Concrete Flowers

by Wilfried N'Sondé

  —Shit, Rosa, stop complaining, they’re gonna hear you, control yourself for God’s sake! It’s going to be OK, don’t worry, we’ll sort it out with the help of the good Lord. When it’s serious, he understands. And this is serious. I swear, you can’t keep it. We’ll make the appointment together, you’re a minor, I don’t think we’ll have to pay anything, you won’t even need to give your name. The Madonna forgives too, I’m sure of it. I’ll go and pray with you, promise . . . don’t cry like that, shit, let’s go, come on!

  Sonia, protective, takes Rosa Maria in her arms and brings her head against her chest. As quietly as possible, they sob together in the night, both of them lost, voiceless. Some time goes by before Sonia turns out the light. Rosa Maria climbs into the top bunk. Neither of them sleeps, silent in their pain, lulled by the distant echo of car engines on the state highway . . . The death knell has sounded on Rosa Maria’s world.

  AFTER SEVERAL WEEKS of investigations led by Captain Moussa Traoré and Lieutenant Laurence da Silva, the police can finally take action.

  About fifteen residents from project 6000, between sixteen and twenty-one years old, have been arrested in the mist and cold of the early hours of a November morning, without incident, without conflict.

  The echo of the events of the raid, like a whirlwind on Sunday morning, is all everybody’s been talking about for days, in the schools, in the market, at the counter of the betting shop. The regulars at the bar, like Salvatore, rejoice, these little assholes deserved a good lesson, in any event, that would teach them not to go around breaking everything and wreaking havoc. They need to be punished and made to understand the real value of things instead of spending their time loitering. As times passes and glasses keep getting refilled, opinions and proposals keep on coming:

  —To the army, personally, I’d send all these kids to the army, that’d make men of them, real ones, not these little pricks who just do nothing but piss everyone off, these shitty little good-for-nothings!

  In the line at the child welfare office, in the fruit and vegetable aisle, or at the fishmonger’s section in the supermarket, some mothers are worried about the fate of their incarcerated sons. They have a hard time pulling themselves together after the police came barging into their apartments with their heavy-handed search warrants, searching the bedrooms, despite their screams, crying, and pleas.

  Incredulous, they will struggle for a long time with the unbearable memories of the terrorized expressions on their sons’ faces as they were being taken away, handcuffed behind their backs, heads down, in the middle of all these civil servants who forcibly took them in. Hours in police custody, without any reassuring information. During the wait, these mothers vacillate between the worst and the hope that their little ones will return home soon. Anxiety disrupts their sleeping habits and eats away at their hearts.

  New excitement animates the paths of project 6000. Young people brave the November cold to talk, they’re chatting on the benches, some are whispering in the basement.

  It took ten minutes for the plainclothes officers to apprehend the suspects. Some got into the vans, shoes unlaced, pajamas showing under their jackets. They took in the youngest ones.

  In the entrance to Rosa Maria’s building, the heroes of the riot are alarmed and start speculating. Doubt and fear take over, the oppressive feeling that a noose is tightening up. The words are grave:

  —Holy shit, it’s only the guys who were with us that they’ve arrested! The dealer assholes, who sell their poison to the kids, they leave them be, they’re only giving us a hard time! And if the young ones give us up? Serious, they’re all going to come down and take us in one by one, on my mother’s life!

  —Yeah, they’ve really fucked us, they came, they slapped us around and then just took off . . . and now one by one they’re coming to get us . . . I swear they’re doing it when we’re all alone . . . It’s crazy, but personally, fuck this shit, I’m outta here.

  Sitting at the top of the stairs, Mouloud has spent a long time listening to the others, hands still on his knees, legs apart to watch the trickles of his spit, dry clicking his tongue and lips, maybe a little bit more nervous than usual given the tension in the air. He imposes silence by taking the floor:

  —Assholes, shut up. Personally, I’m sure they’re doing this deliberately to get us all riled up . . . and that’s how they’re going to catch us, of course! Come on, think about it for a minute! They’re clever, what are they looking for exactly? . . . I really can’t figure it out.

  Everybody goes quiet, intrigued by the difficulty Mouloud has expressing his ideas, hard to know if he’s speaking to someone or if he’s just thinking out loud.

  At the same time, Sonia opens the door for Rosa Maria. With her hand on Rosa’s back, Sonia follows her movement till she’s inside.

  —Hey, guys, can’t you go hang out somewhere else? You just keep dirtying everything around here with your spit, your cigarette butts, unbelievable, such pigs!

  Sonia’s patience has reached its limit, irritated by the wait at the family planning center with her sister to schedule the abortion, she’s about to implode. She can no longer bear the sight of these lazy boys.

  —Hey, bitch, watch how you talk to us, who do you think you are? Does the building belong to you now or what?

  Sonia becomes tense, ready to jump down someone’s throat. Mouloud steps in and gives a slap to the back of the neck of the teenager.

  —Hey asshole, watch your mouth, yeah, show some respect! We’re gonna take off, girls, don’t worry. You OK, Rosa? You don’t look too good.

  —I am sick, Mouloud, but it’s going to be OK, thanks.

  —No problem, Rosa, I’m here when you’re ready. If you need anything, come and see me, OK, later! I’ll be at the bench in a little while.

  Mouloud leaves the entrance with the others. Sonia and Rosa Maria climb the steps of the staircase to the second floor.

  —What do you and Antonio see in this guy? He’s completely fucked up, have you seen his eyes? It’s because of people like him that he wound up doing stupid things, Antonio. That guy, Mouloud, he followed Antonio everywhere, be careful, Rosa, I am serious!

  —You don’t know him, Sonia, that’s all. He doesn’t talk a lot, he listens, he doesn’t judge people, you know, he’s kind.

  Later on, Rosa Maria meets up with Mouloud sitting on the bench in the early evening darkness. Alone, with his head down, he’s smoking.

  —You cool, Rosa?

  —I dunno. I’m not doing so great, and you?

  —It’s OK, it’s just the cops, they’ve started up again with their pestering.

  He spits a little bit more discreetly than usual so as to not annoy his friend, then he dares:

  —Who got you pregnant, Rosa?

  Suddenly panicked, Rosa Maria raises her head up abruptly, her face veers to bright red in a matter of seconds, her neck has already betrayed her with red blotches of nervousness. Her eyes are rolling at full speed, disaster. She bursts into tears. A long sobbing in her soul, a real ordeal, the failed hope in her belly calls to mind a shipwreck. Of her lover, all that remains is a quiet moan from morning till night. Her chocolate baby, a creation of desire, of flesh and blood, is condemned. The little baby she imagined in her arms on a sandy black beach far away beneath the sun will never see Sicily.

  Rosa Maria is consumed by fear, longing to die, completely confused with her feelings, paralyzed by the impossibility of being able to tell her parents that she gave herself to a black guy who never wanted anything to do with her or their child. It was crazy to imagine that she could have raised it alone, or with Margarine, her best friend, the only one who takes the time to listen to her and offer her tenderness and affection.

  Sometimes when she allows herself to dream again, Rosa Maria loves the feeling of being pregnant, it gives her the courage to face the whole world. When her period was late, at first, she was frightened, but then she prayed to the Virgin Mary. The test confirmed in no uncertain t
erms that a life was blossoming inside her belly, the fruit of her union with Jason. At the time, she’d experienced a strange feeling, a mixture of joy for having achieved such an important moment, of rare beauty, and fear of the unknown.

  Her satisfaction rapidly faded. She already suffers under the weight of the responsibility, alone, with no help before an insurmountable mountain, consumed on a daily basis with sophisticated schemes to hide her condition from the world.

  The young girl has lost sleep from thinking so much and with no way out, a complete shambles in her womb and the nausea that keeps bringing her back to reality. More at ease being discreet, Rosa Maria is afraid of drawing attention to either herself or the baby, getting stares and becoming the target of ridicule and mockery. Even Margarine will reproach her and dissuade her from keeping the child.

  —I can’t take it anymore, Mouloud, I’m at the end of my rope, I feel like dying!

  —Calm down, Rosa, don’t cry like that! Personally, my mother told me . . . you know she comes from a small village . . . it’s in the whites of the eyes that she sees these things . . . You understand? If there’s a kid in a woman’s belly or not . . . When she can take a good look at the shape of the belly, she can even tell you if it’s a girl or a boy . . . Word! At your house, she saw it immediately, that’s why I’m asking you . . . but I’m the only one . . . Don’t worry . . . those other assholes don’t see anything!

  Mouloud pauses to find the right words, feeling emotional and a little bit overwhelmed by the situation, he ventures a remark:

  —You’re a nice girl, Rosa . . . You should have waited to get married before doing it, don’t you think?

  Between two hiccups, Rosa Maria tries to justify herself, with little success. She’s losing control, saddens, scratches her face, her wrists pound on her legs and her chest. Staring off into space, she answers:

  —You know, Mouloud, I loved him for quite some time, with him it was beautiful, like magic . . . and now I don’t know anymore, everything is weird in my head . . . I’m afraid, Mouloud, I’m afraid!

  —Why didn’t you say anything to me, Rosa? I mean, we know each other, I’m like your brother now. Since when have you been going with this guy, who is he? Is it one of those guys from project 6000?

  Mouloud turns toward Rosa and gives her a serious look, almost paternal. She blushes, tears inundate her face, but he still finds her beautiful with her thick black curly hair. Mouloud finds that even with features marked by distress, her face has a unique charm. Sadness gives her a grave and profound air, her eyes sparkle against her pale complexion. With hesitant fingers, he fixes a rebellious strand of hair caught between her lips.

  Mouloud’s question puts an end to the illusions. Rosa Maria returns to being the little shy and shameful girl. Jason had never loved her! He’s no longer the young man she embraced passionately in her dreams above the cliffs in Sicily, between the azure of the skies and the immense blue of the Mediterranean. The one she held, hand in hand as they ran along on the black sandy beach, their feet in the saltwater, before stopping, feeling happy, protected, immersed in love in the shelter of his arms.

  —Sonia’s right, I have to have an abortion . . . It’s better!

  Horrified, Mouloud gets up and grips her by the shoulders:

  —No, no, Rosa, even with your God, you don’t have the right . . . You’ll immediately go to hell, don’t do that! What does your boyfriend think?

  Rosa Maria hesitates to answer. She gathers up her courage, her voice is cold and disturbing.

  —Jason is not my boyfriend . . . We only slept together once at his aunt’s place in block E, the day things heated up in the neighborhood . . . I’m not going out with . . . The baby, he couldn’t care less . . . he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me, he never wanted to have anything to do with me!

  The words of her pain plunge her into long seconds of absence and silence, interrupted by Mouloud’s tongue smacking between his lips. Rosa Maria’s mouth is dry. Her throat too. She sighs, not daring to look at him.

  His friend’s final sentence is causing Mouloud to get angry.

  —Goddamn it, he didn’t respect you! Asshole, son of a bitch, if I get a hold of him, he’s not going to be looking good for a while, I swear, I’m gonna fuck him up . . . Shit, I’ll get him, I swear I will . . .

  Terrified before the fist he’s making tighter and tighter, panicked by the violent impulse transforming Mouloud’s face, Rosa Maria is frightened, starts sobbing again even more intensely, and begs:

  —No, Mouloud, promise me, please, swear to me that you won’t hurt him, promise! It’s not his fault, it was me who wanted it, for a long time. I’m alone. In three days, I’m going to have an abortion, I’m afraid, I don’t know what to do anymore, you gotta help me!

  He calms down and swears on the Koran and on his mother’s life that he won’t ever touch Jason. He’ll do it for her because she’s a nice girl. He’s going to help her get through this, like a big brother.

  The young man’s words calm Rosa down. Relieved, she rests her thick head of hair on Mouloud’s thigh.

  Having had a harsh upbringing, with no tenderness whatsoever, he stiffens a little bit, surprised, not knowing what to do with his hands, suspended in the air. He spits and then places two fingers on the warm nape of Rosa’s neck. She responds with a sigh of relief, her muscles relax from his caress. Mouloud has the impression that Rosa’s skin and black curls come to meet his palm. The atmosphere is pleasant despite the cold, she lays her arms on his legs, lets herself go for a few seconds. Rosa Maria forgets the weight on her shoulders. Mouloud consoles her with affectionate, simple, and new touches. He now has a gentle reassuring voice for Rosa:

  —It’s OK, Rosa, you’ll see, it’s going to be OK, I’m going to take care of it. You’re going to go home, no fighting with the old man, I’m going to take some time and think about what we’re going to do, we’ll get through this, Rosa!

  —Thank you, Mouloud, thank you!

  After four kisses and a tight hug, Rosa Maria heads back home. Mouloud sits alone on the bench close to the football field.

  Once again, his ability to understand is disrupted by distraction and the gravity of the situation. It’s like he’s chasing his own thoughts. This is a delicate matter, it concerns two lives, he’s got to concentrate.

  In his silence, he’s wearing a disturbing expression. Mouloud is having a hard time gathering his thoughts. He’s got to avoid getting angry, that extremely violent tendency he came back with from serving in the military.

  He thinks about his mother, the person he cherishes the most in the world, a distant love with no physical contact since his childhood. She taught him to submit completely to paternal authority and bend over backward to give in to the tiniest of his demands. Her firstborn, and a boy at that, he reigns like a prince in the maternal world, even if every now and then she reprimands him severely when he dares to ask for a little affection. This is the price he has to pay now to one day become, himself, a stern, severe, and respected patriarch.

  His time in primary school had ended pretty quickly with a resounding failure. His parents expected him to reign terror over his sisters and keep an eye so that they were exemplary in their social conduct because the whole family’s honor depended on their virginity for marriage. His school life came down to an overview of learning to read and write. The teaching staff and the head of the school had together decided that his disastrous grades were the result of a neurologically related disorder that exceeded their resources. Furthermore, his behavior was a permanent menace, not only to other students, but also to the teachers. So he was sent home.

  By the time he was legally an adult, he had already accumulated ten years of laziness and didn’t understand much about the world or other people, but he had succeeded at becoming a real nightmare for his sisters and was his mother’s pride and joy.

  The army though had broken his soul. He struggled daily with the painful memories, a very deep trauma.
Episodes from this sad period haunt him even on those days he spends hours sitting alone on the bench. At night, images of defilement poison his sleep. He’s permanently spitting, probably to evacuate repressed impurities. While he has no real friends since Antonio’s death, he’s still pretty well known in project 6000. He and the deceased had formed a rather unusual duo, one always joyous and dynamic, the other awkward, reticent, and quiet. Mouloud had let himself be taken along the path that Rosa Maria’s big brother had carved out.

  Mouloud is thinking about Rosa, whom he’s known forever. He has strong feelings for her, secrets he can’t really explain, just a real desire to be close to her, as much as possible, he wants things to go well for her and nothing bad to happen to her. He appreciates her presence, the girl is so different, always kind, never vulgar. Rosa is the only one who will take fifteen or thirty minutes to keep him company. Sometimes, they don’t even say anything to each other, just sit for a little while next to each other. She dreams, he smokes and spits. And then, Rosa is his buddy’s baby sister, he feels responsible and mutters:

  —It’s about respect!

  How can you help a girl who’s pregnant? Mouloud is focusing. He can’t sleep through the night. He sweats even though it’s cold, his pulse is beating like crazy. Find a solution. She deserves a life like . . . He’s looking for the word . . . Mind-blowing yeah, like when you’re feeling good and your head turns a little bit, just enough, as if there were bubbles inside, like a sickness but that does a lot of good.