by Leïla Sebbar
He completely forgot this artificial exoticism when he spotted Sherazade in her usual place. How had he managed to fall so quickly in love with a girl he didn't know, when he always maintained that he had never been in love? Was he lying? Had he forgotten? He was speaking the truth. He had never known love at first sight, until now.
He stopped to look at her.
Her face was turned three quarters towards him, bent over a book she was holding on her left knee which was crossed over her right leg.
He noticed her delicate round earings. An emerald set in gold. He'd never seen her wearing any jewellery, and suddenly he couldn't take his eyes off that brilliant green dot near a black curl behind her ear. From time to time, Sherazade pushed the curl back, touching the stone which was smooth as a pearl. Julien followed her movement, attentive and indiscreet, waiting for her to lift her head towards him, he'd moved slightly to force her to catch sight of him when she got tired of reading. But Sherazade just went on fingering her emerald and the tip of her left ear-lobe. Once or twice she scratched the top of her head hard, rumpling her hair over her forehead, without her noticing.
She was reading a book about the Algerian War. The seat opposite Sherazade was occupied. Julien walked around the library, dipping into recent newspapers and magazines. He was waiting for a seat to be vacated, but he had to give up. He walked behind Sherazade, tore a sheet of squared paper out of his little spiral notebook in which he always took his notes and slipped it on the table; he had hurriedly scribbled, 'I'm in the bookshop, Julien.'
Soon, after he had already looked several times at all the books and albums laid out on the tables, Julien grew impatient. He decided he'd drop in at the library once more and then go home. He walked angrily towards the door with his head down and bumped into the glass pane. He heard someone burst out laughing near him and was just about to swear at the person when he saw it was Sherazade standing there with the headphones of her walkman round her neck in place of the red and yellow scarf she was wearing in the fast-food.
Driss
Sherazade was wearing Krim's biking jacket, the black one with gilt buttons. She liked it on account of its large number of pockets and because it was loose and lightweight. Krim took particular care of his biking gear. He had several outfits, black or red, leather or waterproofed cotton. He'd come back one day with a black cat-suit in soft leather, a studded jacket with an eagle on the back and a magnificent pair of biking boots. They'd all yelled with admiration and immediately asked what they'd cost. When Krim swore blind they cost half a million no one was surprised; he was talking in old francs, just like his parents. Everyone knew Krim had certainly not laid out a penny for this outfit that Sherazade said reminded her too much of traffic cops or SS officers. Krim told her she didn't know what she was talking about and became quite aggressive when she insisted although he wasn't usually violent. In the end he stormed out of the room with his helmet under his arm, saying, 'Fuck you, you stupid bitch,' and didn't speak to her again until she asked him to lend her his black jacket. They made it up. Krim was as keen as Driss on what they called their gear. Krim for the bike, Driss for town wear and chasing skirt. When Driss was occupying the bathroom of the squat, which Pierrot had restored and renovated, the others knew they'd have to Wait a long time for it to be free. They protested and had to shave in the kitchen without a mirror or in front of the cracked mirror in the big room. When Driss emerged from the bathroom, his pals crowded round in admiration. 'Snazzy!' they exclaimed, repeating, 'Snazzy!' . . . then they all wanted to know where he'd found the whole rig-out, fingering the clothes while Driss recoiled from the assault. They examined him from head to toe – snazzy.
Basile counted on his fingers.
'How many birds are you going to bring back?'
'They won't be for you.'
'That's for sure.'
Basile pointed to Pierrot.
'Look how he's got up. You should give him some lessons, Driss.'
Pierrot retorted, 'Toy-boys aren't my scene . . .' and Driss took offence, though used to Pierrot's puritanical remarks, calling him the 'Stal', only knowing that this abbreviation of Stalin or Stalinist, as Basile had explained to him, was a political insult, but incapable of going further into its ideological implications, and with, 'Bye, everybody!' was off, slamming the door behind him. Sometimes he returned to the squat in the small hours with a couple of grand that he showed his pals; he'd played cards with other youngsters and not so young, Algerians and Moroccans, in places he'd never revealed the names and addresses of. Basile said, 'This time you didn't have to sell your jacket and boots.' As on a couple of occasions, in winter, Driss had found himself skint. He'd had to abandon his sheepskin jacket with the woollen collar and another one in waterproofed material, smooth as silk, lined with fur, 'Marmot, not rabbit,' he'd explained to the squat-mates. Basile asked him where he'd ditched his birds, his muffs; Driss let fly with invectives against Algerian girls who he called prick-teasers, and Basile reminded him of what one of their buddies had said who'd lived in the squat a few weeks before, 'I screw French girls, I don't touch Arabs, I leave them virgin for marriage, they're like my sisters,' and Driss replied he'd had a bellyful of French girls who had the hots for him, 'They're all crazy about me, dunno why . . .'
Basile burst out laughing. Repeated Driss's expression loud enough for the others to hear. He asked Sherazade and Djamila, 'You crazy about him?'
'No, no!'
'You see!'
Driss retorted, 'But they're Arabs . . .'
Djamila protested and Driss went on, 'Oh yes, that's right; Djamila's an adulterate.'
'What? What's that mean, adulterate?' Djamila shouted.
'Not pure Arab. You're half Arab, half French, it's quite clear!'
'OK. I thought you meant something else.'
'You see,' Driss said to Basile. 'Algerian girls are all depraved, and I'm not the only one to say so. Ask the others.'
Krim and Eddy were called, and Rachid if he happened to be there between two stays in DASS* hostels. Generally the argument ended there under some excuse or other. They didn't like this sort of talk in front of the girls, and besides they weren't sure how Sherazade and Djamila would react. Especially Djamila, as Eddy had told them she went on the game from time to time to buy smack. They didn't believe him. She didn't look like a junkie, they said, and they'd never seen her needing a fix like Driss. She managed things better.
* DASS – Department d'Action Sanitaire et Sociale, government organization, similar to British DHSS. (Trans.)
Djamila
Eddy had bumped into Djamila twice running, first at the Bastille, then at the Forum at the Halles; she looked as if she'd been drinking and was walking beside a well-dressed chap in a three-piece suit, fifty something, carrying a briefcase. She was talking loudly and laughing a lot; the second time, he'd followed her; he'd seen her go into a hotel in the neighbourhood and go upstairs with the man, then come down and say goodbye to him politely. She'd disappeared when he tried to find out where she went afterwards.
Sherazade already knew what Eddy revealed to his incredulous squat-mates. She was the only one Djamila talked to, often late into the night. She was waiting for letters from a fellow called Richard who she'd met in a queue at the Job Centre. She was alone in Paris. She disliked this city; she preferred Marseilles. She hardly ever left the room where Richard had put her up. He was an artist and the room was cluttered with canvases, cardboard boxes, pots of paint. He said he was a genius and he'd be recognized one day. Meanwhile he was living on the money his parents sent him from Lyons, the father was a company director, a member of the Socialist Party, he understood his son and tried to help him. Richard frequented the fashionable clubs. To earn a bit of money he worked in the trendy cafés around the Halles area. He served in the bar, but after three weeks the boss, an energetic smart young man, started to complain that he wasn't peppy or efficient enough, and when one day the rumour reached him that the fellows who hung around Rich
ard were pushers who came to his place simply to contact him, he took the opportunity to tell him that this job didn't suit him and he could surely find something better and that the work was beneath him. He discreetly gave him his marching orders. Richard hadn't lasted long either at the Palace, or the Rex, clubs where he met the pals he'd tried to work with, who'd told him he'd got talent but never lifted a finger to try to find him a gallery to exhibit in, although they often knew gallery owners, art-dealers and a lot of wealthy patrons who liked to discover and help young artists, especially if they found them as attractive as their creations. When Djamila met Richard, he'd just left Annette, or rather Annette had left him, because she endlessly had to keep Richard supplied with food and art materials out of her modest salary as a nurse.
Djamila agreed to go home with Richard. He didn't force her to sleep with him and didn't keep an eye on her comings and goings. He didn't question her if she didn't come back till the morning when he was still asleep. Djamila said she'd found a job in a shoe shop in the Saint-Germain area, a smart boutique. She only stayed two weeks; she didn't like serving, still less kneeling down to help lazy stuck-up customers try on shoes they'd be quite capable of putting on by themselves at home; she had to unpack ten pairs of shoes for nothing, and at the end of the day the manageress told her, 'Djamila, you've not worked well today. You must be more obliging, you know. You don't smile, you look as if you're bored; the customers don't like that. They are particular about the quality of our goods and staff, so make an effort.'
Djamila thought she'd have liked to kill a couple of them, if she could, she knew which ones. When she'd seen the weapons in Pierrot's room, one day when he was cleaning them, she'd thought the .38 would do the job, but the next day she'd asked the owner for the money owing to her and went to see if it was not too late to register for the psycho course at the university – rather starve than sell shoes and having to put up with the smell of middle-class cows' feet – as she said to Richard who was tickled pink, though he realized they were broke now and that was no laughing matter. And so Djamila had hung around at the university, and as she couldn't find any training course she liked or if she did it only started in six months' time, as she was never satisfied with the jobs she was offered, chambermaid, telephonist, home help, when she'd got her baccalauréat . . . true, she couldn't type, she started to let herself be picked up in the street, without ever having to take to street-walking or depend on a pimp, she found herself more than once in hotel rooms, always different ones as she didn't want to get known to the police or to the pimps. Richard had asked no questions about where the money came from that he used freely for his smack. Gradually Djamila had started using also and she said that at those times she felt good with Richard and she was more and more in love with him. He was lazy but he still painted, sometimes non-stop for hours on end. She watched him. She liked being there, watching Richard paint. It was restful after she'd been on a job when she'd had to argue with the punters when it came to paying up as they often tried to rip her off. She also tried to trick them out of having sex with her but it didn't always work and she got fed up with the perverts who didn't want to screw and asked her to beat them with wet towels or whips. She had to have money for clothes, she liked smart gear and giving presents to Richard who was capable of wearing the same pair of jeans for six months on end; she used her earnings to dress him to her taste. She found him all the more attractive.
Sherazade listened to her.
Camille or Rosa
Sherazade, too, had been propositioned fairly overtly and, more than once, she'd had to get up from the table or leave the club before the trap was sprung. She'd learned to judge the decisive moment very exactly. The men who invited her would never have thought her capable of such determination. They were astonished to see her suddenly harden, when they'd only got to the salad or the second whisky that she pretended to drink, a girl like her with her youthful, laughing face that had made them take an immediate fancy to her. Why did she suddenly turn nasty, coarse,vulgar, it didn't suit her . . . She'd listen to them murmuring these moral platitudes until she'd suddenly jump up, calling the man a disgusting old pig and a randy snake – it was Basile who had taught her this insult from Maoist Popular China – and then she'd stalk out stiffly before breaking into a run.
Some encounters had been more congenial. She was often picked up in phone boxes where you can see your neighbour through the glass panes. The man would signal to her and she'd choose whether to reply or not. When she knew there was nothing at the squat, in the fridge or in the cashbox and pockets had been turned out, and as she'd never descend to begging, if the bloke who tapped on the window of the call-box wasn't too repulsive she'd agree to have dinner with him, but never at his place. She preferred restaurants or big brasseries. One of them had taken her to the brasserie at the Gare de Lyon. She'd eaten well and laughed a lot. Before leaving he'd told her he worked as a stand-up comic, his job was to make people laugh. He wanted to see her again but she said he'd have to trust to luck and didn't give him her address or phone number. When asked what her name was she would either say Camille or Rosa according to the person. Pierrot had explained who Rosa Luxemburg was but she'd chosen this name before discovering that this Spartacist revolutionary was known as Rosa Lux - like light, added Pierrot, who knew everything about history and every revolution from Spartacus the gladiator and even before that. She liked listening to him in the evenings when the telly was on and the programmes didn't interest them. Basile also would get on his soapbox and hold forth about the history of the Negroes, the deportation, the slaves' revolts, starting first in Santo Domingo. Basile lent her books on Black Africa, the Caribbean, Toussaint L'Ouverture . . .
One evening Sherazade returned to the squat and burst in on them, interrupting their rehearsal. She'd had a narrow escape from two bastards in the Rue Saint-Denis. She needed to tell them about it.
'I'll point them out to you and you can bash their faces in, otherwise what's the good of going in for all that judo and karate and shooting practice in clubs like you do . . . So I was walking along in the Rue Saint-Denis, minding my own business . . .'
'And what the hell were you doing there? That street's no place for you.'
'I go where I want to, when I want to, and my place is everywhere.'
'All right, all right
'Exactly . . . OK, let me go on. I walk under a signboard. The place was empty. Two blokes come up to me, crowding me in and saying I can see the show for nothing if I like. I hadn't noticed where I was. I didn't suspect anything. I thought it was a cinema, I don't know what I thought. I went through the curtain with them and inside they jammed me in a little cubicle and forced me to watch. I saw a half-naked girl masturbating and smiling. I shut my eyes. I didn't know she couldn't see me. I twigged where I was. I struggled like mad, I yelled, the girl behind the one-way mirror went on, the blokes told me, "Look at her, you little bitch, get an eyeful and see that you take it in, 'cos you're going to be put behind the mirror like her, you'll earn a heap and us too." They pulled my hair to make me look up. I screamed and bit and kicked. They heard a noise, a customer perhaps, and they let go and I ran off . . .'
'You see . . . that's no place for you, I told you so.'
'Never go alone in that area. That's all.'
Sherazade was furious and swore at them.
'Is that all you've got to say . . . Those two bastards could have raped me and you stand here . . .'
'They raped you?'
'No.'
'So, you see . . .'
'I see, I see what? I see you don't understand anything. You talk big, that's all.'
'What d'you want us to do?'
'I dunno. At least say they are bastards, scum.'
'OK. They're bastards, scum, rotters. . .'
Sherazade walked out and shut herself in the bathroom. After an hour Krim came and banged on the door. 'Sherazade!' She wouldn't answer. Krim said he was going to break the door down. 'Just try.' Krim said,
'Good, you haven't committed suicide, so that's all right.'