Men Don't Cry

by Faïza Guène

  On the day I was setting off on the trip, Big Baba dropped me in front of the school. He had made my mother stay at home. I think he wanted to avoid a scene. I wouldn’t have put it past her to hang on to the back of the coach for several metres, shouting, ‘Give me back my baby!’

  While Monsieur Mounier was busy counting the children, Big Baba gave me a kiss and said, ‘Be sensible. Eat properly. Say your prayers. Don’t make too many friends. One or two is enough. And telephone your mother.’

  I had a lump in my throat as I left the hospital. A small mean voice inside my head whispered: ‘Imagine that’s the last time you’ll see him.’ But I tried to get rid of it.

  I trudged back into the house with a sense of having abandoned my father. My mother had ironed, folded and packed my clothes in my suitcase. The same one I’d used for the school trip to the mountains when I was 11. She had also done copious amounts of cooking, the results of which she’d wrapped in foil for the journey. Food, lots of food. Same as always.

  ‘Maman! I’m not travelling from Nice to Paris by camel! I don’t need all this, you know! You’ve made enough for an army!’

  ‘God forgive me, but why do I have such ungrateful children?! Mourad, you’re going to kill me! Couldn’t you simply say, “thank you”?’

  ‘Thank you, Maman!’

  ‘I went to a great deal of trouble!’

  ‘I know, Maman, I’m sorry. Thank you very much!’

  ‘A little recognition wouldn’t come amiss! We break our backs and what do we get for it? Criticism!’

  ‘Thanks, Maman, you’re the best mum in the whole wide world!’

  ‘And now you’re making fun of me, eh…? Stop teasing me! Tfffou!’

  I kissed her on the forehead and she smiled. Her sense of sacrifice weighs me down, but it amazes me too. Then she burst into tears. Again.

  ‘Come on, Maman, cheer up!’ said Mina, laughing and hugging her. ‘Your son has grown up! He’s a man now, he’s not a baby any more!’

  ‘You’re laughing because you don’t understand what I’m feeling!’

  ‘Oh yes I do, I’ve got children too, remember, so of course I understand!’

  ‘It’s not the same! My God! El kebda, el kebda!’

  El kebda literally means liver, as in the organ. Symbolically, it represents a mother’s attachment to her children.

  I imagine my mother’s liver to be bloody and tender. I worry I’ll never love as much as she does.

  ‘Allah commanded us to honour our parents! And the mother in particular! Do you see my foot? Well, paradise lies below it for you! And that’s a promise from God!’

  We need at least the prospect of paradise to survive this world down below with a glimmer of hope. Promises from God are the only ones I believe in.

  Paris

  It was the first time I was catching a plane to anywhere that wasn’t Algiers, and I felt underwhelmed. I’m sure plenty of people would have been deliriously happy in my place; 12A, window seat, about to take off for the most beautiful city in the world.

  I ate a tuna brik made with love by my devoted mother while counting my blessings that I wasn’t spending €5.90 on a vegetarian club sandwich. When it comes to low-budget airlines, there’s nothing included in the price – apart from the ticket.

  I tried to relax as a lanky air steward demonstrated the safety procedures. In his head, he was already giving it his all on Broadway or wherever. He pulled on the cords of his safety jacket rather flamboyantly for my tastes. Given the instructions only apply in the event of an imminent crash, I’m not sure I can see panicked passengers slipping on their life jackets as elegantly as that before nosediving into a cornfield.

  Not that anyone listens to the instructions anyway.

  Sitting to my right, aisle-side, was a girl who looked no more than 20. There was an empty seat between us.

  ‘Excuse me!’ she said, just before take-off, ‘Seeing as, like, no one’s sitting in the middle, can I put my jacket and handbag there? You wouldn’t mind would ya?’

  I didn’t mind. Or not yet.

  She was chewing gum noisily and blowing large bubbles, which she popped with the tip of her tongue.

  Her outfit was self-conscious: diamante encrusted everything, bright red nails and lips, too blond, lots of lace and frills. I didn’t say vulgar. Or not yet.

  ‘Whatcha reading?’

  I was trying to re-read The Grapes of Wrath, and I wasn’t keen on this conversation opener. I go by the motto: ‘if my book is open, your mouth is closed’.

  ‘Er… It’s the story of a family in exile in the United States in the Thirties…’

  ‘Is it? I like reading too. I’m more into magazines, though. I read all of them: Voici, Oops, Closer, Public, Shock, Interview. It’s nice to know what’s going on, yeah…?’

  ‘…’

  ‘You’re not much of a chatterbox, are ya? D’you want some gum?’

  ‘That’s kind, but no thanks…’

  ‘I’ll be honest, yeah – I always say what I think – you should take one; it stinks of tuna ‘round here.’

  ‘Ah… Sorry.’

  ‘Go on! They’re sugar-free.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What are you planning on doing in Paris, then?’

  ‘I’ll be working there.’

  ‘Oh yeah? As what?’

  ‘I’m a newly qualified teacher. It’s my first posting.’

  ‘I bet you’re a French teacher!’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I mean, it’s not hard to guess, seeing as you’re holding a book! School was, like, so not my thing!’

  Not her thing. Am I surprised?

  ‘Relaaaaax. You’re well uptight. It’s all good, I’m not tryna flirt with you. You’re not my type. I’m not into eggheads, such a snooze-fest. And I don’t go for chubby guys either.’

  Chubby? Me? I’m starting to feel annoyed here. But I’m too polite to bury myself in my book again and ignore her silly peroxide remarks.

  ‘Right… fine. Well, at least that’s clear. And what are you going to be doing in Paris?’

  ‘You won’t even believe this, but, like, you might be sitting next to a future celeb! No lie, I auditioned for Betrayal Season 5 and I’ve got a recall! I’m dying, I’m just so pumped. Going on telly! Being famous! It’s beyond unreal, it’s been my dream for like forever!’

  Without wanting to judge her, some people have microscopic dreams.

  ‘The first programme in the new series goes out live on TF1 next week! Can you believe it?!’

  ‘I’m sorry, you’re going to think I’m a bit of an ‘egghead’ here, but what is Betrayal?’

  ‘Are you being serious?’

  She burst out laughing and it sounded like a tube of confetti going pop.

  ‘Yes, I’m serious!’

  ‘Oh em gee, what? Like, what? What rock have you been living under? Have you not got a TV or something?’

  I wish I’d had the nerve to explain a few things to her.

  Listen close, blondie, though what I’m about to say may reverberate inside the hollow space between your ears until you can’t sleep at night. It may echo louder than a mountaineer shouting on the rooftop of the world: ‘Ha-llooo, is there anybody out there?’

  You’ll never understand my universe! It runs parallel to yours, no, make that perpendicular. Don’t you fret, we do have a telly, but our telly is tuned 24/7 to Nilesat, and the news reads at the bottom the screen from right to left. And as for your stories of ‘Betrayal’, well, there’s enough of it in real life! So what do you say to that, you half-baked sex-shop mannequin?

  ‘But yeah, definitely your future students are gonna know it! Basically, it’s a TV show, all the contestants live in a house together for 16 weeks, and then everyone’s divided into two groups: the betrayers and the betrayed. In each group, there’s a leader who’s like the strategic master, and each week the public votes for one of the groups. You can win the jackpot of 200 grand plus th
ere’s personal cash prizes and stuff… If I do well, I could pay off my mum’s debts. She’s not even sure she’ll live to clear them, poor thing, she has breast cancer and that, and it’s all mad scary!’

  I felt a fool. I’d jumped to hasty conclusions about the poor girl.

  ‘Cos back in her day, women took off their bras and, like, burned them. Now she’s 50, she’s practically never had proper support for her boobs so obvs she only goes and gets a stupid tumour. When I saw the mammogram, I almost screamed. It was like she had a ping-pong ball right in the middle here! I’m planning to speak about it live on camera cos the prod team told me it’d, like, totally swing the points my way.’

  Then again, maybe not. My judgement was less wide-of-the-mark than I’d feared.

  The expression ‘selling your own grandmother’ sprang to mind.

  She didn’t stop jabbering in my ears, which were already buzzing from the air pressure. Can silicone resist altitude? I wondered, as I stared at her.

  Trouble was, I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt her in full flow. That’s my upbringing for you: we never get over it.

  My mother used to have a friend called Gisèle who did door-to-door sales to pay the bills at the end of the month. After her husband died, she would go everywhere with her Tupperware boxes and frying pans. Each time she bumped into my mother in the street, or in the mini-market, she would waylay her for hours. If she wasn’t complaining about her meagre pension, she was trying to offload the Tupperware and saucepans. Mina, who doesn’t mince her words, encouraged my mother to give Gisèle the cold shoulder.

  ‘Maman, I was beside myself with worry! Where were you?’

  ‘I ran into Gisèle…’

  ‘Is your wheelie-bag empty? Look, this is beyond a joke! You went out to do your shopping at the market and you’ve come back with an empty wheelie-bag?’

  ‘By the time I’d finally got there, all the stallholders had packed up. There was just the Chinese man selling lighters.’

  ‘Gisèle’s out of order! You’ve got to tell her, Maman!’

  ‘The poor woman lives all by herself, she’s needs someone to talk to.’

  ‘Fine, let her talk to someone, but someone…else!’

  ‘Meskina, I feel sorry for her. It’s not easy for her.’

  ‘Come on, you’ve listened to her for hours on end, you’ve bought millions of saucepans and plastic boxes from her! The kitchen cupboard’s full to overflowing!’

  ‘You don’t know what it feels like to grow old alone!’

  ‘Nor do you!’

  My mother’s criteria for taking pity on people were random and subject to change.

  One day, she might say about the Roma, ‘Look at those gypsies! They beg in the cold with their babies! It’s scandalous. Some of them even chop off their arms for the money! Tfffou!’

  And the next day, ‘The citizens of Nice have no heart! Those poor travellers are driven out wherever they go! If only someone would give them a job, they wouldn’t have to ask for money in the streets!’

  But my mother is also a very generous woman, who reflects the spread she lavishes on her own table.

  She’s always said, ‘Those who eat well have warm hearts!’

  When it came to the July ritual of our holidays to Algeria, we always ended up with excess baggage, despite the 30-kilo luggage allowance. Every year, my mother would cart along a tonne of presents and then put on a show of surprise at the weigh-in.

  ‘Yéééé, 13 kilos excess? I don’t believe it! There’s something wrong with your scales! That can’t be right! My suitcases weren’t over when I weighed them at home!’

  ‘Madame, your suitcases are so heavy you could have put a corpse in there.’

  ‘So, you like to make jokes, my son, that’s a good sign. Tell me… you’re Algerian, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, Madame, I’m French…’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t have Berber ancestors? You look Kabyle to me.’

  ‘This isn’t the first time someone’s tried that approach, Madame! And it won’t get you out of paying the excess. You need to go to the counter on your right, by the bureau de change.’

  ‘Please, my boy. Look, these are just small presents for the family; skirts, deodorants, underwear…’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do about it…’

  ‘Last time, it was a Moroccan girl in your place, and she let our suitcases through without making us pay.’

  ‘That’s against the rules, I’m afraid … I’m simply obeying orders.’

  ‘Simply obeying orders, eh? With an attitude like that, I bet members of your family tortured members of my family!’

  ‘I’m being professional, Madame, I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘But it’s unkind! Making people pay isn’t a job!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Madame. To your right, please.’

  ‘Right? Far right, yes! Racist!’

  Anyone who didn’t agree with her was automatically a racist.

  My father nudged her with his elbow. ‘Be quiet! Do you think you’re at the fruit and veg stall? Stop haggling. Let’s just pay. Why do you put us through the same song and dance every year?’

  My mother eventually gave up, adding the habitual ‘Tfffou!’ under her breath as we headed over to the office to settle our excess baggage bill.

  She would spend the whole summer handing out those presents: clothes, bottles of perfume, shoes, and toys for the children. All the items she had managed to stockpile from doing the markets weekend upon weekend, month after month.

  Sometimes, when she’d already given everything away, we’d receive a visit from an unexpected guest, prompting her to rush into the bedroom in a panic and grab something from our belongings.

  ‘Maman, have you seen my football shirt?’

  ‘Have another look in the blue suitcase. You’re talking about the shirt for the team that loses all its matches, right?’

  ‘Maman, d’you know where my purple dress went?’

  ‘You’re sure you didn’t leave it behind in Nice? Anyway, it makes you look fat.’

  ‘Where’s my striped shirt?’

  ‘Which one, Abdelkader? They’re all striped!’

  My father gave her a hard time for setting off with suitcases full to bursting and returning home, as he put it, without a stitch on our backs.

  After we’d touched down in Paris, a television crew appeared at the arrival gates to welcome my neighbour from 12C. The crew comprised a journalist with her sound engineer and cameraman. The aspirational girl from Nice looked instantly at ease when the microphone was thrust in her direction; she was taking her role as a future reality TV star very seriously. Like a discounted Marilyn Monroe showering in the light, she blew kisses to the camera, her acrylic nails narrowly avoiding scratching her nose. Of course, she’d watched her idols do this on repeat. A few curious travellers began to stare and wonder: ‘Is she famous?’

  I even saw a man trying to take her photo on the sly.

  A little further off, I recognised my own personal welcoming committee: a young Algerian who’d emptied a pot of extra-strong-hold hair gel over his head – cousin Miloud.

  The Fly in the Coffee

  ‘Havva good trip? Not too tired?’

  Miloud’s accent was much less pronounced than the last time I’d seen him.

  I hardly recognised my cousin. This wasn’t the same person I’d left behind in Algiers, the one who got out of bed in the morning and washed his eyes in his own spit.

  ‘Come on, Mourad! The car’s over that way!’

  Miloud insisted on carrying my suitcase as we crossed the underground car park. Even his physique had changed: he seemed fitter, more muscular. Close-shaven, he gave off a whiff of fruit juice. My cousin was wearing a brand new electric-blue leather jacket and his shoes gleamed under the neon lighting.

  ‘So you think I’ve changed, eh? Wait! You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!’

  He turned abruptly to face me, flashing a broad smile. ‘
I got new teeth!’

  ‘Wow! Bsahtek!’

  ‘You’d think they’re real, right?’

  ‘Nice work!’

  ‘German dentist, in the 8th arrondissement.’

  Of course, I should’ve spotted them straight off. His teeth!

  In his youth, Miloud had hung out on the cafeteria terraces of Algiers. He had acquired a taste for ‘presse’; strong coffee served in a tiny tea glass, which he could sip at for hours. A smoker of counterfeit Winstons from the age of ten, alongside his presse he chain-smoked cigarettes, to the point of feeling nauseous. End result: by the time he was 30, he possessed the teeth of a dying camel. Admittedly, he’d always been good-looking, but his new teeth gave him much more bite.

  When Miloud took the car key from his pocket and activated the remote unlock, I couldn’t hide my astonishment.

  ‘That’s your car, Miloud?’

  ‘Yep! That’s my car! C-Class Merc, SportLine Saloon! J’dida! Fresh from the showroom!’

  ‘Bsahtek! Did you win at EuroMillions, or what?’

  ‘Nearly, cuz. Nearly.’

  Still, you couldn’t stop Miloud from hanging his prayer beads or road-toll vignette, in the colours of Barcelona FC, from the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Come on, I’m Algerian, you know we’d die for the Spanish league! We can’t change our nature!’

  As we drove along, I had no idea where my cousin was taking us. But it looked increasingly unlikely that we were headed for the young migrant workers’ hostel I’d been expecting.

  The shrill female voice from the Sat Nav got straight to the point. Destination: Home – 17, Rue Michel-Ange, 16th arrondissement, Paris.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable, cuz.’

  ‘That’s not difficult!’

  On the comfort-front, this was a far cry from Big Baba’s Renault 11 Turbo.

  Miloud switched on his state-of-the-art CD player while overtaking every other vehicle on the motorway.