A Palace in the Old Village (2 page)

He may not have known how to read the Koran, but he knew that Allah condemns hypocrites and murderers. He had learned the book by heart, like all country
children
. He recited it mechanically, made the occasional mistake, told God he was sorry, and started over again at the beginning of the sura,* plunging on all the way to the end, for any hesitation or interruption would make him lose his place. Only the imam of Yvelines was able to quote a verse and pause to provide commentary.

The imam had memorised the book, which he claimed to have studied in Cairo, at the venerable
university
of al-Azhar. Perhaps this was true; there was no way to challenge him. No one had seen this imam arrive. He had appeared out of the blue and surrounded
himself
with an entourage of young delinquents determined to go straight. He called them “my children.” He had a big car, wore lovely white robes, scented himself with sandalwood oil, and did not live in Mohammed’s slum neighbourhood. Rumor assigned him two wives along with between ten and a dozen offspring. He addressed people in classical Arabic and sometimes in French, which he mangled. Moroccans looked at one another and wondered: Just who does he think we are? Where did he come from? Who’s paying him? People figured he must be receiving money from wealthy countries.

They suspected that he was an Egyptian hired by the Saudis. Moroccans distrusted people from the Gulf States, who for years had come to their country,
especially
to Tangier, to hole up in hotels and send out for girls and booze. Mohammed had often heard about that. He had never seen these people in white robes, but many nasty things were said about those who came to Morocco to indulge their vices. Extraordinary rumors sometimes circulated, about outlandish orgies. It seems a minister once lent his pretty wife to a powerful emir from Kuwait or Dubai, and she came home missing a breast! The
fellow
had bitten, and then eaten, her breast. No one, of course, had seen that one-breasted woman; no one had proof of anything whatsoever, but as they say, “Where there’s smoke …” A cannibal Kuwaiti! That’s how the citizens of the Gulf figured in the popular imagination—men who suckle at the breasts of beautiful women and on occasion go even further.

There was another unbelievable story that made the rounds of the cafés: to gain entrance to the women’s
section of a hammam, or Turkish bath, the cousin of an emir’s chauffeur had disguised himself as a woman and, when discovered, had been beaten by the ladies—who’d poured buckets of boiling water on his genitals. The man had run outside screaming, his balls in a pitiful state. But so many, many stories were told about these people that the government had finally intervened to put an end to such crude rumors.

Mohammed had been staring at the wall for so long that he began to think he was drawing closer to it or, rather, that the wall was advancing toward him. He felt trapped in that little room, which his children never entered. He had the impression that the voice was talking to him about his retirement. That word, “retirement,” flitted through the air just like that big buzzing fly.

Mohammed’s mind was elsewhere, however, in Mecca or the mosque of his childhood. His thoughts had turned toward the village, back to a colourless time of strange solitude. Because of lice, scabies, and other afflictions, the butcher, who doubled as a barber, had shaved all the children’s heads, and whenever
Mohammed
had rubbed his hand over his scalp, he’d felt a kind of boil, slightly infected. Those days had the acrid smell of Fly-Tox and antilouse powder, but there was also the taste of pure honey and argan oil. He well remembered the meals his girl cousin would bring to him after he’d taken out the livestock: heavily sugared mint tea, crêpes, honey, oil, and occasionally a bit of
amlou
, an almond paste mixed with argan oil, honey, and a few spices. The mornings were cool and quiet. In the natural course of
things, his cousin would become his wife, but they almost never spoke when together. They would look at each other; she would lower her eyes, then leave.

One day her little brother brought the food, and Mohammed understood that the time for the marriage proposal had arrived. His cousin was quite young, barely fifteen, yet the next summer would see them married. Sweet memories, full of tenderness, modesty, and peace. Mohammed loved the silences that could last the entire morning, and would let himself sink into reverie.

For the marriage ceremony, the best singer in the area had come with his
cheikhats
and musicians. They had sung and danced until dawn. Vulgar, professional, and efficient, the
cheikhats
were female singers who looked like gypsies and stank of clove oil. As the ceremonial prince, Mohammed led his wife to the house of his
parents
, who had discreetly absented themselves to allow the newlyweds to be alone. Once more silence fell like a brief night on the young couple, who did not say a word to each other. That was the tradition. Mohammed said his prayer and pinched out the candle. It all happened in the dark. He’d been very intimidated and, above all, inexperienced. For him as for her, it was clearly the first time. He let himself be guided by instinct, and the blood traced a pretty design on the sheet. Honour was saved. After a few days of celebration, the village returned to its routine.

Mohammed had already been thinking about joining his uncle, who had emigrated to northern France, and for that he needed a passport, the little green booklet with the star of Morocco stamped in the centre of its
cover. At the time, such documents were granted only to well-off city families. Every now and then the
caïd
, the local headman, would receive orders from Rabat: Need 104 robust men in good health for France. The
caïd
would arrive in the village in a jeep driven by the state police, an arrival heralded from afar by billowing dust. Taking himself very seriously, the
caïd
would first require some refreshments, then have the village men pass before him in review. The
caïd
scrupulously
imitated
everything the French had done during their
colonial
occupation, and despite being barely able to read he kept a dossier at hand, which he would leaf through from time to time. França is waiting for you. Do not shame us. Be men, soldiers, worthy representatives of our country! The jeep would drive off, leaving behind its cloud of ocher dust and a few wives in tears.

THE VOICE WAS INSISTENT
and was now addressing Mohammed in French, a language he had finally learned to understand but did not use. It was only thanks to his children that he knew a few words of it, because they would speak nothing but French to him, which made him deeply unhappy. He had patiently taught them a few elements of Berber, but for nothing: they persisted in speaking French and made fun of him when he
mispronounced
it.

And now this unknown voice was talking to him in that tongue, repeating a word he knew perfectly but did not want to discuss. That’s what it was: a word he did not want to hear, a word echoing like a condemnation, announcing the fateful date he wanted to postpone until later—as late as possible. It wasn’t death, but something very similar, and it had nothing to do with Mecca. He had so dreaded this day, this moment. It wasn’t a
question
of a trip, a holiday, or a long and lovely stroll around Medina at a time outside the official period of
pilgrimage
, no—the voice was telling him something specific, definitive, and irreversible: to stop working. To break a rhythm acquired over forty years, to change his habits, to no longer rise at 5:00
A.M.
and put on his grey overalls, to adapt to a new life, turn over a new leaf, change his mind,
toss away the crutches of his old routines, those familiar landmarks. To stop working was to learn to be politely bored and do nothing, while trying not to sink into
melancholy
. Work didn’t make him happy, perhaps, but it kept him occupied, kept him from thinking.

Mohammed was afraid. Afraid of having to climb mountains, pyramids of stones. Afraid of tumbling into the ravine of the absurd, of having to face each of his children, over whom he had lost every scrap of
authority
. Afraid of accepting a life in which he no longer
controlled
much of anything. He lived
through his routine
, the long straight line that carried on regardless. He’d gotten used to this and didn’t want to change, didn’t want anything else. Everything seemed difficult to him, complicated, and he knew he was not made for conflicts, for combat. He had never fought; even as a child he’d stayed on the sidelines, watching others get into fights, then slipping away, wondering why there was such
violence
in a place so far from the city and forgotten by God. Working kept thoughts like that at a distance.

At night he counted on his physical fatigue to put him to sleep before he had to confront the familiar mountain, which kept growing bigger. Sometimes it came to him wreathed in thunderclaps, then toppled onto his back and buried him. He would see heavy stones piling up on his body, crushing the breath from him as he lay paralysed and defenseless. He wasn’t in pain but in trouble, pinned down. When the mountain finally withdrew, leaving him for dead, he would wake up, drink a large glass of water, and go sit in the kitchen to wait for dawn. To keep busy, sometimes he cleaned
the spotless floor—old linoleum printed to look like wood—by polishing it with a wet rag. He’d rearrange the small stock of provisions, check the refrigerator to make a mental note of what was needed, brew himself some tea, and study the sky while awaiting the first gleam of sunrise.

He’d never thought the ax would fall so soon, so
brutally
. He was stunned. Lost. And already in mourning, because there was no escape from retirement, or, as he called it, “’tirement.” No matter how often his children corrected him, he still said “’tirement.” That was his invisible, two-faced enemy, because even though for some people it represented freedom, to him it meant the end of life. Period. The end of everything. No more daily routine, no more paid vacations back home, year after year. Well-earned vacations! His conscience was clear: he had worked hard to earn his living. He detested easy money, hated cheaters, swindlers, loathed fraud and deceit. He’d seen how some of his co-workers’ children lived; he knew what “fell off a truck” meant and had expressly forbidden his children to buy stolen goods.

On the first day in July, he would fill the family car with suitcases and gifts and head straight down the road, like a migratory bird anxious to catch up with the flock. He didn’t speed, rarely stopped, and was happy only when he reached his village, a full 2,882 kilometres from Yvelines. The children and their mother would sleep; he alone drove on and on, covering the distance with impeccably steady resolve. Sometimes he drove with another family—the cars would take turns following each other—but he really preferred to make the trip as
the sole person in charge. At the wheel he had but one thought: to get to his house in the village, arrive at the best time to hand out the presents, visit his parents’ tomb the next day, go to the hammam, get a massage from Massoud, and eat crêpes prepared by his elderly aunt. He drove, and in his mind’s eye he saw all that in living colour, bathed in light. He used to smile to
himself
while his wife slept beside him in the front seat.

At the automobile plant, Mohammed was a creature of habit. Always on time. Determined never to be late or absent. Except when bedridden with flu, he insisted on going to work even if he was sick. He brought his lunch, ate quickly, parked himself on a bench, and closed his eyes. When his comrades teased him, he replied that he needed this little doze, a ritual that never took more than ten minutes. He was as reliable as an expensive watch. Never angry, never at fault: a model worker. In fact, he dreaded the thought of botching anything, being
reprimanded
; he couldn’t have handled that. At first he was assigned to the automotive assembly line, moving later to the painting shop, which was less tiring but more
dangerous
. He worked there with a face mask. His health hadn’t suffered; he didn’t smoke, had never touched
alcohol
. He had a sound body, which too much sugary mint tea was threatening with the first signs of diabetes.

Retirement? No, not for him—and especially not now! What was it, anyway? Who invented it? It was as if they were telling him he was sick and no longer useful to society. An incurable illness, a prognosis of endless ennui—that’s what it was, a curse, although he knew
other workers longed for it impatiently. Well, he didn’t. He didn’t think about it. He’d watched his pals retire, and the next thing he knew, death had done for them. Retirement was the introduction to death, lurking at the end of the tunnel. It was a trap, a diabolical invention. He saw no need for it and no possible benefits, especially to his health. No, he was convinced that the real face of retirement was just a skull wearing makeup.

The memory of Brahim then flared up like a flame in the darkness: Brahim, who died five months after
leaving
the plant in good health, permanently retired by ’tirement. Yes, done in by utter uselessness, condemned to die a few months after his sixtieth birthday. Sentenced by silence to die of idle loneliness. He, Mohammed, was useful! Whenever flu laid him low, knocked him clean off his feet, he knew the assembly line would be less
productive
, less profitable that day. One morning when his car broke down, he’d raised the hood to see what was wrong and thought, This is a flu car! Whenever he was out sick, nuts, bolts, and other things did not get
properly
tightened and adjusted. Mohammed was so strict, so meticulous at his job, that he figured the car company would soon collapse if it put him out to pasture. Being useful was vital to him, in fact he wondered how the
factory
could survive without him, without his obsessively conscientious care, and without men like Brahim, or Habib, who’d quit overnight after winning 752,302 francs in the lottery. Then Mohammed remembered Brahim’s only daughter, who had married a Senegalese and
abandoned
her family. That story had made the rounds of every Maghrebian family in Yvelines and beyond.

Kader and his spiteful tongue had had a field day, unleashing all his hatred for black Africans: Brahim gave his girl to a black! A black went off with his only daughter! Blacks and Arabs can’t mix! Berbers and blacks aren’t meant to marry. We’re not racist, but the tribe has to stick together! Our daughters should stay within the tribe. At least if he’d been Algerian or
Tunisian
, there’d be less talk! Back in Morocco, we call blacks
abid
, “slaves,” and we don’t mix. That girl must be a
natural-born
slut, you know what I mean? Racist we’re not, but to each his own! Me, I’ve nothing against black
Africans
, I even think they’re okay, but what I can’t stand, it’s their smell, and yes, we
all
have a smell, but me, I’m allergic to the smell of Africans, I can’t help it, but I’m not racist, and besides, they probably can’t stand our smell, either. Brahim should have laid down the law—there’s no way his daughter would have disobeyed him!

But Kader, you
know
we have no control over our children now, and for the slightest thing, a little slap, a light tap on the shoulder, they up and call the police! It’s LaFrance keeping us from educating our children, LaFrance giving them too many rights, and then it’s us in the shit. France, Belgium, Holland—those countries haven’t a clue what authority is anymore.

Too true, my brother, children here are not like those back home: here you can’t raise your hand or chastise them for coming home late or not doing their
homework
—here everything is ass backward! Poor Brahim, he hasn’t slept a wink since that business. His wife left him; he’s just a shadow of himself, victimised by his daughter, gone off to make babies with a black who
claims to work in a bank when the truth of it is, he’s a doorman there, so not only do they smell, they lie! We Algerians, we have no blacks at home, while you
Moroccans
and Tunisians, you’ve got plenty of them, ’specially in the southern provinces, so if Brahim’s daughter plays “knees up” with a Negro, it’s because where you come from other women do it too!

Well, you, you’re just looking for a fight. Algerians are all aggressive, they’re violent and don’t like the other countries of the Maghreb, everyone knows that, so if Brahim gave his daughter to an African, it proves that us,
we’re
not racists!

Pondering that episode, Mohammed had to admit that although immigrants from the Maghreb were the targets of racism in Europe, they in turn despised black Africans, whether in France or at home in their own countries. Racism is everywhere! he thought. How would he have reacted if one of his girls had married an African? He even found it hard to imagine such a
situation
until he sorted things out by considering Moha Touré, his co-worker from Mali on the assembly line. He knew Moha’s family well and had been impressed by the education this man had managed to give his
children
. I’d rather my daughter married one of Moha’s sons, he told himself, than a Christian boy who hasn’t even been circumcised. Moha was an observant
Muslim
, unprejudiced, and especially concerned with
presenting
a good image of Islam. He lectured his children—taught them manners, tolerance, and respect. He was lucky, because they obeyed him. Mohammed’s kids did whatever they wanted. He had no say.