Sherazade

by Leïla Sebbar

  'You ought to get taken on in a café-theatre,' Basile said to Rachid.

  'What's that? I only know about gigs . . .'

  'They're little theatres where they put on sketches, impersonations.'

  'You two,' said Sherazade to Pierrot and Basile, 'you always know what's good for other people. And what about yourselves?'

  'That's our business,' said Pierrot, getting up to leave with Basile.

  *A women's magazine specializing in sentimental photo romances. (Trans.)

  Pierrot

  Nobody had thought to cover up Eddy's letter to Djamila, written with a thick felt-tip or a spraycan on the wall facing the mirror of the big room with the red armchair. Had Djamila read it before leaving for Algeria? It was a love-letter that everyone who came back to the squat had read as if it had been a letter addressed to them. They didn't know the letter had been written for Djamila, but those who knew Eddy guessed immediately. Eddy wrote poems that he sometimes read to the squat-mates when they were all together, but that was not often. He also wrote lyrics, 'specially' for their group he said. They were more interested in these than the poems. He typed out the songs, photocopied them and they worked on them together to improve them.

  'It's more fun than your leaflets, Pierrot,' Basile said.

  'They're not my leaflets . . .' Pierrot yelled,'and what's more you get on my bloody nerves the lot of you with your stupid little affairs with petit-bourgeois dagos . . . you don't give a fuck for what's happening all over the world even in France . . . You don't give a fuck for the political prisoners in Morocco in Latin America in Russia in Africa in Europe in France as well and you don't care a damn about torture . . . you're a lousy self-satisfied bunch all you worry about is your little gadgets and your dough . . . more and more dough on the back of the Third World and all the exploited peoples but you you're like little old folk pensioners my comfort . . . my Mexican boots my hi-fi my bike or my BMW to pick up a bit of skirt my Saturday night gig champagne in discos lying in deckchairs with a glass of lemonade or Coca-Cola that all the future you think about you've got nothing in your heads it's incredible living it up letting your hair down what's that mean that means touching fat pompous loaded old gits for a hand-out swindling them to do what after that to live like bourgeois that's all you lot are after smart cars smart chicks smart shoes and all the rest and not do a stroke all pimps jerks living off women who sell their ass so they can buy more rings more cars at ten grand and blow all the dough they've earned slaving away in stinking bars I want it all and I want it now that's all you say and I say shit I wonder why anyone gives a fuck you've forgotten all the Kaders bumped off by yellow-bellied little Frenchmen scared shitless by cops filthy swine Kader in Vitry Zanouda in Vaulx-en-Vexin Laouri and Zahir in Marseilles and the suicides Djamel from Argenteuil Farid from Paris and all the ones we don't hear about you forget everything what use is your memory to you . . .'

  Pierrot talked non-stop, beside himself with fury. Basile tried to calm him down but he didn't calm down; they all stood there flabbergasted, speechless, each on the point of leaving as it became intolerable. Never had they heard Pierrot talk like this. They knew he was impassioned, intelligent, sometimes carried away, but not so full of bitterness and hatred . . .

  Sherazade fired a shot in the air with a warning pistol. They all began to speak and Pierrot fell silent. He was looking at Sherazade who realized that her letters had probably hurt him and was sorry she'd thought it necessary to write the truth. She said, 'Listen Pierrot. . .'

  'Leave me alone, bugger off . . .'

  Sherazade went over to him, put her arm round his shoulders and took him into her room. They sat down on Sherazade's red bedspread and she talked to him softly for a long time. Pierrot spoke too.

  Pierrot told her he was soon leaving Paris for another town in France and Sherazade told him she wanted to leave for Algeria.

  'If you like I'll take you, I'll have a car; I'm going south-west.'

  'You'll tell me when you're leaving?'

  'But if you're not here . . .'

  'I'll leave a phone number.'

  Before she left, Sherazade went into the bathroom to brush her hair. On the glass shelf above the basin she saw three half-used strips of pills. Djamila was no longer there, she must have left some that nobody had thrown away, and Vero had piled up on the shelf all her beauty preparations and make-up with the pills as well. Sherazade shouted through the door, 'Rachid, tell Vero to put her pills somewhere else.'

  'That's not my problem,' replied Rachid who couldn't give a damn about Vero's pills lying around or if she got mixed up with the doses . . . that was her problem.

  Sherazade threw away the fag-ends which were accumulating on the edge of the basin and the shelf. They all smoked. She smoked occasionally, but not much.

  Fromentin

  When she left the squat Sherazade sat down on a bench in the boulevard near a phone box that had been occupied for a little time. She said to herself – if in one minute exactly, the call box is free, I'll ring Meriem. She suddenly felt a strong urge to hear her sister's voice and it had nearly made her feel like crying. The one minute passed, the man was still talking. She tapped on the glass knowing she'd not phone her home. She could have rung Julien but she wanted to be alone. If she'd had a bike . . . Krim had gone off on his to a rock festival, some way from Paris. He'd suggested taking her with him, she'd hesitated for a moment; Krim had said she'd be able to walk in the country, it'd be t'riff, but Sherazade let him go off by himself saying that she didn't find the country t'riff. She'd been with Meriem to holiday camps, once in Normandy then in Auvergne; they'd been bored and besides it always rained. Every time she'd stayed in a French village she didn't want to go to but where she was sent with her sister on account of another baby coming, she thought of the grandfather's village, she always asked, 'Is Algeria a long way? Is it a long way? Why don't we go there?' Her parents didn't answer. She looked for it on a tiny globe pencil-sharpener where she had a job finding Algeria and France which was half the size of a little finger nail; finally with Meriem she said, 'There it is.' She couldn't work out the distance. They looked at the globe again and thought it wasn't so very far. Sherazade knew and so did Meriem it was no good repeating that was where they wanted to go. In the bus they were car-sick and threw up several times and arrived at the holiday camp in a miserable state. They wrote letters together finding exactly the right terms for the things they disliked but they didn't send them to anyone, and no one read them but themselves.

  These last few days Sherazade had been taking books by Fromentin to the shop, for when business was slack. Julien had given them to her. Sycomore Publications had recently brought out a new edition of the water-colourist's accounts of his travels and Julien had immediately bought them for Sherazade who'd never read them. She was not in the habit of going round the secondhand bookstalls, and at the flea market she never glanced at the books that the dealers threw all anyhow on to a dirty tarpaulin. A Summer in the Sahara and A Year in the Sahel had been lying around for several days in the shop and no matter how much Zouzou shook Sherazade she never stopped reading. Zouzou was intrigued and had glanced through the first book Sherazade had started on, 'the one about the Sahara' as Zouzou put it who'd looked at the title, she'd said, 'But this stuff's not a lot of laughs why d'you read it? I prefer my comics they give me more of a kick than your Sahara stories.' Zouzou read a lot of comics that her buddies lent her, Howling Metal, Glacial Fluid, Barbarella, Charlie . . . She said they were t'riff but France had her doubts whether Zouzou really meant it – she showed off a lot, as France pointed out when her friend opened a copy of Humanoïds under the nose of a customer, just to see.

  'You really read them?'

  'Of course, what d'you think?'

  'I think you just look at the pictures.'

  'Just say I'm illiterate, an ignoramus.'

  'I didn't say that.'

  They were on the verge of a quarrel. A customer came in. France left Zou
zou to her comic book, Sherazade to Eugène Fromentin's Sahara and went to serve the young woman who was looking for some safari-style slacks, sort of leopard-skin pattern or more sort of camouflage and almond-green with spots like the paras wear but not too military with pockets and zips on the thighs and ankles and well you know the sort of thing I mean. France listened patiently. She knew exactly what sort of slacks the customer meant. She'd put a pair in the window that very morning. They would be exactly right providing her size wasn't sold out, she was a comfortable 42. France looked at the customer, gave her the correct size, let her look at herself in the mirror which made you seem slightly thinner, and pat her thighs and behind to see if they fitted tightly enough without making her seem heavy . . . France said nothing. The customer continued twisting and turning going from one mirror to another. France made a little sign to Zouzou and Sherazade. Finally she took the money and told Zouzou she'd have the next one.

  Sherazade hadn't phoned anyone. The call box remained empty for a long time but she'd forgotten. She took the road map of Algeria out of her bag and unfolded it on the pavement in front of her. People walking near the curb, with their heads bent, stopped just in time to avoid treading on the map, and had to walk round behind the bench, as Sherazade didn't worry about leaving room for them to pass. She remembered the names she was looking for on the map and cursed because she couldn't find them.

  'Can I help you, mademoiselle?'

  A man had sat down next to her on the bench. She hadn't noticed him, as she leaned over the map spread out on the pavement.

  'You're looking for something?'

  She thought the man might be a cop. You couldn't always spot cops in plain clothes in Paris. They dressed cool – as they'd been trained to do at the Quai des Orfèvres and Sherazade was suspicious every time a man spoke to her, like this fellow. She didn't reply.

  'I know this country well.'

  Sherazade turned to look at the man. He smiled at her. He must have been about the same age as her father and dressed like him, not expensively but clean, neat shirt, tie, polished shoes.

  'Can I have a look?'

  They bent over the map together. The man showed Sherazade the place he came from and he was the one who found the grandfather's village that she'd just been looking for. He showed her where the Revolution had started. He showed her the willayas and talked to her about the war. He'd taken part in the start of the rebellion then he'd come to France with some others to set up networks. He'd been in the Sante Prison for several months. He said he often came back to this neighbourhood to walk round the outside of the prison, without really knowing why; he knew all the chestnut trees in the Boulevard Arago. He found himself retracing the clandestine routes that the networks had set up in Paris, and he might cover twelve to fifteen miles in this way on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon without geeting tired.

  Sherazade listened to the man. Passers-by had trodden on the map which she'd left open in front of the bench.

  Suddenly there was a sound of sirens; police cars, black marias, squads of cops on the boulevard. No demo was anticipated. Sherazade and the man were caught in a police cordon. A bank on the other side of the boulevard had just been attacked or was being attacked, no one quite knew and the cops who were checking the papers of everyone caught in this round-up set up on the spur of the moment because of the hold-up couldn't say exactly what was happening. The man took Sherazade's arm and stood with her behind the phone box.

  There were shots, shouts.

  The cops asked the man for his papers and he took them out of the inside pocket of his navy-blue Tergal jacket. The cop looked at them while keeping an eye on the hold-up. An ambulance arrived, the cop said, 'And the young lady?'

  'She's my daughter,' replied the man.

  'You can go.'

  Oum Kalthoum

  Julien had found out by chance where Sherazade worked. He was walking in the Halles at a time when he wasn't often there and passing the window of the dress-shop he thought he recognized Sherazade. First he saw France then Zouzou. He stopped and spotted Sherazade in one of the boutique's red and gold dresses, colours that showed up her looks to better advantage than the putty-coloured raincoat she'd brought back from the flea market and which she sometimes wore to be inconspicuous, especially when she had to travel by Metro, she explained, as she tied the neutral belt of this neutral garment which she disliked. She was wearing the red and gold Barbes scarf and while she worked kept on a Walkman with red and gold headphones, the colours of the boutique. The manageress lent them to the assistants to promote them at the same time as her clothes.

  The customers always asked where they could get similar ones . . . it always worked.

  Julien didn't tell Sherazade he'd caught sight of her. He knew where he could see her, meet her if necessary, that was sufficient.

  He was a bit late getting home after work. He wasn't thinking of Sherazade. He hadn't seen her for the last few days and she didn't ring. He knew he wouldn't hear her voice on the answer-phone in the evenings when he listened to the messages. He'd worked on the scenario and the dialogue with his friend who wanted to see Sherazade and do a screen test. Julien promised every time to bring her with him next time, but his friend saw him arrive alone every time.

  'Does your Sherazade really exist?'

  'Yes, you've seen the photos.'

  'That doesn't prove anything . . . If it's going to be like that when we start shooting . . . We can't be running after her all the time. On the whole I prefer working with professional actresses . . . they at least leave the numbers of three answering machines instead of just one so you know where to find them and you never know where this chick is.'

  'That's true.'

  Julien didn't switch on the light straight away. It was dark, but with the shutters open he could see well enough.

  He went into the living-room to put on an opera. He hadn't been listening to music recently and was missing it. A Monteverdi opera, that's what he'd listen to, lying on the single bed, before going to the Oriental concert in honour of Oum Kalthoum, which he'd have liked to take Sherazade to. He heard a sort of faint moan. He upset a full ashtray.

  Sherazade was sitting in the wicker armchair with her back to the window, hugging her knees which she'd drawn up under her chin. Julien didn't switch on the light. He came over to her and knelt down near the armchair. She didn't lift her head. She didn't move, she must have been sitting like this for hours, Julien thought. Her hands were cold, slightly damp. She must have been crying.

  Julien called her name softly, 'Sherazade! Sherazade!'

  She didn't reply. He called her name again and stood up not knowing what to do just to make her say something, to make her move just a little, to convince himself he was doing the right thing to stay here with her. He stroked her hair, her tight soft curls. He repeated, 'Sherazade. Sherazade, talk to me.'

  'No, you talk to me.'

  'I can only tell you I love you, Sherazade, and that I don't want you to be unhappy, and that your coming here means a lot to me even if you don't stay, and that I only exist when I'm with you . . . and that I love you, Sherazade.'

  Julien bent over Sherazade who looked at him. So much distress . . . He had no idea why. He wouldn't ask. He lifted her up in his arms. He held her tight.

  'Would you like a grapefruit with lots of sugar?'

  Julien carried her to the bed, turning round like in a film, and laid her down.

  'Yes, a grapefruit with lots of sugar.'

  Before he went to the kitchen, he picked up his tape-recorder lying on the floor next to the armchair. He saw it had a tape in it, half recorded, but didn't think Sherazade had been using it.

  'Would you like to go and hear a Tunisian singer? Zima Tounssia?'

  'Whereabouts?'

  'In Nogent, a concert for Oum Kalthoum.'

  Sherazade leapt up.

  'This evening? Can we go? You've got tickets?'

  'Enrico gave me two.'

  'Terrif. I'll get dr
essed.'

  She put on a red dress that France had lent her, soft clinging silk, low cut . . . Julien came back, carrying the glass dish with the grapefruit.

  'You look stunning! Lovelier than Marilyn, a thousand times lovelier. Why don't you always dress like that?'

  'Wonderful! And what about the cops?'

  'What about the cops?'

  'Because I haven't got my forged identity card yet. I'm still waiting for it. Pierrot's buddies are seeing to it. My name'll be Rosa. Rosa Mire and I'll be eighteen, I'll be of legal age you understand. I'll have been born in Paris and be studying psycho. So now you know.'

  'And your nationality?'

  'I'm Algerian.'

  'But on your forged card, what'll you be?'

  'It'll be false. I'll be French.'

  She finished lacing up the open sandals with gold thongs that Zouzou had brought back from the flea market. They were too big for Zouzou. She'd tried to prove they fit her by wearing them for a whole morning in the shop . . . Sherazade had taken them. She had to give them back soon for a party. France would need them. She took off the emerald earrings and replaced them with a pair made out of tiny rare feathers that Zouzou collected. They were very fragile and Zouzou never stopped telling Sherazade to take extreme care of them.

  Julien was dazzled. He repeated, 'What a beauty . . .'

  'Oh, stop it . . . That's enough. Let's go!'

  As they left Sherazade picked up her putty-coloured raincoat.

  'Oh, no! You're not going to wear that!'

  'You always forget the cops . . .'

  'And you think about them all the time . . .'

  'No choice.'

  In the old red Volkswagen convertible, Julien said to Sherazade, 'What about going to the sea?'

  I've never seen the sea,'

  'No?'

  I've seen it from the plane. My grandfather's village is a long way from the sea. In France, my parents don't travel. For the holidays I used to go to the country with my sister, we didn't see the sea.'