by Faïza Guène
At the beginning of adolescence, everything got complicated because I matured early.
I was truly ashamed of my chest, which I hid under gigantic sweatshirts ten times too big for me, all the more so because I was the only one in the class already fully equipped. The other girls, extremely flat in every way, envied me. If they had known that I was smashing the goods down so they would seem smaller...
My first true trauma went down the first time I bled. I was convinced that I didn't have long to live. I remember writing goodbye letters, thinking about terrible things, the kind of things you consider only at the twilight of your life, like confessing to Elie Allouche that I had a crush on him. Elie Chelou, we called him, Elie the Weird, all the girls at school thought he was a big loser, but me, I thought he was sweet. Sure that my bleeding was a symptom of my imminent death, I also made the big mistake of giving all my Boyz II Men tapes to Bouchra, a smart kid in class whom I extorted money from and bullied into doing my homework for me. I was lost with all of it.
Luckily Auntie Mariatou was there to guide me through these moments, she's done a lot for my brother and me, trying to do what she can to fill up the absence left by our mother.
I know that around fourteen or fifteen is the "critical period"—that's why I do my best to be behind Foued a hundred percent. I remember that once I was a real mess. I spent my time outside, stepping and scrapping like some street kid. When the neighbors told Papa, he laid into me, but it didn't do any good, I started back up the next week.
I was tough and I fought like a man. I didn't scratch, I didn't slap, but I got in my blows: with fists, feet, knees, and eventually my head.
In Algeria, I spent the beginning of my education in a little communal school where girls and boys weren't even allowed to sit next to one another. We had a profound respect for the school and always showed great deference toward our teacher. For example, in class, when he asked a question, the student being asked was required to stand up to answer. Also, if one of us was caught cheating or gossiping, she was immediately disciplined with a cruel metal ruler; the sound was so horrible we felt a collective pain.
My mother and my aunts often said that a teacher was like a second father and that it was right for him to discipline me; they added that they should even discipline me one more time to show they agreed with him. A second father, that could be strange. I already barely knew the first one. He was the man who lived in France to work, who sent us money so we could eat well and so we would have pretty dresses for the Aïd el-Kebir celebration. I saw him two weeks every year during his vacation. He didn't talk much but he gave me hundreddinar bills all the time so I could buy myself pretty things. I often asked him what it was like to fly, how the planes could stay up there ... He didn't give me any scientific explanations and always answered me saying something crazy, that I remember...
When I arrived in this cold, scornful land I was a little girl, enthusiastic and polite, and in less time than it would take to say so, I became a true parasite. I quickly let my good old habits slide, like standing up to speak to the teacher, for example. The first time that I did that here, the other students broke up laughing. I got all red and they called out in chorus: "Teacher's ass-kisser!"
I quickly understood that I had to take control of myself and that's just what I did. Ever since, I haven't made bad progress. Like they say, I've become a perfect model of integration.
Practically French. The only thing missing for my costume is a stupid piece of laminated sky-blue paper stamped with love and good taste, the famous French touch. This little thing would give me the right to do anything and would get me out of waking up at three o'clock in the morning every trimester in order to go to the line in front of the prefecture, in the cold, to obtain for the umpteenth time a renewal for my residency permit.
On the other hand, you can meet some interesting people in these long lines. The last time I talked to a guy from I don't know what country in the East. Tonislav was his name. He offered me some Diesel jeans that he was running some game out of selling for half the retail price. We spent some time in line together, and the more I looked at him the more I found him cute in his old Perfecto jacket. But fine, it would be stupid, if you're going to hook up with some guy he should at least have his papers. I've had enough of being a foreigner.
There are also two guys I see often, two Turks from Izmir, brothers. One day when everyone was waiting in a driving rain, one of these two was nice enough to lend me his umbrella—it really touched me that he would get wet for me. Ever since then whenever we run into each other we talk and they always invite me to come eat kebabs where they work. "Free. No problem. Greek, skewers." I'll go one of these days, I know where it's located, just across from the train station, the Bodrum Sun it's called, like three-quarters of the kebab joints in France...
I've had some cool encounters, but you can't say that there's rich ambiance in front of the prefecture every day. In general the cops deal with us like we're animals. The bitches, behind this fucking window that keeps them far from our realities, talk to us about our residencies, more often than not without even looking us in the eyes.
Last time, an old man, from Mali I think, missed his turn because he didn't recognize his name. The good woman called out Monsieur Wakeri, one time, two times, then three times before scrupulously going on to the next person. He'd been waiting there since dawn and his name was Monsieur Bakari, which is why he didn't get up. A woman told him in Bambara that they had definitely already called his name; she tried to negotiate his way to the window because he didn't speak much French himself, but it was too late. He had to come back the next morning.
I remember one day when I was full-out ready to collapse. I was extremely tired. I had finished working at the bar at one in the morning and the customers had been particularly shitty that night. I was on edge. At four o'clock, I was already in line in a pitiless cold and it wasn't until one in the afternoon that my number came up. So I had a really hard time bearing the disdain that this old hooker behind the glass threw at my face. Lucky for her I had lost the impulsiveness of my fourteen-year-old self, if not she would be dead, drowned in her own saliva. I just let loose like some poor bitch, for nothing because all she had to do was gesture for the uniforms to come and throw me outside.
When my temperature went back down I felt pretty stupid. I hadn't even sorted out the story with my papers in the end. Result? I went back the next morning, eyes to the sky, and lucky thing that I am, I landed on the same employee as the day before. Obviously she didn't remember me at all.
Ever since the February 2006 circular and its goal of 25,000 expulsions in a year, there's a gas-like odor around the lines in front of the prefecture. Going right along with the troublesome echoes of wartime ambush is this crazy little story a woman told near the counters. Her cousin had received a summons from the prefecture. He was very happy because he'd been waiting for it for months. He thought he was finally going to get legalized but it was a trap. They took him to the retention center and now he's back in Bamako. He didn't even have the time to say goodbye to his loved ones or to pack his belongings. Ever since I heard her tell that story, when I'm sitting on one of those hard, uncomfortable chairs at the prefecture, I imagine men with little mustaches in the offices who only have to push a button for it to become an ejector seat and for me to find myself back in the village.
A Rainbow After Weeks of Rain
Today is the Boss's birthday. I made kerentita for the occasion, a recipe that comes from my grandmother Mimouna—she taught me when I was living in Algeria. This cake, with its chickpea-flour base, is a specialty from the west of the country. I still remember when, early in the morning, the traveling salesman took his tours of the block on his old bike, calling: "It's here, the kerentita has arrived!" Then all the cousins and me, wanting to buy something from him, would leave the hut running, barefoot, dressed in simple gandouras, and not giving a shit about anything. Our uncle Khaled would go crazy: "Get right back i
n here you wild girls! You want someone to see you? The men are going to look at you, for shame! Come back!"
That made us crack up but if you were a straggler you couldn't laugh too much because he would throw his legendary plastic sandal at you. I still haven't cracked his technique, but he never missed his target. It didn't matter where he was throwing it, the shoe would turn over and over and finish by landing exactly where he intended. In your back, usually. He was too talented, Uncle Khaled. After so many years of experience, he was Africa's champion of throwing plastic sandals.
"How old am I anyway?"
"Sixty-one, Papa."
"Oh no, no no, we can't celebrate that!"
"And why not?"
"It's a fool's party, a party for whities who clap for themselves because they're one step closer to the grave—"
"No, don't say that, it's a chance to have a party with the three of us all together."
I handed him his best outfit and his most attractive tie. I could see that he was happy, The Boss. Foued and I pulled out all the stops: cake, candles, and even the song. Meanwhile our witch of a neighbor banged on the ceiling with her broom. Did she think she was going to keep me from singing? If she keeps pissing us off, I'm going to go down and break her body in half. Anyway we don't give a shit about her and we sang even louder to rile her up, the bitch, and that made all three of us happy. I love these rainbow moments after weeks of rain.
After that, I went and shut myself up in my room to listen all-out to the Diam's CD that I jacked from Leclerc last week—that said, I have to stop stealing, I'm way too old. I'm in front of my mirror with my roll-on deodorant for a mic, and I sing like a crazy person. Oh, if anyone saw me! It doesn't take much to be happy. I'm happy, I know that it won't last very long but it's good while it's here. I'm like a lunatic, I sing louder and louder, I turn up the volume on my hi-fi and I jump with all my strength. The music takes me over and I'm dreaming I'm at a Diam concert: she invites me onstage for a duet, we rap together in front of a euphoric crowd, I'm loving it, I raise my arms, my throat's killing me, my heart's racing. She lets me be the star a little and gets the crowd chanting my name, so everyone shouts: "AHLÈME! AHLÈME!" When it's all over we go backstage, exhausted but wild with joy. Diam's is still keeping it together, her mascara hasn't run, she's not sweating. As for me, three staff guys bolt in my direction with towels and makeup-remover wipes. Later we trade impressions while sipping a glass of Tropicana in the skybox.
A run of knocks brings me back to reality. This nasty-ass neighbor—a bitch and public servant, it's too much—is thumping again. I made her angry with my tall tales of rap concerts, but I don't give a fuck. She can uncross her arms or even call the police, I'll invite them all to dance with me. We'll produce a remake: Dancing with the Cops.
Then the ringing of the phone brings me back to earth. It's this brat again who won't stop calling the house to talk to Foued. I always tell her he's sleeping, he's taking a shower, or that he went out even if he's in his room. She's getting on my nerves with all this calling. I don't like her voice and she doesn't bring out anything good in me. She sounds like a little twat who stuffs her bras and who treats her mother like a stupid bitch. I have no faith in her. Sometimes Foued asks me: "Who was on the phone?" And so I swallow my saliva and lie, telling him: "It was city hall" or "My friend Linda." You should always swallow your saliva before you lie, it works much better.
I can't explain why I do that. Maybe I shouldn't, but I can't seem to stop myself. With my little brother, I believe in always doing what's necessary. As far as girls go, there's no rush. For the moment, he has to think about school. He can have girlfriends in the summer when he's far from home, like at summer camp. That way I at least won't know anything about it. Until then, he'll be putting some more software on his hard drive. So for now, the little bitch can keep running her psych tests and screwing with my brother's peace and quiet.
Right now it's tight for him at school. Just last week I was called in by the guidance counselor and things didn't go very well. I don't know, there just wasn't a particular affinity between us. At first I wasn't going to take any advice from anyone. And then I hated how this poor woman in the over-ironed blouse approached the whole thing. She was full of good feelings and ready-made expressions that you find in books, like: "the work of the suburbs," "to change the world," or even "for the poor to thrive." She read me, not without a certain enjoyment, some disciplinary reports from teachers who had excluded Foued from their classes. "Insolent," "violent," "disrespectful" were the three adjectives used most often. I couldn't believe they were talking about my little brother, but on examining some of the reports, I recognized his stamp and had to confess that it was sort of funny.
Student Foued Galbi urinated in the wastepaper bin at the back of the classroom when my back was turned, a disgusting odor invaded my class. I will no longer tolerate this animalistic behavior.
M. Costa, math teacher
Foued G. is a loudmouth. He plays the clown and only thinks of how to amuse the gallery instead of doing his work. He waits for a moment of silence during work with the plan to modify his voice and pronounce vulgar and shameful things like "DICK" or "PENIS." Then the whole class breaks out in laughter and I have to play policeman to calm the ruckus.
Mme Fidel, Spanish teacher
Report from M. Denoyer, earth science teacher:
Foued Galbi threatens me in the middle of class. I quote: "I know where you live, bastard!," "I'm going to punch you in the mouth, bugger, go!"
What's more, yesterday, Wednesday the 16th, hidden in the hallway behind a deceptive post, he called out serious insults toward me, I quote: "Denoyer has an ass face," "Denoyer has a fat ass," "Denoyer, your wife is fat."
Before that, on an exam day, he put a piece of chewing gum in the classroom door's lock. I couldn't open my classroom and had to postpone the test. I demand the highest sanction for the seriousness of the deeds and intentions of this young person, that is to say at least a disciplinary committee followed by complete expulsion.
I asked the counselor of this random education if kicking a kid of fifteen out of school because he said his teacher had a big butt wasn't kind of an extreme decision. She simply responded that in any case in a few months school would no longer be compulsory for him and that if he continued on this path his dismissal would be the final outcome.
I ended the meeting by telling her exactly what she hoped to hear: I was going to let him have it, that this would never happen again, and within a week, he'll even be an algebra genius. Promise, swear, spit. Ptttthhht.
These teachers, I swear ... I had the same sort of ball breakers who do the job because of the vacation, it's convenient for them, and it has their favorite time of day—the sacrosanct coffee break.
I finally got out of that creepy office with the walls covered in public-service posters and photos of domestic animals. After half an hour in there I had that woman's number. It's crazy that in the end she's all alone, watching the collapse of one after another illusion she's created for herself about her job. So she makes a big show and that's what is noticed. She tries to convince herself that she's really useful here. She believed it until a few days ago, just before they found Ambroise, the school goldfish she had nourished with love, dead in the back of that slut Madame Rozet, the gym teacher's, locker. With a little luck this poor counselor will be transferred to Sarthe and everything will work out for the best.
When You Love Someone, You Stop Keeping Count
I see the men in green who are getting dangerously close to me.
"You're completely screwed! We told you that you should have used one! You're really in deep shit now—"
"All right, I know, don't make it worse, I get it. I'm going to assume responsibility for my stupidity and that's that. It was a mistake, an accident, I wasn't thinking."
"But I hope that you realize that this is some crazy shit. You got into this so idiotically, you even have one on you. All you had to do was us
e it, that's all! And you don't even have the means to take care of your mistake. What are you going to do.?"
"Yeah, okay, thank you, it's already done, stop giving me shit, it's not going to change anything. I'll get myself out of it, it's fine..."
The girls are right, I really messed up. It's fucked, too late to take back my slip-up, I'm going to pay the price for my carelessness.
"Transit pass."
I give him my ID card right out so he can give me the fine. It's not worth the trouble to argue, I can already see in his depressed bird face that all exits are blocked.
Linda and Nawel, model citizens, ass-kissers to the system, meekly offer their Navigo cards. They salvage their reputations with girl-next-door smiles that respect the law too.
I surrender and hold out the magnificent green passport that justifies my existence. His sickly bird eyes land on the exotic inscription: PEOPLE'S DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF ALGERIA. I see that this distresses him, his head spins around, he is distracted, he needs his drops right away.
"Don't you have a document written in French?"
"If you open it you'll see that it's bilingual, your language is inside."
"Don't get cheeky with me or this could go badly, let me remind you that your things are not in order."
All this because I didn't feel like putting their damn purple paper in their fucking machine.
So I shut up because here like everywhere else when you're out of line you keep your mouth shut. I had no desire to spend my afternoon at the station because the cops, well that's another story...
The RATP agents break off, happy to do their work as they must, leaving me with this little blue paper that condemns me to pay sixty-two euros. And so I'm obligated to inject this scandalous sum into our drug addict of a state that always needs more. The girls offer to help me pay. I refuse, that just isn't right, but at the same time I notice that they don't really insist either. Then they start telling me about their Valentine's Day evenings, their candlelit dinners, their gifts and other things that you don't normally discuss on a bus, particularly at this hour on a shopping day.