by Monia Mazigh
Insha’Allah: God willing.
Mabruk: Congratulations
Habibi: “dearest,” a staple expression in Arab popular music.
“Yaani:” “that is,” an expression frequently used in several dialects of Arabic.
Also Available
HOPE HAS TWO DAUGHTERS
the new novel by Monai Mazigh. Read on for a preview.
ONE
Tunis, January 3, 1984
I sat there grimacing in pain, legs splayed, butt glued to the toilet seat. Sharp cramps stabbed my bowels with clockwork precision. A stinking torrent of diarrhea gushed out of me like super-heated water from a geyser, bringing sudden relief from the intense pain I’d been suffering minutes before. I felt better already. I looked around me and out underneath the wooden door with the peeling paint. The restroom was filthy — the tile floor was the colour of the mud that had been tracked in by the restaurant customers. I heard steps in the cubicle next to mine, followed by a loud hiss of urine that seemed unending. Then came a whoosh as the toilet flushed. I sat there motionless, ashamed; I couldn’t get up; I didn’t want anyone to see me. I had no idea what exactly had happened. I’d stopped off for a keftaji at this greasy spoon. But before I’d swallowed the last mouthful my bowels were growling so loud you could hear them. Violent cramps convulsed my whole body. I barely made it in time.
My day had gotten off to a very bad start. Around noon I was so hungry I could hardly see straight. Usually, I would bring a sandwich to eat when I met Neila. The two of us would sit atop the wall just in front of the fence, not far from the library of the lycée, and swing our legs back and forth like little girls practicing for some balancing act. Behind us, the ancient eucalyptus sheltered us in their generous shade. Their majestic branches bowed toward the ground.
Mother made me a sandwich every morning. She cut off a piece of the baguette she’d bought earlier at Hassan’s, the neighbourhood grocer. Then she would slice it lengthwise, smear on a spoonful of harissa diluted with a bit of water, add a few morsels of tuna or a sardine, depending on whether it was the first or the last of the month, and top the whole thing off with a few drops of soya oil. My father hadn’t been able to afford olive oil for several years now. The cost of living kept going up and up and his meagre salary as a clerk at the justice ministry couldn’t keep pace. The first of every month was a bit of a festival for us. Father would buy cans of tuna.
“It’s Sidi-Daoud, the best!” he would repeat, as though he was afraid we’d forgotten. Then he added: “Sidi-Daoud is where the big Mediterranean bluefin tuna come to gorge themselves on tasty algae. That makes their meat appetizing and sweet smelling and it’s right then that they’re caught. Mattanza, the Italians call it . . .” Nobody paid attention to Father. We’d all learned his words by heart. The festivities would continue for a week or two; mother would prepare tuna and egg briks, and sprinkle a few flakes on the mechouia, the salad she made from tomatoes and charcoal-grilled red peppers.
But by month’s end the money would have all but run out. The tension in the house was thick. That’s when mother began doing the shopping, while father sat in his armchair directly in front of the TV. I knew he wasn’t watching; he was worrying. Mother stopped buying meat; we simply couldn’t afford it. That meant a strict vegetarian diet: chickpea soup, couscous with squash, spinach, and potatoes, pasta with beans, lentils and green peas. Talk about hard-luck cooking! For my daily sandwich she bought tins of insipid sardines packed in curious-tasting oil, nothing to compare with the tuna from Sidi-Daoud. But if I opened my mouth to complain or make a smart remark I was in trouble. Not a word! If I said something without a good reason, father would glare at me and mother would wag her finger under my nose, and the whole thing would end in a shouting match between them. I ate my fill in silence.
Recently there had been troubles in the south, which father had mentioned in passing. This seemed to add to the feeling of scarcity that had spread to Tunis and to our family home. Not that the situation interested me terribly. Trying to live my life was enough.
That morning mother had gone out early. I had no idea where. Shopping maybe, or to drop in to see our neighbour Hedia, little Najwa’s mother. Hedia had just lost her husband. I was too lazy to fix myself anything, so I grabbed my things and headed off for school without bringing a lunch.
Neila didn’t come to school that day. That morning I’d waited for her in front of her place, at the usual spot — the weed patch under the lamppost with the broken bulb — but she never showed up. She had seemed a bit tired when we parted in front of her building the day before, but she hadn’t said anything.
Hopefully her father hadn’t made one of his scenes again. The truth was that Mr. Abdelkader would beat his children for no reason. Nobody could stop him. He would let loose and go into full fury like the first rains of autumn, the ones we call Ghassalat el-Nouader, which means the mill-wheel washer. It was a powerful, driving rain that carried everything with it: heaps of gravel, piles of garbage, yellowed newspapers, and dead cats from vacant lots. Water poured from the sky with such force that the sewers would overflow, backing up water into residential neighbourhoods where rushing streams began to run. Fat raindrops dissolved the dust heaped up by summer’s sirocco. It was like the ghula stories of our childhood innocence. When the torrent finally ended, people ventured out into the flooded streets to survey the damage.
I imagined Neila, looking in her mirror at the bruises on her body; I could see the tears rolling down her cheeks. Neila hated her father, hated his fits of rage against her and her brothers. She wanted to get out, to leave home, to never come back. She didn’t want to end up like her mother, sunk deep in silence. Helpless to stop the oncoming storm. She’d brought it up a week ago.
“One of these days, I’ll run away with Mounir. Then he’ll see, the brute. He calls himself a father? Let him go croak all alone.”
“What about your mother?” I asked. “You’re going to leave her with him?”
Neila paid no attention to my words and fled my interrogator’s gaze. Quickly she changed the subject. From the corner of my eye I could see her jaw moving rapidly back and forth. That was the sign that she’d lost her temper.
I pulled up my trousers, buckled my belt, adjusted my tunic, and, doing my best to appear invisible, slipped furtively from the filthy restroom. Fortunately no one saw me, and I felt relieved. My bellyache was gone. All I wanted was to get out of that stinking hole as fast as my feet would carry me. I’ll never set foot in here again, I told myself over and over. I glanced at my watch: class would begin in a few minutes, so I picked up the pace. If I missed the first few minutes, I wouldn’t be able to understand a thing.
By the time I entered the classroom, the instructor, Monsieur Kamel, was already at his desk, pulling thick file folders from his scuffed leather briefcase. Sonia was standing at the front of the class, and as usual, she was making eyes at him. She brushed back a thick strand of blond hair that had fallen over her eyes. Her ample breasts almost touched the edge of his desk. Monsieur Kamel looked ill at ease, and he was answering Sonia’s questions like an automaton. I pulled my things from my school bag and glanced at the two of them out of the corner of my eye. From time to time, Monsieur Kamel’s tiny round eyes came to rest on Sonia’s breasts. At the rear of the classroom, the boys were sniggering viciously. I heard one of them utter an obscenity; then came an outburst of laughter followed by more sniggering. Meanwhile, Sonia kept at it. She wanted to get a passing grade; that much was clear. The whole class knew it except for Monsieur Kamel, who pretended not to notice a thing. I sat down at my usual place, by the window. Neila wasn’t in class. Shivers ran up and down my spine. I could see her father’s face, and it made my blood run cold. I imagined him, brows knotted, mouth twisted with rage, as he battered Neila’s slender body. “Oh Lord, please let nothing terrible have happened!” I murmured to myself. To disperse the da
rk thoughts that were spinning in my mind, I decided that I would visit her on my way home from school.
At last Sonia returned to her seat, and Monsieur Kamel’s eyes softened. Sonia was all but waggling her behind; her jeans looked as if they were about to split, to reveal her milky skin. But I couldn’t forget Neila.
I was taking notes, my head down. Monsieur Kamel, hands thrust into his pockets, was speaking at top speed. Sonia was sucking the end of her pen as she toyed with her curls with her free hand. Monsieur Kamel stood up from his desk without interrupting his lecture. I wrote frantically, not wanting to miss a single word. Everything had to be written down, memorized, and then regurgitated at the proper moment for the final exam. I knew the method. I hated it, but I applied it to a T. My pen glided smoothly over the blank pages. Words and sentences filled my ears and congregated like moths drawn to the light, only to be driven away by a wild animal or imminent danger. Monsieur Kamel was making his way up and down the aisles between the desks, shoes shuffling across the floor. When he approached Sonia’s desk his pace slowed. I thought I saw his hand brush Sonia’s leg. From the back of the classroom, someone grunted loudly. Monsieur Kamel spun around. His face was flushed, his nostrils flared and sweat dripped from his forehead.
“Who’s snorting like an ass?” he shouted. “What is this, an Arabic class or a zoo?”
A muffled laugh came from the back of the classroom. Monsieur Kamel was furious.
“You there, in the back, to the right, stand up. I don’t want to see your face for the rest of the lesson.”
Monsieur Kamel’s fury was directed at Riad, a shy boy with a stutter. We never heard him talk, let alone laugh. Why had Monsieur Kamel picked on him? Red faced, lips pursed, Riad calmly picked up his things. He was not about to challenge the professor’s verdict. I turned around to get a better look. How distant the rear of the classroom seemed! Head bowed, Riad made his way to the door. Puffed up in triumph, Monsieur Kamel watched him go with a threatening gaze, the finger pointing in Riad’s direction shaking perceptibly. The boys at the back of the classroom were quiet. No one was brave enough to reveal the guilty party. Riad opened the door. Suddenly, we heard a loud noise. The sound of footfalls echoed in the halls and the stairwells, like a pack of hyenas in pursuit of their prey. I got up from my seat and looked outside. A crowd was making its way toward our lycée. In the schoolyard, some students had climbed onto others’ shoulders; some were throwing rocks. We caught the lyrics from patriotic songs.
“What’s going on?” asked Monsieur Kamel. His voice was strained and his eyes had suddenly gone blank.
No one had time to answer. A rock smashed through the window. I managed to dodge the shards of glass by ducking. A second rock landed on Sonia’s desk, and she broke into hysterical screams. Outside, the crowd was getting bigger by the minute and was heading straight for our building. Monsieur Kamel had mysteriously vanished. With far greater speed than I thought myself capable, I stuffed my notebooks into my schoolbag and attempted to thread my way through the crowd of fleeing students. My heart was pounding and fear surged over me. My nicely organized little world was collapsing like a tower of building blocks. “What could be happening?” I repeated over and over again.
Monia Mazigh was born and raised in Tunisia and immigrated to Canada in 1991. Mazigh was catapulted onto the public stage in 2002 when her husband, Maher Arar, was deported to Syria, where he was tortured and held without charge. She campaigned tirelessly for his release. Mazigh holds a Ph.D. in finance from McGill University. She has published a memoir, Hope and Despair, her account of her successful struggle to free her husband. Her novel, Miroirs et mirages, was published in the original French in 2011 and was a finalist for the Trillium Book Award.
International journalist and award-winning literary translator Fred A. Reed is also a respected specialist on politics and religion in the Middle East. He has reported extensively on Middle Eastern affairs for La Presse, CBC Radio-Canada, and Le Devoir. A three-time winner of the Governor General’s Literary Award for Translation, Reed has translated many works, including Monia Mazigh’s memoir Hope and Despair, with Patricia Claxon. Fred A. Reed lives in Montreal.
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