"Yes, my mother." I crawled out of bed and went into the living room. I swallowed a shot of whisky, just so as to pick up my dream where I'd left off, and I went back into the bedroom. After I'd unplugged the land line and turned off the cell, I burrowed under the comforter. When I awoke it was nearly two in the afternoon. My brother and brother-in-law must be at the mosque, and my mother must be cursing me. Shit, I swore. I took a shower, drank a first coffee, then another one, and took the third one into my study. For a long time I gazed at the trembling foliage. Then I called the forty-something. I suggested lunch at the Flore. She told me once again that the Café de Flore was a bit too "white" for her, and added that she preferred the bistros in Ménilmontant where, she simpered, she could feel like the sultana of the Kasbah all over again. "Fair enough," I said. "Let's have lunch in Ménilmontant." But she turned down my invitation outright. And when I insisted, she murmured that she was not alone. "Bring him along," I said casually. Upon which, laughing a little, she retorted that Hadda Bouchnaffa was open-minded but not a complete idiot, old boy. And besides, "he is a she," she pointed out. Sorry, sorry, I said. Don't worry about it, she said, adding that she'd call me soon.
"You're not mad at me, then?"
"Not at all. Talk to you soon, Mohamed." Why hadn't she mentioned her sexual deviancy to me?
Surely I did not bear the marks of some old-fashioned bigot. My manner of expressing myself may have been somewhat prudish, that is true, but my advances could hardly have been more explicit. Moreover, her venal copulating, at least the way she had explained it to me, did not seem to cause her any qualms.
Well, so what. The next time she called, I would also invite her girlfriend. Straight to my house. And why not. Champagne, expensive wine, candles, caterer, that perfect Parisian woman, flawless example of French and republican integration, could hardly refuse such gallantry … So I would go from one to the other, drinking and inhaling their secretions, sweetsmelling as musk, rich as honey.
Well, so what, I thought again, my spirits high. I got dressed and went out, curious and happy to be exploring my neighborhood on a summer Sunday. The brasserie opposite my building was closed. As was the one on the corner of the rue du Regard and boulevard Raspail. I was idling along the boulevard, through the stalls of the organic market, the most expensive one in France, I've heard, which was closing up, when I noticed Nawar and his wife with their dog in tow. I waved to him but, admonishing his dog—Come here, Jugurtha1—my friend looked away. Continuing on my way, I spotted a bistro that wasn't much to look at, but at least it was open. As I drew nearer, I was able to read the menu displayed outside. Couscous-Royal. Couscouslamb. Couscous-merguez. Couscous-chicken. And so on. Integration in reverse, I thought, convinced the proprietor must be white. I was about to go in when I caught a glimpse of the proprietor's face. Instantly recalling something I had read in Buried Alive,1 I hightailed it out of there. A few minutes later, I was outside the Café de Flore. I went into the café, and I saw her right away. Twentysomething, dark, almost black skin, large dark eyes, long wavy hair, she was sipping eagerly on a Perrier with mint syrup. Her gaze, hard and frightened at the same time, met mine. And as if by magic, before I even sat down, she responded to my smile.
1 King of Numidia, also the name of the dog belonging to former president Valéry Giscard d'Estaing (Mohamed).
1 "[ … ] if I was dead, they would take me to the mosque in Paris and I would find myself in the hands of filthy Arabs; so I would die twice over, they make me sick!" Sadeq Hedayat (Mohamed).
The sky was ablaze with Bastille Day fireworks, he said, when I closed the door to my lovely nest. I was alone, yet again, but just before she got out of the car, she brushed her lips against mine. I repeat, out loud, and out of order: against mine her lips she brushed. And again. With her sweet lips did the very young woman brush my own.
A chaste kiss, to be sure, but a good beginning. Before taking her home, I had suggested continuing the evening in a bar on the boulevard Montparnasse or in SaintGermain, at the jazz club right near the Flore, where we had dined, drinking Perrier water—because she did not touch a drop of alcohol, and was respecting Ramadan, not out of tradition, she explained, but out of conviction, do you understand? She was worthy of her name, Khadija, that of the Prophet's first wife, who knew neither concubines nor cowives, who believed with unflinching determination in the Messenger of God who had supported him and looked after him when, returning from Mount Hira, he was shivering with fever, overwhelmed by the apparitions of Jibril and the divine revelations that the Archangel with six hundred wings had made to him. She also said that my parents had given me the finest of names, and, if I didn't mind, she would refrain from calling me "Momo." I approved, and she insisted that she could not stay, that I must not break my promise to take her home in due course, her sister-in-law would not like it if I did—for she lived with her sister-in-law, her brother's widow, on rue de la Pompe in the 16th arrondissement, and she had only granted her permission to stay out until eleven o'clock, and if she were late that could put an end to any other evening dates, she said. Because, she added, if her father, who was upright and strict, were to find out that she was going out in the evening, he would put an end to her studies—she was a student in astrophysics—and repatriate her without delay, for her father, along with her mother and sisters, who had been refugees in France once upon a time, had since gone back to Algeria, she said. And it was a long story. So her father would not like it at all if he were to find out that his twenty-five-year-old daughter was hanging around the dark streets of Paris.
Bastille Day or no Bastille Day. But her sister-in-law, a musician, was young and modern, and had agreed to cover for her. Exceptionally. Because, she told me, she was a serious girl, and she only cared about her studies, and then, just like that, between two sips of Perrier, she told me that she would soon be moving to my neighborhood, to the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, so that she would be closer to her school. A little two-room apartment that her father had paid cash for, and she would be living there alone, like a big girl, cozy as could be. Because, she said, her father would do anything to make sure his eldest daughter had all the comfort she deserved, and thather very trying studies deserved. Because she was a serious girl, she said again, worthy of the education her father was providing for her. She wasn't one of those girls who only thought about fun. And in a week, at the latest, once the work on the apartment was finished, she would no longer be under her sister-in-law's surveillance; thus, she would stop calling every twenty minutes, she said with a smile, picking up her vibrating cell phone. After she had hung up she stared right at me and asked me if I knew that Venus was a real mystery, an inhospitable planet, completely veiled and sculpted by volcanoes. And that it blazed away at 480 degrees Celsius, even though the sun had never penetrated its sky. And that it orbited backward. And maybe that was where infidels went to roast, she continued, picking up her cell phone, which had started vibrating again. "It's my sister-in-law again," she said, before answering.
Sister-in-law or no sister-in-law, this was my second date as a free man and I was still a virgin. All I had to pass the time was my television, which I had finally bought and had delivered the day before.
After I pressed the button on the remote control, I inaugurated a new bottle of scotch. I lit a cigarette and checked my phone messages. Five and all from my mother, and I erased them immediately. I poured a glass and took little sips, thinking about the place where, next Saturday, I would take my girlfriend. Because, I said to myself again, that's what she was. She was my girlfriend. My first real girlfriend. The one I'd go to restaurants with, and the cinema, every Saturday, with or without the approval of her sister-in-law—that modern woman who, before granting permission to her protégée to stay out until eleven, had insisted upon speaking to me on the phone, and asking me about my person, and about the place where I planned to take her little sister-in-law, and above all extracting a promise from me that I'd make sure her young protégée got
home. On time, please. Her father, you see, could call at any time. You're Algerian, aren't you? So you know the tune … And besides, she added, her father, who wasn't actually her father but her mother's husband, a well-known playwright in Algeria, was as fond of Samira as of the apple of his eye.
"Khadija," I corrected. "I'm Khadija, Samira borrowed that name for her new life.
A way of thanking me. It's true she really had a rough time of it, poor kid, the way only a slave can have a rough time of it. But all that is behind her now. I'm counting on you, all right?"
"Yes," I said, flattered by the trust placed in me by the sister-in-law of my young thing. My steady girlfriend, whom I would not introduce to my (future) friends, only to my cousin. In any case, I didn't count on staying with her for all eternity. Just long enough to possess her. Maybe the atmosphere of a party might prove propitious? Driss, back in Paris, was planning to host one, and had cordially invited me. I would talk it over with my nymphet, my gazelle, my Turkish delight. Or on the other hand, maybe I should simply surprise her with dinner at home? Tablecloth and candles. Caterer. Quiet music. Callas or Léo Ferré. Never out of fashion. Or Gaâda Diwane de Béchar, whom she'd listened to over and over in my old Peugeot. After the fourth scotch, the idea of having dinner at home didn't seem like such a good one, dangerous at the very least. She would take it badly and I'd never see her again. Above all you mustn't lose her, whispered the voice into my right ear. Of course not, I murmured. Your mother would like her, whispered the voice again into my right ear. When I leapt up, the glass went flying and the scotch splatteredall over the sofa. She won't get away with it, I said to myself as I headed for the kitchen.
The she-wolf had to give up her role as guardian and master. Let her marry off the devout son and leave you alone, whispered the voice, finally, into my left ear. Right. Damn right, I murmured, sponging off the sofa. But what's this then—you're consorting with a girl you can scarcely tell apart from the mayor's daughter, the sort of girl your mother would welcome with ululations fit to rip her glottis out, whispered the voice again into my left ear. Right. Damn right, I murmured, heading back to the kitchen. Back in the living room I lit a cigarette and took a swig of scotch straight from the bottle. Ululations fit to bleed her tonsils out, whispered the voice into my left ear. No fear, I said out loud. My mother will not put the noose around my neck. Nor will she put it around the neck of that daddy's girl, whose daddy isn't her daddy, and from whom I expect only one thing. After that she can go to the devil, and as for me, with the newfound confidence conferred by my deflowering, I shall go to other women as white and free as a summer's breeze, I murmured, swallowing my Stilnox. I took my cell phone, in case she called to thank me for the nice evening and wish me a good and pleasant night, and I went into the bedroom. I got undressed and slipped under the comforter. A moment later, I fell into a sleep as deep as death.
I was dreaming of a young woman all of gold and silk attired, he said, and a thundering chorus of ululations was bursting my eardrums, when the ringing of the telephone woke me up. "Good morning, my mother …"
"How do you know it's me?"
"Because I can see it on the screen, my mother, I told you already …"
"Aren't you up yet, apple of my eye?"
"I went to bed late …"
"Staying up so late all the time …"
"It was Bastille Day, my mother …"
"Exactly, and today is Friday. Your sister and brother-inlaw, and your brother's fiancée and her family are coming to lunch, and we will all go together to hear the khutab. It's so rare."
"Yes, my mother."
"You should get here before the others do. It would look unseemly if my eldest son is not here to greet his brother-in-law and his future sister-in-law's family."
"Yes, my mother."
"Don't go performing your trick of not showing up. Last time we waited over an hour before we started eating. No way to get hold of you. This mania of yours, always switching off your phone, my son … So it was your brother, once again, who had to go do the shopping. On the metro, can you imagine what a chore that is? I'm expecting him, and I hope he won't be late."
"I'm going to give him my car. In a week at the latest."
"And what about you, my pet?"
"I'll buy another one."
"Keep your money, my son."
"I have to buy a new one for my business trips outside Paris."
"If next Sunday you could take care of the shopping, my pet … Why don't you come on Saturday? Your bed is where it's always been, my pet …"
"It depends whether I have work or not …"
"You can't have work every Saturday!"
"I am running four branches at once, my mother, and I have over four hundred people working for me. And banks, as you know, are open on Saturday, and, as the boss, I am supposed to stay in the office until morning, if need be. Moreover, I'm hoping for a promotion, and if I want to be sure of getting one, I have to work hard, my mother."
"I know, my son, but don't forget to come, apple of my eye."
"Yes, my mother." I crawled out of bed and went into the living room. I swallowed a shot of whisky, to help me get back to sleep that much easier, and I went back into the bedroom. After I'd unplugged the land line and switched off the cell phone, I burrowed under the comforter. When I woke up it was well past three o'clock in the afternoon. The khutab must be over by now, and your mother must becursing you, whispered the voice in my right ear. Shit, I swore. I had a shower, and drank a coffee, and called my young thing. I suggested we have lunch at the Flore. She accepted eagerly.
The following Sunday, he said, I was dreaming about a virgin dressed in pink when the telephone awoke me. As I was picking up the receiver, I could feel her moving, rubbing against me.
Yes indeed. She is here. In my bed. Between my sheets. She had refused to go with me to Driss's party, she didn't like that sort of thing, parties, you never knew who would be there, and Driss, whom we'd run into at the Flore, did not seem trustworthy to her, she confessed, but she agreed to come to dinner … at my house. Because you know how to cook? she had asked, by way of consent.
"Good morning, my mother."
"Why are you whispering?"
"Because of the cat, my mother."
"You have a cat now?"
"Yes, my mother. Well, it's only temporary, I'm looking after him for my neighbors while they're on vacation."
"And since when do you have to whisper around cats?"
"It's a pedigreed cat, my mother, and it's very sensitive to noise." She moved again and, like a feline, jumped out of the bed. In her pink cotton pajamas, she rushed into the bathroom. I was resisting the onslaught of my mother's words when, wrapped in a towel, her hair wet, she reappeared. I tried to motion to her but, turning her back to me, without dropping her towel and with a magician's speed and agility, she managed to get dressed without allowing a single morsel of skin to fall prey to my avaricious eyes. Then, as if she had the devil at her heels, she left the bedroom. I heard her in the kitchen using the coffee machine. "Excuse me, my mother, I have to hang up."
"Not until you hear what I have to say."
"Hold the line, my mother, the cat is sneaking out the door." The moment I jumped out of bed I heard the front door slam. I picked up the receiver. "He got away, my mother. The cat got away," I said, making no effort to restrain a hiccup that was very close to a sob. "Go get him, but don't forget to come, apple of my eye. I miss you, light of my days." With my gaze focused on the unopened packet of condoms, I hung up. She had hardly even grazed my lips with her own when we lay down. What was her excuse? She had none. She confirmed that she was a virgin. Her studies came first, she added. And I will ask you to keep your underwear on, she had commanded, in Arabic, while her cell phone was vibrating. It's my sister-in-law, she said, refusing the call. "Why don't you answer?" I asked. "I don't live at her place anymore and she's getting on my nerves," she replied, slipping under the covers. And what if the calls we
re not from her sister-in-law at all but from a lover? A female lover? What did I know? My patience was wearing thin, but there was no end to the surprises in store. And I was still as chaste as a parish priest. I dialed her number. "Where are you?" I asked, a tad authoritarian. "On the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, almost outside my house," she replied nonchalantly. Softening my tone I said, "Shall we have lunch together?"
"I'd love to but I'm expecting my sister-in-law. She's taking me to IKEA, I need some bookshelves."
"I would have taken you there if you'd asked."
"Some other time."
"I can help you put up the bookshelves …"
"No, thanks. We'll manage."
"I hope that call from my mother had nothing to do with your hurried departure?"
"Well, you're not the only one who has to come up with explanations. My father calls me every Sunday, eleven A.M. on the dot, on my landline. Even when I used to live at my sisterin-law's. It reassures him. A bit like your mother."
"Looks like we're in the same boat," I said with a laugh. "Yes, but I'm a woman," she said, not laughing. "Who has to explain herself to her legal guardian," I sneered. "Exactly."
"See you next Saturday, then?"
"Yes, Saturday. Bye, Mohamed."
What would my cousin think if he heard that I was going out with a girl on whom I had not laid a finger? And that I didn't even know the color of her nipples? A girl who slept in my bed in pink cotton pajamas buttoned up to her chin? who commanded me to keep my underwear on? who got dressed with her back turned to me? who ran home to be there in time for her daddy's phone call?
And what if I offered her a call-forwarding service? I'd pay for it. I'd insist on it. Fortified by my resolutions, I crawled out of bed and went into the living room. I swallowed a shot of whisky to help me get back to sleep and I went back into the bedroom. After I'd unplugged the landline and switched off the cell phone, I burrowed under the comforter. When I woke up, it was almost three o'clock in the afternoon. My brother and my brother-in-law must have been at the mosque. And your mother must be cursing you, whispered the voice in my right ear. Shit, I swore. And what if I telephoned my young thing? But I remembered she was with her sister-in-law and she didn't need my help to put up her bookshelves. What does she want from you? whispered the voice in my left ear. She's just the girl for him, whispered the voice in my right ear. And what if I don't see her again? What if, like the fortysomething, she disappears before I have time to possess her? And why don't I phone the forty-something, anyway? I could invite her girlfriend along. And what about Agnès Papinot? whispered the voice in my left ear. Yes. Why not? I replied. As a pretext, I could say I want to buy an apartment. In the 20th or the 18th arrondissement. Such a momentous decision. She'd arrive by taxi. Scantily clad. The elevator. The mink. Chamonix. Pie in the sky. I was going hard and my head was already spinning when I saw the pink pajamas rolled into a ball and left on a corner of the bed. I tore off my underwear, grabbed the pajama bottoms with one hand and my cock with the other, and thought of nothing else but breasts that were as round and firm and quivering as a pair of young pigeons.
The Sexual Life of an Islamist in Paris Page 10