You Changed My Life

by Abdel Sellou

  Everyone’s doing their business without worrying about others; I blend into the crowd. I inhale a sandwich, unload a Lacoste jacket, a pair of Westons, nothing bad: drugs are sold somewhere else, out of my sight. That’s not my thing, except when it’s to sell to the golden boys from the XVIth district looking to spice up their parties. I sell them dried peppers. It doesn’t resemble pot at all, in odor or in color. They don’t seem to notice; they fork over the cash. I shape a piece of maple bark and make a perfectly presentable bar of hash. I just have to rub it with the real thing, for color and smell, and roll it all up in some newspaper. At the Fontaine des Innocents, a white kid in a blazer shows up.

  “You have any, you have any?”

  “And you, you have the cash?”

  And the transaction is made just like that; the kid doesn’t waste any time. I imagine his expression when he opens the package. He’ll take out the rolling papers and the tobacco he’s stuffed under his mattress; he’ll try to crumble the stuff up to roll a joint, and lose some skin in the process. It’s good shit, right, Bernard? Are you kidding, it’s bark!

  Parties, or “zulu parties,” as we call them, go on in basements. We’re all friends, no matter what our ethnic origins are. And because we’re friends, we don’t really know each other. I know first names, or nicknames, of every person that passes through, like they know mine: Lil’ Abdel. That’s as far as it goes. I don’t know their last names; they’ve never heard the name Sellou. They call me little because of my size, not my age, fifteen. There are a lot of younger ones here than me, and some really clueless girls. They get off on the danger they sense; they like getting looks from the boys—already strong like men, but they’re going to regret it. I watch this little world from close up, but I’m not really a part of it. One night I’m with some punks, outside; another night, it’s raining, I do my business in the shelter of underground passages.

  “Hey, Lil’ Abdel! Got a lead for you tonight. Some girl from Henri IV is having a party at her house, by Ranelagh. Her parents aren’t home, you know what I mean?”

  “I’m in!”

  At these things, we show up, play nice at the party, until one of us gives the signal that it’s time to go. Then we clean the place out. At the very least there’s always a brand-new video player to swipe. I disconnect the wires, carefully, and roll them up with skill. The little mistress of the house is horrified. What are my new friends doing? They were so nice just five minutes ago! How could I have known? Those bad guys! She locks herself in her room. My friends crack up to see me walking down the street, business as usual, carrying a television that weighs as much as I do.

  “Lil’ Abdel, you’re the best!”

  You know it . . . tonight we’re hanging out at the Place Carré, which isn’t very well named since it’s kind of round, not carré, square. Suddenly things heat up between two guys over on the other side, against the wall. Everybody watches from a distance; nobody gets close. You don’t stick your nose in other people’s business. Ever. They start to fight. It’s the usual.

  What’s not so usual is the blood spurting out of one guy’s neck. And not so usual, the white rice that’s coming out of the throat on the dead guy, black. Dead, for sure.

  We clear out in a split second like a flock of pigeons taking off. I didn’t see the blade that cut into his flesh; it must have been big and solid, and the hand holding it very strong. And determined. That’s the reason I never touch hard drugs, whether to take or to sell. That kind of business can go too far. It’s funny: me, who’s never doubted myself, me who steals without thinking twice, I know I’d never kill someone over money.

  The cops will be here any minute. I run as far as possible. All the witnesses from the scene have scattered around the city and its underground. I saw the dead guy’s head hanging heavily to his shoulder, almost cut clean off. But no, I didn’t see anything.

  8

  People died in my neighborhood, too, from loneliness and despair, just like they died in the city. They killed themselves, most of them by jumping out of windows. Every time it was a big event. There were hundreds of us in the little Beaugrenelle project, nearly a thousand, and we all knew each other. There was something sensational about one of us suddenly passing away. The old folks who usually stayed cooped up in their apartments came out onto the landing to talk to the neighbors. But in reality, they didn’t really say anything to each other. Some just wanted to be seen, show everybody else that they had compassion for poor Mr. Benboudaoud who finally lost it. Others tried to be clever by explaining the reason for the suicide, which they alone understood, of course.

  “He couldn’t stand living alone anymore, Youssef, he’d been so depressed ever since his wife’s death, when was that already?”

  “It’s been five years, but you’ve got it wrong, it’s not because of his wife that he killed himself.”

  Silence, suspense, drum roll, the other waits silently for the big finale.

  “He killed himself because of his mail.”

  “Oh really? So what was in his mail this morning?”

  “Didn’t you notice he was holding on to a letter when he hit the ground?”

  It’s true. Old Youssef tumbled out of the seventh floor with a notice from the tax service in his hands. Hats off for not letting go of the letter on the way down.

  I can still see this other guy, a French guy totally consumed with booze, crushed under the weight of his failure. He lived in the next stairwell with his wife, who was as habitually inebriated as he was. She left him for someone else, and he jumped out of the window. Except this guy lived on the first floor . . . he broke every bone, stayed there, on his back, with an arm tucked somewhere behind his neck, one leg next to his waist, an elbow stuck in his ribs. When they got to him, the medics looked at the broken puppet and had no idea where to start. They put an emergency blanket over him, in shiny gold paper. He died shining, that sucker.

  Another one comes back to me, that made us laugh, my friends and me, as much as it grossed us out: Leila, an obese woman who never left her apartment, jumped from the sixth floor. Her body went splotch and exploded on the pavement like an overripe tomato. Another love story gone wrong: her man had started carrying on with another woman, in their apartment. Her man who was found partially decomposed, in his bed, the following summer; he’d had terminal cancer and his new girlfriend was gone on vacation. She had the two-bedroom cleaned and still lives there today.

  I had bad luck, really, when I think about it: I, who was always out, I, who barely ever ate at home, I was there every time a neighbor committed suicide. Every time, I cleared out fast. The cops were there just as fast to conduct their investigation. Even when I didn’t know if they were looking for me, I knew I was better off avoiding them.

  They were looking for me for the murder at Châtelet. There were surveillance cameras on the Place Carré, and so the whole thing had been caught on camera, except the quality wasn’t the best and made it impossible to identify the murderer. A big black guy, in a coat and tennis shoes, what could be more generic? They recognized me. They knew me pretty well. Each time they caught me, they kept me as long as legally possible before promising that we’d meet again.

  We did meet again during a routine ID check, one morning in a suburban train station where I’d just woken up. I almost never set foot in school anymore, and barely at home: I spent my nights in the RER, the train system, like the other kids from the burbs that I hung out with after dark. We messed around until early morning, when the trains started back up, around five or six o’clock. Then we’d go down to the platforms, settle into a train car, and sleep for a few hours. I’d open an eye from time to time and see a guy in a cheap suit and tie, his little briefcase held safely on his lap like he should have it attached to his wrist with handcuffs. Our eyes would meet, and I don’t know who was more disgusted. I thought to myself, Go on, go to work, keep getting up at the crack of dawn to go earn your pathetic salary. I haven’t even gone to bed yet.
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br />   I’d go back to sleep, the imprint of the seat fabric on my cheek. I must have stunk, but everything stinks in Paris. A voice over the intercom:

  “Last stop, Saint-Rémy-lès-Chevreuse. All passengers are kindly asked to disembark.”

  A voice in my ear.

  “Abdel, Abdel, shit, Abdel, wake up! We gotta get off the train. It’s gonna leave for the depot!”

  “Let me sleep . . .”

  Another voice, harsher, its owner shaking me by the arm.

  “ID check. Let me see your papers!”

  I finally sat up, and yawned as widely as possible. I thought of checking the time on my watch, but changed my mind just in time. The civil slave in uniform knew I wasn’t there for my First Communion.

  “I’ll have a croissant with my coffee . . .”

  “You’ve got a sense of humor this early, how nice!”

  Blasé, I hand over my papers, all in order, of course. Born in Algiers, I had a resident permit that had just been renewed. I’d even started the naturalization process: in the eighties, anyone residing in France for at least ten years could get a red, white, and blue passport. I didn’t hesitate. My brother, the idiot, wasn’t as proactive with the paperwork: he was sent back to Algeria in 1986. Belkacem and Amina lost a son, probably the one they would have preferred to keep, if they’d had to choose. The other one, they’d have to go pick up at the police station.

  “Sellou, CSI wants to talk to you, we’re taking you in.”

  “CSI? What’s CSI?”

  “Don’t play dumb. Crime Scene Investigation, you know exactly what it is.”

  I knew right away that it was about the murder at Châtelet. The only thing serious enough to require a trip to Ile de la Cité. I knew I wasn’t in trouble: I was a witness, that was it, and I didn’t know the killer. For once I didn’t have to lie. No need to be clever: no one was accusing me of anything. I could tell the exact truth. There was a fight, a stabbing, the guy dropped dead on the ground, the end.

  But the beginning of my judicial career.

  9

  I’ve just turned sixteen. A few days ago, I went before a disciplinary council at high school to end my career as a mechanic. I’m accused of skipping class and, incidentally, of delivering a right hook to the management professor.

  “Abdel Yamine Sellou, you attacked Mr. Péruchon last April 23. Do you admit to it?”

  Wow, it’s a real hearing . . .

  “I admit it, I admit it . . .”

  “Well, that’s a good start! Can you assure us that you won’t do it again?”

  “Well that depends on him!”

  “No, it depends on you. Can you promise that that was the last time?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  A general sigh of resignation from the headmaster. The other jurors don’t even raise their eyes from their crosswords. My insolence is just another part of their boring routine. They’ve already seen just about everything. I wonder what it’d take to surprise them. I try humor.

  “Mr. Director, you’re not going to kick me out, are you?”

  “Is your professional future suddenly so important to you, Abdel Yamine?”

  “Well I mean . . . I’m asking because of the cafeteria. Thursday’s when they usually serve fries. I like to come for lunch on Thursdays.”

  Nobody reacts. Not even the fattest one, the head educational counselor who never gave me the slightest bit of counsel. Hello! I’m talking about French fries here! I imagine he’s a cartoon character, transformed into an obese wolf, his tongue drooping to the floor, drool running down onto his fat hairy belly, he can’t even get himself over to the plate of crispy fries that Little Red Abdel is holding in his hands.

  The director cuts off my daydreaming.

  “I’m sorry, I’m afraid your culinary argument won’t suffice . . . We’re going to confer about it, but I believe the issue is fairly cut and dry. You’ll be receiving a letter at home in a few days. You may go now.”

  “Okay, well, see you later!”

  “No, I don’t think so . . . good luck, Abdel Yamine.”

  The letter hasn’t come to my parents yet, and I didn’t warn them. I avoid them completely. I’ve been free from the school system and my family for a while now. But in the eyes of the law, I can’t be questioned without the presence of a legal guardian. A squad car goes to pick up Belkacem and Amina and brings them to 36 Quai des Orfèvres, to the criminal investigation headquarters. They come into the hallway where I’m dozing, spread out over a chair. They look impressed and defeated at the same time. My mother throws herself on me.

  “Abdel, what did you do?”

  “Don’t worry. Everything’ll be fine.”

  My getting kicked out of school won’t matter to them. Anyway, they know I barely ever go anymore (except for the cafeteria, of course) and they haven’t had any kind of control over me for a long time. But they’re afraid of the hearing they’ve been called to attend. The first time they came to pick me up at the local precinct, it was already too late to change me. This was proof, us here in front of the cops who handle criminals. What they had feared for me for so long, in silence, with the reserve of those who are helpless, might actually be happening.

  “Abdel Yamine Sellou, you were identified by surveillance cameras on the Place Carré, in the fourth basement level of the Forum des Halles. A murder was committed on the night of blahblahblah . . .”

  I’m already asleep. My parents are staring at the inspector’s lips to understand what he’s saying better. The word murder has an explosive effect on my mother.

  “Don’t worry, Mom, it isn’t me, I didn’t do anything! I was just there at the wrong time!”

  The officer confirms it.

  “Mrs. Sellou, I’m questioning your son as a witness. He isn’t accused of murder, do you understand?”

  She nods and scoots back in her chair, reassured. I have and will never have any idea what’s going through her head, hers or my father’s. They don’t talk. They won’t talk much when we leave the infamous 36 Quai des Orfèvres together. My father will have barely launched into a sermon when we get to Beaugrenelle. My mother will tell him to be quiet out of fear that I’ll take off as soon as he does.

  For now, I give my version of the story to the inspector: the guys from Les Halles, I’d never seen them before, I don’t know their names, I wouldn’t be able to identify them. They still don’t end the interrogation. They ask me questions about myself, my life, my routine, my friends from Châtelet who aren’t really my friends. He gives me his lecture, for the sake of formality. Either he’s paid for that, or it eases his conscience. I guess it must make you crazy to be that bad at what you do . . .

  “Abdel Yamine, your parents have small incomes and you get a government subsidy to go to school but you never go to class. Do you think that’s normal?”

  “Uhhhhh . . .”

  “On top of that, the money goes directly into an account in your name. It could at least help your parents dress you and keep you fed.”

  “Uhhhhh . . .”

  “Oh sure, you do just fine on your own, right? You act like the little cock of the walk . . . Listen, I’m going to introduce you to a woman, a judge for minors, she’s going to handle you until you’re legal.”

  My parents don’t react. They have no idea what’s going on, but they already understand that nobody’s taking their son away. They know I’m not going to get put in a juvenile detention center. They know that I’ll get called in to the Palais de Justice every three weeks and that it’ll change nothing, absolutely nothing, for me or for them. Youssef, Mohamed, Yacine, Ryan, Nassim, Mouloud, like practically all of the kids from Beaugrenelle, are monitored by a juvenile judge. Everybody from the project knows how it goes. My parents must think it’s just what happens to all of us, whether we are the kids of immigrants or the French.

  The judge comes to see us. She’s a short, round woman with a soft voice, very motherly. She sort of talks to me like I’m ten years o
ld, but without treating me like a retard. She seems to want to help me. She sums up the situation without laying on the drama. That’s a first . . .

  “You don’t seem to like school too much, Abdel Yamine, right?”

  “Not too much, nope.”

  “I understand that, you’re not the only one, you know . . . But you like to be out at night? They told me you saw something pretty bad at Les Halles, someone got killed right in front of you.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So, do you think it’s good for a young man of sixteen to find himself in that kind of situation?”

  I shrug my shoulders.

  “Abdel Yamine, we’re going to see each other again in three weeks. Between now and then, I’d like you to think about what you’d like to do. Maybe where you’d like to live. That way, we can talk about it and see what we can do. OK?”

  “OK.”

  To my parents:

  “Mrs. Sellou, Mr. Sellou, let me remind you that this boy is your responsibility until he’s legally adult, which is eighteen in France. Until then, you must guarantee his safety, from himself included. A child isn’t a burden, he’s a dependent, and when you become parents you have to accept that. Do you understand what I’m explaining to you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Yes, this time they get it. Not all of it, but they get it. In the street, after spending three hours in the criminal investigation unit with shoulders slumped and eyes misted over, my father gets up the courage to speak.

  “Did you hear that, Abdel? The lady said we’re responsible for you, so you’re going to behave yourself now!”

  I also heard the word “burden.” I look at this poor man who’s hooked up to wires for thirty years. As we cross over the Seine by way of the Pont Neuf—where I have some memories—I think my life’s a whole lot more interesting than his. Suddenly my mother raises her eyes to look at me; they’re all wet with tears.