Men Don't Cry

by Faïza Guène

  As for Mehdi Mazouani, he stood out as a lone wolf. They’re an odd species but I can spot them straight away. I’m similar, but in the lamb version.

  Of course, he made a show of leaving. He walked slowly, knowing I’d call him back, banking on it even.

  ‘Mehdi, you’re staying with me for a minute!’

  He was staring indifferently at his fingers, which were covered in Tippex.

  ‘I’ll level with you: I don’t want to carry on like this for the rest of the year.’

  ‘True dat. Don’t wanna be here neither.’

  ‘Really? So you want to leave school?’

  ‘Yeah, fam. This place does my head in.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘Dunno. Man aint decided yet.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s stupid.’

  ‘You calling me stupid?’

  ‘I think it’s stupid throwing your life away like this.’

  ‘Like do I even givva-shit? S’cool, my life’s trashed, wesh.’

  ‘What makes you say that? You’re only 15!’

  ‘You for real, sir, with all the questions?’

  His use of ‘sir’ hadn’t slipped my notice.

  ‘Yes, I’m for real.’

  ‘You blatantly have not met my old man.’

  ‘No, I haven’t yet had that pleasure.’

  Pleasure? Raaah! I’m not here to tell you my lifestory, you get me. So, you gonna rat on me, or what? I’ve seen the bigman four times since Monday so, like, do I even givvashit?

  ‘No, I’m not going to report you, but we’re going to make a pact, you and I. You may not want to be here, but plenty of students are keen to attend my lessons. So from now on I want you to behave calmly in my classroom, please, and then I won’t ask too much of you.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, calm.’

  ‘Agreed? Can I count on you?’

  ‘It’s caaaalm, man. Hey, your whip gets ratings! C Class, sir! Leather seats! That is claaass.’

  I thought of the expression, ‘Necessity knows no law’.

  If I ask the minimum of him, and this leads to peace, perhaps he’ll want to give a bit more?

  We’ll see what happens, I reflected, but for now… like do I even givva-shit?

  Stand By Me

  Hélène had invited me over to dinner at hers.

  ‘Are you familiar with the centre of Aubervilliers?’

  Not exactly. I mean, it was the banlieue, right?

  I was reacting like someone born and bred in the 16th arrondissement.

  This marked the second time in my life that a girl had asked me out.

  The first time was the last night party of our school ski trip. My primary school teacher, Monsieur Mounier, had persuaded a girl in my class called Rita to do a slow dance with me.

  ‘Come on, Rita!’ he’d said. ‘Be nice! Go and ask him! He’s shy!

  ‘Naaaaah, not him…! Embarrassing or what? He’s a homesick cry-baby, sir, he doesn’t even know how to ski! He’s scared of falling into a hole!’

  We danced the slow together, but you can bet Rita didn’t look at me, not once. All she did was puff out her cheeks and sigh. It was Stand By Me by Ben E. King. Sighing should be banned during Stand By Me.

  Unfortunately, Hélène wasn’t planning a romantic date for the two of us, but a relaxed dinner for a few of the teachers. The ‘nice bunch’ having a get-together. I wasn’t sure if she counted Gérard as ‘nice’, and I hadn’t pressed for further details, but I decided to buy chocolates and flowers anyway. Hélène had texted me her address. ‘Remember, work is off-limits!’ she added, cheekily.

  I arrived early, like those social misfits who turn up at 7.30 ‘to lend a hand’ even though you invited them for 8pm. The truth was, I was hoping for some quality time with la belle Hélène.

  But I hadn’t factored in Gérard, the monster social misfit, who must have turned up at 7.20. He was already sitting on the sofa, champagne glass in hand.

  Hélène gave me a peck on both cheeks, and it felt a bit like when old ladies who still wear make-up leave the traces of their crime, in the form of pink smears, on the faces of young kids.

  ‘Wow! Flowers! I’m being spoiled! They’re gorgeous! And what’s that? Chocolate? Heck, Mourad! My diet!’

  She was laughing.

  ‘Gérard’s already here. Go on, make yourself comfy. What can I pour you?’

  ‘Water, please.’

  Obviously, I took off my shoes, which left me completely out of breath. Like a post-coital rabbit.

  ‘Hey, so it’s the boy from Nice! It wasn’t too complicated for you finding this place?’ asked Gérard.

  He’d started up again with his stupid questions.

  Hélène’s apartment was cute as a button. On the sitting room table was a lilac tablecloth, candy pink curtains at the windows, candles everywhere and little bronze Buddhas. Naturally, the bookshelves were crammed to overflowing with books, most of them in English editions.

  I was already under Hélène’s spell, but I fell in love with her the moment I saw her bookshelves.

  Gérard polished off his glass.

  ‘Adorable place, right?’

  ‘Yes, very.’

  ‘Is this your first time here?’

  ‘Yes. What about you?’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no…’

  He said ‘no, no, no’ with a knowing air.

  You’d think he was about to give me a guided tour or show me where the toilets were. He was clearly making the point that he had been enjoying privileged access for some time. Who did he take himself for? The landlord?

  Caroline, the thin-lipped art teacher, arrived, followed by Wilfried, the long-term supply teacher, Claude, the History and Geography teacher, Sabine, Head of Year, and Simon Moulin, the Music teacher.

  They all kept their shoes on. I felt stupid in my sports socks.

  Claude opened the hostilities with his ‘dumbing down’ debate.

  ‘I’m sorry, but we’re not here to do the parents’ job for them! Adopting a social worker approach means dumbing down our subjects. It’s not our job to raise those kids. I waste a crazy amount of time asking them to be quiet, to sit properly, to calm down. And when I’m not doing that, I’m filling out student disciplinary action forms, sorting out their quarrels and sending code of conduct letters to their parents!’

  ‘It always comes back to this!’ sighed Hélène. ‘Of course we’re not paid to do the parents’ job for them… but discipline is part of the deal, Claude! Remember, they’re 14, they’re only kids, after all… They need us to help establish boundaries, and it’s only normal we should do that! Right, Gérard?’

  “Authority’s innate, you’ve either got it or you haven’t – that’s my take on it! No need to keep proving you’re strong. If the kids sense you’re the strongest, they’ll respect you. There’s no secret method.’

  ‘All right, but we’re not in a gulag either, so outbursts are inevitable… Sorry, but we all know the torture of the last lesson on a Friday afternoon. They’re over-excited, and so are we. Everyone’s exhausted, it’s the end of the week, and we all want out – they’re not stupid, they sense it…. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a pointless hour in the timetable, I’m just marking time, if I’m honest!’

  Caroline listened carefully and her cheeks turned red as she ate her salad.

  ‘I’m with you, Hélène,’ she declared, putting her fork down. ‘The hardline disciplinarian approach doesn’t do it for me. I think we can be sensitive to their anger, to how tired they’re feeling, to their personal problems, and we can be respected for doing so. They understand that we’re helping them to establish boundaries…. Quite a few of my students stay behind at the end of my lessons, to have a chat, to confide in me…’

  ‘Sure, and that’s why you miss all your breaks! You’re not the school counsellor, you know!’

  ‘No, Gérard, I’m not the school counsellor, but we need to engage at this level! What role are teachers meant to p
lay today? More is being asked of us, for sure. But it’s not just about beating them over the head with learning objectives!’

  ‘That’s easy enough for you to say! You toss some paper and a box of coloured pencils their way, they draw you a rainbow, and you can go home happy, job done.’

  There was a general protest of ‘Woooaaah!’

  ‘That was out of order! What’s with knocking creative subjects?’ asked Simon the Music teacher. ‘I thought we were done with woolly thinking! Creativity is essential for personal development, and you know it! We’re opening their minds.’

  ‘Spot-on! Contrary to what you may think, Gérard, I don’t just ‘toss’ them a box of coloured pencils every lesson. And yes, of course I find it rewarding to talk to them about Kandinsky, and get them out of Montreuil to visit an art gallery or a museum. You do realise most of them have never set foot in one? They’ve got no idea what an exhibition is!’

  ‘Those parents couldn’t care less about their kids going to exhibitions! They want us to teach them how to read and count! End of! If we manage to cover the curriculum basics, that’s already a result! So my point is… if getting them to listen to rap in their lessons isn’t dumbing down, Simon, I don’t know what it is!’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I get them to listen to rap? Encouraging them to approach it differently, and to analyse the music rigorously, is highly beneficial. And if I were teaching in the centre of Paris, I’d do exactly the same!’

  ‘So what kind of deeper analsyis do you recommend for Nique ta race, bitch?! Are you calling that music?’

  ‘There you go! Wham-bam! The usual clichés about rap! You remind me of my grandfather who used to tell my dad that rock wasn’t music! Stop playing the old fogey! It doesn’t suit you.’

  Personally, I thought it fitted Gérard like a glove.

  Claude picked up the conversation and his wine glass too.

  ‘It’s true, for fuck’s sake! Where’s the sense? We make promises we can’t deliver on… I’ve been teaching in the 93 postcode for 20 years and, let me tell you, I’ve seen reform after reform implemented, but I haven’t witnessed a single miracle! My former students, and I’m talking the lucky ones here, are either Carrefour megastore security guards, or sports shop retail assistants! While the girls are receptionists, if they’re easy enough on the eye. And I’m not even talking about the ones I see hanging out at the PMU on rue de Paris all day long, blowing their benefits on scratchcards and Rapido down the betting shop!’

  Hélène stood up and brought over the roast chicken.

  ‘Right, gathering of the great disillusioned, are we done with our 15 minutes’ worth? Wilfried, can you carve, please?’

  I ate in silence, frightened someone might ask me for my view.

  Naturally, Gérard was in no mood to spare me.

  ‘What about you, new kid on the block! What’s your view, eh, seeing as you’ve just started out? Landed with a bump?’

  ‘Er… not really. I went in with no prior knowledge, and I’m learning on the job. I don’t subscribe to a particular method, I just try to keep an open mind and to work with what I’ve got.’

  ‘So you’re going with the flow, right? You’re improvising?’

  ‘A bit, yes, of course. I don’t have any choice. There are days when I walk into my classroom and I feel like a liontamer entering the cage. Something’s playing out between them, you have to go with your instincts…’

  ‘Ha ha! That’s a good one! The lion tamer theory! Haven’t heard that before! Then again, I’m all for bringing back the cane…’

  Sabine, Head of Year, raised an eyebrow at Gérard.

  ‘What are you playing at, Gégé? What’s with this reactionary ‘back to basics’ stuff?’

  ‘It’s not reactionary! Excuse me, but I’ve clocked up 25 years of teaching experience here!’

  ‘Bloody hell, you communists all age so badly!’

  Everyone laughed, except Gérard, who poured himself another glass of wine. He was more frustrated than me and, let me tell you, it takes some doing to beat a virgin of my age in the frustration stakes.

  Hélène served up the chicken and suggested we switch topics. Everyone appeared to agree.

  ‘Have you heard about Emilie Boulanger?’

  ‘That mousey kid with the big boobs in Year 8?

  ‘Why? What’s up with her?’

  ‘She’s got a bun in the oven! I had a meeting with her mum this afternoon…’

  ‘Emilie Boulanger! But she’s only 13!’

  ‘You’re kidding? When do they start these days? In Year 4?’

  ‘These are the times we’re in! Get with the programme!’

  ‘That said, the poor kid was already a 34B last year!’

  ‘You’ll see why if you meet the mum! The lights are but no one’s at home!’

  ‘Sabine, that’s cruel!’

  ‘What a bunch of gossips we are!’

  They clucked like hens, and it wouldn’t have taken much for them to start laying eggs.

  I concluded that the only reason teachers chose to work in secondary schools was out of nostalgia for when they were 14.

  I was the last person to leave Hélène’s apartment.

  ‘You in a hurry?’ she asked.

  I was struggling to put on my pair of electric-blue All Stars, with my head pressed against the hallway wall.

  ‘Well, er, yes, kind of… I… er…it’s a bit of a journey.’

  ‘Sure thing, too bad I guess…. Good night, Mourad, and thanks for the flowers….’

  How much of a saddo can I be?

  But it was Hélène’s fault, too! What had come over her, suddenly inviting me to stay on like that? She’d looked sort of flirtatious and her voice had sounded husky. I mean, it’s not like I give off a Casanova vibe. So what’s with scaring a celibate young man? That flirty voice was a bad idea, I’ve never felt so blocked in all my life.

  I was so angry with myself I felt like slamming my head against a wall until my brains spilled out.

  Miloud would have been in there like a shot. Staying over is more his style; lounging about the apartment the next morning in his underwear and eating the remains of the cold chicken for breakfast.

  With all the wisdom of his 15 years, Mehdi Mazouani wouldn’t have held back either. Wesh wesh, I’m in no rush! I aint got nuttin’ else to do, you get me. Why don’t you strip off dem trousers, yeah? You were bare on it, like a jezzy – proper leadin’ me on an’ dat, so show man how it’s done – cos I aint gonna bust my balls. The truth is, anybody else would have seized the occasion.

  I needed to walk off the embarrassment. Wafts of urine and roasted chestnuts rose up from the métro, hanging in the night air of Aubervilliers. A few men were smoking in front of a bar and speaking in Arabic: it could have been one of those Egyptian films from the 1970’s, where the actresses wake up in the morning with their faces already heavily made-up. My mother can’t get enough of them.

  A Chinese working-girl was leaning against a bollard in front of a Western Union branch. Behind her was a poster of a young Indian girl writing in her school exercise book. Underneath the photo: Uniting people with possibilities: the fastest way to send money – worldwide.

  If I’d had the guts, I’d have gone over to that sad Chinese girl with her bandy legs planted in the tarmac. I’d have asked if she was all right and she probably wouldn’t have answered me, just named her price, miming with her hands as she stared into the distance, a worried look in her eyes, as if she were being watched from the other side of the main road.

  I’d follow her into the first sleazy hotel. The stairwell would smell rank, of vinegar maybe. She’d climb the stairs two at a time with those bandy legs, and in the bedroom she’d take off her fake rabbit fur jacket, followed by her lace blouse. In spite of everything, and even though I’d be thinking of Hélène and keeping my eyes shut tight, I wouldn’t be able to do it.

  After a few minutes, the Chinese girl, bored of waiting half-naked, while I sa
t on the mattress with my failed manhood, would offer up a few insults in her language as she got dressed again, before heading out and leaving me there like a prize moron.

  In the cold Aubervilliers night, the working-girl with bandy legs kept staring into the distance, gazing at some invisible point. Perhaps she was having painful thoughts about everything she’d left behind in her province of Liaoning, about her ailing parents, or her scarcely-weaned infant…. Yes, thinking about it, she looked over 30. Was she a mother already? Just the thought made me feel ashamed, I don’t like mixing categories. Have I got a problem?

  I flanked the walls and corrugated iron hoardings where a few notices had been fly-posted.

  Marcel Désiré Bijou, eminent preacher of Kinshasa, promises to deliver the secret of eternal light, on Sunday 6th December at three o’clock, in the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Absolute Faith, in Nanterre.

  With a name like that, Marcel Désiré Bijou must have a mother who’s even more overbearing than mine.

  What with his sharp suit in white and mauve, teamed with a matching hat, I was picturing his umbilical cord in real leather or solid gold.

  Why lie about it? My mother would never appreciate a girl like Hélène. Just as she’d never appreciate any other girl either. At that price, I might as well get castrated. With a bit of luck I’d be taken on as a eunarch in a Turkish hammam.

  The light in the grand living room was on when I arrived back at Liliane’s. Had Mario forgotten to turn off the lights? Impossible, I thought, Mario never makes a single mistake!

  It was almost 2am and I found Liliane, in her green satin dressing gown, reduced to tears in front of the large mirror above the mantelpiece. She kept touching her face, as if checking everything was still in the right place.

  ‘What’s the matter, Liliane? Is something wrong?’