Harraga (10 page)

‘Now, here’s the deal. Tomorrow, I’ll take you for a check-up, we need to know what’s in that belly of yours. Then we’re going to get rid of these frills and fripperies you’re wearing and get you a wardrobe more appropriate for an expectant mother. And we need to think about the baby too, whether it’s a boy or a girl, it’s going to need a cot and some baby clothes.’

‘And a bottle, a bonnet, nappies, a rattle, some . . .’

‘We’ll make a list. Thirdly, and this will be the hard part, you’ll have to lead a healthy lifestyle: wholesome food, lots of exercise, lots of rest. And a little reliability.’

Over dinner, we drew up a list of baby things. The longer we sat at the table, the longer the list grew. We talked about colours. Unable to choose between pink and blue, we decided white would fit the bill. Before it’s even born, this baby is costing the earth and creating problems. But, well, you treat people according to their merits and this child had already tugged at my purse strings and my heart strings, there was no going back now. Never forget that children are the oldest and most expensive joy in the world.

Today was truly one of those auspicious days for which Algiers is famous.

What a wonderful moment, I could already see myself going gaga!

Suddenly I felt a flash of pain. An association of ideas, a call to order, a warning to be cautious? I was besieged by memories of Louiza, my foster sister, my beloved little Carrot. What morgue does she live in now?

We were no older than our dolls

We dreamed our dreams of wonders

Eternity cupped us in its hands

In a world filled with enchantment

Little noticing

Little realising

We died

Walled up alive

Such is the law

Allah be praised

And may they rot in hell

The Defenders of Truth!

I scrawled this in my splenetic notebook, one day when loneliness had the acrid taste of poison.

That night we laughed until we cried. I was liberal with the jokes, with the Turkish delight, thinking this was a good way to coax the little runaway’s secrets from her. By midnight, she was doubled up in stitches, her cheeks streaked with tears she was too tired to wipe away. Mustafa, Louis-Joseph-Youssef, Carpatus, Daoud Ben Chekroun excelled themselves – I could see them sniggering in their graves. I tore Mourad off a strip, the silly man, him and his tales of proletarian bus stations and university halls of residence. Ending with a flourish, I put Bluebeard in the dock and accused him of comical crimes of my own invention.

All that remained was to steer the conversation to get her to open up.
The trick is to begin with ‘I’ve never told anyone this, but . . .’ to bait the hook and then pass the baton, ‘What about you, what did you do and with whom?’ It’s essential to recognise the perfect moment, to create an expansive mood, nurture the urge to talk freely – that is the real trick.

Being a well-brought-up woman of a certain age, I had little to confess beyond a small scar and a bruise that had long since healed. I was evasive, I was not about to invent trials and tribulations simply to cajole her, after all I’m not the one who’s pregnant and isolated from everyone I know. I told her about the secret boyfriend I had back when I was eight and Papa had already begun to stand guard at the school gates. An only daughter is a father’s worst nightmare.

As it turned out, I was right: the man in the photograph was indeed the culprit responsible for her swollen belly. There was a moment when I both feared and hoped that it might turn out to be that idiot Sofiane. If my horoscope decreed I was to raise a child, I thought, it might as well be my own flesh and blood.

The man’s name, she told me, was Hachemi and he was thirty-eight. In the photo, he could pass for ten years younger. It was this discrepancy that had dazzled the little ninny. ‘He’s so handsome,’ she told me, squirming in her seat, ‘he’s so intelligent, and kind, and strong . . .’ I cut short her litany, this man was not the good Lord, he was a swine, he was a complete and utter bastard. You can find a baker’s dozen of them in the nearest alleyway.

‘Where and how did you meet him?’

‘In Oran. I was walking along the Corniche with my new best friends, Lila and Biba . . .’

‘Lila and Biba, did you ever hear of such a thing!? So then what happened?’

‘He came up to us and said: I’d like to buy you girls some ice cream.’

‘So you went with him.’

‘Yeah. Afterwards, he took me for a drive in his car.’

‘Don’t tell me, I can guess what happens next. He offered to show you his etchings, or his collection of human scalps.’

‘Huh?’

‘Never mind. What were you doing in Oran, I mean it’s not your
douar
, is it?’

‘I ran away, I couldn’t stand it. My parents were getting on my nerves, they wanted me to stay at home, to wear the
hijab
, to hide away. There were Emirs prowling around slitting young girls’ throats. The imam said the girls deserved it, but he’s a moron. He expects us to be Muslims 24/7, that’s no life for anyone.’

‘That’s obvious – calm down.’

‘Oran is cool, we spent all day hanging out.’

‘I never had the chance. Algiers is not like Oran, the government doesn’t tolerate joyous outbursts, it’s best you know that right now. So, you fell head over heels and before you knew it you were pregnant. So what did he do then, your brave and gallant friend Hachemi?’

‘He went back to Algiers. He’s a big shot, a manager or something. He promised he’d come back for me.’

‘Don’t tell me, let me guess: it slipped his mind.’

‘No, he used to visit two or three times a month, he brought me presents, clothes, jewellery . . .’

‘The get-up you’re wearing now?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I see . . .’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. What else did he give you?’

‘Money, and he took me to cafés and to restaurants.’

‘Well, well, so you were a kept woman?’

‘I already told you he was generous.’

‘But then, one morning, he was struck by amnesia.’

‘Struck by what?’

‘By some pressing business.’

‘How did you know? Biba came by and showed me a photograph of him in the paper, he’d just been appointed Minister or
Waz
ī
r
or something like that. I don’t know how to read, but she told me what it said, only I don’t remember.’

‘OK, I’m with you now, I knew I’d seen his ugly mug somewhere. Now I remember! I saw him on the television once, he was so wooden you could have sawn him in half.’

‘What are you talking about? He’s not a magician!’

‘On that point we agree. Does he know about the baby?’

‘I told him.’

‘And that’s when he forgot all about you.’

‘He promised . . .’

‘You silly girl, a government minister can’t afford for people to find out he’s got fleas.’

‘Why are you talking like that? He’s very clean!’

‘Did you come down with the last shower? People like that are dangerous lunatics.’

‘But he wasn’t a minister when I told him.’

‘You told him before the amnesia, that’s good, and then the baby was thrown out with the bathwater.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. So, given your choices were coming to Algiers to beard him in his ministerial den, committing suicide or going back to your
douar
where your father would likely cut your throat, what did you decide?’

‘To go to Morocco, to Spain.’

‘And that’s how you met my idiot brother, there you both were down on the shore looking for a likely boat. And
viva España
!’

‘Now where am I supposed to give birth? I don’t have anyone to sign for me.’

‘Sign what?’

‘Everything . . . the paperwork . . . and what about money?’

‘And you think that in Europe no one has to sign anything?’

‘Sofiane said it was dangerous to be a
harraga
in my ­condition. At the Moroccan border, they shoot at people and you have to dive into the ditch. He told me to come to you.’

‘And now that you’re here, we’ll make the best of a bad job.’

‘. . .’

It’s three o’clock in the morning and still the night drags on. Three times the hall clock has tried to make its presence felt but these are troubled waters, even a ghost would struggle to make itself heard. This is no country for rational people. Not that I have been rational recently, things have been moving too fast.

Chérifa passed out, arms folded, mouth agape, legs likewise, drunk on laughter and Turkish delight. I know, it’s her way of dealing with things and now that I know her secret I find her a lot less indecent.

Secret is a bit of an overstatement . . . the whole story is a cliché! Older man seduces girl, refashions her to his taste, keeps her as a little indulgence for his business outings, then tosses her overboard with a bun in the oven. A well-worn tale that just keeps repeating itself.

It’s a cliché I experienced myself – minus the bun in the oven – so I can hardly cast the first stone. I was the same age she is now, I’d just arrived at university, my hair still in schoolgirl pigtails. Like her, I was swept off my feet, like her I got to go to the ball, like her I waited patiently for my Prince Charming to call and like her I was tossed aside once I’d been used. I had my studies to take my mind off things, all she has is her carefree madness to keep her sane. Later, just as the brainwashing sessions were beginning, I found out that my Romeo was the Party bigwig assigned to keep the university under surveillance. This was his hunting ground, his personal fiefdom, the university chancellor licked his boots, the professors kissed his hand, those students who already had one foot on the Party ladder organised a guard of honour for him. He was handsome, his patter was slick, he only had to click his fingers and they would have hurled themselves from the highest tower. I felt privileged, all my girlfriends were infatuated. He and I talked of a bright future together, promised to help each other out, to marry our fortunes. Then, when the new academic year began, my mentor took his pick of the new students. It was his routine, he was exercising his
droit du seigneur
. This was the year of the blonde. The lucky girl had a shock of flaxen hair and about as much common sense as I had had in the year of the redhead.

Thinking about it nearly twenty years later, it sounds stupid, but at the time, it felt like the end of the world. At seventeen, coming straight from the bosom of a family, you never do anything by halves; you fall head over heels and it feels like dying.

It was not so much this incident that led me to this solitary life. There are the things that, day by day, slowly blacken and decay, sucking us into their quagmire logic, turning our stomachs and our hearts. The things that howl, that violate and slaughter. The things that smack of duplicity, the stifling atmosphere, the maddening charade. And above all, there are the unshakeable truths, the fearsome certainties, those dank prisons that engulf, demean, stultify, annihilate and vomit up fanatical mobs bent on nightmare. Then there is everything else, everything that is lacking, disappearing, crumbling, futile, mind-numbing. The monstrous showdown between those who exploit with a jerk of the chin and those who suffer with heads bowed.

Why would I want to be on such a ship? I am better off on my raft, I drink water, I watch the sky, I listen to the wind – everything is perfect. If sometimes I gnash my teeth, and if sometimes my flesh grates on my bones, it is simply a reminder of my failings.

The clock has just whirred four times. How time flies.

At this point, I am tormented by indecision, not knowing whether to sleep or wake.

Dear God, what a week
! Like a marathon crossed with an assault course. The maternity clinic, the blood tests, the chemist and then straight on to the shops, the flea markets, the bazaars, the
souks
. The usual unpleasant encounters. Everywhere and elsewhere, restless hordes thronged the streets while droves of snorting old bangers charged the crowds and mounted the pavements. We were caught up in an end-of-the-world scare which turned out to be a dummy run organised by people with too much time on their hands. It’s enough to give anyone a migraine. A race against the clock in the morning, a race against the clock at night. Taxis, buses, stairs, more taxis, more buses, more stairs. And in between, the endless standing around in the sweltering heat. We were offered free travel and personalised stops on the route 12 bus, which was a relief. Intimately acquainted with every nook and cranny of Algiers, our friend from GAUTA, the master of the good deed, supplied us with useful addresses and even went so far as to drive us everywhere. There was panic aboard the 235, people accusing him of hijacking, of blue murder, of favouritism, but the passengers all heartily approved when the gallant admiral, hand on his heart, explained his plan: ‘Hey, they’re my family, I’m taking them home, are you people Muslims or what?’ A quick stop at midday to grab a bite, delicious morsels dripping with grease, coated in sugar, teeming with bacteria. Algiers seems to have one food stall for every inhabitant, but no one to sweep the streets. Dying of starvation here would take some doing, but it’s not enough to eat, people need dignity. It’s beyond me: the more dire the poverty, the more cheap eateries there are, and the more people snack! The haggling alone is enough to make you abandon all hope. This, I realised, was the much-trumpeted free-market economy in action. All the albatrosses, the white elephants, the turkeys and the shiny gadgets manufactured around the world are offloaded here where people scrabble to buy them, despite the fact that the people here have no jobs and don’t know where their next pay packet is coming from. I wish some armchair economist would leave his comfortable sitting room and explain it to me. And spare me the nonsense about oil revenues and all that malarkey! The prices here read like science fiction. The swindlers make them up as they go along. And, God, their beady eyes! They specialise in exploiting people who are down on their luck, so my well-groomed appearance didn’t help. Stallholders quoted us the sort of prices they reserve for the wealthy and the well-heeled. We moved on to the next stall double-quick only to be greeted by the same nightmare. It was Catch-22. Chérifa is impulsive, she wants everything and she wants it now! If I hesitate, she sulks and stamps her feet. She doesn’t care about my purse or my health.