A Palace in the Old Village (8 page)

Mohammed laughed for a good long while, then
forgot
about his cousin and his fantastic schemes.

ON SEPTEMBER 5, 1962,
when the chief administrator of the village, the
mokaddem
, dressed all in white, arrived at Mohammed’s house to bring him his passport and inform him with solemn ceremony that in forty-eight hours he would set sail on his great journey,
Mohammed
found it hard to grasp how much time remained before he had to leave the village. The two men drank tea, ate a few honey crêpes, then took formal leave of each other as if that day were the most important one in Mohammed’s life. He showed his wife the precious document: With this, I’ll make you a queen and our son a prince! When she asked him the date of his
departure
, he stammered, Early in the morning. No one slept that night. The women prepared honey crêpes, some dried meat, figs, and dates. Mohammed and the other men who were leaving spent much of the evening in the baths, as if they were getting ready to be married or make a pilgrimage to Mecca. After the dawn prayer, they left the village on foot, then travelled in a rattletrap van to Marrakech, where they took a bus operated by the CTM, the state-run transportation company.

There were twenty men, some of whom came from neighbouring villages. Time was passing so quickly now that Mohammed no longer gave it a thought. He had
become light, agile, and indifferent to time, even though a faint fear of the unknown was peeking over the
horizon
. Actually, Mohammed had lost his bearings. A
veteran
was in charge of the group, an old hand at making this trip.

Remember this carefully, he told them: Wherever you go, whatever work you do, you can count on one thing, that Morocco will never let you go, will always be with you, impossible to forget, because Morocco is
emigrating
with you, following you, guiding and protecting you, sticking to your skin, so you must never get
discouraged
, never hesitate to talk to your compatriots when you feel homesick, and you’ll see, it’s very nice of LaFrance—I say Lalla França and
yes
, I
know
LaFrance is no princess or
sherifa
—to give us work and thus
contentment
. It’s cold there, but it’s cold back home in the winter too; over there, no friends, we’ll always be off by ourselves together, because we’re just guests, people invited in to do the hard work they don’t do anymore, but us, we’re strong, in good health, and we’ll show them that a Berber doesn’t fear cold or snow or fatigue because over there, you’ll see, there’s no time to be tired, and although you’ll hear things from other old hands, don’t listen to them; do your job and stick to that.

Lalla França pays well, but you mustn’t think that on Sunday people will invite you home for dinner—that, no, never, because over there each person is in his house, the door is closed, the windows too, but that’s how it is, period! That’s the way they live: they’ll never come
bothering
you, knocking on your door to ask for some salt or oil, no; that’s not done. Everyone stays home and each to
his own. There’s not much hospitality over there, whereas hospitality is part of our way of life, one of our strengths, and sometimes we overdo it. Our houses are open to strangers—that’s perfectly normal; it’s our morality, our religion, which is why we have such trouble
understanding
why other people don’t behave as we do.

You’ll see, when you arrive you’ll be lost. It’s nothing like our countryside, nothing: climate, faces, landscapes, all different. You’d best get ready to enter a completely unknown world, as if you were in a dream in which we’re no longer ourselves. Over there, you’ll have free medicines and medical care, not like back home where there isn’t even a nurse looking in on you from time to time—of course when I say “free,” that means you cough up part of your paycheck every month, we all do, it’s like we say back home: “Hand in hand and God’s hand above all others.” That’s how the French understand solidarity, and if I weren’t afraid of asking for trouble, I’d say they’re almost Muslims.

And finally, remember: to avoid trouble, don’t mess with politics, stay out of the way, and never intervene in a fight. Respect, respect. They lump Tunisians,
Moroccans
, and Algerians together, to them we’re all Arabs, plus they don’t distinguish between Arabs and Berbers, they know nothing about all that, so pay attention.* LaFrance will never be your country, that’s for sure! LaFrance is LaFrance, a country that’s rich but needs us just as we need it.

The train station was between the beach and the
harbour
, and children were crossing the tracks, making
obscene gestures at the locomotives. Arriving in Tangier in the early morning, Mohammed felt ashamed to be discovering the sea so late in life—a calm sea of limpid blue, transformed into a living mirror by the first rays of the rising sun. Mohammed also felt delighted. No one had ever told him anything about the sea. He’d known that Agadir was a seaside town, but he’d never been there, and now he had time to walk on the sand and even taste salt water. He was twenty and had never dipped a finger into the sea. Behaving like a child, he played with the sand, dabbled in the water, splashed some on his face, in his hair. It was a lovely day. He bought a bottle of Coca from a passing vendor, drank it, then filled the bottle with seawater and took it with him, knowing he couldn’t drink it, keeping it as a souvenir, to remind him of this particular day when he discovered the sea, the entire sea. When his companions made fun of him, he laughed. How could they understand,
especially
when some of them hailed from Casablanca or Bouznika, a little city right on the Atlantic coast?

The crossing was long and rough, thanks to an east wind that came up around noon. In the Spanish port of Algeciras, Mohammed was struck by the number of policemen. They were suspicious and aggressive,
circulating
among the passengers with muzzled dogs at their sides. Occasionally they demanded that certain
suitcases
be opened, and dumped the contents carelessly on the ground. Finding nothing, they’d simply walk away laughing, saying things in which the word
moros
cropped up often.* Mohammed found Spain not much more modern looking than Morocco.

The train trip was interminable: sometimes the
locomotive
sped up; sometimes it stopped dead because of work on the tracks. Mohammed tried in vain to sleep. Walking up and down the corridor, he watched the trees, fields, and houses streaming past. He thought about what their guide had said and prepared himself to live in a country where, no matter what happened, he would be alone. He couldn’t digest the fact that he would not find the tribe waiting for him, the family, the native countryside that was a part of his body and whole being. He sensed that something was leaving him, that the
farther
the train went, the smaller his village shrank and would go on shrinking, until it disappeared. When he thought about his family, their image became blurred; he did not realise that he was passing from one time to another, one life to another. He was changing centuries, countries, customs. He felt as if his head were too small to deal with all that, and he paced like a caged animal. Too many new and unexpected things. Too many changes.

When the train stopped in the middle of some fields, he felt lost and thought back over his life, his small, orderly life, in which nothing special had happened. He’d seen his father and grandfather live that way, so it had been only natural for him to follow suit. He wasn’t the first of his tribe to emigrate, however. Gripped with anguish, he understood that he was becoming an MWA, a Moroccan worker abroad. In time he would become an MRA, a Moroccan resident abroad. Where was the difference? “Resident” sounded better. But the way people looked at you was the same.

Mohammed still remembered precise images from his arrival in France: walls so grey they were almost black; impassive faces; a dense throng walking quickly, saying nothing; the strange smell of dust and stale perfume. People of colour swept the streets and the corridors of the
métro
. There were rich people, and others apparently not as rich, but all of them had cars that looked almost new. Large advertisements displayed scantily clad women; others showed animals praising the quality of washing machines. Mohammed couldn’t figure out what cats and dogs had to do with that. After stepping in some dog shit, he’d suddenly noticed that dogs were everywhere in this country. Why? Back home a dog was obviously an intruder, an animal to be driven away with stones. If a dog or cat walked in front of him while he was at prayer, he felt obliged to start all over again. To a Muslim, an animal is a carrier of dangerous germs, something to be avoided, and anyway there are no dogs in paradise. So this was Lalla França and its strange promise!

Time had engulfed these people, and he found their mystery unfathomable. Where were all these men and women going? Why in such a hurry? Where were their children? Why so many dogs? Why didn’t they chat on the bus or in the
métro
? They ignored one another, read books or newspapers, but absolutely would not talk. He watched them and wondered if they noticed him. No, why would anyone pay attention to him? Was he special in any way? He looked at his face reflected in the
window
of the
métro
car and smiled faintly. At the
Saint-Lazare
stop a huge woman, an African in colourful
clothing, got on with her healthy, laughing baby in a stroller. The child was happy and so was she. Paying no mind to anyone else, she took the boy onto her lap and began breast-feeding him. She was right at home. The other passengers looked on goggle-eyed. The firm and massive breast almost covered the infant’s head! While the baby nursed, the mother talked to him as if she were alone under a tree back in her village. Mohammed envied her freedom. That woman was magnificent. Smiling and at ease. Mohammed began to grin. She looked up at him and said, Welcome to France!

How had she known he’d just arrived? It must have been obvious from his posture, from his worried
expression
. He helped her get the stroller off at her station and walked with her to the exit, where she thanked him with a pat on the back. She was strong; Mohammed was thrown off balance, and now he was lost too, without any idea where he was. He’d come out of the
métro
just to take a little look at the city, to begin making the
country’s
acquaintance. He had to get back on the line going toward Gennevilliers, in the northwestern suburbs of Paris. He studied the
métro
map and felt even more
confused
. When a young man with long hair asked him where he wanted to go, Mohammed showed him a slip of paper with some words on it. He’d thought it was the name of a street, but it was a special housing project for immigrant workers, and on a weekday the place was almost deserted. A middle-aged man walking with a cane asked him grumpily, What are you doing in this country? Look at me: an accident at work, and no money. Go home, at least back there you’ll be with your
folks, your family, whereas here—no family, no wife, no mosque, nothing, work, work, and then the accident! A bad omen, thought Mohammed. The other man went on his way, balancing a big suitcase on one shoulder. A Frenchman showed Mohammed to his room; it was tiny, gloomy, with a low ceiling and walls so thin he could hear his neighbours breathing. The man said, Room 38. Here’s the key, and remember: no women, no trouble, buy a lock or you’ll get robbed. The toilet’s over there, so’s the shower. Okay, Mokhamad, welcome!
Mohammed
later learned that he called all the immigrants Mokhamad. 

WHAT MOHAMMED NOW HAD TO DO
was get to his feet, put away the prayer rug, close up that crack in the wall, stop that gone-crazy clock, and announce to his wife that as of tomorrow he would begin his ’tirement: the end of his working life, a change of habits, a new existence. How could he tell her all that? He’d have to prepare her, find the right tone, simple words. If I sound happy, she’ll be content; if I feel sorry for myself, she’ll be disheartened. It was momentous news. He wasn’t used to talking to her about his work. But what will I do with a new life? he wondered. I really liked the old one. I’d gotten quite used to it, had no gripes; I got up and left for the plant, it was work, that’s all, yet I was fond of that routine, that early morning departure, with my lunch box in my bag. What will a new life be like? Colourful, full of joy? Or dull and cheerless? I didn’t ask for anything. I’m not the type to ask for anything at all. In a pinch I might dare to ask for directions: Where is city hall please thank you very much excuse me for bothering you….

According to his documents, he’d reached the
mandatory
age. Suddenly he remembered that he’d had to add on two extra years for some administrative reason known only to the
mokaddem
back home. Negotiate
with management? Gain two more years of work at the plant? Scrounge around for whatever he could get, even offer to work for less pay, but above all, avoid winding up without any work, any routines. Why forbid a man in good health to work? It was too late now, though, to fiddle with his papers. He might even risk prosecution for having lied. He gave up his idea; he wasn’t the kind to commit fraud. Said not a word to his wife or children.

As usual he rose early, made his ablutions, prayed, donned his overalls, fixed himself some tea that he drank standing up as if he were late, took the lunch box prepared by his wife, and left the apartment, saying, See you tonight. It was seven o’clock. On his way to the
station
, he stumbled two or three times. A small worry kept nagging at him: he should have been sleeping late that day, taking a bath, dressing as if for a holiday,
beginning
his new life. Something inside him was fighting back; he felt that his fate had strayed from the line traced long before, a clear, straight, dignified line. He took the
métro
, recognised some familiar faces, smiled a couple of times, then got off at his usual stop. He sat down on a bench to reflect. What exactly am I doing? I must snap out of this. The plant is over. I can’t handle the assembly line anymore. I’m ridiculous. People will make fun of me. I’ll be a unique case in the history of this plant. No one’s ever seen an employee return to work when he’s been fortunate enough to retire! I’m not even looking to earn any money, I could just be there, be useful in case someone gets hurt or sick; I’d fill in for absentees, be the guy who keeps things going, get set up in an office where
I’d wait for the call to go wherever I’m needed—and that’s something that’s never been done before. The unions would have a fit. They’d label me a troublemaker, say I was nuts. No, I don’t want any problems with the unions, they don’t like it when anyone steps out of line.

Outside the entrance to the plant, Marcel, the union delegate, came over to say how much he envied
Mohammed
in his retirement, having all his time to himself now. Mohammed smiled; he felt like offering to switch places with Marcel, but replied instead that he’d come to settle some administrative issues, that he was glad to have a chance to spend time with his children, whom he hadn’t seen much of as they were growing up. He cranked out a few more empty phrases before thanking Marcel for his kindness. Standing at the big gate, he let the others pass by, stared for a while at the ground, took a last look at the entrance, now completely deserted, and walked away. Mohammed was despondent; he felt so sick at heart that his memory felt stuck in the day he’d arrived in France. He had trouble walking, felt his body collapsing, but he got a grip on himself and went to the nearest café to order a large glass of milk. Sitting at his table, he fiddled with the ashtray piled high with butts, then shoved it away and began to make plans.

He thought about spending a few months in Morocco, to start with, but he wouldn’t act like Hassan, who’d taken advantage of his ’tirement to get himself a second wife—a younger, prettier one, obviously—and had never returned to France. He had promised the new wife to take her to the wonderland across the water, but his courage had failed him, and when his young wife
became pregnant, Hassan was forced by the disapproval of his entire village to move to the city, where he wrote off his first family and his immigrant past, to start all over again in difficult conditions.

To Mohammed, abandoning your loved ones to begin a new life back home could only be the work of Satan, who loves to divide and destroy families. In his tribe that was not done, no: a man never deserted the mother of his children. Mohammed did not look at other women. He lowered his eyes whenever he spoke of his wife. He did not mention her name or pay her compliments or display any tenderness toward her—at least not in
public
. He barely glanced at his daughters, never said, How beautiful you are, my princess! Not like that character in a Lebanese soap opera he’d seen on TV.

Was he going to spend his days in Areski the Kabyle’s café? To do what? Play cards or dominos? He didn’t like either game. Drink beer? Never. Watch TV, follow the races, daydream about those half-naked girls in the American shows? Didn’t interest him. As Mohammed was leaving the café, one of his pals called out to him: It’s my old friend! So, I hear you’re in ’tirement, finally, free at last, can you imagine—they pay you not to work
anymore
, fantastic, no? That’s France! So grateful to us, it’s wonderful, not like back home, where if you get sick, you croak; if you go to the hospital, you have to buy your own medicines and even the thread they sew you up with after an operation, so if you’re lucky, you make it, otherwise you’re done for. Here, you see, you work, and, all right, we don’t make millions, but we earn a good living, and then when you’re tired out they give you your
pension to live on, and you can still go to the hospital. It’s free and first rate too, which is wonderful in this country where there’s racism, as you know, but when you step into the hospital you’re treated like everyone else, no racism—I can testify to that—and besides, when you go for a consultation, what do you see? There’s more blacks and Arabs waiting than Frenchies, you ever notice? Not bad! No racism, plus you don’t pay—
that’s
LaFrance. This country—you’ve got to admit, after all—there’s not just those Le Pen guys here. Hey, let’s drink to that, I’ll buy you a sparkling water! Me—thanks be to God and Mecca—I don’t touch alcohol anymore, but cigarettes, ah, that’s harder, I can’t manage that, so
anyway
, what are you going to do with yourself? Move back home, take a pretty girl as a second wife—you’re allowed, mind you, you can do as you please, and you know, Ammar is over sixty and he’s a father again, got himself a girl and got her in the family way; it’s all legal, but his kids won’t have anything more to do with him, which is tough but his own fault, he should have been more
discreet
about it and above all, not made her pregnant! Well, so long, see you soon. Oh, I forgot to tell you: I opened a little grocery store nearby, I sell everything, stop by to see me sometime!

Mohammed remembered how Ammar’s wife Rahma had taken revenge on him after he abandoned her for that brunette from Agadir. Arriving one day out of the blue with her five children, Rahma passed herself off as his younger sister, moved into the newlyweds’
apartment
, and presented the young wife with a fait accompli. Frightened, the girl ran home to her parents, who
demanded a divorce and damages from the husband; seems he’d forgotten to mention that he was already married. The affair made a huge splash: the polygamous husband had to accept all Rahma’s conditions, and once she was back in France (after beating him soundly
without
leaving any marks), Rahma demanded her own divorce—on the grounds of polygamy! Ammar had been ordered to pay three-quarters of his pension to his wife and children.

Rahma: now there was a strong, capable, determined woman. When the couple were Mohammed’s
neighbours
, people used to say she beat her husband, but it was hard to believe, since in their milieu it was usually the other way round, and Ammar wasn’t the kind to complain and admit to any mistreatment by his wife. Although his pals suspected something, they didn’t dare broach the subject with him, but they could see he was unhappy, listless, in poor shape. Rahma was the one who handled everything; Ammar came home from the factory, ate, and wasn’t allowed to spend the family’s money in bars. She always took charge of his earnings, letting him have only enough to go to the café now and then. Whenever he dared protest, she’d shut herself up with him in their bedroom and whack him with the children’s big Larousse dictionary, and she must have had to buy them a new one, because the first one was a wreck. Physically she was stronger than Ammar, a
peasant
woman unfazed by anything, fearless, sure of herself, forging ahead, sweeping everything from her path. Ammar had thought about a divorce, but it was
complicated
, and besides, it just wasn’t done in his
tribe—Rahma was a distant cousin. No one would have believed him if he’d admitted she beat him, so he kept quiet, submitted, and like all weaklings, ran away instead of standing his ground. He’d thought to get back at her by leaving some money on the kitchen table and taking off, never imagining she would follow him to foil his plan.

Smiling at the idea of the henpecked husband,
Mohammed
began to walk along, staring idly at the sidewalk, with his fists clenched in his pockets, as if following a doctor’s orders to get some exercise. When he thought about his children, he had the feeling he’d lost them. It was more than a feeling: a certainty, a definite certainty. It was as if he’d been pitched into a void, tipped into nothingness like a sack of trash. A sack full of useless junk. There was a dead rat in the sack, rotting away with a dreadful stench. I’m the sack and the rat, Mohammed told himself. I’m the rubble and the rusting iron. I’m the animal no one loves. He saw himself tossed onto a
garbage
dump, tumbling down its side with broken bits of things, old wires, debris, dust, and suddenly—oblivion. He no longer exists. No one thinks of him or wants to see him. He’s at the end of the long road: it’s over. None of his children has come to reclaim him from the dump. Then the rat woke up and scratched Mohammed’s leg, making him jump: it was a plant he’d just brushed by.