He’s a man, let him get on with his own life, he said, mainly because he’d didn’t want another tortoise episode, or maybe insult the bureaucrat.
Grandmother could think of only one way to finance her son’s trip. She took one of her gold bracelets from the folded blankets she kept on top of the shelf at the back of her bedroom, making sure grandfather didn’t find out. She wrapped it in one of his blue-edged handkerchiefs and gave it to her sister-in-law next-door who went to the city almost every week. She whispered, see how much you can get for it and, for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone, don’t let anyone find out I’m selling part of my dowry.
The sister-in-law brought her a tidy sum of money, which she gave to Mimoun. He kissed her forehead and said, you won’t regret this, mother, I’ll buy you so many bracelets when I come back you won’t have enough arms to put them on. He made that pledge. I’m sure it will turn out all right, mother. And he was so sure this was what he was destined to do in life. He shook with emotion at the thought he was throwing off the destiny he’d endured till then, the petty, miserable and unjust destiny that had pursued him from birth.
Mimoun went down to the city to buy his passport, boat ticket and a suitcase, because he didn’t want to wander the world with a little cloth bundle.
Grandmother had put all his clothes and a small Koran on a big headscarf and tied the ends together, but Mimoun had bought a new suitcase with shiny locks and must have said, where do you think I’m taking that, mother. You think I’m off to see one of your holy men?
His mother let him get on with it. The following day, at the crack of dawn, grandmother was crying, as she always did with goodbyes. Goodbye, mother, he said, and must have run off so his heart didn’t shrivel at the thought of all the nostalgia in store.
Grandfather accompanied him to the boat, past the border, and must have given him a good look over before saying goodbye. Mimoun probably didn’t know what to say and didn’t realise he would miss him, despite the prickly pear and other episodes. Goodbye, father, he said, kissing his head. Goodbye, son, grandfather must have said, as he watched him disappear down the ship’s gangway.
17
The journey
If it’s unusual for a sixteen-year-old to think of marrying and starting a family, it’s even stranger for someone who’s never ventured outside the circle formed by his village and nearest city to decide to cross borders and go and live in an unknown country.
We could imagine it was love that compelled Mimoun onto that huge iron monster floating on water, that would be the easiest explanation, in a platonic pursuit of his better half. If it weren’t for the fact that Mimoun had been operating for some time on the assumption that he wasn’t fated to fester in his present state. He must have been bubbling with self-confidence if he was going somewhere that was not only unknown, but unimaginable for himself and his family. Mimoun thought that the individual who’d written in the book of his destiny: Mimoun will live here and suffer these hardships, would have to guide him under the heading: Mimoun will live over there and be happy.
So really, it’s very likely that the driving force behind Mimoun’s journey was the thought that anything would be an improvement on what he already had, which he in fact felt was nothing at all. And though he was the last of the great patriarchs, we can assume he was terrified on the deck of the ferry, gripped the rail and didn’t dare look out to sea.
We imagine him curled up on a chair, hugging his suitcase with its shiny locks, or using it as a pillow to try to get some shut-eye if only for a few seconds. He can’t have slept very long, worried someone might steal the money he needed to pay his bus ticket. Few spoke the way he did, and he understood very little of what people said. Someone spoke in Spanish, and he could only remember the way his father insulted him in that language, insults he’d learned when he’d worked for them.
He even recalled grandfather standing sadly at the end of the gangway, but all they’d said was goodbye father, and goodbye son.
Before embarking he’d received precise instructions from the other end of the phone: Barcelona, Mimoun, you’ve got to find the bus going to Barcelona. You’ll soon find it, they all stop in the port and go everywhere in Spain but only one goes to Barcelona.
Mimoun probably imagined himself on a bus going to a place where he knew nobody, and listened even more carefully to the gruff voice and tried to memorise the name of the city where he was expected. And get off in the Estació del Nord. I’ll be waiting for you there, the Estació del Nord, you know, where it’s cold.
He’d memorised every word and the names echoed in his head while the boat rocked from side to side. Mimoun didn’t know how much they usually rocked and wouldn’t have known if the boat was tilting too much or at what stage his life would be in danger. Don’t think about it, don’t even think about it, and he went on eating the hard-boiled eggs his mother had given him for the journey, and bread he’d not enjoy again for a long time to come.
He must have woken up with spittle trickling from the corner of his lips onto the suitcase and hurriedly dried his face, thinking he was still asleep on his bedroom floor. He looked around and saw bodies on the carpet, wrapped in blankets or sheets, with their belongings next to them. He saw a cabin steward walk past carrying a tray and realised where he was and where he was heading. He asked what the time was: they’d be in port soon. The passageways were filled with mountains of white sheets the crew were removing from already empty beds.
As he got off the boat he realised the light in that country was different, that the buildings weren’t whitewashed and were higher than what he was used to. He followed someone who was rushing towards what seemed to be signs with a variety of anagrams. It’s not here, if you want to go to Barcelona, it’s there, a middle-aged gentleman told him in his own language. That’s right, that way.
A girl with a smart hair-do and a blue uniform said something when he repeated: Barcelona, Barcelona. She kept talking and he took the wad of notes he was carrying and flopped them down under the glass partition that separated them: Barciluna, Barciluna, he asked. The girl smiled, returned part of his money, a long strip of a ticket, and pointed him to the right. Mimoun probably hesitated before going where the girl’s shiny nail pointed. Barciluna, he asked. They took the ticket from his hand, tore it and returned half, waving a thumb, as if to say, get on.
Mimoun probably spent the whole journey glued to the window, still rocking up and down with the boat, the noise from its engines still buzzing in his head, now intensified by the bus. He nodded off, even though he was so excited. There were hours to go, but he’d lost all sense of time. They occasionally stopped, got off for a smoke, and the driver smiled and said something to him he didn’t understand. Damned Jew, I bet you’re insulting me with that fake smile, but Mimoun smiled back.
It was dark when they drove into that huge city, the biggest Mimoun had ever seen, which made his provincial capital seem like a joke. The grey buildings towered so high he didn’t have time to see their tops through the bus window. One came after another with no space in between in what seemed an endless flow. However hard he tried to see the ends of the streets on the horizon, he never could. From the road the people seemed smaller, rushing along the pavements, sticking close to those enormous blocks of cement, apparently unafraid the blocks might collapse on top of them.
Mimoun didn’t even remember he had to get off the bus he was so absorbed by the spectacle, when he heard the driver shout: Estació del Nord, Estació del Nord, the cold wind and his stop. He got off and took his case from the side luggage compartment, and all he could see was buses everywhere, and even more people like him trying to find someone they knew, and others heading straight for the taxi rank.
Estació del Nord, Barcelona, the voice had said from the other end of the telephone, and he was sure he remembered it like that. Where was he? Why wasn’t he there? Had he forgotten?
He was just starting to despair when he saw his uncle coming, in the distance,
better dressed than he’d ever seen him, his skin lighter in colour, and he gave him a big hug. Welcome to Spain, Mimoun, said that gruff voice that had so often repeated that routine to him of keep still, Mimoun, I won’t hurt you, keep still.
18
From now on you’re Manel
This wasn’t the city where he was going to live, that was even further away. His uncle kept grabbing him by the shoulder, he was so happy someone in the family had finally followed in his footsteps. You’ll miss lots of things, Mimoun, but you’ll soon find others to make up for them. They took a taxi to another station and caught a train to a smaller, quieter city than the one they’d just crossed.
Mimoun was probably scared stiff when the train went over the bridge, because he didn’t understand how you could build a railway line so high up, and was even more scared when the train slowed down and began swinging from side to side. Don’t worry, lad, I’ve been this way hundreds of times, and you might find it difficult to believe, but the train doesn’t fall off, no, it doesn’t.
In any case, Mimoun must have looked away from the landscape and stared hard at the seat in front of him. Tomorrow I’ll introduce you to my boss, and you’ll see how well he treats his workers and you’ll learn a lot. They don’t build the same way here, Mimoun, they have machines that do the hard work for you and use first-class materials. You don’t have to make the concrete, just imagine? Here they have a machine that goes round all the time, you just put in water, cement and sand and it does it all for you, no need for spades or anything like that.
They reached the city that reeked of strange smells. It’s the pigs, said uncle, they eat so many pigs in this damned country they have to do something with their piss and, if eating them isn’t enough, they perfume their fields with it. The stench really upset him until he reached the apartment where he was going to live, and for a moment he might have considered turning back. It wasn’t only the pigs, it was the tanneries that surrounded the houses with damp walls that hung down over the river. The other activity they were fond of in this city was tooling animal hides into shoes, bags and jackets.
The stink was like the one from the rabbit skins grandmother put to soak in water and flour until the fur fell off, that they used to make the tambourines they played at parties. The same stink, but multiplied a hundred times, and once it got up your nose you couldn’t get rid of it.
You can stay in this room, Mimoun, a gypsy used to live with us but he decided to go back to live with his own people. As you can see, this is our kingdom, no women and no one to do our housework.
Mimoun looked at a corner of the dining room set aside as the kitchen, plates piled high and flies buzzing around; he noticed the paint in the dining room was covered in cracks and in some places even flaking off the walls, and a hazy light came through the two sitting room windows because the light wasn’t so bright in that city, and the windows were coated in dust and spattered with grease.
Mimoun could probably still hear the noise from all those hours on the bus, his body still seemed to be moving when his uncle said, come on, you’d better get to bed because we’ve got to be up very early in the morning. Mimoun must have gone into the tiny room and undressed before getting into a creaking bed. The pillow and sheets smelled of people. Of other people who’d slept night after night in that same bed, and he’d have found it difficult to get to sleep if he’d not been so exhausted.
It was still dark when they left the next morning. Mimoun felt the cold in the jacket he’d brought from home, his only one that he’d used in the very few winters in the village when temperatures dropped. It wasn’t warm enough for a freezing morning; when you get paid you can buy some gloves and a scarf, his uncle told him.
They walked quickly to revive their failing legs, past stone walls, down Carrer Monserrat and on for at least an hour and a half along a dirt track that cut through the frosty fields. We’re working in another village, only for a few months, we’ll see where the boss takes us after that.
Mimoun must have been half frightened and half excited by so many new experiences, despite the fact that he would be the last of the great patriarchs. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the boss, and he saw a very fair-skinned, pinkish man. Fat, enormous, with his trousers belted up under his paunch and his hair parted next to his ear to try to hide his baldness. Perhaps his face looked like that because he’d eaten so much pork, or perhaps everybody was like that here.
Uncle spoke to him for a while and finally the boss looked him over. He says you have to do what I say and help me with what I have to do; if he asks you, tell him what your passport says, that you’re eighteen. Mimoun no doubt thought if he did ask him something he’d not understand a word, and must have begun to take a dislike to him from the moment he looked him over as if he were reckoning up the profit he could get out of him.
Mimoun grabbed a spade and started to fill the concrete mixer, feeling that still wasn’t what he was destined to do in life. By the way, his uncle had said, he finds your name difficult to pronounce, from now on you’re Manel.
19
Whores aren’t the same everywhere
Those first weeks were difficult, Mimoun always tells us, don’t think it was like it is now, when it’s all sorted for you. The first weeks must have been difficult, because there weren’t too many people like Mimoun, who was now Manel, or like his uncle. So while he couldn’t exercise the natural talent he showed in his eloquent use of his own mother tongue, he had to make the most of his charms, the mole daintily located near his lip and those eyes that were pretty exotic in that region.
Those days it was still exotic to see a Moor in the middle of a city in the interior and people often turned round to look at him and stood and stared while they put a hand over their mouths to hide their astonishment. Especially the ladies, who remembered stories of murderous north Africans in the war who cut the heads off anyone who got in their way and hung them up by their hair in the middle of the square. Or at least that’s what people said.
But in those early weeks, Manel wasn’t very aware of how surprising his presence was or what his neighbours or workmates thought about him. He didn’t understand their language and was busy learning the four basic phrases he needed to understand the boss’s orders or order food in a restaurant.
Until he found out how to order other things, he spent weeks eating omelette sandwiches. Un entrepà de truita, si us plau. His uncle said he was like a snake that only eats hens’ eggs and he’d never have imagined he was so fond of them.
They’d finished building the pig farm in the neighbouring village and would have no more work there. The boss took him to the top of a mountain and said: There you are. He’d spend six months travelling every day to finish the boss’s house with lots of other bricklayers who’d been working there for some time. His uncle went to another site and Manel started to try his hand at his new language.
They gave them lunch at midday in a restaurant with real wood tables, a dark brown varnish over grain from tree trunks that you could still see. It was Cal Met, and Manel must have guessed that it didn’t come from Mohammed.
Mimoun felt more at ease now he understood what his colleagues said to him, as well as the crowd in the restaurant where they ate. He felt especially at home with Ramona, the very fat woman who kept piling macaroni and meat or sausage and beans onto his plate.
That didn’t mean he was no longer worried by the kind of meat he ate, but he was occasionally so hungry when he came from work he didn’t have time to investigate what was or wasn’t on his plate. Out of good manners he didn’t dare ask what it was, let alone reject a dish cooked so artfully by the lady of the house.
It had been a long time, practically since he’d left home, since Mimoun had tasted a good stew. Nobody had taught him to cook or clean, and most days the only decent meal he ate was Señora Ramona’s.
He’d decided against trying to cook for himself. He waited for his uncle to come home or went to the bar in the square where he
was fascinated by the music blaring from the fruit machines while the television, covered in olive oil stains, displayed images of the world where he supposed he must be living.
The whores here are like whores anywhere, his uncle said, only they make you pay more and won’t let you do the odd trick. They force you to wash before they’ll do anything, like you have to wash before prayers, and some of these sluts even roll a kind of plastic tube on you so you don’t infect them. Very few let you do it from behind, they say it hurts.
As he listened to his uncle talk that way, Mimoun, who was now Manel, must have felt his stomach turn remembering that routine of keep still, Mimoun, just a few seconds, I won’t hurt you.
Now and then they indulged in the luxury of going to a pension on Carrer dels Argenters with girls in transparent dressing gowns over lacy bras, whose bright red mouths chewed gum they’d blow into balloons until they popped. Girls who said come into me, and let him penetrate where Mimoun had never penetrated before, although, to be honest, he missed a tighter squeeze.
The girls checked their nail varnish hadn’t flaked as he was coming off. It was one of the differences in that country, it wasn’t just the climate, smells and light. Mimoun thought Muslim whores were more welcoming, even if they expected to reach the state of matrimony as virgins.
The first weeks were a grind, what with getting up early, loading bricks and warming up mid-morning around the fire they’d lit in an oil drum. He’d already begun to think he wasn’t destined to do that either when he met her.
The Last Patriarch Page 6