by Leïla Sebbar
Zingha
Anyway, France had recently been calling herself Zingha, after the celebrated seventeenth-century Queen of Angola, who had dazzled and terrified the Portuguese colonizers up to the time of her death. Fascinating and fearless, she had been a warrior chief for nearly half a century, respected by her soldiers and her enemies. Every time France was asked 'Zingha? Why Zingha?' she told the story of this queen, who the White people had never heard of. On the other hand, she never said anything about herself. Her mother, a single parent bringing up seven children at La Redoute, near Fort-de-France, had sent her to France with a bursary, to live with an aunt who was supposed to see about sending her to school. But her schooling had been disrupted because her aunt, who worked as a nurse-aid in child welfare hospitals, had never managed to hold on to a single one of the fathers of her children. She had shacked up with several, but after the second child the father would leave her without any allowance. She had five children to bring up and France had acted as maid-of-all-work up to the day she'd dared to protest; her aunt kept a young West-Indian who wouldn't work and loved smart cars and the latest hi-fi sets. France had had frequent quarrels with her aunt over this temporary lover who she called a gigolo. Eventually the aunt kicked the gigolo out when France told her he'd never stopped propositioning her ever since she arrived. Her aunt could have defended her lover and called her a slut and thrown her out. She believed France, who was telling the truth, but a few months later France realized that a new young man was replacing the former one and that her aunt couldn't make up her mind to live alone, with no man in the house, or rather in her bed, even temporarily. She told her this the day she decided to leave to go and live with Zouzou, sharing the rent for the room between them, working from time to time as shop-assistants, telephonists or dance hostesses, but never going on the game. Often members of the gang or people who knew them at work thought they were making out together. Once a pal had asked them if they slept in the same bed, they hadn't answered. France was really beautiful. If she hadn't sympathized with the ideas of the Women's Movement, she might have had no scruples about accepting proposals for model agencies, but she'd always said no, which Zouzou couldn't understand. They argued every time France told Zouzou about her refusals. 'I'm not just a pretty face . . . These folks get on my tits.' Zouzou tried to explain to her that it had nothing to do with prostitution. 'Oh yeah! . . . you think fashion photographers are all queer? I've got pals who've told me they had to sleep with them because of the competition . . . and you often find those girls ending up at the Katmandu, a women's club, picking up shags . . . they've told me so themselves. I'm not making anything up. I've no wish to land in that shit. It's not the fact that they go for women that upsets me, it's the reason why they do it. It reminds me of a call-girl, a dago like me, who can't stand blokes but loves the dough so much she'll never give it up. She's young and a good-looker. She dresses like Catherine Deneuve, real class, but she drinks and shoots up. She's had the most incredible affairs with women. She just needs to hurt someone. She's impossible. I met her at a party, where she got pissed on vodka and the woman who'd invited her, a writer or journalist who wanted her to give up her job and those rotten blokes, had to pick her up, like a man – fortunately the girl was tiny and slight – to carry her to her car . . . no, no, Zouzou. I don't want that sort of life. Better off dead.'
Zouzou and France were popular at parties,with the men as much as the women. They were aware of this and protected themselves from envy and their own narcissism by surrounding themselves with the girls and blokes from their gang. They always wore earrings or brooches which attracted people in the fashion business, and unusual make-up, never too way-out, which drew little cries of admiration and delight from the circle that gravitated towards them.
When they arrived with Sherazade, the regulars didn't rush to exchange the ritual kisses. They watched them. The three of them had sat down on the silky cushions arranged around the central palm tree, a real palm tree with spreading green fronds, but no dates, which reached up to the balconies of a gallery which went all the way round inside the enormous square hall, like a Moorish courtyard, or rather salon. They laughed and rolled about on the round overstuffed cushions on which it was impossible to sleep softly. They got up to dance. It was hard rock. France demanded some genuine reggae. Sherazade danced as well as France. Suddenly they were the only ones under the palm tree; the others were watching them, standing round them in a circle as compact as the rings round the African or Moroccan drummers on the forecourt outside Beaubourg . . . Suddenly they looked like tourists or provincials wandering around in the heart of Paris . . . One of them remarked on this and they all scattered and fled into the corners of the room or on to the empty balconies.
Gradually, they approached the three girls and sniffed around Sherazade. They didn't address her directly.
'What's your pal's name?'
'Sherazade.'
'What?'
'Sherazade.'
'You taking the piss?'
'No. Ask her.'
'Really?'
'Yes.'
'Hold me up, hold me up or I'll pass out. . . Is someone putting on an act or what . . . The Grand Vizier's daughter under a palm tree . . . I must be dreaming . . .'
'What's got into him?' asked Sherazade. 'Is he crazy or what. OK. I'm splitting. All these silly buggers get on my tits.'
The bloke who'd pretended to swoon at Sher-azade's feet, under the palm tree, had rallied his whole little clan, artistic directors, fashion photographers, editors of women's magazines . . . A cinema producer, who preferred Nordic or Irish blondes, and as Zouzou, France and Sherazade were rather Eastern Mediterranean types, and even slightly Negroid . . . They crowded around Sherazade like groupies on a pop platform.
Sherazade snatched the camera from one photographer she'd seen snooping after her for some time who had taken advantage of the momentary confusion to take a shot of her. She hurled the camera on the floor a few yards away and went off with Zouzou without taking any notice of the crisis she was provoking. The camera had cost a small fortune. Sherazade had thrown it down so violently that it had broken. The photograher was weeping with fury. 'The bitch, I'll make her pay for it, let me just catch her, I'll make her pay for it. . . That sort turns up where they don't belong, gives everyone the come-on, just a bunch of prick-teasers, showing off with their pals, both lezzies, and then smashes people's property into the bargain . . . I need that for my work . . . I'll make her pay for it.' France was still there. She hadn't heard the photographer's insults or the final thundering conclusion to his monologue, 'And the little sluts can go back to their own country.' His friends for the evening had abandoned him, fearing the crisis and its consequences. He found himself alone, his camera seriously damaged. It was three a.m.
Zouzou suggested that Sherazade sleep at their place. There was a foam mattress and a sleeping bag. Sherazade hesitated.
'Come on! Tomorrow's Sunday. You can sleep late. I'll go and get croissants for you and France; I know where you can get them near me, at the top of Rue Faubourg-Saint-Denis, it's not far, I can easily walk there.'
'You coming?'
'No. I'll Wait for France with you, then I'll go.'
At that moment France arrived with the gang, a bit pissed and rather noisy. They recounted the scene with the camera and looked at Sherazade all admiration.
'Watch out!' said a boy with a crew-cut and black and white chiné jacket. 'That guy's real mean, I know him, I know where he spends his evenings, what clubs he hangs out in, I can tip you off. . . He wanted to take a shot of me with my bike, I refused, he wouldn't take no for an answer. He even offered to pay me, he works for a magazine like Playboy or Lui, he's got dough for his expenses. I still said no. Every time he sees me he says, "Listen Omar, I don't go in for pom. Just you on your bike, that's not pom after all. I've got this super red leather cat-suit you can keep, not just for the photo, if you want it we can talk . . . And then, you know, the photos aren't f
or a paper, no one'll see them if that's what's worrying you, it's for me personally, you understand." I said I quite understood. But he still tries it on, all honey, "Omar, listen . . Now I avoid him. OK. Who'll I give a lift to?'
Omar dropped Sherazade in the Horloge district about 3.30 a.m.
Sherazade
What Sherazade didn't know, because she still hadn't contacted Meriem, in spite of the letters she wrote regularly but never sent to Anna-Maria whose address she knew by heart, in spite of the messages she heard on Radio-Beurs, Radio-Sunshine and Radio-Tipsy, in spite of the ads bearing her name in Libération and Sans Frontière, was that a week after she ran away, her father had decided to report her disappearance at the nearest police station. The inspector told her father it was a bit late for their inquiries to lead to anything. Sherazade's father hadn't wanted to go to the police, on account of the family, the neighbourhood, the nasty rumours that always spread, the disgrace, this word repeated and going from mouth to mouth, thousands and thousands of times, for any action which went counter to the law of tradition, ever since the housing estate had been inhabited by North Africans. The inspectors knew that Arabs don't like having to deal with the French police, and avoided making complaints or reporting missing persons or even losses and thefts.
The father Waited two days, then three, then put it off to the next day . . . On the eighth day he realized Sherazade had really disappeared, that she'd run away, of her own free will. The inspector who interviewed him made him fill up a form on which he read: Statement re missing person. He'd hesitated before beginning to write. It was a veritable data card about himself and his daughter. He hadn't known what to put in the space reserved for how she disappeared: Circumstances under which the person in question went missing. On the form he wrote: 'My daughter Sherazade did not come home after school.'
That was all he knew. His wife hadn't told him she'd noticed clothes were missing from the drawer with the red mark, clothes she was quite familiar with as she was the one who washed them and she'd even cut some of them out when she'd still had time for sewing, before the birth of her last two, the twin girls. She used to make clothes for the whole family, particularly for special occasions. She'd also hidden from her husband something she only discovered a few days later; Sherazade had taken the thick white woollen burnous that a cousin had sent from Algeria for the eldest boy who wouldn't ever wear it, and also her own jewellery. She didn't say anything to anyone and never showed in public or even in the family how upset she was.
The father had also had to fill in the description on the back. He'd been obliged to stop several times to ask the inspector for explanations. For example, he didn't know what to put for Race/Colour; and he rang his wife to ask about distinguishing marks also asking her for details for where it said description, garments, underclothes, shoes, hairstyle, jewellery, sundries, and also for accessories and any peculiarities. The inspector was growing impatient. It was taking a long time. The father didn't want to write just anything. It lasted an hour and Sherazade's father had left blanks in the description. The inspector put explicit questions to him and filled them in himself. For lips he asked, 'thin or fleshy?' He put 'fleshy' because the father said they weren't thin. For hair colour: dyed/natural the inspector said, 'Is your daughter a natural blonde, red-head or brunette?' He put down 'natural' after the father replied, 'She's got black hair', and for length of hair he noted 'pony-tail' after the father's laborious description, as he couldn't find the right words for his daughter's hairstyle. Before he signed the form the inspector said it was absolutely essential to have a photograph for identification. Under the heading underclothes, the father didn't dare write bra and the inspector didn't ask for details about this; he passed the statement to Sherazade father.
NOTIFICATION
Description of missing person:
Race/Colour: Height: 1.65m
North African Build:48kg
Apparent age:17 years Hair:
Face: colour: black
complexion: sallow type: curly
shape: round length: long
forehead: high dyed/natural:
eyes: green natural
nose: straight style: pony-tail
lips: fleshy
chin: round Beard:
Moustache:
Marks/Scars/Visible:
Small scar on left of chin
Description
a) clothes worn by missing person (underclothes, outer garments, shoes, headdress, jewellery, sundries): panties: red
slacks:green corduroy
blouse: plaid
pullover: navy blue
jacket: navy blue
footwear: brown boots
head-dress: plastic slide
jewellery: gold earrings
sundries: shoulder bag
b) accessories and any peculiarities: green plastic satchel
Information regarding place of work and other places regularly visited by missing person: school
Municipal Library
The form had been duly completed and signed. The father would bring the identity photo of his daughter the next day. The inspector informed the father that a telegram would be sent to the Paris Metropolitan Police and the police of the three Departments, and a telex would be sent to the Youth and Community Sections of the police. In case of urgency – if suicide were suspected – there would be a national broadcast to all police headquarters, and airport and border police would be notified.
Although he was discreet, Sherazade's father hadn't thought the police would make inquiries after a week. In his absence, his wife had to deal with inspectors who called and asked her to answer questions. She pretended to have difficulty in understanding French and the inspectors had to be satisfied with curt replies. The mother couldn't stop them searching the wardrobe in which she pointed out Sherazade's drawer. They had the discretion – because she was present? – not to search the other drawers or the hanging part and the shelves. They asked her where her daughter's bedroom was. She showed them the room with three beds, two of which were bunks, a table and the writing desk where she worked. They looked at the school books – Sherazade had taken her private notebooks – and a small Larousse dictionary.
'Did your daughter get any mail?'
'No.'
'No letters? Nothing?'
'No.'
'Has she written since she left?'
'No.'
'Have you anything else you can tell us?'
'No.'
The inspectors left the house without any clues, without getting on the track of anything interesting. They had been polite. The mother told no one she'd found a note that she'd got Meriem to read – 'Mum, I'm leaving tomorrow. Don't worry. Your daughter, Sherazade.' She told Meriem and Sherazade's father she'd found a road map of Algeria under her daughter's mattress.
The inspectors visited the school and then the Municipal Library. They'd never had occasion to go there, they were from the neighbourhood but at their age they preferred the football field to the library. They found it vast and light, pleasant. They noticed the newspapers, dailies and magazines that they glanced at while waiting for the head librarian. They saw a young woman in jeans approaching, which surprised them: a librarian ought to wear a pleated skirt and flat walking shoes. She had on a very bright Jacquard pullover in reds, yellows, greens. The inspectors walked over to her, introduced themselves and spoke of Sherazade. The young woman didn't seem surprised and the inspectors, or rather one of them, the most observant, wondered for a moment if this progressive young woman might not possibly be harbouring the missing girl. He didn't give any indication of his suspicions, but promised himself to get hold of the librarian's home address and to have her discreetly shadowed. She spoke enthusiastically about Sherazade, told them she read a lot, particularly the North African writers, she mentioned Feraoun, Dib, Boudjedra, Djebar, Farès, Haddad, Yacine, Roblès, Memmi, Choukri, Ben Jelloun, Moroccan poets . . . but as they didn't appear to have heard of them she interr
upted her list and showed them several shelves that they glanced at distantly. 'It's thanks to Sherazade and other schoolgirls like her that I have these shelves on North Africa . . . they aren't reserved, more and more readers from Aulnay, French people, borrow books that it wouldn't have occurred to them to ask for before.' The inspectors weren't interested in the problem of readers, they didn't take many notes. They got the librarian to tell them the exact times and days the missing girl spent at the library 'nearly every day for an hour at least', but she couldn't say the exact time of day.
The next day, the father came back to the police station with an identity photo his wife had discovered in a little drawer where she kept the children's photos. One Saturday afternoon, she was shopping for the family with Sherazade. At a certain moment her daughter had disappeared with a laugh behind the pleated curtain of a Photomaton booth. She'd suggested her mother sit next to her on the little revolving stool, but her mother refused. She'd kept the strip of photos of Sherazade which showed her laughing heartily. The inspector took the picture, looked at it for a moment.
'She doesn't look unhappy, your daughter, have you seen?'
The father reached for the identity photo, he hadn't really looked at it. When his wife handed it to him, he'd noticed his daughter's hearty laugh and he'd thought of Sherazade with less resentment, even with a certain affection – he loved his daughter, in spite of everything, and she did not know it. He suddenly felt very unhappy and his hands trembled slightly when he gave the Photomaton picture back to the inspector. The inspector was in a hurry, he didn't notice anything.