For Bread Alone

by Choukri, Mohamed; Bowles, Paul;

  The fourth evening neither Abdeslam nor Sebtaoui came back, and Sida Aziza sent me out to look for them. Two hours later I returned, having failed to find them, and Sida Aziza sobbed when she saw me. They’ve been arrested, she declared. I had no idea of how to calm her. Now and then I murmured: I hope they haven’t caught them.

  I thought of the things that could happen to my two companions. Sida Aziza came and went, back and forth, always carrying a full glass in her hand, until one in the morning. Sometimes she was sobbing, and sometimes laughing.

  There’s a girl downstairs who’s going to sleep by herself. Do you want to sleep with her? Don’t give her anything. I’ll fix it up with her later.

  I smiled. She drained her glass at one gulp, and said: You remind me of my brother Salam who died when he was about your age. He got hit by a car.

  She refilled her glass, walked out of the room, and began to call: Yasmina! Come up!

  I heard the two of them whispering outside the door, and I thought: She’s arranging it for me. The girl came in, smiling modestly. She wore a caftan and her perfume was strong.

  It’s still very cold out, in spite of all the rain that’s fallen, she said. I mixed her cognac with limonada. We did not say very much. Her presence was an antidote to my boredom. I took her hand in mine, and said with my eyes and my smile:

  There are a lot of things I don’t understand. And you, Yasmina?

  The same with me. There are many things I don’t understand either, her eyes seemed to say.

  6

  It was the neighbours who forced a truce between my father and me. I went back to helping my mother run her vegetable stand. But I was forbidden to go out at night, which was unbearable. Nights were all I had, since I spent the entire day in the street with my mother.

  One morning two secret policemen stood beside the vegetable stand: a Moroccan and a Spaniard. Come with us, said the Moroccan. I thought then of Abdeslam and Sebtaoui. Across from our stall Lalla Kinza sold mint. Her son was there. I asked him to mind the stall for me until I got back, or until my mother returned from the market.

  They took me to the jefatura. Where are Abdeslam and Sebtaoui? the Moroccan asked me.

  I don’t know them.

  What do you mean, you don’t know them?

  That’s right.

  He slapped me twice and seized the front of my clothing with one hand, twisting it around. Listen! If you don’t tell us the truth, we’re going to put your face on the back of your head. You understand?

  A Spanish policeman put his head out of an office and said: Take him to Señor Alvarez.

  He was looking down when I went in. Then he slowly raised his head. Aha! So it’s you!

  I remembered Aïn Khabbès. In the old days I gave his son Julio all the birds that had died in my traps, because they were not edible. And his wife used to send me to the baqal or take me to market with her to help carry the food back to her house.

  Where does your family live now? he asked me.

  In Trancats.

  Does your mother still sell vegetables?

  Yes.

  And you. What do you do?

  I help her at the stand.

  But you also go out with certain pickpockets.

  No! I don’t know any thieves.

  Don’t you know Abdeslam and Sebtaoui?

  Sometimes I see them at the Café Trancats, but I don’t go out with them.

  Have you any idea where they might be?

  I don’t know.

  How long is it since you saw them?

  More than a week.

  He looked down briefly at the papers on his desk. Ayayay! he exclaimed. After a moment, he said: All right. You can go. But be careful you don’t get caught with thieves some day.

  I thanked him and went out. In the street I began to spit out the flecks of blood that I had been swallowing while I was in the presence of Señor Alba. (That was the name we used to give him in the old days.) I was thinking: If there’s anybody in the world I wish would die before his hour comes, it’s my father. And if there were others, they would surely look like him. How many times have I killed him in my mind? All that’s needed is for me really to kill him.

  I refused to eat the meal, although it tempted me. I did not want to be late to the cinema. I had decided to eat chicken and peas in my imagination that evening. My hand always shakes when I cut a piece of meat in front of him. He glares at me, so that I eat distractedly, like a nervous cat. His essence stays with us even when he is not there himself. None of us had the right to touch anything. His will was necessarily our choice. Sometimes I ask for my share of the food earlier, so that I can eat it by myself. But my mother tells me: No. You shouldn’t eat alone. It’s a bad habit.

  My father is closer to Allah than we are, and nearer to the prophets and saints. Many times I have imagined being able to eat in peace, and all I wanted. His presence makes me doubt the reality of whatever food is offered me. My mother tells me: Your father’s not going to eat with us today. Sit down at the taifor with us and eat.

  I don’t want anything.

  He is not at home but he is here because I’m afraid of him.

  Mohamed! Sit down with us and eat, I tell you!

  No! I shout. I’m not going to eat.

  Why not?

  I’ve already eaten chicken with onions, raisins and almonds.

  Where? she demanded.

  I tapped my forehead. Here, I told her.

  Are you crazy, or what?

  I told you, I’m full. You understand?

  Don’t let him come in later and find you eating by yourself.

  Thus she holds him over my head when she wants her own way. My glance upwards at her was dictated by my fear. I began to eat without appetite. My love for her is bound up with my hatred for him. I ceased to eat. He came in. Now the fear is really with me. An instant ago I was imagining his existence. But now here he is, as real as the dish of repulsive tripe on the taifor.

  Why aren’t you eating?

  I’m full, I told him.

  It’s a lie. You’re not full. Not to my way of thinking.

  I swear I can’t eat any more.

  You’re lying. I know you. You’re the son of this whore here.

  I’ve been a whore only with you, she told him. People would know about it if I’d been a whore.

  He hit her in the face.

  You always humiliate me like this, she cried defiantly.

  He hit her a second time, and bellowed at her and at Khemou: Stop eating, you two! Then he turned back to me. You’re going to eat it all by yourself. Just you. He’s going to eat it all, and with no help. By himself! You’re going to eat it, I tell you. Did you hear me or not?

  So that he will not hit me, I say: Yes.

  Well, get busy. What are you waiting for?

  No! No! cried my mother. You’re going to kill him!

  Shut up! What a whore she is! Let him die. After he’s gone, you can follow him.

  She knelt, raising her face to his. He faces her, like a giant looking down at a midget. The flock is his. He can begin with whichever one he wants. Her resistance has dissolved into sobs. Khemou is all bent over, and I can see her trembling.

  By himself! Come on! Start! I’ll show you how to eat. From now on you’re not going to refuse anything that’s offered you. Do you hear?

  I looked back at him with tempered revolt on my face.

  Don’t look at me that way! He slapped me with all his strength. I hung my head. With the tip of my tongue I felt along the inside of my lower lip. There was a painful cut.

  You won’t even refuse carrion if it’s given you!

  My mouth is slowly filling with liquid, warm, salty, sweet, delicious. I can feel my stomach swelling. With all my willpower I forced myself to believe that this was a bet, and that I had to win it.

  Chewing was a bloody, salty operation. Each mouthful deepens the hatred. Why am I always with this man, simply because he happens to be my father? If I w
ere stronger than he, he would be sitting here in my place eating. I’d be just as hard and crazy as he is.

  I awoke in the Hospital Nacional, breathing slowly. They had pumped my stomach. I could still feel the cramps.

  His voice reminds me of the needle going into the flesh when the injection is badly given.

  Her voice: Asleep.

  He’s got to eat with us.

  He’s tired. He’s been working very hard with me at the stall.

  She puts him off. Which is why I do not hate her as I do him, or wish for her death as I do for his. When he comes into the house, only he has the right to exist.

  Sometimes I make mistakes. I heard him talking, thought there was someone with him, went upstairs, and was surprised. I could not go back. I found him sitting alone, an ominous expression on his face. He frowned when he saw me. He had been cursing us who were not present, and thus we were all there around him. He drags back those who are not here, and pronounces judgement on them. Whatever he pleases. Like Allah.

  Where’s your mother?

  Buying vegetables. At the wholesale market.

  Who’s at the stall?

  Khemou.

  And you?

  Mother didn’t want me to go with her.

  And now you’ve come here to eat?

  No.

  Come on. You thought I’d gone to the Feddane. I know a little about you, when you come in and go out, you son of a bitch. Tell me. Isn’t that true? Speak up. I don’t feel like your father. Who knows? Maybe somebody else was with your mother. You’re nothing like me. More like her. She spoils you the whole time. You plot together against me. You defend each other. You never listen to what I tell you. Isn’t it true, what I’m saying? Speak up, you damned whelp! You hate me so much you wish I were dead.

  I thought to myself: Now you’re beginning to make sense.

  You want her all to yourself. She’s the only thing in the world you care about.

  That’s true, I thought. You don’t think I’m going to love a dog like you!

  I can see the love in her eyes, and in yours too. Anybody’d think you were still sucking her milk.

  And you? I thought. I wonder how your mother was with you.

  You’ve still got her milk in you. But I’m the one who married her. She’s your mother, yes. But I’m your father. If there’s anybody you should listen to, it’s me. Nobody else, just me! Me alone! You obey me, not her, do you hear?

  I hear you perfectly, O Khalifa of Allah on earth, I said without speaking.

  But it’s no good talking to you, he went on. Words don’t mean anything. Even when I’m in front of you, you don’t believe I’m here. I want every one of my children to think of me as always in front of him, whether I’m here or not. Do you hear me, damn you?

  I hear, O messenger of Allah!

  The only thing you’re good for is to bite your mother’s nipples.

  I remained present in front of him as he wanted me to.

  Tell me. Just why did you come here now?

  Mother told me to come home.

  Why?

  To clean the room.

  You’re all alike, you liars. She doesn’t dare to leave you at the stall because you steal the money. She doesn’t take you with her to the market because you eat everything in sight. The vegetable men and the porters down there have told me all about you. They’ve caught you in the act. Filling your pockets with fruit and nuts, and insulting them if they say anything. If only I could find a way to get rid of you once and for all, damn you!

  That’s just how I feel, too, I said silently to the maniac.

  I wish I knew why I hate you so much, he went on. Now go out to the stall. Don’t let the kids steal from Khemou.

  I was trembling as I went back down the stairs. I don’t want to be late to the cinema.

  He’s tired. He’s been working very hard with me at the stall. She puts him off. Which is why I do not hate her as I do him.

  I tiptoe carefully up to the roof. He is quiet now because he is filling his mouth. He eats like an animal. I tie the rope with which I am going to escape, and look behind me. His ghost is standing there.

  Where are you going, damn you? Stay where you are.

  Without hesitation I leapt out and caught hold of the thick electric cables that were strung along the street. I heard him yelling. His hands reach out into the emptiness to strangle me. I thought to myself: I knew all along this was going to happen. My intuition didn’t play me false.

  You wait, you son of a whore!

  Then he was not there. I looked down. It made me a little dizzy.

  He’ll go out of the house and try to catch me as I fall, I thought. Then he’ll grind me to a pulp. He’s very bad tonight.

  I breathed deeply, shut my eyes, and let myself drop, landing on top of a pile of stones and rubbish. As I ran my foot hit something alive and round.

  My head! Who’s that? Grab him! Stop thief! Help!

  Everything rolls and slides under my bare feet. I can tell the difference between melons or watermelons and human heads only when I hear someone cry out under my feet.

  The night-watchman came towards me. Hey, you! Stop! Come here! The old Spaniard danced about as he shook his club at me. Come here, boy! Come here, damn you!

  I turned to the left, hearing the watchman’s whistle. Someone’s ghost was running desperately behind me. Five or six figures moved in the background, gesticulating and pointing. I could hear their faint cries in the quiet street. I slowed down, but I was afraid one of them might take another alley, cut me off, and be standing there ahead of me, waiting. And it might be my accursed father. Again I began to run as fast as I could. I’ll keep running until I fall, I thought. Until I drop like a balloon that’s had a pin stuck into it.

  In the cinema I lit a cigarette. From time to time I rubbed my bleeding feet with the tips of my fingers. I imagined my father coming towards me to seize my neck with his two powerful hands. He has become the villain in the film. As if I were breaking a feather between my fingers, I pulled the imaginary trigger. My father dies. The lead is cooling off in his heart and brain. And the blood runs from him as it runs, from the villain on the screen. His legs quiver for the last time. I see my father trembling as my hands tremble when I sit down to eat at his table. The man is dead now. My father is dead. This is the way I’ve always wanted to kill him.

  From the cinema I walked to the Feddane and sat down on one of the stone benches. Many of them were occupied by visitors from the country, now asleep. There were also men from other cities who were passing through, and people who merely did not want to sleep at home, like me. Boys, youths and old men were sleeping all over the ground and on the benches like fish stranded on a beach. Every little while another arrived and lay down. He would move about for a bit in the spot he had chosen, getting himself comfortable, and then he would be quiet.

  I had seventy-five pesetas on me, and I wanted to hide them. But where?

  I folded the notes tightly and, taking care to see that no one was watching, buried them in the dirt behind my bench beside a rose-bush.

  I slept. My father was chasing me. I felt a hand moving softly in my pocket, but I did not move. My eyes were half-open. It was a man, much older than I. I’ll let him look, unless he wants to do more than look. That would be another story. I changed my position so he could go through all my pockets. He stopped searching. I waited for him to start again, but he walked away. I catnapped and had reveries for the rest of the night. One dream finishes in Tetuan and another begins in Tangier. Still in Tetuan, but already in Tangier.

  7

  Already in Tangier, asleep again in a park. I had arrived that evening.

  I awoke in a fright. The boy was shaking me by the shoulder and talking to me. Get up! Get up! A raid! The police are coming.

  I felt in my back trouser pockets. The sixty pesetas were gone. As we ran, I said: They stole my money.

  How much was it?

  Sixty pesetas.


  We slowed down. You’re lucky, he said.

  We were both panting. What do you mean, lucky?

  They didn’t rape you. When there are two or three of them, if they don’t find anything on you, they rape you.

  What’s sixty pesetas? I thought. My arse is worth a lot more than that.

  We were in the neighbourhood of the graveyard at Bou Araqia.

  Where are we going?

  Follow me and don’t talk. There’s nothing to worry about.

  We walked into the world of silence. This was where my little brother Abdelqader had been buried after my father had killed him. When my father dies I’ll go to his grave and piss on it. I’ll make his tomb into a latrine.

  We were walking over the graves, and we stopped in front of a walled-in family mausoleum. The boy leapt over the wall.

  Jump. What are you waiting for?

  I jumped. In a corner lay a pile of flattened cardboard boxes, and he began to spread them out on the ground.

  Here’s your place, he told me. Then he made his own spot. I sat down and rested my elbows on my knees. Once he was comfortable, he said: Where are you from?

  The Rif.

  So you’re a Riffian, then?

  That’s right.

  And where are your people?

  In Tetuan.

  You all live there?

  That’s right. We used to live here in Tangier, but then we moved to Tetuan.

  Did you run away?

  Yes.

  So did I.

  Where are you from?

  Djebel Habib.

  He’s a Djibli, then, I said to myself. Why did you run away?

  He began to search in his pockets.

  My father’s wife threw me out.

  And your mother?

  She died. He pulled out two cigarette butts. Before offering me one, he said: Do you smoke?