknown territory he knew he had no chance. That was why she was a whore, because she aroused his desire and he couldn’t help it. You were to remember that because you too were a whore.

  Yperita, mustard gas. Ypressià-ana, related to Ypresian.

  27

  Friends: not from here or there

  Clothes had always been a problem. From the moment you’d changed, even before you started bleeding. I mean, if your hips grow more than they should what do you expect me to do when you don’t have sizes bigger than a forty? A forty-two was unheard of in a fashion or young people’s shop. If you’re young and a woman, you’re thin. Many girls no doubt were, but I was trapped inside a dress in one of the changing rooms in that shop in the square. Literally. It was a dress that should have been broad enough and I thought father wouldn’t kick up, after all it was a dress and not a pair of those tight-fitting trousers all the girls were wearing at the time. A dress down to my ankles, sleeveless, but I’d buy a matching T-shirt to wear underneath. I never imagined I’d be stuck there in front of the mirror, my arms raised and the dress caught around my breasts, and that it wouldn’t come off one way or the other.

  Friends one and two rescued me. They called to me from outside because they’d recognised the sound of the bracelets I wore then, seven silver bracelets that always clink-clonked. Is that you in there? Yes, please come and help me, and one of them pulled hard until she got the dress off. I still feel panicky about shop changing rooms and the very thought of them makes me reluctant to go clothes shopping.

  Better not come here, better not come ever again, father’s really got it in for you. We were in a state of peace, I’d not been able to go to their parents’ house for some time: apparently they liked Moorish women as much as father liked Christian. Apparently, because Christian women were certainly what father liked most in the world and because friend number two’s mother took her selling those candles that help poor children in the world, even in Africa, although that obviously only worked for really black children, and not half-brown ones like me.

  Everything became a problem and I went out less every day, back home at nine, back home at eight, back home at seven, back home at night and I was doing the opposite to everyone else. I couldn’t go to Cap d’Estopes because they didn’t open that early and even if they had, I couldn’t go into a bar, sit down and have a drink, it was an unwritten fact that such activity was for whores only. I was starting to feel fed up with that word, and with the fact we women were all tarred with the same brush. Friend number two had started going to the discotheque and said why don’t you tell your father you’re sleeping at a friend’s house and come out with me? You’d have a wonderful… but I said no, father has never let me sleep away from home. Only when I was a little girl and I went to my aunts’, but not even that now. I was lucky he sometimes slept out and then night-time wasn’t so grim.

  Clothes, clothes, clothes, always arguing with mother about what was suitable and what wasn’t, and I couldn’t reconcile so many demands, what with the fashions at school, where I didn’t want to stand out, in the marketplace, which didn’t fit me, and hers, that were mostly simply ridiculous.

  The grey trousers from the previous Eid were wide, with a crease down the middle, and hung nicely enough. I’d put on those trousers and a V-necked jersey and was washing up before going back to school when father dropped the bags he was carrying the moment he saw me and started shouting. The soap suds were rinsing off my fingers and he was bawling why the fuck do you always wiggle your bum at me like that, you like me seeing it tight like that, don’t you? You’re a slut and I don’t want to see you in those clothes ever again, he went on shouting, but I was at that stage where I started to shudder at the mere sound of his voice. I’d have run far away if it hadn’t been for my mother, like that girl in The Dubliners who packs her case. I really would have, because I thought for a second it wasn’t normal for my bum to provoke him so and for a father to focus on that kind of thing.

  I was writing lots in those pages my teacher friend had given me and whom I didn’t see for years, I wrote I want to die, I want to die, I want to die a hundred times… but it wasn’t true. It was lucky I had Rodoreda’s Broken Mirror, Espriu’s Ariadne in the Grotesque Labyrinth, Tísner’s memoirs, Faulkner, Goethe, all the reading matter that passed through my hands. I was coming to the end of the dictionary and still hadn’t finished growing, but I resisted and thought it was all a phase, he’d soon get over his obsession with me.

  But that wasn’t to be the case, quite the contrary. The older I got, the more he was on top of me. Apparently he no longer remembered my mother and the serious harm he’d done to her, and I’d think I wish you weren’t my father, if it had been him life would have been so different.

  Suddenly, father started to hover in front of school in his car, at random, on days you’d never have guessed, and it wasn’t by chance. You heard him on your heels saying get in, I’ll take you home, and then you realised you had to watch out when you left school and not linger long with boys in your class. Or with the girls, because he’d say Christians were all I don’t know what.

  That was how it was. No girlfriends from here. You know what they’re like and no friends from there, they’re even worse, and no boyfriends from here or anywhere, naturally.

  When you were thinking you could either die or kill him, he put in an appearance, he, the gentleman who opened the door when you were so loaded down with bags, and you thought he’d save you from everything, especially from yourself.

  Zum-zum, an onomatapoiea. Zurvanisme, far too complicated a term. Zwitterió, a generic name for compounds with a radioactive structure.

  28

  A large, soft tongue

  It felt like I’d known him for a long time. Come in, come in, he’d said, and I said thank you. He spoke the language of the country with that rural accent I found amusing and I stared at him more than usual. Can I come and see you after school, he’d said and, not even knowing who he was, I must have opened my eyes wide like a couple of saucers. Five o’clock Monday? All right, I said, knowing it was a possibility. I’d say I’d fallen in love, but I’d been reading so much Erich Fromm and talking so much I didn’t really know what loving and falling in love were all about.

  On the Monday I let my hair down before leaving the classroom and friend number two said what are you doing? I’ve got a kind of date. You’re joking, at five o’clock? So what, nobody’s perfect.

  As soon as he saw me he kissed me twice, I’d have said that was strange from a Moor, but the fact is he put on a good show. Our cheeks brushed. Look, I only agreed to come because I’m gathering information to write a novel, right? And I suppose you’re one of those immigrants who live by themselves and so on. You’re putting it on and you know it, I expect he was thinking, and we walked to the club further up the road, where he told me in the semi-darkness that he was mad about me. What? But you don’t know me at all. I know you and I’ve been following you for the last six months, I love you. I love you, I love you, echoed round my head and I could only laugh. You can’t love me if you don’t know what I’m like. Of course I can. Just tell me you’ll give me a chance. After hearing that any other girl with proper self-esteem would have beaten a quick retreat and noticed he seemed more burnt out than other men of his age, what
’s more he wasn’t my kind, not by a long chalk. But I still assumed that if a man looked at me it was because something was wrong with my face and I’d keep wiping the corners of my lips or my cheeks until he stopped, or I’d say what? What’s wrong? I still didn’t understand someone might like me in that way.

  I didn’t have time to think if I liked him or not because his tongue was already down my throat. My God, what a large, soft tongue, and I liked it despite the way it tasted and smelled. Perhaps it was a sexual burning or my need to run away from all stuff that meant I didn’t say no, no, I don’t do this kind of thing. He wasn’t like my cousin, he was more experienced and took me places I’d never been before, he did really. He was soon rubbing against my body in that space that wasn’t so private, grunting like a pig, and I imagined it was stuff I wanted as well, it was about time, and he looked the best option.

  When can we meet again? he asked as soon as we emerged from the murkiness, and I thought, oh God, I hope it doesn’t all seep on his trousers, he must be about to explode. You know if you say you don’t want to see me again, I’ll kill myself, you know, and it was then I should have run for it, but I said tomorrow, in the library, at four thirty.

  I was shaking all over when I reached home, wondering whether they’d smell him on my clothes or mouth, if mother would smell the cigarettes he’d smoked before kissing me or would see the guilt in my eyes that were avoiding hers. She was worse than father for that kind of thing.

  I don’t know if he’d ever seen inside a library, I still don’t know if he’s ever read a single book, but there weren’t many safe havens in that local capital. I was the one who said come on, and we went upstairs and visited the museum where all kinds of differently treated hides from throughout history were hanging. He pressed tight against me again, almost at the end of the exhibition, and I don’t remember if I was simply excited by the danger of being caught or simply excited because of my state of mind at the time.

  We soon found a fast food place where we’d not bump into any Moors, who were the people who knew me and could go and tell father, we saw your daughter with a boy doing this and that. How shaming, how dishonouring! We always sat at the same table, which was half hidden behind a column, where we’d let our tongues get on with it, and our hands as well, as much as we dared. I didn’t even know I had a talent for that, now I’ll put mine in, now you put yours in, I’ll lick your palate, you’ve got a sensitive spot between your lips and gums. Now and then he’d screw himself up as best he could over the small table, fold his arms and rub my breasts with his hand and press them as tight as he could. All in all it was like a race to see who’d go the furthest and who was the most daring. I’ve always been one for challenges, particularly in these terms, so I soon moved a furtive hand into the region of his groin and would even have sworn something was sticking up out of his tracksuit bottoms. If I’d been a passer-by I’d have said, please, why don’t you find yourself a hotel; that’s what the waiters were thinking, I bet.

  Each time it took me longer to get back to the library and I think by that stage mother had an inkling, it was so obvious in my face I didn’t know how long my lies would stand up. Where were you? I told you I’ve got lots of work researching things that I can’t do at home, and I didn’t look her in the eyes and that gave me away. I’d liked to have told her everything, mother, I’m so much in love, I do think I love him, he’s so sensitive he weeps just at the thought he might never have met me, he loves me so much he’ll never tell anyone, he’s not that kind of man.

  We’d been going out for a month and a half and Christmas came round and he gave me the chain with two silvery turtle doves, a chain I’ve now completely lost track of. I kept the lot, the wrapping paper, the small grey box. I love you, said the card, and I told him I love you too. I gave him a six-cup size coffeepot, I expect I’d found out he didn’t have one or needed one. A coffeepot I threw away not long ago it was so old, but in fact it was his, a present from me, and was his.

  29

  Your sex isn’t my sex

  Imust start going for a run, and mother didn’t understand one bit. What do you mean you’re going for a run? Can’t you see? I’ve got to lose weight, but she can’t have grasped that. I’m going for a run, I’ll be all right, it’s daytime and there’s lots of light, I’ll be fine.

  The morning mist clung to my skin as I sunk my hands deep into my overcoat pockets. I had to walk quickly for a while to get to where two sand tracks crossed where we’d agreed to meet. Then he showed me the farmhouse where he acted as the tenant farmer, though that sounds rather grand, given it comprised four pigsties and a couple of bedrooms with four sticks of furniture to make it habitable. I don’t pay rent and get paid on top, not bad, hey? It all seemed quite horrible to me, walls that had only been covered in cement, dirty mattresses on the floor, some grimy armchairs and an ancient sideboard. It was horrific, I felt like making a run for it, and I should have some time before, when we were halfway and I was panting and out of breath, I started crying and hugged him and he can’t have understood at all. Hey, if you don’t want to come, that’s all right, we can go back if you like, you’re not under any obligation. In fact I was under some sort of obligation, but there wasn’t much cover in those fields and I was with him in full view of the world, of God and, above all, of father, who might drive by in his van and see his favourite daughter was what he’d always suspected, a whore.

  The smell of pig doesn’t go however hard you scrub your skin. Don’t know why, but you can use bleach, if you want, it won’t go, but I’d got used to it by now. The wood-stove in the dining room gave out so much heat my cheeks were on fire; he said, do you want a drink, I was making coffee. No, no, thank you, and it was all like let’s get this over with because I should be going. Come on then, come here, and he was kissing me and I didn’t know where he was taking me. A double mattress covered by a flowery blanket. I found myself on my back in no time, what was the big rush? I was still thinking that when there I was opposite him, in knickers and bra, awkward and not runny at all, as I should have been. Why didn’t I say no, not yet, I don’t want to do this? I wanted to show I was in as much of a rush as he was, that despite the difference in age, I really knew what I was doing. But I didn’t have a clue.

  He wanted to take my knickers off and I closed my legs as tight as I could, hey, don’t worry, we won’t do anything you don’t want to, I’m only taking them off so you feel more comfortable. The pig smell was as strong as ever. Let me do this to you, just this, I won’t put it inside, I promise, I just want to feel your heat. I didn’t even dare look at his member, I don’t know how long he’d been on top of me when I said I’ve got to go, I’ve been away too long and father will wake up and won’t see me there and will start to suspect and, and… I don’t know how he came, those tracksuit bottoms of his had patches of damp, but I couldn’t have told you why.

  We had lots of other Sundays like that and many afternoons in the library that weren’t in the library. Until perhaps he got carried away by his emotions, or because he meant it, but he let drop a ‘let’s get married’, I could only burst out laughing and that clearly offended him. Let’s get married and we’ll be together forever, you’re the person I want to have a family with, who I want to spend every day of my life with, I can’t live if you’re not at my side. I was still laughing. Well then? When are you going to ask father for my hand? You work three hours a day, live in a house that isn’t a house or anything like it, he’s never going to give you my hand.

  It was still the best option, but not likely to succeed, because Mimoun’s daughter is Mimoun’s daughter and everyone knew how nasty he could be.

  I’ll look for a job and an apartment, you just see. My doctor said I should take things easier, but I’ll do it for you, I’ll work ten hours a day and get enough money together for a dowry. And I’m studying and would like to go to university. That’s all right. And I won’t be a wife who stays at home cleaning and cooking, I want to work, I want
to go out, we’ll have to share the housework. That’s all right. It must have been the pressure from his crotch making him say yes to everything, or perhaps he really meant it. I felt stirred up that a man born in the same place as us could be so different to father.

  I scanned the adverts for him and said, look, this job might be one for you, this apartment might be the right one. I used to ring the apartments and he’d arrange a time to see the owner, it was difficult, anyway, it’s already promised to someone else, they’d say. I only called workplaces once and obviously he wasn’t at all happy about that. You can’t call them to get a contract for me. You could always go to work with father, if you want I can recommend you. Any other bright ideas? You know what his workers think of him, no thank you, I’d rather live on bread and water.

  We finally found that tiny apartment at the end of Carrer Gurb, with yellow curtains, a sofa bed inside a furniture unit and a pile of worn-out cushions. The smallest of bathrooms and a kitchen with a couple of burners that used a lot of electricity, so he said.

  It became our hideaway and I had to find a way to hide the key so mother didn’t find it, because we all knew she went through our pockets and knew all our business in order to protect us against father, naturally.

  I also had to hide the telephone cards he bought me so I could ring him and speak for so many minutes my legs ached from standing so long in the telephone box. But guilt was the most difficult thing to hide, it must have been oozing out from my every pore.

  Until father came in one day, and he, who never spoke to me, laughed and said, bet you don’t know what happened to me today? You remember that boy we met in Jaume’s house one day, the son of rhaj Hammou, who’s been on the loose here for some time, well, he had the bright idea of asking me for your hand. It’s really funny, I told him, you think I’d give the most valuable thing I have to a tramp like you? Go on, clear off and don’t ever insult me again, as if I’d ever give my daughter to a drug-pusher!