A Riffians Tune (38 page)

‘He shares the garage with me,' I said, facing Faissal. ‘You were wondering. He's an exile like I am. We can't cook here. We live on cold food, and we will soon be sick,' I said.

Ali and Abdu returned sooner than expected, as it was drizzling. They both squeezed in and joined the discussion. ‘Who is going to see Professor Nassiri?' I asked.

‘Certainly not me,' responded Najib, his eyes widened in fright.

‘I'll do it,' I said. ‘I will offer to pay him exactly the amount he gets from the government.'

‘This is the key to success!' shouted Abdu.

By the time Abdu, Faissal and Najib left, it was dark, and the landlady had been eavesdropping the whole time. ‘Their noise vibrated my house and the garage so much that any more of it and the walls would have needed to be replastered,' she told me afterward.

* * *

WITH THE STRIKE GOING
on indefinitely, and thugs policing the town, the professors enjoyed a full year's holiday. Obliged to show up at the school, they gathered in the grounds and formed a circle that reminded me of Baghdad's bingo club. Professor Nassiri frequently took his family on Friday afternoons to a posh French café on the main boulevard. I put on a clean shirt, trousers, and shoes that had broken soles, and went to find him. Watching him from a distance, I thought he looked like a real pharaoh, surrounded by his large wife and two equally large daughters. He appeared happy and relaxed, smoking a cigarette and sipping his espresso from a tiny cup, while his wife and daughters hoovered Coca-Cola through straws.

‘Good afternoon,' I said, facing him and his wife.

Recognition showed on his face, but he didn't call me by name. ‘Take a seat,' he told me. ‘Is the strike over?' he asked.

‘No,' I replied. ‘My classmates and I would like you to help us cover a part of the baccalaureate programme. We will meet the cost.'

‘Pity, I thought you had come to ask for the hand of one of my daughters! They are beautiful, aren't they? Look at them,' he said.

They looked beefy, well-fed and well-dressed, while I looked like an emaciated waif. His wife burst into laughter, and his daughters also seemed amused. ‘I am prepared to help, but be well aware you can only cover a part of the intended programme. Too much time has already been lost,' he added. ‘The school gate is open, but would you dare put your foot in it? I can't convert my house into a school; I can't teach in a café either, though it would be best.'

‘We will be taught in Kadija's house in Medina.'

‘Is Kadija one of your group?' he asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Here is my telephone number. Tell me when the tea is ready. Four o'clock in the afternoon would be best.'

Full of hope, I scurried to see Kadija in the old town. When I knocked, Kadija's father, looking puzzled and out of breath, opened the door. ‘I've come to speak to Kadija,' I said.

‘She's not here. I am her father. What's this about?' he asked, suspiciously.

‘I am one of her classmates. I saw her a few days ago, and we talked of private tutoring.'

‘What's your name?'

‘Jusef.'

Kadija's father changed his tone and spoke politely, calling Kadija, as if he hadn't just lied about where she was. Barefooted, she ran to the front door. Her father stood watching and listening to each word that was said.

‘I saw Professor Nassiri; he agreed to help, and I have his telephone number,' I said.

Kadija's mouth opened with surprise and so did her father's. ‘Come in,' she said. While I was waiting, she hurried to bring Faissal and Najib, rousting them from their boredom and depression.

We quickly scrambled to the post office. ‘Who is going to talk to the professor first?' asked Kadija.

‘You,' said Najib.

‘No, he'll remember the mess I made of my exercise book.'

‘Jusef will speak to him,' said Faissal.

At the post office, there was a huge queue waiting to make phone calls. It took an age to get to the attendant at the window, and even longer to be directed to the right booth where the call was connected. We all tried to squeeze into the phone booth, but bulged out the sides. It was the first time I had ever held a telephone.

‘Hold your hand steady, Jusef!' whispered Kadija.

‘I would if I could,' I whispered back. The professor's wife picked up the phone and spoke with an Egyptian dialect. The confusion grew, and she hung up on me.

‘It's not going to work,' said Najib.

‘Let's try again,' said Kadija, disgusted with Najib's pessimism.

‘What did Madame Nassiri say?' asked Faissal, fully frustrated.

‘I don't know. She spoke too fast in Egyptian, and seemed angry,' I explained. ‘Do you want to give it a shot, Najib?'

‘No. They don't speak Arabic, but claim to be Arabs,' Najib said.

‘Stupid!' said Faissal. ‘They're not Arabs; they're Egyptians, not Berbers.'

I returned to the attendant at the window and asked to be reconnected. Professor Nassiri himself picked up this time. He didn't seem happy to be called, but I reminded him of his promise. A wave of hesitation vibrated through his voice.
Was he just acting like a comedian in front of his family and daughters?
I wondered. He had good reason to go back on his promise to help us; thugs wouldn't spare his head should they discover he had taught baccalaureate students in hiding.

My hope was plummeting when he suddenly asked, ‘What is Kadija's address?'

She whispered the address into my ear, he took note and fixed the day and the time at five o'clock the next day.

Coming out of the booth, Kadija threw her arms around me, turning Najib green with envy. Faissal, burdened with a huge ego, looked dejected and left out.

True to his word, Professor Nassiri, smiling and out of breath, arrived at Kadija's house the next day. She had anticipated his passion for mint tea and almond cakes, so there were plenty, but just for him. With his massive constitution, and everybody else small and tiny, he became Barnabas surrounded by fearful, diminutive students. He didn't know the name of each student, and two of Kadija's close friends, Rahma and Bajia, joined us. I hadn't seen them since the day we had been chased from the classroom.

Bajia was very short and fat, but pleasant. Rahma was completely covered; only one third of her face was exposed; she occasionally sucked in her veil when she breathed. She was extremely bitter, and her words sharper than a sword.

Faissal and Najib brought another student, Shami. He was a short, thin, ambitious boy with a jealous nature, who was from a poverty-stricken family, neither white nor black.

Professor Nassiri was impressed with the number of people attending, but refused to do class teaching. He outlined the required programme and made us feel small and shivery, but without completely crushing our hope.

‘I am here when you are stuck and will be enjoying my tea,' he said. ‘Divide yourselves into groups any way you like.'

Unfortunately, our personal chemistries didn't combine well. Faissal and Najib were cemented together. Rahma and Bajia were forced to work with each other so Kadija, Shami and I formed the third group. No tension showed within the groups in the first week. But, severe tension began to build between Rahma and Bajia. Soon they were behaving just like two minks in a sack and Professor Nassiri failed to muzzle them. Frustrated, he split them up. Bajia joined Faissal and Najib; Rahma joined Kadija, Shami and me.

Enthused by the success of Professor Nassiri, Faissal and I decided to hire Professor Naimy. He didn't show himself much, but his wife owned a yarn shop in New Town.

His wife was surprised when Faissal and I entered her shop. ‘Do you boys want to knit?' she asked us.

‘May we speak to Professor Naimy?' I asked her.

‘He's abroad and won't be back until the end of the year,' she said, turning away.

That can't be true
, I thought. It was term time and though the school had been closed by the rioters, it did not give the professors licence to cruise through Europe.
This woman is taking us for fools!
I thought.

‘We should leave a note for him,' suggested Faissal.

‘We would need a note of one hundred pages to get his support,' I replied. ‘Face to face is the best. He can't lead the life of a rat. He'll surface sometime.'

Shami, wandering aimlessly, happened upon Professor Naimy acting as a tourist guide, showing the darkest corners of the old town to a mixed group of French-speaking visitors. Two days later, Faissal and I went back to his wife's shop. It was a Saturday, near lunchtime. The sun was beating down and nature was as happy as a bride.

Two middle-aged French women, busy talking over each other, were in the shop bargain hunting. Faissal couldn't understand a word of what was said; he hated different languages, especially French. Thanks to Michelle, now in France, and Suzanne, I was able to grasp most of the conversation. The French women left, looking happy; the Professor's wife recognised us and shot me a disdainful and suspicious look.

Faissal's appearance and gesticulations were not reassuring for her. He was broad-shouldered with an exceedingly prominent and thin chin. His manner and questions were not what a modern woman living in New Town would expect.

‘May we speak with Professor Naimy, please?' I asked.

She slipped into the back room and disappeared for a few moments. The shop was quiet and empty, except for us.

‘
Vite!
' I heard her say.

‘The Professor is coming. She's called him,' I whispered to Faissal.

Anxiously, she emerged from the back room, her face bright red and mouth completely zipped. We stood stick-like, waiting for Professor Naimy.

Out of the blue, a police van halted abruptly in front of the shop, and armed police flooded in. The surrounding area was cordoned off, as if the President of the United States were in danger.

‘
Ces deux garçons
refuse to give me peace. This is the second time …' she shouted at the police.

My heart jumped into my throat. ‘
Quoi? Quoi?
' I exclaimed.

‘Shut that hole!' shouted a police officer.

‘Your identity card!' another demanded.

I handed him my school card, but Faissal had none on him. The policeman was not very happy. Faissal began to murmur to himself. ‘Tube! Shut up!' a police officer shouted at him.

Our arms twisted and cuffed behind our backs, we were pushed into a van then shoved onto hard seats. We heard the doors slam.

‘We've done nothing!' I shouted.

‘We were called,' said a policeman in the front.

As the van stopped, four policemen yanked us out, pulled us by the scruff of our necks and led us to the waiting hall, a long, narrow dungeon-like basement corridor with an endless row of low-ceilinged rooms. Time froze in eternity, the long corridor cold, dark and filled with unrecognisable faces.

‘Are we ever going to see the light again?' whispered Faissal fearfully.

‘Undoubtedly,' I answered with animated bravado. ‘We're not criminals, or worse, politicians!'

From time to time Faissal seemed to fall into a snooze. A cry of a man made him jump, and he asked, ‘Are we still here? Next time that'll be us!'

Before being led to the interrogation room, a policewoman made a psychological analysis of us. She seemed convinced we had been wrongfully arrested, but that didn't spare me a formal and rigorous interrogation.

Inside the interrogation room I faced a man, his face nearly fully covered with heavy tinted glasses. He might have been anyone, even a customer in the café that morning.

‘You are from Kebdana,' he said. ‘We have never had any trouble with anyone from that tribe. I wouldn't expect to have trouble with you, either.'
Is he honest, or just conning me?
I wondered anxiously. ‘You should be at school,' he said.

‘The school is a no-go area! A death trap! I was nearly killed!' I told him.

He must have known about the strike and the thugs, but pretended not to. ‘Can you tell me more?' he asked.

‘I can't tell you more than you already know,' I answered.

The man bobbed his head as if it were a heavy weight. ‘What brought you to Madame Naimy's shop?' he asked. ‘And twice!' he added.

‘Her husband was our professor, and we thought he could tutor us,' I answered.

‘Who is “us”?' asked the interrogator. ‘Give me everyone's full name. Where do you meet and what is the purpose of your gathering?'

‘Simply to cover the baccalaureate programme with Professor Nassiri.'

‘Did you invite him or did he volunteer?'

‘We invited him,' I answered.

‘Who is “we”?'

‘It was me, sir.'

‘Do you pay him?' he asked.

‘Yes, we do,' I answered.

‘Hmmmm,' he grumbled, nodding. ‘You are intelligent people. I am assuming you talk about many things: art, music, sport, religion, politics and what-have-you. What's your favourite topic?'

‘We don't talk of any subjects, sir. We do academic work, and that's it.'

‘So you just wanted Professor Naimy to teach you?' he confirmed.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Madame Naimy is intelligent, not a little girl. You must have given her a fright. If not, why should she call the police?'

‘I am surprised, sir, that she did.'

‘How were you able to contact Professor Nassiri and not Professor Naimy?' he asked.

‘Professor Nassiri gave me his telephone number.'

‘Did he? Do you know the boy who is with you well?'

‘Yes, I've known him for many years.'

‘If your group gets any bigger, we need to know,' he said. ‘I'm counting on you to inform me.'

‘No, sir.'

‘What do you intend to do next year?'