Concrete Flowers

by Wilfried N'Sondé

  Margarine raises her head and clears her throat to erase the memories and regain a little bit of her countenance; a huge smile lights up her face. She breaks her silence and asks:

  —By the way, your father’s always standing by the window on the other side of the building, ogling me every time I go by. Honestly, he’s so weird. He got a problem or what?

  —Hey, don’t talk like that, he’s my father, you know. What do you think? He lost his son, that really shakes you up, you know, plus have you seen the way you dress?

  —OK, don’t get upset. I just wanted to tell you, that’s all . . . OK, you’re not going to start calling me a whore too and all the rest of it like the others? Stop, we’re friends, aren’t we?

  —I apologize, sorry, excuse me, that’s not what I was trying to say . . .

  For Rosa Maria, Margarine is not merely the prostitute everybody takes her for. It’s just that over time something fundamental has broken in her soul, and since then, she’s been in the habit of waiting for men in the basement. She rents her body to them for a couple of dollar bills. She no longer feels anything; her flesh has become a stranger to her. Family men call on her services in secret, full of shame and perverse desires for this woman who could be their own daughter. Having drained their wives with endless frustrations and housework, they’ve stopped touching them and deplore the flabbiness of their bodies, betrayed by time. When night falls, they visit Margarine, a few crumpled bills in the palms of their calloused hands, heads down, their virility standing in line, a lecherous eye, moist lips, hungry for the corolla offered, fresh and pink. Of all of her clients, these are the ones Margarine despises the most, for their cowardice and hypocrisy. She’s learned not to let herself become brutalized and knows how to tame their rough handling.

  —Take it easy, dude . . . No, you don’t get to kiss me!

  These falsely dignified well-meaning patriarchs, tyrants of public housing apartments, disgust her the most. They ignore her in the streets and treat her like a princess, the mistress of their pleasures, in the basement. Margarine patronizes them as much as she can all the while eyeing them scornfully. The young prostitute has them by the purse strings. Indifferent, she expresses boredom under the weight of their brief and loud embraces.

  —OK, go on now, others are waiting!

  The client quickly puts his clothes on. Sheepishly, not so proud after the act, he avoids her gaze while she glares disdainfully at him in the darkness of the basement, ice blue shards beneath her pupils. Margarine clenches her teeth.

  Once she’s alone, she sometimes cries in silence without ever really understanding why, overcome by a vague longing to exist somewhere else, differently. All the same, she continues her business with disgust for the men and for herself, her skin defiled after the rough contact, unfamiliar, intimacy with something strange. She’s losing herself by defiling herself over and over again.

  To do her job with a minimum level of security, the young woman benefits from the protection of the tough guys in the hood, some old friends from nursery school who’ve become petty criminals. In her kingdom of the slums, she had deflowered every single one of them at puberty. They owe her particular reverence, some recognition, and subservience even. Margarine will always be the first woman with whom they discovered their body and came to appreciate its pleasures.

  Antonio was her favorite. She really had it bad for him, a truly unique guy, special, so much gentler than the others, affectionate, often anxious and worn out. Lost between his father’s beatings, the need to protect his sisters, and his plans for the neighborhood, which had, before they fell through, created a lot of enthusiasm among the young people. So much pressure under which he was falling apart. Not to mention the problems with the police lately because of the contacts that he did not willingly provide with some strange characters in Paris, men dressed up in suits and ties with strong foreign accents. One time, Margarine accompanied Antonio to a meeting. Following a brief greeting on the restaurant terrace, she had left them to talk business.

  Margarine liked hearing him talk, going on for a while, using words like in a book, clinging to each other in the darkness of the basement. He dreamed big dreams, his eyes beaming, and she would hide the rawness of what she was feeling by closing her eyelids. Her cheeks would flush, and Margarine would relax. From the mouth of the man she would have loved to call her lover would come wild ideas about running away, countries to discover together, a whole different life, another world. No one had ever shown her so much attention and respect. The attention he gave filled her with satisfaction. In his gaze, she finally felt worthy. But as she wasn’t able to accept and respond to his strong and compassionate feelings for her, Antonio’s intensity made her uncomfortable: a stranger to love and harmony, at times, she preferred to reject him and forbid herself to share his belief of a better future for both of them.

  Antonio found peace in Margarine’s large bosom and would let himself go, sometimes sobbing into her buxom form. They often got together in the middle of the night, at the hour when the complex was getting ready to go to sleep. She’d become his source of inspiration, the one who listened to him attentively. Antonio would reveal his most extravagant longings and confide his most secret desires to her. He never criticized what she did with other men. As a matter of fact, he was careful to avoid the subject entirely. He loved her and was simply happy for the privileged moments they spent together.

  Thanks to those tender moments in the basement, he was able to escape and find solace from the day-to-day burdens. Delicious, Margarine offered him a quick and peaceful journey toward ecstasy and respite with a gentle touch, the full plump expert lips toward his pelvic area. A conjugation of wounds and trials, they stole moments of quiet in their shared solitude amid the dust in the depth of block F. She gave him a maternal smile and caressed his slicked-down hair when he said:

  —You know, Margarine, we should go away, both of us, far from here, just you and me, start all over again. You know, there are tons of places to visit in the world, and look at us, rotting here like rats. I’m going to take you away, you’ll see . . .

  Ever since they’ve known each other, Rosa Maria always takes the time to listen to her friend and console her in the face of disappointments. They share their dreams and their disillusions. Yet the feelings, the doubts, and the fears that paralyze Margarine when she thinks about Antonio, she’s never found the words to express them.

  Margarine earns money to have a good time every so often without having to calculate, let alone think about tomorrow. She suffers so much from missing him, she often confides to Rosa, her only friend since Antonio’s passing. During the secret moments, Margarine loves to run her fingers through Rosa’s black curls and all over her body in really slow, precise movements, in silence, tender moments stolen from sadness, a sort of nameless taboo relationship has nestled in between them over time.

  A way to run away from the ghosts of her childhood, from the vague and painful memories. A man’s footsteps heading toward the children’s bedroom in the night, with the smell of alcohol and sweat. A cold little girl is trembling and tensing up in the depth of her soiled bed. Tears of incomprehension, yet the harm has already been done, and persists even today.

  —You see, Rosa, I don’t even know anymore what happened . . . but I think that was my first client!

  Margarine had told her about it on one of their first trips outside the projects, over by the grain fields, behind the country roads they took to get away, out of sight from all the prying eyes. The light, reflecting off the yellow fields, illuminated them both and extended as far as the naked eye could see on the plains of Île-de-France. Rosa and Margarine had taken off in a car borrowed from a guy in the neighborhood; its smoky and narrow interior was quickly filled with laughter and songs screamed at the top of their lungs, before parking at the edge of a forest. Stretched out in the cool shade of a tree, they opened up to each other and lost themselves in confidences. Rosa Maria allowed the light touches and s
light kisses. It was a tacit agreement, let’s not talk about it, I like it, but it’s nothing, I’m not like that, it’s Jason that I love, for life!

  Rosa Maria gets down from the bench; she’s getting ready to go.

  —You’d be better off working like your sister, Rosa, instead of hanging around with that other sicko!

  Margarine brings Rosa back to reality:

  —Damn it, shit, it’s way late, it’s already dinnertime. I better go. My father’s going to kill me, he won’t miss the chance! All right, bye!

  —Later, Rosa!

  —Yeah, later.

  ROSA MARIA PICKS up the pace, bypasses a building, turns off the path, and crosses the lawn at the edge of the parking lot, before arriving at the entrance of the stairwell. She climbs the steps quickly up to the second floor. Out of breath, she knocks on the door. Worried, her sister Sonia opens up.

  —Goddamn it, Rosa, you’ve got to be kidding. The old man’s off the hook.

  —I swear, Sonia, I really hurried!

  —You’re a pain in the ass. I’m completely wiped out from working at the cash register. I don’t need your bullshit. Go on, go see him and apologize. Mom’s with Anna in her room, she’s afraid it’s all going to get out of control!

  But already Salvatore has moved toward his daughters, his eyes red with rage, his left fist clenched, his breath reeking of alcohol, mean, cursing, heavy, halting breathing, not open for discussion, belt wrapped around his right hand, malicious. He’s ready to punish.

  —Dad, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to . . .

  An avalanche of slaps going in every which direction, the buckle of the belt launched at rapid speed by centrifugal strength, red marks then blue ones on Rosa’s skin, her body contorted in vain attempts to get away. Rosa Maria cries, begs, she stumbles, staggers; her father grabs her by the arm, the painful pressure of a worker’s hands, skin pincers gripping her muscles in. He hurls her against the wall, the deafening sound of a frail body crashing against the partition. Sonia dares to intervene:

  —Stop, Dad, that’s enough, she gets it.

  Blind with rage, swarms of spittle spurting out of his mouth, beside himself, he screams:

  —Oh, Sonia, get out of here, back off. Get out, otherwise . . . I’m going to teach her a lesson for constantly hanging out with those dirty Arabs and monkeys, as if there weren’t enough French people around. She really needs to go looking elsewhere? Isn’t it enough that her brother . . .

  Terrorized, Sonia moves away from the direction of the leather belt that rises up before brutally striking Rosa Maria. Rosa Maria is in such a state of stupor that she’s stopped crying. Her temples are burning, her mouth is bleeding a little bit, her head is buzzing horribly. She lies down, completely out of it on the floor to the entrance.

  —What are we going to do with you? You want to be a whore or what? If you keep going on like that, you’re going to finish like Antonio! Why do you keep hanging out with these darkies? You in heat or what?

  Rosa Maria has gotten used to it over time and learned the routine of the blows. She knows that at some point it’ll all stop, including the insults. She just has to escape into a dream, imagine herself elsewhere for a while, where everything is calm and beautiful, in a welcoming unspoiled nature surrounded by the music of birds singing.

  Violent words are ephemeral, it’ll all pass. Her greatest suffering is her love for Jason, a throbbing pain, a huge chunk right in the middle of her heart, an unbearable longing. Waiting? Punishment! His indifference? Torture! Where is he at this very moment, what is he doing? When will he recognize her love? She suppresses a sob, gathers her thoughts, to forget as quickly as she can, to run away from all the horrors, each time farther away. If Antonio were still here, he would protect her. So she imagines Jason, drop-dead gorgeous, pulling her toward him, bringing her close to him in one suave move that he alone knows how to pull off; they spin around like in an old-fashioned waltz, and it ends with him holding her tightly in his arms!

  Holding her head in her hands, Sonia shakes it, empty, remorse for the helplessness, the constant affliction, forever latching onto them, hopeless. She cries.

  Salvatore screams, hysterical, puffing, a purplish vein swells, pulsating intensely on the top of his head in the middle of his salt-and-pepper short-cropped hair.

  —What are we gonna do with you, Rosa?

  Anna, the youngest, comes running out of her mother’s bedroom crying:

  —You’re cruel, you’re going to kill Rosa!

  A firm slap with the back of the hand stops the ten-year-old little girl dead in her tracks, and she runs through the corridor, screaming louder than before, right back to her room.

  —Oh, enough of this goddamn racket! You’re gonna shut your mouths, or else all hell’s gonna break loose in that dago household of yours!

  Exasperated, the neighbor on the third floor bangs on the floor before screaming in the stairwell. Drunk with rage, Salvatore replies:

  —Fuck you, let’s see if you got some real balls or not. Why don’t you go fa enculo like your wife with all those Arabs when you’re at your shit factory?

  —Asshole, at least I have a job, jerk-off!

  Amid the confusion of anger and insults, Rosa Maria slowly gets up. With her bruised body, she goes back to her room, undresses carefully to ease some of the suffering, and manages to slip into her nightgown before sliding under the covers.

  The pain and the memory of the brutality wear off, music slowly takes over, silhouettes in graceful moves, she dreams. Beams of light, colorful fairy-like images, a party for Jason and her intertwined at the top of a hill bathing in sunlight. In their Sunday best, families admire them from down below, hugging and kissing, smiling. Even the neighbor is there to toast to their health with Salvatore.

  Rosa Maria recalls the vacation in Sicily. Her father watches to be sure that she and her sisters do not go alone into the village to spare them the disgrace. He is kind, attentive, and protective. There is no stopover during the journey from Paris to Turin, the excitement of going, the enthusiasm in Salvatore’s eyes, he sings, and everyone joins in at the top of their lungs, kisses on Angelina’s cheeks, who’s in a good mood, the car packed with gifts for the family, the break in open air, the Italian smells and sky.

  Much later, the boat to Sicily, the local specialties, the mini pizzas, the balls of rice with tomato sauce, a foretaste of the country, the best moment of the trip.

  Once they finally arrive at Aunt Graziella’s house, freshness, calm, rest, the aromas of cooking and delights of the pots, a universe of ancient stones. Without waiting, first her father is going to go meet up with the men gathered at the port by the fish market, then he will spend the greater part of the day at his mother’s place. Antonio is stretched out on a lounge chair in the garden, splendid with his white shirt wide open showing his muscular chest. He squints his eyes to protect himself from the bright sunlight, the head of the Native American shining on his belly. Her big brother is even more seductive in his younger sister’s memories, an icon of purity to whom she attributes the qualities of an angel.

  The burning sensation of the blows on her skin begin to temper. Rosa Maria rediscovers the scorching heat of the unspoiled island, not a building on the horizon and no interstate highways, a succession of little villages scattered all about in nature at the foot of the mountains, exuberant flora in the squelching heat, sand, few trees, palm trees, a strange and unique landscape. Sicily, that other world, Rosa Maria’s blue skies. She sees herself again as a kid walking barefoot on the black lava stones of the pavements and roads, the dazzling light reflected by the white of the houses, the high temperatures that compel you to live at a slower pace and to fully experience each pore of the skin.

  A hamlet on the hillside and in the plains, loving faces of friends from the hood, Rosa Maria is beautiful on Jason’s arm. He is dressed in an elegant light blue linen shirt that allows a glimpse of the beautiful contours of his torso. Margarine embraces her and kisses her
on the lips, Mouloud congratulates his beloved, Rosa smiles, happy to be finally basking in harmony . . . She falls asleep.

  SUNDAY GOES BY smoothly in the modest apartment. Salvatore is smoking, leaning on the windowsill, looking on with a blank stare at the building in front that obstructs his view, a block of cement inlayed with glass squares. He imagines the faces and lives of all the unknown people he’s walked past practically every day over the years with indifference. The family man lives in exile, absent, with nowhere to turn and nothing to hope for, ever since the prospect of returning to the triumphal summers on his native island has come to an impasse with protracted unemployment. He applies himself with each mouthful of tobacco and nicotine he inhales; first the cheeks become hollow when the tips of the lips firmly pinch the tip of the filter, then the burning sensation invades his mouth and his throat before spreading into his lungs. A loner, Salvatore treats himself to these tiny scraps of ephemeral pleasures.

  A couple of feet further down in the kitchen, Angelina is preparing lunch while humming a lullaby. She’s managed to create a bubble in which she can appreciate the calm of the moment after the storm of the previous night and just allow herself to relax.

  Her daughters, still in their nightgowns, are piled onto the sofa in front of the television, laughing every so often while watching their favorite show. They’re not thinking about anything, content and carefree. In the living room, on the big commode, there is a black-and-­white photo of their parents on their wedding day and a print of the three sisters. The portrait of the older brother has disappeared. As a matter of fact, the door to his bedroom is always locked. Angelina still can’t bring herself to move one item in there. The very idea of it breaks her heart. It would be like suffering his death a second time. Hard to believe that in the past, the five-room apartment, bathroom, and separate toilet had completely impressed the couple newly arrived from Italy ready for a brilliant future.