by Faïza Guène
Then one day her parents found an anonymous letter in their mailbox. The whole thing was published in that antiracist city paper Friend to Friend, together with a first-person account by this girl:
Your daughter keeps the wrong kind of company. She goes out a lot and is often seen walking with boys. We've heard things about her that dirty your name and your good reputation. The whole neighborhood knows that **** hangs around with young men and that she is forgetting the right path. God says that you are responsible for the path of your children. You must be strict with her so that she fears her family and the religion of Islam. Now people and men see that your daughter is from the street and that she is not afraid. The French are taking her on the road to evil. We have noticed that she wears makeup, that she dyes her hair. This means she likes to please men and that she is tempting Satan. If something shameful happens, God will see you have been too free with her and you are as much to blame as she is.
God offers mercy and clemency. She can return to the family and to our customs if you apply harsh measures. Prayer can be a hand from God for those who turn away from the path.
Your family is one that we respect and it must continue that way. A girl can be put on the right path by her father. You must believe in the power God entrusts you with to be a good family.
After the letter, everything changed for this girl. The anonymous bastard who wrote all that stupid stuff managed to convince her parents. They felt guilty for giving their daughter "too much" freedom. So, all of a sudden, she wasn't allowed to do theater anymore. Or go out, not even to buy bread. Most of all, she started hearing talk of marriage. The last resort when parents feel their daughters slipping through their fingers.
Then in Friend to Friend, she wrote in about how she decided to run away from home. Today, she lives on her own and hardly has any contact with her parents. But she's with the Comédie-Française and she's earning a living doing what she loves. She won after all.
There you have it. I'm sixteen. Sixteen springs, as they say in the movies. Nobody remembered. Not even Mom. No one wished me a happy birthday this year. Same thing happened last year ... Oh wait. Last year I got a gift certificate from Agnès B. with a special free gift if I sent back the "Agnès B. wishes you a happy birthday" voucher within ten days. But this year I got nothing. Even Agnès B. hates me. She's got a grudge because I didn't send her crappy voucher back last time. Fool. I don't give a shit. Anyway, their gifts are always bigger in the photo than in real life.
If no one remembered my birthday this year, too bad.
And to be honest, I kind of understand. I'm no one special. Some people, everyone remembers their birthdays. Some are even on the calendar in the paper. But me, I'm nobody. And I don't know how to do anything big. Well, yeah, I can do a few things, but nothing special, really: I can crack my toes, send a string of saliva out of my mouth and suck it back in again, do an Italian accent in front of the bathroom mirror in the morning ... Yeah, I can get by without much trouble in the end. But if I was a boy, maybe it would be different ... It would definitely be different.
For a start, my father would still be here. He wouldn't have gone back to Morocco. And for Christmas 1994, I would have definitely gotten Fisher-Price Rollerblades and a reply to the letter I sent Santa Claus. Yeah, it would all have gone better if I'd been a guy. I would have lots of photos of me as a little kid, like little Sarah. My dad would have taught me to chew tobacco. He'd have told me plenty of scandalous stories he'd picked up on building sites and plus, from time to time, he'd even have patted me on the shoulder, a sort of bonding, conspiracy thing, like: "You're a good guy!" Yeah, yeah. I would even have had fun scratching myself between the legs a lot to prove my virility. I would have really liked to have been a boy. But fine, I'm a girl. A broad. A chick. A babe, even. I'll get used to it eventually.
The other day Mom and me, we went to the Taxiphone in the square to call Aunt Zohra. More and more of these Taxiphones are popping up everywhere. With their wooden booths, glass doors, and phone numbers on the handsets, they remind me of Morocco. Basically, the whole Taxiphone idea is made in the BLED. The one in the square is like having a little bit of Oujda in Livry-Gargan.
Aunt Zohra's doing well. She promised to come and visit us soon. And she said that Youssef gets out in May. It sounded definite because she didn't even say "inshallah." It seems that, bit by bit, with each visit she recognizes him less and less. She told Mom he's starting to rant in this really extreme way, even worse than his dad. With that comparison, I'm thinking it must be bad.
He must have met some weird people in the slammer. Youssef was always easygoing before and way more open than most guys his age ... These days, he talks about grave sins and divine punishments. Before, he didn't really give a shit about all that. He even bought bacon-flavored chips on the sly just to find out what they tasted like. I think it's shady, this kind of supersudden change. Someone must have taken advantage of him being vulnerable in prison and inserted some big fat disks into his brain. Thank God he gets out in May.
For good news, I landed on this regional news report on France 3 the other evening and who do I see on the screen all styling in her pink boubou, Miss Africa dress? Fatouma Konaré, my mom's ex-coworker from the Formula 1 in Bagnolet. Her name was up on the screen with, underneath it: "Union delegate." The commentary said the girls had won their battle. Their demands would be met shortly. Even the employees who got fired during the strike as well as those who left without any compensation are going to see reparations for their losses. Does that mean Mom'll see some money too, even if she didn't go on strike? Right away, I started thinking about that fat jerk M. Winner. He must have been left sitting there scratching himself! Ha! Well done.
And so there you go, that'll do for my birthday present, knowing there is some justice in this world after all. I was starting to seriously doubt it. I was fed up with always hearing: "The wheel will come around." I don't see what wheel they're talking about and, well, it's a stupid expression.
With all the events of this year, I was thinking that, frankly, life's too unfair. But now just recently, I've changed my mind a bit ... Lots of things have happened that have changed my point of view. Like that guy who was wrongly imprisoned, Patrick Dils, appearing on that show Everybody's Talking About It. And the cleaners' situation at the Formula 1 in Bagnolet. And Hamoudi and Lila getting married next April. And one last thing, the way Mom's changed in a year. Seeing her getting better every day, fighting for both of us to live, has started me thinking it'll all work out and maybe I'll be lucky and be like her.
At work, I'm taking after her because going for a hairdressing certificate gives no rest. Drying, styling, and when you're finished, well, start all over again. No break. Even God had a rest on the seventh day. It's not normal. The one thing that comforts me is that I'm coping all right with school this year. Note: If I'd been useless in a hairdressing class, then I really would be worried.
Mme Burlaud told me my therapy was finished. I asked if she was sure. She laughed. That means I'm doing well. Or else she's had enough of my stories. She must be flipping her lid with all the stuff I tell her.
I'm glad it's stopping because there were some things that bugged me about her. Her name, for starters ... Burlaud, I mean seriously, that name doesn't go with anything, plus it sounds ugly. Then there's her perfume that stinks like RID and those crazy tests to find out stuff about me ... And, also, she's old. She comes from another time. I see it when I'm talking to her, I have to pay attention to everything I'm saying. Can't say a single word in street slang or anything casual, even if it's the best way of getting her to understand how I'm feeling ... When I can't find the right phrase and I say something like "trippin'" or "shady," she takes it to mean something else or she does her spesh face. Doing her spesh face means looking like a total idiot, because spesh (special-ed) classes at elementary school were for the slowest kids, the ones with the biggest problems. So you say spesh for someone who's kind of stupid, you know...<
br />
Mme Burlaud and me weren't always on the same wavelength. That said, I know it's thanks to all this I'm doing better. I don't deny she helped me big time. Hey, I even said thank you to Mme Burlaud. A real thank you.
But as she was leaving she said something that seemed strange to me: "Good luck!" I'm used to hearing: "See you next Monday!" But this time she says: "Good luck." It reminded me of the first time I rode a bike without training wheels.
Once, Youssef lent me his bike. He had told me he'd push me while I was pedaling, and then at one point, when I wasn't expecting it, he said: "I let go!" His voice was far away. He'd let go a while back. And I kept on pedaling. Mme Burlaud's "good luck" had the same effect on me as Youssef's "I let go!" So it goes. She's let me go.
Leaving, I felt a little like in the scene-before-the-end in a film, when the heroes have kind of solved the problem and it's time to construct a conclusion. Except for me, my conclusion, it's going to be longer and harder than the one in Jurassic Park.
For example, I still don't know what I really want to do in life. Because hairdressing, let's say it's something you do while you're waiting for something else to come along. A little like Christian Morin. He was the host of Wheel of Fortune for years, but his real calling was the clarinet...
Yesterday, I got an unexpected visit. Nabil the loser came over to my place while Mom was out. I opened the door. He was there, leaning against the wall, recently shaved and smelling good. He took off his baseball cap, smiled at me, and said:
"Hi, how's it going?"
I spent a quarter of a century staring at him and not saying anything, as shocked as those people who win the Casino supermarket annual lottery draw. Then, after a quick moment of serious reflection, I decided I could let him in. We went to sit down and we talked. About his vacation in Djerba, the last book he'd read, his last year at school ... He explained that he had taken his baccalauréat last year but didn't pass. Obviously, it was a total nightmare for his mom, much more than for him. That ***** (I'm censoring myself again) told him he was spending too much time at my house, and he was helping me out too often, as if to say that's what stopped him from doing his own work and studying for his exams. So it's my fault now?
Yeah, we really talked about everything. Even about ... that thing that still made me a little ashamed. You know.
Nabil said he was sorry he kissed me without asking and that he hoped it hadn't upset me too much. I said no. So he started again. Except this time it was better, more skilled, like he knew what he was doing. He must have been practicing at his vacation club in Djerba with some seventeen-year-old German girl, a tourist over there with her journalist parents who work for the Bavarian tabloids. She was probably blond with green eyes, was named Petra, and had big boobs.
Anyway, he didn't jet afterward. We watched TV, him and me, and kept talking. He even stroked my hair (luckily I hadn't put on any Zit Zitoun this time). I told him lots of things about me, my family, and other stuff he didn't know ... I told him about Hamoudi, my memories of him reciting Rimbaud's poems in the hallway of number 32, and that's when Nabil caught me by surprise again. He starts giving up "The Orphans' New Year Gift" by heart and he didn't even stop as often as Hamoudi, no, he was really belting that poem out. It was beautiful. Except at the end, he kind of ruined it all because he looked at me with this sly smile and went: "Impressed, huh?" I said no, and he laughed. There you go, I made up with Nabil and I think also ... I really like him. Wednesday, he's supposed to take me to the movies. I'm too happy. Last time I went to the movies, it was with school to see The Lion King.
I also ran into Hamoudi, Lila, and Sarah again this weekend. I was going to the shopping center for Mom when they honked their horn at me. It took me a minute to turn around and realize it was meant for me. Normally I never turn around when I hear a horn or someone whistling because it's always for the fat tramp behind me in her short candy pink top and tight jeans. Except, this time, there wasn't any other fool there. So I got in and went to the shopping center with them.
They were reeking of family bliss. I realized that this is the best thing to happen to Hamoudi since I've known him. I also noticed Hamoudi's changed cars again. This time it's a red Opel Vectra. Exactly the same as the one that social worker had jacked from the parking lot below our apartment. But OK, I'm not asking any questions.
Speaking of Cyborg Services, she's been transferred down to La Vendée, down on the west coast, because Mme DuThingamajig's back from her maternity leave. She finally gave birth to her shrimp. Of course, when she came back to see us, DuGizmo had gone to all the trouble of bringing baby photos. So we had the good fortune of seeing Lindsay (that's what she named her ... no comment) still covered in placenta in her mom's arms (don't know how DuWhatchamacallit managed it, but her blowout was still looking perfect after the birth), Lindsay in the bath, Lindsay with her dad on the Ikea sofa, Lindsay going to beddie-bye in her cradle ... Lindsay at the Pecaros, Lindsay in Tibet, and finally Lindsay and the Castafiore jewels. Our mannequinesque social worker looked pleased to pieces with her little Lindsay, already right on track to star in the Pampers ads in a few months...
Mme DuThingy noticed a "definite change" at our house. She said she'd try and squeeze a little more money out of social services so we can go on vacation next summer, maybe to the sea. Well ... I was amazed. Maybe Mme DuWhoozit's actually the sister of Mother Teresa and Abbé Pierre and Sister Emmanuelle, she's generosity made flesh ... Suddenly, I liked our dear beloved social worker. The seaside! If this isn't the best thing ... I take back everything I said about you, your husband, and your baby DuThingy. I'm sorry. Maybe you're a nice chick after all.
So, anyway, to get back to Hamoudi and Lila, while we were out shopping together, they talked to me again about getting married. They both want a traditional wedding. It's weird, I wasn't expecting that from them. But at least Lila's parents will be pleased. She told me how she'd made up with them just a few days back, after they hadn't spoken for five years, in fact not since the day Lila decided to marry Sarah's dad. Hamoudi's mom, she's shouting from the top of all the towers in the neighborhood that her youngest son's getting married. According to Rachida (always a reliable source), lots of people are viewing the marriage badly because Lila's a divorcée and she already has a child by a full-blooded, born and bred French guy. But the soon-to-be newlyweds, they don't give a shit. And that's the point.
While Lila was trying on shoes in André, that cheesy shoe store where everything's fake leather, I gave Hamoudi the lowdown on Nabil. He looked really happy for me, like something amazing had happened. I was hoping he'd react that way. I know him super well, and Hamoudi's not the type to jump to conclusions and think if a girl's seeing a boy, it makes her a Well, you know what I want to say...
"So you want to beat us and get married first? Is he good-looking, this Nabil of yours? I'd recognize him, if he grew up around here, right?"
"He's got big ears but he's very nice and smart and..."
"Oh! That's it, so it begins ... It's over, no more 'kif-kif tomorrow' like you used to say to me all the time?"
It's true. I had nearly forgotten. But Hamoudi remembered. When he said that, it made me get crazy close to breaking down in tears. It's what I used to say all the time when I was down, and Mom and me were suddenly all on our own: "kif-kif tomorrow," same shit, different day.
But now I'd write it differently. Spell it "kiffe kiffe tomorrow," borrow from that verb kiffer, for when you really like something or someone. Oh yeah. That one's all mine. (That's the kind of thing Nabil would say.)
Maybe they're right, those people who say all the time that the wheel keeps turning. Maybe the effin' wheel really does turn. And maybe it's not such a big deal if Jarod from The Pretender is gay, because Nabil told me Rimbaud was too ... And it's not important if I don't have my father anymore, because there are lots of people out there who don't have fathers. And, anyway, I have a mother...
And she's doing better. She's free, literate (or
nearly), and she didn't even need therapy to get it all worked out. All she's missing is a subscription to Elle and she'll be a real lady. What else could I ask for? You thought I was going to say "nothing"? Ah, well, no, I'm still missing lots of stuff. And lots of things need changing around here ... Hey, that gives me an idea. Why don't I go into politics? "From highlights to high offices: It's only one step..." That's the kind of slogan that sticks. I'll have to think up some more along those lines, like those quotes you read in history books in third grade, like that joker Napoleon who said: "All conquered people need a revolution."
Me, I'll lead the uprising in the Paradise Estate. The headlines will say: DORIA LIGHTS UP THE TOWERS or maybe THE PASSIONATE HEROINE OF THE PROJECTS IGNITES THE POWDER KEGS. But it won't be a violent revolt, like in that film Hate that doesn't exactly end happily ever after. It will be an intelligent revolution, with no violence, where every person stands up to be heard. It's not just rap and soccer in life. Like Rimbaud said, we will carry in us "the sobs of the Infamous ... the clamor of the Damned."
I have to spend less time with Nabil, it's giving me serious democratic fever...