The moon: not yet a crescent, a silver eyelash on a black screen.
And Henri, somewhere beneath this earth. Six months without you, my brother.
A noiseless wind blows through Annet.
The Marne dallies between two tints. Three old oak trees shade Hélène’s family home—the home of her mother Sophie. Red tiles and ancient bricks. A farmyard alive with chickens, rabbits, pigeons, and pigs. Fernand greets Louisette, Hélène’s sister, then her son Jean-Claude, with a firm handshake. He is tall, taller than Fernand, and wears a beige short-sleeved shirt. Thick chestnut mop of hair. The nose keen and the lips thin. He doesn’t have his mother’s cheeks, thinks Fernand right away, nor her Slavic features. Hélène invited him to spend the weekend, a fortnight after their return from Paris. She knew it would make their relationship official, recent as it was; she knew above all that this gesture could prove meaningful to Jean-Claude, whom she had kept well away from the few men she had seen since her divorce. Sometimes for fleeting romances; often for casual flings. But this time, though without being able to explain it (not even to herself, probably), she sensed that Fernand would not be just another of those men. She hadn’t yet dared confess it to him, but she felt sure that she was falling in love.
Fernand came with two bottles of white wine and a bouquet of lilies. Don’t talk right away about being a communist, will you? Seeing what’s happening to my dad over there, it might cast a chill. He had promised, of course, before kissing her a few meters from the gate. Jean-Claude understood at once that this man with the peculiar accent, with his mustache and olive skin, was more than a friend in his mother’s eyes. He had never seen her look at someone that way, with such a sparkle, such a smile. Maman, pipes Hélène from the living room while Louisette is setting the table, Fernand is as big an eater as Jeannot, you’ll see, a real ogre! Sophie, wrapped in her apron, wants to know whether he eats all kinds of food. I do, ma’am, absolutely. And I have to tell you that I’m crazy about French cuisine.
He feels at ease, already, in this family that is not his own—hopefulness adds a “yet” to this sentence: it may be his, one day. Hélène appears more tentative, less willful than usual. She is not just a woman here, but a daughter, a mother, a sister; no longer a beautiful atom fallen from the sky, her roots are revealed. Fernand now knows that he will have to love her with others. Love her with those whom she herself loves.
At the table, Sophie questions him on his youth and his childhood neighborhood. A child like every other, ma’am, who kicked balls about with his pals and got into fights when the grown-ups weren’t looking. Played marbles with apricot stones, for want of the real thing, and broke streetlights with slingshots. He grew up, he says, in an Arab Muslim neighborhood where few Europeans lived. Almost a village life, where going to Algiers, though not far away as the crow flies, seemed to us like an adventure. It was his father, Pascal, always in blue overalls and a cap—always—who built their house. Saturdays and Sundays, everyone would roll up their sleeves to help out; Fernand was in charge of the mortar. Everyone lived together, the Arab market, the Moorish bath, Europeans and Jews, doors open during the night, women in white veils, you’ve probably seen them on postcards, I guess, marriages and circumcisions where the whole neighborhood was invited, yes, it was all pretty good, and it still is, by the way. Fernand loved growing up there: we weren’t rolling in money, that’s for sure, but we made do. And then the sun, ma’am, it’s really something to know that it’s always there, that it almost never sulks. Call me Sophie, please. It’s quite something, Sophie, over there, the sky and the sea. It’s like one huge body, all naked and blue. So yes, when you’ve grown up like that, I can tell you that it’s very tough watching your country refuse to move forward, seeing the people in power close their eyes to what’s happening, to the small hardships and the great ones, to the Arabs asking for equality and receiving beatings or bullets in return. Sophie marks a pause, then asks if he is a communist. Fernand lowers his eyes then glances at Hélène, why do you ask that, Sophie? Oh, nothing, it’s just that I once heard a communist talk like you, so I just thought that … My father was a communist. He worked at Gaz d’Algérie and went on strike during the war, so Vichy kicked him out, just like that, buzz off. That’s why I left school early. I hope you don’t think me too dumb, big oaf in front of all your books in the living room … Sophie smiles and admits that she likes novels, that she devours them whenever work leaves her a bit of free time, but all the same they’re simple folk, without pretensions (Fernand then remembers a conversation he had with Hélène, who told him that her mother, from a well-to-do family, broke with her milieu to follow her working-class father). That’s why I didn’t go on studying, I had to help out at home since my dad was fired. That’s how I became a turner. The mother’s face darkened, she is sincerely affected by her guest’s tale. Fernand notices and shouts with laughter: don’t make that face, it’s not Les Misérables, either! And since I never knew my mother, I got to be looked after by every woman in the neighborhood!
Fernand takes advantage of the daily yard break to stretch his legs. He rereads Hélène’s letter, which he received this morning. She is trying her best to keep calm, but cannot stand the wait. René Coty, she tells him, pardoned sixteen terrorists sentenced to death in the last five months—we must hold on to that, even if the appeal fails. She knows the mail is read and censored and she expresses herself accordingly. Life without him is unlivable. She loves him, yes, how she loves him.
The three inmates have managed to obtain a checkers set. They now devote some of their time to it—that which usage would label “free,” between meals and walks, washing and reading. Today is Tuesday. Tuesday, December 4, and Fernand can only think of his lawyers, who yesterday pleaded his case before the court and whom he hasn’t heard from since. Time passes and carries away with it his early optimism (if that’s the right word when his head is in jeopardy). He now doubts the judges will respond favorably to his appeal. But I’m confident, he writes Hélène, and ready to wait for my pardon. There are some here who’ve been waiting almost two years, so that cheers me up. He hugs her close to his heart and asks her to take good care of Titi. This reminds him of his surprise, the first few months, at his attachment to that little bundle of mute fur. Animals had not been part of his everyday life before, and therefore not part of his existence: they occupied silent zones on the margins of the human world, places he had no wish to visit. The thought of hurting them would have never crossed his mind, but he knew nothing about them and had no wish to rectify that situation. Titi was soon following him everywhere, even to the bathroom, jumping onto his lap or the back of his neck, sleeping on his clothes or amid the scattered notebooks on the nightstand. Titi, he remembers with a grin, used to meow in the long mornings when Fernand and Hélène allowed themselves an extra few hours in bed. Titi, Hélène liked to say, was a cat who thought he was a dog: he had masses of affection to give.
Wednesday. What are Smadja and Laînné doing? Why haven’t they come? And what about Nordmann?
Thursday. Bakri has gone to the infirmary and Chikhi plays solitaire, without a word, true to himself. Fernand is cutting his nails when the door opens. Nordmann. His face tells him all he needs to know. This time he does not remain standing, frozen in his task, but asks to sit on the edge (but only the edge) of his client’s bunk. You know, he says without mentioning the appeal’s failure (words can be so cumbersome), I was in Paris in March ’41 after my release, after the Armistice. There were German uniforms everywhere, German flags on every façade. I was disbarred because I was Jewish, and went underground, got a new identity as a pharmacy assistant. I became Jean … I had to make sure never to write down names, addresses, or telephone numbers. Chikhi has stopped playing; he is listening. I moved about twelve times during those three years. You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all this, aren’t you? Within our organization, we were in contact with the families and loved ones of Resistance fighters who’d gone befor
e the firing squad. We published their letters in our bulletins. And this morning I remembered a letter from one of them, his name was René, I think, yes, René, that’s it, he was head of the Building Federation, I remember he wrote that he was dying so that the sun might shine on all the peoples who aspire to liberty. I remember his exact words. And I was thinking of him, and of you, as I came here. History is cruel … With these words he gets up and takes a newspaper from his bag. L’Huma, here you are. Fernand thanks him and takes it. It mentions you. He leafs through. Comes upon his photograph. Iveton—whose life is in danger—courageously expressed the Algerian Communist Party’s position before his judges … Nordmann continues: I’ll write to the prime minister and try to contact the minister of justice, François Mitterrand. I promise we’ll do everything we can to get you out of here. Fernand thanks him, and Nordmann, a quick smile creasing his face as he stops before the door (on which he has just knocked, and which the guard outside immediately opens), declares that Algeria will one day be free and independent, there’s no doubt about that. And meanwhile he asks him not to be so formal and to address him as tu.
Fernand tosses and turns in hope of finding a position that would help him fall asleep, but slumber only cares for its own moods. He tries to focus on his breathing—a technique Hélène taught him, convinced of its effectiveness despite her companion’s obvious bewilderment—to empty his mind and concentrate solely on the comings and goings of his breath, inhaling, exhaling, thinking of nothing but this rhythmic respiration. But at the bottom of his lungs are the cheers he heard at his trial, along with the faraway features of Hélène, her aroma he could recognize, of course, among a thousand others, though it’s so hard for him now to conjure up, to grasp, to seize in both hands. And his father’s worries, no doubt, even if one doesn’t talk about those things. And his friends, his comrades, of whom he has no news. He fears he was too weak, that he put them in danger—he spilled more than the others probably would have … He even catches himself weeping, albeit without a sound: only tears, carving his cheeks as in the distance the night carves the roofs of Algiers.
Hélène is dusting the furniture while the cat snakes between her legs. A knock on the door—the time, which she checks by the clock near the dresser, means it’s the mailman. She lays the duster down on a corner of the table and opens the door, after rubbing her hands on the side of her pants. The employee has already extracted today’s mail from his satchel. Four letters. Including one from Fernand. Thank you, and good day to you as well, I think I gather that your spirits are very low and that you have no hope left. As for me, I want to tell you that I’m not dead yet and that I hope to end my days as an old man next to my dear Hélène who I love with all my heart. See, I’m the prisoner and yet I’m the one giving you hope for the future. So I beg you, take heart like you’ve done until now and trust in the future because there’s not long to wait, and above all don’t be by yourself. Hélène has sat down to finish reading. And that naughty little cat, what’s become of him? You must tell me about him because I’m also thinking of him, I see him in my arms while I read the paper. You must buy yourself some shoes and whatever else you need. I did my laundry today. I received the canteen order: ½ pound of sugar, a jar of jam, a small packet of toasts, two tubes of condensed milk, a quarter of butter and cigarettes. Thank you for the order. I am going to buy a pair of slippers for 650 francs next week. Obviously it’s more expensive than in town but there’s no other way. You see, my morale is good and you have to be like me. She thinks of her son, who returned to France after Henri’s death. A wise decision, most definitely, but which sometimes weighs on her: his absence, especially in these bitter times, makes her problems feel heavier. Yet Algeria is no place for an adolescent anymore. He belongs in France. At least there’s no blood flowing down the Marne … Your husband who loves you and is thinking about you for life. There is another letter, anonymous, like two or three she others received in recent days. Sister, you can go where you please, you are protected. Destroy this letter. No name, but Hélène does not doubt for a second that it came from an Algerian. Like the previous ones. This spontaneous support moves, surprises, and encourages her.
Yesterday, a Muslim man, probably deemed a traitor by the FLN, was gunned down a few steps from their home.
Fernand, Chikhi and Bakri, escorted by three guards, go through a long corridor, then down a flight of stairs. For reasons unknown, an order was given to move them to another cell. From no. 1 to no. 22. Three mattresses, nothing between them and the floor. A lightbulb on the ceiling—pallid when lit, as it should be. At a glance, the room measures no more than six square meters. In the corner, at the back, lies the same squat toilet equipped with a rusty faucet. An old wooden shelf, still holding up, miraculously. Bakri jokes right away: we’ve had a look around the premises, my word, it’s a real palace! Fernand smiles. What if you taught me to speak Arabic, eh, guys? You really want to? And why not? Not sure it’ll be any use to me up there, if they do end up chopping my head off—then again, doesn’t Allah speak Arabic? Bakri laughs, I’m sure he speaks French as well, with the same accent as you! But yes, with pleasure, what do you say, Chikhi? Chikhi never says much, as we have noted, but he approves nonetheless with a slight nod.
Someone knocks on the door—an indefinite pronoun replaced by Smadja as the ponderous slab of iron screeches open. How are you doing, Fernand? I’m doing, sir, I’m doing. These fellows are helping me through it. We spend our days playing checkers, actually—and yourself, chess, isn’t it? Smadja does not catch the pun on échecs, which means both chess and failure. War is raging in the interior, he announces brusquely. News is scarce, but I hear from reliable sources that people are getting summarily shot here and there. Smadja scratches behind his ear. He goes on: Friday, France-Soir published a photo of your supposed accomplice, the blonde woman, claiming she’d been identified. Fernand doesn’t say anything but thinks no less of it: amused, somewhat, that the police have kept chasing this false lead, and reassured by the thought that Jacqueline is safe and sound. We’ve also been told that the former director of your factory wrote to René Coty—yes indeed, on his own initiative—to ask for your pardon. We’ve been unable to get a copy of his letter, of course, but it apparently praised your professionalism. And when, asks Fernand, are you going to send in our appeal for a pardon? Soon, but we’re holding back a bit, hoping perhaps a movement will develop in the metropolis, something to set off, rouse, stir up popular opinion or, at least, inform it of your predicament. If enough people get behind your case the authorities will have no choice but to concede. A balance of power must be established, pressure applied. Problem is, he adds, and stops. Problem? echoes Fernand. Problem is, continues Smadja, the communists are divided—and that’s an understatement—on your actions … It’s going to be very difficult to rally them all behind you, to launch a unanimous campaign. What’s more the appeal process is itself rather unwieldy: we have to complete three dossiers of application, one for the High Judicial Council, another for the Office of the President of the Republic, and a third for the Ministry of Defense. Fernand makes an involuntary grimace of surprise. All that for him … And are you at all hopeful, sir? he ventures. Smadja scratches the back of his ear again.
Fernand reads and rereads the ten numbers Bakri has written in one of the three notebooks he ordered (twenty-five francs apiece). And then their equivalents in Latin script, to practice the pronunciation: Sifr, Wahid, Ithman, Thalaatha, Arbaâ, Khamsa, Sitta, Sabaâ, Thamaniya, Tisaâ, Aâshara. Not bad, says Bakri. But same as every white person, you can’t do the “h.” You’re just blowing, you are, you sound like a tired old mare! Has to come from the back of the throat, like this, h, clench your stomach, h. Fernand tries and Chikhi laughs: sounds like you’re burping on us, now. Don’t make fun, guys, there’s no equivalent of your thing in French, we can’t do it with our mouths, I tell you. And how do you think we do it? Or maybe we don’t have the same esophagus? From the top, go on, we’re all ears.
Do you know how long we’ve known each other, today? Hélène stops walking. She thinks, counts on her fingers in their cheap leather gloves, yes, of course, silly me, six months! Yup, continues Fernand, six months to the day since the first time we spoke. It’s gone by so fast, is all she says, her eyes on the ground, her cheeks reddened slightly by the frigid air. The path on the right is stifled by large, dry tree trunks. Their branches split and crack the sky—an unbuttressed, defenseless sky, a soft belly sodden with winter. Farther away, mist negates the horizon. Fernand has no desire to spend the rest of the season in France. He misses the North African climate terribly. Look here, I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’ve been thinking: I’m going back home. A straight hook to the face. While she’s been expecting some such announcement, she hasn’t dreaded any less the moment of hearing it. She’s seen how Fernand grumbles, a little more every day, about the “lousy” northern weather: drizzle, hail, and even, since the start of the week, a few flakes of snow, immediately churned into a feeble mud clogging their miserable mornings. Especially since the treatment appeared to take effect, or, at least, since he stopped coughing. For Fernand to expose himself to too much cold weather was reckless, anyhow. I understand, says Hélène, you must return home, well, yes, it had to happen someday. I didn’t dare talk to you about it but I knew it was hanging, in a way, somewhere over our heads, I knew it would have to … Fernand bursts out laughing. Why, what’s so funny? My, what a talent for acting, it’s like you’re on a stage, about to make the whole theater cry! Hélène jabs him with her elbow. Stop it, I don’t find this funny at all, you’re being unkind now. Not at all, Fernand retorts, I’m taking you with me. How do you mean? What for? Well, for us to get married! I can’t marry here, he continues, I’m on sick leave. Hélène had come to expect anything, if not what is best referred to as that. But, but, I’m Swiss, I can’t get married just like that, with a wave of a wand. It doesn’t matter, we’ll wait! cries Fernand, a wine-red scarf tied around his neck. But you know very well I’m not alone, there’s Jean-Claude … I know, I’ve prepared everything—what did you think? Whatever happens he has to finish the school year, that’s important: I’ll go back to look for a place to live, and as soon as I find one I’ll write and get you both a plane ticket. Hélène does not know whether to kiss him or to slap him, bite his lips or run away, for having allowed her to endure so many—or too many, the two are alike—days in anxious expectation of their breakup. I love you, you great beautiful lady, he says while drawing her closer to kiss the hair on the very top of her head. And I can’t wait to introduce you to Henri, you know! We grew up together. Everyone thinks he’s a cold fish but take no notice, Henri is a lighter stuck in an ice cube, you just gotta find the wheel!
Tomorrow They Won't Dare to Murder Us Page 7