The Country of Others

by Leïla Slimani

  ‘I can’t stand it any more,’ Mathilde admitted one day. She felt oppressed by Mourad’s presence during family meals, including – Amine insisted – on Sundays. She thought he looked like a vulture with his wide, sloping shoulders, his beak-like nose and his scavenger’s solitude, and Amine, for once, didn’t contradict her. Mourad talked in metaphors of war and often Amine had to reprimand him. ‘Don’t say that kind of thing in front of the children. Can’t you see that you’re scaring them?’ For the foreman, everything was a question of honour and duty, and all the stories he told were about battles. Amine felt bad for his aide-de-camp, trapped in the past like an insect in amber, held in a state of eternal suspension. Behind Mourad’s arrogance he could detect his awkwardness, and one evening, as they were returning from the fields together, he said: ‘I want you to eat Christmas dinner with us. It’s an important day for Mathilde.’ He wanted to add ‘No talking about France or the war’, but he didn’t dare.

  ***

  Mathilde invited the Palosis to spend Christmas with them, and Corinne joyfully accepted. ‘Christmas without children is so sad, don’t you think?’ she said to Dragan, who felt his heart contract. Corinne didn’t think he could understand how it felt not to be a mother. She imagined that her grief was inaccessible to him and, more generally, that men knew nothing of such private sufferings. Corinne was wrong. One day, when he was still a child living in Budapest, little Dragan had put on one of his sister Tamara’s dresses. The little girl had laughed until she almost peed herself, crying out, ‘You’re so pretty! You’re so pretty!’ When he found out about this, Dragan’s father had grown angry and punished his son. He’d warned him not to play such perverted games, arguing that they were the start of a slippery slope and that he should stay well away from them. Thinking about this later, Dragan believed that it was at this moment that his fascination for women was formed. He’d never wanted to possess them, or even be like them; what overwhelmed him was that magic power of theirs, the belly that swelled like his mother’s had. He didn’t tell his father this, though. In fact he didn’t even tell his professor of medicine when the man balefully asked him why he wished to be a gynaecologist. Instead he replied simply: ‘Because women will always have babies.’

  Dragan loved children and they felt the same way towards him. Aïcha adored the doctor, who would wink as he slipped mints or liquorices into her palm. She was grateful less for the sweets than for the shared secret, because she had the impression that she was important to him. He intrigued her too, with his strange accent and his frequent references to an ‘iron curtain’ behind which he wanted to send oranges and – one day, perhaps – apricots. Mathilde had said that at Christmas he’d be bringing his sister, Tamara, who lived behind that iron curtain, and Aïcha imagined this woman standing behind a big metal shutter, like the one that the grocer Soussi would close every evening to protect his shop. How strange, Aïcha thought. Why would anyone want to live like that?

  ***

  The Palosis were the last guests to arrive on Christmas Eve, and Aïcha watched them from behind her mother’s legs. Tamara appeared: her complexion was yellowish and the little hair she had was pulled into a sort of bun on the side, a hairstyle that had been fashionable in the 1930s. Her face was dominated by a pair of bulging eyes, softened by long white lashes, which gave the impression that she was staring deeply into the past, magnetised by sad memories. She was like a child trapped on a merry-go-round. Selim was so scared of her that he didn’t want to let her kiss his cheek. She wore an old-fashioned dress whose sleeves and collar had been darned many times. But her neck and her earlobes were decorated with beautiful jewellery that immediately drew Mathilde’s gaze. The necklace and earrings were heirlooms from a distant time, a lost world, and Mathilde was so impressed by them that she treated Tamara as a special guest.

  As soon as they arrived the house filled with laughter and exclamations of surprise. Everyone complimented Corinne on her outfit, a flared dress that revealed her ankles and showed so much décolletage that the men were hypnotised. Even the Mercier widow, who had twisted her ankle and was sitting under the living room window, told Corinne how elegant she looked. Dragan played Father Christmas that evening. He asked Tamo and Amine to help him empty the boot of his car and when they entered the living room, their arms filled with packages, Mathilde rushed over to them. Aïcha watched her mother throw herself to the floor and thought: Mama is a child too. ‘Thank you, thank you!’ Mathilde kept saying as she unwrapped the bottles of Hungarian Tokay that Dragan had managed to unearth. He opened one of the bottles there and then. ‘It’ll bring back memories of late grape harvests in Alsace,’ he promised her, pouring the golden liquid into a glass that he sniffed ceremoniously. ‘Now open this box!’ Mathilde tore off the string and inside the box she found a panoply of medicines, medical equipment and medical books. She picked up one of the books and held it to her chest. ‘That one’s in French!’ Dragan exclaimed, raising his glass and toasting the children’s health and the joy of being together.

  Before dinner Tamara agreed to sing for her hosts. In her youth she had enjoyed fleeting fame as a singer and had performed in Prague, Vienna and in Germany, next to a lake whose name she’d forgotten. She stood in front of the large window, placed one hand on her belly and pointed the other towards the horizon. From her skinny torso emerged a power ful voice, and the precious stones around her neck seemed to vibrate. Her song was desperately sad, like the lament of a siren or some strange animal exiled on earth that was calling out to its lost loved ones. Tamo, who had never heard anything like it before, ran into the living room. Mathilde had again forced her to wear a black-and-white maid’s uniform and a small pleated headdress. She smelled of sweat and her frilly apron was stained where she’d wiped her fingers, despite Mathilde’s constant reminder that it was not a tea towel. The maid stared, dumbstruck, at the singer, and Mathilde hurried her back into the kitchen before she had time to start laughing or to say something stupid. Aïcha clung to her father. There was beauty in that song, perhaps even a certain magic, but all Amine’s emotions were strangled by a terrible feeling of embarrassment. The spectacle of this old lady singing filled him with shame and he had no idea why.

  After dinner the men went out on to the front steps to smoke. It was a clear night and they could make out the obscene shape of the cypresses against the purple sky. Amine was a little drunk and he felt happy, standing there on the steps, outside his house filled with guests. I’m a man, he thought, I’m a father, I possess things. He let his mind drift into a strange, floating reverie. Through the window he could see the living room mirror reflecting the figures of his wife and children. He turned towards the garden and felt a sense of friendship towards the men around him that was so deep, so vivid, that he had a sudden idiotic urge to hug them. Dragan, who was expecting his first orange harvest that spring, told them that he’d probably found a distributor, that they were close to signing a contract. The effects of the alcohol made it difficult for Amine to concentrate; his ideas flew away from him like dandelion seeds. He didn’t notice that Mourad was drunk too and that he was struggling to stay upright. The foreman grabbed Omar’s arm and spoke to him in Arabic. ‘He’s a pussy,’ he said, gesturing at Dragan, and when he laughed, saliva squirted between his missing teeth. He was envious of the Hungarian’s elegance, jealous of Amine’s attentiveness towards him, and he felt ridiculous in his frayed shirt and the jacket that Mathilde had given him, less out of generosity than fear of being shamed by him in front of all these foreign guests.

  Omar was repulsed by the former soldier. He wiped the saliva from his neck and rolled his eyes as Mourad began one of his interminable stories about the war. All the men lowered their heads. Neither the Jew nor the Muslim nor any of those who had been through those years of shame and betrayal wished to see the evening ruined by such stories. Mourad, his gaze wavering, started talking about his years in Indochina and the Battle of Dien Bien Phu. ‘Communist bastards!’ he yelled, an
d Dragan looked back inside the house, seeking a woman’s eyes. Abruptly, Omar freed himself from Mourad’s grip and the foreman lost his balance and collapsed on to the ground.

  ‘Dien Bien Phu! Dien Bien Phu!’ Omar repeated, hopping about, his mouth contracted with rage. He bent down, grabbed Mourad by the collar and spat in his face. ‘You filthy sell-out! You stupid soldier – you were exploited by the French. You’re a traitor to Islam, a traitor to your country.’ Mourad had cut his head when he fell, and Dragan crouched down to examine the wound. Amine, suddenly sober, went over to his brother and – even before trying to reason with him – was paralysed by Omar’s myopic glare. ‘I’m out of here. I don’t know what I’m doing in this house of degenerates, celebrating a god that isn’t even mine. You should be ashamed of yourself, in front of your children and your workers. You should be ashamed of the contempt you show your people. You ought to watch yourself. Traitors will get what’s coming to them when we take over the country.’ Omar turned his back and walked away into the night, his slender figure gradually disappearing as if being absorbed by the landscape.

  The women had heard the shouting and become alarmed when they saw Mourad lying on the ground. Corinne ran towards them and – despite his anger, despite his pain – Amine couldn’t help laughing when he saw her. Her breasts were so huge that she ran in a funny way, back straight and chin out, skipping like a mountain goat. Dragan patted his host on the shoulder and said something to him in Hungarian that meant: ‘Don’t let this spoil the party. Let’s drink!’

  VII

  Omar did not reappear. A week passed, then a month, and there was still no sign of him.

  One morning Yasmine found two baskets full of food outside the hobnailed door. They were so heavy that she had to drag them along the floor to the kitchen, where she yelled for Mouilala to come and see. ‘Two chickens, some eggs and broad beans. Look at those tomatoes, and that sachet of saffron!’ Mouilala angrily hit the old slave. ‘Put it all away! You hear me? Put it away!’ Her withered face was wet with tears and she was shaking. Mouilala knew that the nationalists gave baskets of food and sometimes even money to the families of martyrs and prisoners. ‘Idiot! Imbecile! Don’t you understand? This means something has happened to my son!’

  When Amine came to visit, the old woman was sitting on the patio, and for the first time he saw her hair, long, coarse and grey, falling down her back. She stood up in a fury and stared at him with hate.

  ‘Where is he? He hasn’t been home for a month! May the Prophet protect him! Don’t keep things from me, Amine. If you know anything, if anything’s happened to my son, tell me, I beg you!’ Mouilala had not slept for days. Her face was drawn and she’d lost weight.

  ‘I’m not hiding anything. Why are you accusing me? Omar’s been hanging around with a gang of rebels for months. He’s the one putting our family’s safety at risk. Why blame me for it?’

  Mouilala started to weep. This was the first time she’d ever had a row with Amine.

  ‘Find him, ya ouldi. Find your brother. Bring him home.’ Amine kissed his mother’s forehead, he rubbed her hands and he promised.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll bring him to you. I’m sure there’s a rational explanation.’

  In truth Amine had been tortured by Omar’s absence. For weeks he’d knocked at the houses of neighbours, family friends, his few contacts in the army. He’d gone to the cafés where his brother was often seen, he’d spent whole afternoons sitting outside the bus station, watching buses leave for Tangier and Casablanca. Sometimes he would see a man whose silhouette or gait reminded him of his brother and he’d jump up and run after him, pat him on the shoulder, and when the stranger turned to face him he’d say: ‘I beg your pardon, monsieur. I thought you were someone else.’

  He remembered Omar often talking about Otmane, a former schoolmate from Fez, so he decided to pay him a visit. It was early afternoon when he reached the heights of the holy city and entered the damp backstreets of the medina. A sad, cold February day, its murky light spread over the green fields and splendid mosques of the imperial city. Amine kept asking the way from passers-by; they were all shivering, all in a rush, but each one gave him different directions and after two hours of turning in circles he started to panic. He kept having to press his body to the walls to let a donkey or a cart go past. ‘Balak, balak!’ men would yell – ‘Get out of the way!’ – and Amine would jump, his shirt soaked with sweat despite the coolness of the air. At last an old man with discoloured patches on his face came up to him and, in a gentle voice, rolling his Rs, offered to escort him to the house. They walked in silence, Amine following in the footsteps of this distinguished man who was greeted by everyone they passed. ‘It’s here,’ the stranger said, gesturing to a door then vanishing into an alleyway before Amine could thank him.

  A young maid opened the door and escorted him to a ground-floor courtyard. He waited for a long time in this empty, silent riad. Several times he stood up and cautiously walked around the central patio. He peeked through half-open doors, stamping his feet on the zellige and hoping that the inhabitants – who were perhaps asleep at this mid-afternoon hour – would be woken by the noise. The riad was vast and decorated with exquisite taste. Across from the fountain was a large room with a mahogany desk and two sofas upholstered with precious fabrics. Fragrant jasmine grew on the patio, as well as a wisteria that climbed up to the first-floor balustrades. To the right of the entrance the walls of the Moroccan living room were decorated with plaster sculptures and the cedar ceiling covered in coloured patterns.

  Amine was about to leave when the door opened and a man came in. He wore a striped djellaba and a fez. His beard was neatly trimmed and under his arm he held a red leather folder containing a stack of files. The man frowned with surprise at the sight of this stranger in his house.

  ‘Hello, Sidi! I’m sorry to disturb you. Your maid let me in.’

  The house’s owner remained silent.

  ‘My name is Amine Belhaj. Once again, I apologise for bothering you at home. I’ve come in search of my brother, Omar Belhaj. I know that your son and he are friends and I thought perhaps that I might find him here. I’ve looked everywhere for him and my mother is sick with worry.’

  ‘Omar … Yes, of course, I see the resemblance now. You fought on the front in 1940, didn’t you? I’m sorry, but your brother isn’t here. My son, Otmane, was expelled from school and is now studying in Azrou. It’s been a long time since he saw your brother, you know.’

  Amine couldn’t hide his disappointment. He dug his hands into his pockets and said nothing. ‘Please, sit down,’ said the man, and at that moment the young maid returned and placed a teapot on the copper table.

  Hadj Karim was a wealthy businessman. He ran a firm that advised clients on property purchases and investments. He had one employee and a typewriter, and his judgement was trusted in his neighbourhood and beyond. In Fez and throughout the surrounding region people sought out the protection of this influential man, who was close to the nationalist parties but also had many European friends. Every other year he would go to Châtel-Guyon to be treated for his asthma and eczema. He loved wine, listened to German music and had decorated his riad with nineteenth-century furniture bought from a former British ambassador. He was an elusive man, suspected by some of being an intelligence officer for the French authorities and by others of being a high-ranking accomplice of the Moroccan nationalists.

  ‘I worked for the French in the 1930s,’ he told Amine. ‘I wrote contracts, did some legal translation. I was an honest employee and they had no reason to reproach me, thanks be to God. And then, in 1944, I supported the independence manifesto and took part in the uprisings. The French fired me and that was when I opened my own office as a certified defence lawyer specialising in Moroccan law. Who says we need them, eh?’ Hadj Karim’s expression darkened. ‘Others weren’t as lucky as me. Some of my friends were exiled to Tafilalt, others were tortured by sadists who stubbed out cigarettes on their ba
cks, tried to drive them insane. What could I do? I did my best to help my friends. I organised fundraisers to pay for the defence of political prisoners. One day I went to court, hoping to help a young man who’d been accused of a crime or just to offer support to a father devastated by the cruelty of a verdict. Outside the building I saw a man sitting on the ground and shouting out a word that I didn’t understand. I went over to him and saw, carefully laid out on a cloth, three or four ties. The vendor thought he’d spotted a customer and he tried to sell me one, but I told him I wasn’t interested and went on towards the court. There was a crowd of people gathered around the entrance. Men praying, women scratching at their faces and invoking the name of the Prophet. Believe me, Si Belhaj, I can remember the face of each and every one of them. Fathers, humiliated by their own powerlessness, handing me documents that they couldn’t read. They looked at me imploringly and told the women to move out of the way and shut up, but a tearful mother doesn’t listen to anyone. When I finally made it to the entrance I introduced myself and presented my credentials as a lawyer, but the doorman was categorical: I couldn’t go in if I wasn’t wearing a tie. I found this hard to believe. Hurt and embarrassed, I went back to the vendor sitting cross-legged on the ground and picked up a blue tie. I paid for it without uttering a word and tied it over my djellaba. I would have felt ridiculous had I not seen, on the steps leading up to the courtroom, several anxious fathers, the hoods of their djellabas lifted up, each one with a tie around his neck.’ The man sipped his tea. Amine slowly nodded. ‘I am like all those fathers, Si Belhaj. I’m proud to have a nationalist son. I’m proud of all those sons who rise up against the occupiers, who punish traitors, who struggle to end an unjust occupation. But how many murders will it take? How many men must go before the firing squad before our cause triumphs? Otmane is in Azrou, far from all of that. He must study so he is ready to lead this country when it becomes independent. Find your brother. Search everywhere for him. If he’s in Rabat, or Casablanca, take him home. I admire all those people who sincerely accept the martyrdom of their loved ones. But I understand even better those who will do anything to save them.’