A Palace in the Old Village (9 page)

MOHAMMED’S SON MOURAD
had a good position in a department store and had married Maria, a Spanish woman, born like him in France but whose parents had gone back home to Seville. Mourad was athletic. He could have been a professional soccer player, but he had a heart murmur, so he’d studied accounting and
continued
to play several sports. His greatest desire: to escape his suburban neighbourhood and everyone in it to go live in Paris. He was fond of his parents but loved his freedom more, the independence he’d won by working even while he was still in school. He kissed his father’s hand and his mother’s forehead, signs of respect but not submission. As soon as he had begun earning money, Mourad had decided to give some of it to his parents, for which his father had thanked him, saying that the money would go toward the construction of the house. What house? Mohammed had only gestured vaguely and turned away without another word.

After his marriage, Mourad had stopped spending his vacation back in the village, preferring his in-laws’ house in the mountains of the Alpujarras. He’d often wondered why the Spanish were more successful than Moroccans, and his wife had come up with an answer that shocked him: it was because of religion, because of
Islam! Outraged, Mourad reacted as if he were an imam—although he himself never observed a single Muslim ritual. When Maria tried to clarify what she meant and described how Francoism had used the Catholic Church to cling to power, Mourad was hurt. Islam could not be a force for backwardness! Maria carefully explained that no religion on earth
encouraged
change and modernity, but Mourad had actually been thinking about his father, for whom Islam was more than a religion: it was a code of ethics, a culture, an identity. What would my father be without Islam? Mourad wondered. A lost man. He finds religion
soothing
. He loves his rituals; they bring him a peaceful sense of well-being.

One day Mourad’s father-in-law took him to visit the palace and gardens of the Alhambra in Granada, where the young man was fascinated by the beauty of Arab architecture. It was your ancestors, said his
father-in-law
, who built these magnificent things. That was a long, long time ago. What a lovely civilisation, and there’s nothing left of it. Luckily, we’re here to preserve these treasures.

Mourad was offended, yet unable to contradict his father-in-law. Facts were facts. What could he possibly say?

Mohammed no longer saw his eldest girl, Jamila, who had defied her parents and married an Italian. So
painful
had it been for him to see a non-Muslim enter the family that he’d behaved as if she were no longer his daughter. At first he’d tried to reason with her, but Jamila
was in love, refused to discuss anything, and had
tantrums
the like of which he’d never seen before. It’s my life, not yours! You’re not going to keep me from living simply because we’re Muslims! And just what kind of a religion is it that lets men marry Christian or Jewish women but won’t let its women do the same with men? Well? You think I’ll be happier with some countrified jerk, one of those lousy peasants who’ll lock me up while he goes out to get drunk with his pals? No thanks, Papa, wake up: I decide how to live my life, so you can give me your blessing if you want, and if you don’t approve, there’s nothing I can do about such garbage! You’re sick—you need to get help!

Mohammed had bowed his head and walked away with tears in his eyes. Trying to comfort him, his wife told him it would all blow over, and Jamila would soon come back home. Mohammed kept repeating, almost in a daze, But what’s this being in love? What is this thing that’s collapsing on me like a ruined house and breaking my back? Were we, you and I, in love? I don’t know what that means, and you know how hard it is for me to talk about those things. Love: we don’t discuss that; we see it at the movies, not in real life. Being in love! It means she’s gone. She has fallen to the ground. It’s like that business with Fatiha, who suddenly fell in with a man and never again set foot in the village, a man from the city, with money, and she left with him even though she knew he was married with five children. No, if my daughter follows this stranger of hers, she’s not coming back to us again—it’s over, it’s him or us, it’s him or her father. I don’t want to see her anymore; she’s no longer
my daughter. I’ll erase her from the family register, it’s finished. A daughter I spoiled, giving her everything she wanted, brings to my house a Christian who never goes to the barber and who asks for my blessing? It’s
impossible
, out of the question. I’ll do what Louardi did: he refused to sanction the marriage of his daughter to a non-Muslim and he was right—a year later she came home: It’s not working—we’re different, too different.

When Mohammed’s wife reminded him that Mourad had married a Christian woman, he shouted angrily, But he’s a man, the man runs the family, and that Christian woman will convert to our religion in the end. No
Christian
man has ever sincerely converted to Islam to marry a Muslim woman! They pretend, change their name, recite the
shahada
to profess their new faith—and think no more about it.* No: it’s the man who decides, not the woman.

Ever since Jamila had left the house, no one had
spoken
her name in Mohammed’s presence. She had wounded him so deeply that he could not forget his pain.

On Eid al-Kebir, the Feast of the Sheep, Mohammed learned that his other two sons had dropped out of high school to go work in the provinces. None of his children were home for this all-important holiday except little Rekya and Nabile, and for the first time Mohammed realised that the boys had made lives for themselves elsewhere without anyone telling him. One son was a mechanic at a garage in Dreux; the other, who had a real nose for business, had gone to work in his uncle’s
grocery store in Compiègne, and he too sent his mother a money order from time to time. The apartment was now too big for Mohammed, his wife, Nabile, and Rekya, the last girl, who worked hard in school and wanted to be a veterinarian. The family had broken up.

Mohammed consoled himself with the thought that life was like that: You have children, you spoil them, then one day—off they go. They hardly remember us anymore, but what can you do? If we were in the village, they’d all be there, before my eyes, but here we’re in a country that knows no pity: you must fight every moment to live, to breathe, to sleep in peace.
Mohammed
dreamed of bringing everyone back together and having a celebration, but since he was sure his children wouldn’t come, he decided to fall ill, gravely ill. That was the solution! They would come to say good-bye to him in his hospital bed. Mohammed was superstitious, though: one shouldn’t trifle with disease and death and the will of God. Now all his affection was turned toward Rekya, who, having neither the time nor the inclination to comfort him, shut herself in her room to study. At least she’ll pass her finals, her father thought, and go on to graduate school. She’ll be an animal doctor and will come give me a hand on the farm back home.

Mohammed couldn’t imagine, still less accept, that his children’s lives could slip through his hands. He would never forget what Jamila had shouted in anger: You’re sick—you need to get help! Loving your children, wanting them to love you, wanting to be close to them and wishing only the best for them—that’s being sick? That’s why I need help? Fine: I’ll go see a doctor for crazy
people and tell him, Well, I’m sick because I love my children, so what medicine should I take for that? Should I swallow some anti-paternal-affection syrup or stuff myself with suppositories to make me forget I have five children, including a daughter who went off with someone foreign to our culture, our religion, and our land? Her behaviour was appalling! And I—I did
everything
to raise my kids properly, I don’t know where they got this raging resentment of their parents. I don’t think French schools teach children to hate their mothers and fathers. No, it isn’t school; it’s the TV, all those American and French films where families aren’t families anymore, where parents have lost their authority. And I need to get help! I’m sick, all right, and that’s the way I like it!

One day their mother told me: A father should have authority or else nothing works. Just what is this
authority
? Is it the authority of fear? Is it being harsh, like those who beat their children only to lose them because they run away, get into drugs, and wind up in prison or the hospital morgue? I always thought that authority came naturally, that I had no need to shout or say the same thing over and over, but when children don’t listen to you, when they do only as they please, then you’re
helpless
. That’s how it is, so you can only wait it out and hope they’ll be smart enough not to get in trouble. My
children
have never torched a car or trashed any
motorcycles
. When the projects blow up, my kids are the first to be frightened by what their friends get up to. They always wanted to be successful, were never tempted by violence and disorder.

It was Nabile who came to console him. He took
Mohammed’s hand, embraced him, and they looked into each other’s eyes. Then they went out to a café to have some ice cream.

That afternoon, his head heavy with sorrow,
Mohammed
hugged Nabile tight without saying a word,
blinking
back tears. He waited for Rekya to get home from school, kissed her, packed his suitcase, prepared a few provisions, and told his wife, I’m going back home to rest for a while. You’ll come join me with Nabile and Rekya over vacation, so, I’ll leave you some money, and if you need anything, go see Sallam.

Mohammed was going to take the train, since his car—along with many others—had been torched that October, when some youths had gone on a rampage after the accidental electrocution of two of their friends.* The 78—the postcode for Yvelines—had not erupted, but some kids eager to play copycat had set fire to cars in the neighbourhood just for the hell of it, to impress everyone, make a statement. What were they trying to say by burning my Renault? thought Mohammed sadly. Bought on credit at a good price because I was an employee of the firm…. What did I ever do to those wretched kids? Why did they take away my car, when I’m on their side, when we’re of the same blood? Who knows! Someone forgot to bring them up right. Great: those kids, lowlifes, raised rotten, lousy students,
disobedient
to their parents, couldn’t find anything better to do than set fire to my old car that was so useful to me, especially in the summer. And the insurance guy told me to forget it. Without even looking up at me he says,
We are not liable. Those are risks we don’t insure: bad weather, natural catastrophes, civil disorder on public thoroughfares—that’s not our responsibility. We insure against accidents, not gang rebellions, and anyway, if that’s the case, it’s one of your kids who set the fire, because my son isn’t going to torch my car, you follow me? So I can’t help you. Forget your car, buy another one, but if I were you I’d wait for things to calm down. They adore new cars, such a temptation….
Au revoir,
monsieur
, so sorry, really.

Mohammed had left the insurance office in despair. Why didn’t the French state reimburse poor people
victimised
by these disturbances? He looked around him; there were almost no parked cars: people had taken
precautions
. Mohammed just couldn’t understand how young people he saw every day in the elevator would abruptly try to set the city on fire because they were bored, because they wanted to stick it to LaFrance. But I’m not LaFrance! I’m a simple family man stranded in the street without a car to drive back home, that’s all. I’ve never shouted at those kids hanging out in the
neighbourhood
, and my children didn’t have anything to do with them, I’m sure of that, because they went to work at an early age and don’t live here anymore.

What should I do now? File a complaint at the police station? No, they won’t listen to me, and they’re swamped in any case and too angry. Never talk to an angry
policeman
. Besides, I hate going into a police station. I’ll take the train, then the boat, then the bus, then a taxi. It will take a long time, I’d better travel light—I’ll have to repack my luggage. Or I could wait until Thursday to 
take the Gennevilliers–Agadir bus. Yes, but last year the driver fell asleep: twenty dead and as many injured. Can’t trust it. Run by Moroccans who want to make a lot of money in a hurry, so they hire drivers they pay poorly and give them a small bonus only if they drive fast and get there first. So, the driver in the accident got a big bonus: death, poor fellow! The government ought to do something about those buses, but the companies are all corrupt, they pay for whatever they want—permits,
surcharges
, speeding. Too bad, I’ll take the train, at least I’ll be able to sleep. Well, maybe not, but I’ll try.

FOR THE FIRST TIME
in his life abroad, Mohammed did not drive on and on (as he had put it) to get back home. He had already forgotten his ruined car and bought his train ticket but was in no hurry. Retirement meant time he now needed to occupy, to fill with projects. He spent all night planning how he could finally gather his entire little family back around him. Although tempted to curse Lalla França for stealing his children, he pulled himself together and asked God to return things to normal. And for him, normal meant that the children would stay home, even when married; that they should come visit him often in the village; and that they should make plans together. For instance, what if they all went to Mecca as a family? Mohammed daydreamed about this expensive trip, imagining everyone going around the Kaaba and praying. Folly? Madness? Not at all: the duty of every Muslim. But he was not in a Muslim country. He had to abandon such ideas and find more viable
projects
. Open a grocery store? No, wouldn’t work. Why not offer his family a complete tour of Morocco, from north to south, like those French families who visit the country by stopping everywhere, staying with the locals, eating in little restaurants, and having a ball? He’d buy a small van, and they’d go off on an adventure! Since his
children
all worked and couldn’t schedule their vacations
on the same dates, he’d do the trip two or three times, showing off the country, meeting its people, admiring its beauty and wonderfully varied landscapes. The
travellers
would talk to one another, camp out, invent games, spend many happy hours together. Why didn’t I do that when the children were little? I never thought of it. I
followed
the same ritual every year from July 15 to August 28, doing the same things. That was our destiny. We had to accept that, without any questions. I don’t know of a single emigrant who has toured Morocco with his family. We’d leave the 78 and head for the village, a place without a number, in the back of beyond.

He would tackle the construction of the house as soon as he returned to the village, in that flat, arid, pitiless countryside without a trace of green. No tree had ever survived out there; no vegetation had ever managed to thrive. All along the road were thistles, thorn bushes, grey shrubs with stalks like slender knives, and big stones, yellow dust, flies—flies everywhere, especially on days when a sheep’s throat was cut. When it’s hot, people go to ground in their homes until dusk, learning to wait, learning to do nothing. They don’t talk about the climate and its hardships. They sit cross-legged on mats, shifting positions, then changing places. They don’t even look at the sky. They cover the well, afraid that the water will evaporate, and they forget about the hours that drag by. Instead of passing from one person to another, words seem to bump into the walls and crumble away. So no one speaks. There’s nothing to say, nothing to do.
Perhaps
folks following the progress of a line of busy ants
will watch a few stragglers tumble into crevices, and let them die. Such harshness hardens hearts. Codes of behaviour are cold and rigid. A disobedient child gets slapped silly. A girl who looks too noticeably at a man is shut away. No argument, no negotiation. Life is simple, and simply terrible. A tiny window onto the outside world came only with the first butane-gas-powered
television
sets, but people laughed as they watched them, seeing an exotic world even more savage than their own flicker into the village on the black-and-white screens. Everyone watched films, and whenever a man and woman held hands, our women would veil their faces, some of them exclaiming, These Christians have no shame! No modesty at all. We’re better off here at home. But what do our men get up to in those countries? Do they let these scrawny shadows seduce them into vice? Do they squander their money on these loose women?

Begun five years earlier, work on the house had stopped for lack of money. Now that Mohammed was
determined
to finish it, his life in retirement had meaning. He no longer saw time as a terrifying spectre: time had expanded, grown light, colourful, airy; he imagined it as a kite on a soft breeze in a clear sky. Time had let go of him, allowing him a second chance. Perhaps he had failed somehow in France, but time was letting him
pursue
a different success in Morocco.

Mohammed envisioned a big, handsome house, full of light and children; he’d never been bothered by the shouts and rambunctious antics of youngsters. He smiled. He drew the house in his head, left enough space
for the flower garden, counted the trees to be planted, reviewed the varieties of roses to be ordered at the
market
in Marrakech, and organised the kitchen garden, which he decided to entrust to Nabile, who would
certainly
take good care of it.

Tears welled in his eyes as he thought of the boy, but he blinked them away. Nabile had a winning personality, lots of imagination, and he made Mohammed laugh, helping him forget his conflicts with the other children. Mohammed saw him as a prince in the new house, a prince and a leader. Nabile was the only one he could count on. The boy liked to be trusted, to be given things to do. He had always wanted to grow up, to be an adult at an early age and leave behind the childhood he
associated
with his own backwardness. By growing up, Nabile thought he would become like everyone else. He used to say, Me mgolian? Head’s mess up? Me sixteen, champion, fishing! So, Grampa, we go?

The closer Mohammed came to the Moroccan
frontier
, the larger the house became, the taller the walls rose, the bigger the bedrooms grew, while the ivy climbed faster, plants swayed, birds sang. Mohammed could even hear the soft sound of the fountain he would install in the courtyard. It wasn’t a house anymore; it was a corner of paradise, a kind of palace with gardens, parks, animals of all kinds. A tale from
One Thousand and One Nights
. A huge carpet woven by hundreds of hands. All that was missing was Harun al-Rashid and his court. Nabile would play his role perfectly, since he adored acting and conjuring tricks.

All alone, Mohammed was dreaming and laughing,
seeing himself dressed in white, welcoming the
authorities
arriving to inaugurate the ideal house built by the model emigrant, who had always sent part of his salary home to Morocco, who had invested in his country and intended to repatriate his entire family. On the day
celebrating
the Feast of the Throne, commemorating the accession of His Majesty King Mohammed VI, the king would bestow a decoration on the model emigrant, who would appear before him in his grey suit (slightly
rumpled
), a brand-new white shirt, and a flowered tie.
Placing
a hand on his shoulder, the king would walk a few paces with him in front of the television cameras, filling Mohammed with such pride that his problems would melt away, and the sovereign would send a special plane to bring his children and their mother back to Morocco.

Mohammed saw himself as tall, slender, his pockets stuffed with money for him to distribute to the needy. He was wild with joy. He envisioned himself running through fields, leaping in delight like a carefree child. That’s what it was to please oneself, to arrange things so that life now offered him a superb gift. He had always felt that God had been lenient with him by making him a good father and husband. None of his children had ever been involved with the police, and he thought of poor Larbi, whose eldest son was in prison for armed assault, while the youngest boy suffered from that
disease
Mohammed was too superstitious to mention. Mohammed considered himself lucky. He thought of his youngest daughter and was determined that she should study veterinary medicine.

Someone at the auto plant, an activist who strongly
opposed the politics of the French state, had explained to him why almost no sons of immigrants attended French universities: You see, our children aren’t dumber than others; it’s that they’re discouraged from primary school on, quickly channelled into technical schools. And I’m not saying that’s bad, but why can’t our children go to the competitive state-run universities, you know, the ones where they wear uniforms as though they were in the army? Why aren’t they in banking, doing research, involved in the big doings of this fucking country? I’m not talking about our friends on the left who’ve done zip; I mean, in Holland and Belgium there are
deputies
—yes, deputies!—with roots in the Maghreb, and there’s even a young woman of Moroccan background who’s a minister of culture in Brussels, while here, in France, we have the right to fill up the prisons, wait around in police stations, and be harassed as soon as we speak up. That’s what disgusts me, and our generation. We’re done for, but why should our sons suffer the same fate? You know what? It’s the old colonial reflex: doesn’t matter how perfect you are; you’ve always got to jump higher and farther than their champions, that’s how it is, that’s our lot. So the kids get scared, pissed off, feel lost. They try to set everything on fire. They burned my jalopy, and the insurance people told me “no coverage,” “exceptional circumstances,” “kiss your car good-bye.” And the kids don’t go to ritzy Neuilly to put on their act, no, they burn
their
schools,
our
buses,
our
cars, they hurt themselves—then get labelled evil immigrants. And do you think my son’s an immigrant? He’s never left the 78. He’s a Frenchy, 100 per cent.