Hope Has Two Daughters

by Monia Mazigh

  “I accept Donia’s proposal.” I was startled to hear myself whispering my resolution, as if to prove that I was ready.

  I picked up the backpack that was my constant companion, made sure I had my cellphone, and left the empty apartment. My aunt and uncle had already left for the market. They’d told me their plans yesterday evening. I heard their whispers and their muffled footsteps in the kitchen and the living room through the half-open door to my room. I didn’t want to go to my Arabic course. I was striking out to discover the city with my own eyes. I wanted to reach my own conclusions, without waiting for someone else’s approval or impressions.

  Outside, the weather was mild. A pale gentle winter sun enveloped me with a layer of benevolence. I set off down the sidewalk — or, more accurately, down what used to be a sidewalk. Cars were parked one behind the other, every which way. The street, which was narrow to begin with, looked microscopic. I stepped off the sidewalk from time to time when I was unable to find a narrow space to squeeze through and made my way along the pavement. An oncoming car made me leap back onto the sidewalk. After waiting for it to pass, I continued on my way. My outing was like a video game: I had to get to my destination without being crushed by the obstacles I encountered en route: a car rushing by at high speed, a motorcycle zigzagging between cars, pedestrians like me seeking safe passage through the urban labyrinth. I passed by Donia’s place on my way. The watchman, head swathed in the hood of his burnouse, was snoozing in his plastic chair in the warmth of the sunlight like a chill-prone cat. I tried to find Donia’s balcony. The shutters were closed; maybe she was still sleeping.

  Am Mokhtar was smoking a cigarette in front of his café. A girl in tight-fitting jeans — the cleaning lady — emptied a pail full of water as she pulled a squeegee back and forth in an attempt to clean off the greasy sidewalk. Cigarette butts floated in the soapy puddles. Am Mokhtar didn’t see me go by. Either that or he was too intent on sticking his finger in his nose while sizing up the cleaning lady’s behind. The voice of a sheikh reciting the Qur’an on a cassette or on the radio came from inside the café. I continued on.

  When I got to the bus stop, an elderly woman wearing a traditional safsari was waiting there, holding a wicker basket. She nodded in greeting. I smiled back. Across from the stop there was a large shopping centre. I’d gone in to pick up some things a couple of times. The shops hadn’t opened yet, but the saleswomen, wearing plastic sandals, their pants rolled up above their calves, were nonchalantly cleaning the storefronts and chattering noisily. Womenswear shops and toy stores rubbed elbows with pizza parlours and newsstands. Ambulant merchants were loading their pushcarts with toys, trinkets, manicure kits, headbands, contraband cigarettes, and packages of chewing gum. Some distance away, two uniformed policemen watched the scene as they chatted in low voices.

  Finally, my bus came. The woman got on first. Her safsari slipped down onto her shoulders, leaving her greying hair uncovered. With a practised movement of the jaw she caught the fabric before it could slide any further. I bought my ticket and sat down on one of the seats that were still intact. The others were half-broken, wobbly, dirty, or had been ripped off. There were only a handful of passengers. Most of them stood. The old woman took a seat behind the driver. A pane of glass separated them, but it was as though there was no barrier, as if an ongoing conversation was starting up again. They must have known each other. I looked over my shoulder out the window. Swarms of cars were tailing us like wasps. Our bus came to a stop in traffic, then started off again.

  That gave me more time to take in the streets, the houses, the buildings. I knew the route by heart. I took it every morning on my way to my Arabic course at the Institute for Living Languages. But today, I was starting fresh; I would write whatever I wanted and I would learn at my own speed. No more Monsieur Latif and his smirk, no more German girls bragging about their dates. That was all in the past. I thought about Uncle Mounir’s life in prison, about how his education had come to an abrupt end. How could he survive so much humiliation, so much injustice? How could he stand straight, how could he live a normal life after that? I found no answer to my questions. And why hadn’t Mom spoken a word about any of this? Was she worried for me, for her friends? Why did she only want me to learn Arabic when a whole swath of history lay hidden?

  The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that I had to see Donia. I had to talk it all over with her. She was the here and now, the face of the country that was struggling to find itself. She was the one who could help me get a better understanding of people who lived here and maybe even of my mom’s real motives. I’d promised her an answer, and I intended to call her today to talk it over.

  The bus was driving down the wide streets of the capital. The sight of rundown old buildings caught my attention. How did people live here before? How did they go about their lives? The clotheslines that waited for the laundry and the pots of geraniums arranged on the balconies contrasted with the sad, gloomy atmosphere of the city. In Ottawa, the downtown area was clean, the office towers were tall and luxurious, and people were serious, conservative in their tailor-made suits as they walked along the sidewalks attempting to hail a cab or held doors open before stepping into a building to escape the polar cold of winter. The people here seemed resigned and unhappy. Sadness had become second nature, their way of life. It was a mask they put on every day when they woke up in the morning in order to go to work to earn their living.

  There was a policeman at every corner. I couldn’t understand what they were doing there. But there they stood erect, wearing the same expression as the rest of the population. Were they watching the birds flying high overhead? Were they thinking about their monotonous lives?

  The old woman’s cries brought me back to reality. I got up and approached her. Her safsari had slipped to the floor, revealing her plump body. She was wearing a flowered dress that came down to her knees. Her face was crimson with anger, and she was talking in a loud voice. A gentleman seated beside her was attempting to calm her down, and a girl held out a vial of Eau de Cologne to relax her. She took a sniff and said to the girl: “Ah that little bastard, that zoufri! Did you see how he pushed me, then grabbed my basket? And my purse along with it! Near tore my hand off.”

  She slapped her leg and looked left to right. The bus driver left his vehicle to give chase to the thief, who had already made good his escape and vanished into the crowd. I got out of the bus discreetly and continued on foot. The sight of the old woman in tears left me in a state of shock. I hadn’t seen the guy who grabbed her basket. Why did he do it? I wondered. Maybe he was hungry or had a family to feed? But did that mean he had to steal?

  The streets were swarming with people. I barely recognized where I was. Which way should I go? I wanted to take a few photos, walk through the streets, and then go back home. I passed a public park that was full of mature trees. A man who couldn’t have been more than twenty was standing in front of the park’s iron fence. In front of him was a pile of small paper boxes atop an improvised stand. He was selling cigarettes. Not too much farther along another young man was selling belts that hung from his open arms. The two men looked almost alike to me — there was nothing particular to distinguish them except for their expressions, which implored passersby to purchase the merchandise. The words they spoke to extol the qualities of their goods echoed in my ears. I turned away as soon my curious gaze alighted on them. The sight of their poverty made my stomach churn. A poorly clipped moustache, a broken tooth, sleepless eyes, a tattered sweater. I felt ashamed of my comfortable life, and of my tourist’s attitude: once my curiosity was satisfied, I no longer knew what to make of these faces, of the outstretched hands of these people that I saw around me, in broad daylight, for the first time. What should I do? Look away or keep going?

  People were hurrying along the sidewalks in all directions as I walked straight ahead, intoxicated by everything I was seeing. My mind was whirling. I didn’
t know whether to go back home or continue my impromptu journey through the city. I came out into a public square, where light rail trains, cars, and pedestrians fought for space. There was a tiny park that was almost hidden, and in the centre of the park loomed a bronze statue of a man wearing a cloak and a turban holding a large book. Nobody was stopping to look; everyone was on his or her way somewhere else. And all the while, the man in bronze surveyed the scene from his six-foot-high pedestal.

  More impromptu stands, more uniformed police. A flood of cars and motorcycles was pouring through the streets. I approached the statue; carelessly, I walked right across the meticulously tended grass. No one was watching. I wanted to find out who this man was. Ibn Khaldun, 1332–1406 I read on the marble plaque; below, words in Arabic that I could not make out.

  Who was this man? Everything I’d learned in my history courses had evaporated. A scholar or an ancient hero, I thought. I pulled out my camera, but a huge cathedral immediately to the left caught my eye. A group of tourists was posing in front of the steps. I was surprised. Mom never told me there was a cathedral in downtown Tunis! I crossed the street to get closer to the brown-and-grey structure. Beggars converged on me, hands outstretched, mouthing incomprehensible prayers. One was carrying a baby; another, legless, was seated in a wheelchair. “Never give anything to the beggars, they all belong to criminal gangs,” Aunt Neila had often told me, each time I prepared to go out.

  But today I couldn’t look away from the poverty. I hesitated, then took some coins from my pocket and handed them to two beggars. They all but ripped the money from the palm of my hand, then threw me a quick “thank you” before vanishing into the crowd. Still overcome and astonished, I stood there, tense. Another group of tourists, their guide among them, was making its way in my direction. I attempted guardedly to catch a few of the guide’s words.

  He was speaking English: “The Cathedral of Saint Vincent de Paul was built in the nineteenth century. It opened on Christmas in 1897. As you can see from outside, this magnificent cathedral features several architectural styles: Moorish, Neo-Byzantine, and Gothic . . .” Listening closely, yet looking in another direction so as not to draw attention to myself, I picked up the guide’s words, one by one. Like on an old record, their syllables rapidly faded away in the interior of the cathedral, as if sucked in by the soaring space. Cameras seemed to be clicking in unison, as their flashes flickered brilliantly in the darkness of the vaulted ceiling.

  The sight of the passersby, acquiescent and indifferent, brought me back to the reality of the city. I continued, attempting to catch a crowded bus that wouldn’t stop to pick me up. Then Avenue Habib-Bourguiba swept me up into its embrace. The trees that lined it were carefully trimmed, and the sidewalk cafés displayed their tables and chairs for customers who would pause for an espresso or a glass of tea in the brisk winter weather. It was almost as though I were back on Sparks Street, in the summer, with its window-shoppers and its diners thronging the open-air restaurant patios. Where had I been all this time? Stuck in the stifling lecture rooms of my Arabic courses or back at the apartment? Why hadn’t I struck out to discover Tunis before, why hadn’t I made an effort to discover its hidden treasures?

  The ringtone of my phone shook me out of my reverie. It checked the number: it was Donia. I answered straight away.

  “Hi Lila, how are you?”

  “Fine! I’m wandering the streets of Tunis like a tourist.”

  “Lila, can we meet this afternoon? I really need to talk to you.”

  “Okay. Uh, Donia, I’ve got some news for you.”

  Silence.

  “Donia, I accept your proposal, I’ll help you. Starting right now, today, I’ll be . . . let’s call it your assistant-slash-friend.”

  I heard a long shriek of delight.

  “I just knew it! I knew it, Lila. Let’s get started right away. I’m looking forward to working together. You’ll see what we can do.”

  “Me too, Donia! I’m really happy to find out at last what brought me here.”

  She burst out laughing. “We’ve got to celebrate! This is the best news I’ve had for days now.”

  “It’s a deal!”

  We agreed to meet as soon as possible. I ended the call. An enormous weight had lifted. I felt relieved, as if I’d shared a great secret with a childhood friend. This was an enchanted city. It had bewitched me and was causing me to do things I hadn’t even thought I could do a few weeks ago. What else did it have in store for me?

  SEVENTEEN

  Tunis, February, 1984

  I met Alexander — Alex, for short — at the American cultural centre in Tunis. I’d stop by every Friday to read books in English, listen to cassettes in the language lab, or leaf through magazines that I had trouble understanding. Sometimes I would take a few minutes to relax on the comfortable chairs in the reading room, think about my life, and escape from Mother’s orders and Father’s silence.

  Alex worked there as a computer technician, installing the first computers. His father was Canadian, his mother American. He lived in Ottawa. He’d gotten his job a year before, and had jumped at the chance to work in Tunis for a year. I learned all those details from our weekly chats. He smiled at me first; I was trying to locate a book on the library shelves and mistook him for a librarian. I had no idea how to go about finding a book. I looked over all the titles and attempted to locate what I was looking for among the dozens and dozens of books packed in alongside one another.

  “Is this where I can find . . . ?” I asked him in a low voice, so I didn’t disturb the people in the reading room nearby.

  Alex had a Mediterranean look. I might have taken him for a Tunisian if there hadn’t been something distinctive about the way he carried himself. I could never have imagined he was Canadian or American. In my mind, an American was someone who looked like a movie star, someone like Clark Gable, Marlon Brando, or Rambo. Alex didn’t look like any of them. He was average height with close-cropped brown hair. His eyes were dark blue, almost black. His face was oval shaped, and he was always smiling, his shoulders broad and his posture straight. His gentle manners contrasted with his rapid step and serious expression. I spoke to him in French the first time. I was ashamed of my accent in English, but he answered me in good French, with a hint of what I thought was a Provençal accent. Only later did I learn that his accent was French-Canadian.

  He pulled a book from the shelf in front of us and pointed to the small sticker on the spine that indicated letters and numbers.

  “You have to find the right code to identify the book you’re looking for,” he explained.

  I blushed. The young man had exposed my ignorance for all to see.

  “Do you see that lady, over there, at the desk? I’m sure she’ll be able to help you better than I can. She’s the chief librarian. I’m in charge of setting up the computer system.”

  I recognized her; it was Mrs. Williams. She did checkouts and returns. She had a severe, almost intimidating appearance. And I was far too shy to ask her for advice. I wanted to learn myself. Clearly, my approach wasn’t working. I wasn’t as clever as I thought I was!

  Alex intuited my reservations. “I can help you later, if you like, but now I’ve got to get back to work, splicing cables and connecting computers.”

  I stood there, taken slightly aback. He seemed so young, as though he were still a student at the lycée. The boys at school spent all their time talking about soccer, and making obscene comments about girls. Others kept quiet, and I never knew if they were unable to actually utter those insults or were just too well brought up to do so. Once, as I was about to talk to Samir, a boy in my class who was quiet and polite, and who sat behind Neila and me, I saw that he was staring at a photo of a nearly nude woman on one of the pages of his notebook. She was bare breasted and a microscopic string only barely concealed her most intimate parts. Samir quickly squirreled the photo away in his
school bag, pretending nothing had happened. He couldn’t fool me. I was disgusted. I couldn’t look him in the eye. When I mentioned it to Neila during recess, she laughed.

  “So, you think that all the boys are chaste like us little prissy princesses. They’re exploring life, sweetie. All of ’em,” she went on, tracing a semi-circle that encompassed the entire schoolyard with her index finger. “They’ve all slept with a girl or dreamed about doing it. The ones that don’t have the guts or the means make do with porn photos, like that dimwit Samir.”

  “So how come you know so much?” I challenged her, hanging on to what was left of my self-constructed world of ideal romantic love.

  “Mounir filled me in one time.”

  Now I was really shocked. Her frankness was beginning to irritate me.

  “So, you’ve been talking about it with him!” I said, adopting my mother’s censorious tone.

  She shrugged, indifferent to my troubled expression.

  “Sure, we talk about it, and why shouldn’t we? It’s perfectly normal, don’t you think? We have to. One day I’ll marry Mounir and I’ll have children with him.”

  Neila was adept at shocking me and educating me at the same time. I fell silent, while she kept on laughing at my offended airs.

  I promised myself I would never talk to another boy in my class. Ever since the incident with the daring photo, I couldn’t even look at any of them. In my eyes they were all vulgar and crude. Unlike them, Alex, who seemed to be about their age, was so polite, so different. I felt drawn to him. I wanted to talk to him and ask him questions, as though I’d known him for years, but I did nothing. I waited until I saw him again.