The Guillotine Choice

by Michael J Malone

  ‘Which family in Maillot, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  Eyes still searching, his cousin replied, ‘The Saoudi family.’

  ‘You are the son of whom, exactly?’

  The man before him grew confused. Who was this man? He looked Mohand up and down. He read the younger man’s eyes. This was a rich colon in front of him; why was he asking these questions?

  ‘Why, have you been in Maillot? Do you know the Saoudi family?’

  Mohand smiled. ‘You must be Mohand Ameziane.’

  A beat.

  ‘I don’t know you…’

  Mohand thought his face would split, so broad was his smile. ‘I am the man you are waiting for.’

  A moment of recognition and the two men were kissing and hugging each other and crying.

  ‘Forgive me, Vava Mohand. I wouldn’t have recognised you if you hadn’t spoken to me.’

  ‘I knew you straightaway,’ said Mohand. ‘After all this time.’ He shook his head. ‘You have grown into a fine young man.’ Could do with a good feed, thought Mohand. And some decent clothes. These things remained unsaid. The world was a difficult place for the indigènes, but perhaps he could do something about that.

  Ameziane blushed, delighted that a man such as this would be so complimentary. He paused and remembered where he was. ‘We are booked into a hotel just five minutes from here and more members of the family will join us. Your brother Amar will arrive on a train shortly. He will be waiting for you.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ Mohand gave Ameziane another hug, almost squeezing the last drop of air from his lungs. ‘This is the best day of my life.’

  By the time they arrived at the hotel, those relatives travelling from Maillot had arrived. There were five men standing in the room when he opened the door. He scanned them all quickly, looking for Amar, trying to remember the boy and imagining what the years might have done to him. They were a ragged, poor bunch. All of them wearing huge smiles.

  He couldn’t work out which one of them was Amar until he noticed the glass eye. His brother looked much older than he should have. Thin and worn with decades of worry. They walked towards each other. Arms out. Mohand couldn’t stem the flow of tears.

  ‘My brother,’ he cried and held him close. The other men stood around waiting their turn to greet him. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than I am at this moment.’ He felt like he was discovering his family for the first time. He stepped back to have a closer look at his brother. At the lined, darkened skin, the withered cheeks, the surprisingly long and unkempt beard. In truth, he was surprised that the hotel had allowed such a bedraggled creature inside one of its rooms. This is what colonialisation has done to my people, he thought. He swallowed the flare of anger, determined that nothing could spoil this moment. To hide his true feelings, he laughed and gently tugged at his brother’s beard.

  ‘When I left, he was a boy, and now he is hairy like a monkey.’

  * * *

  ‘We have one thing we need to do before we go home,’ Mohand announced. ‘I have to see Dahmane.’

  They arrived at the prison gates around 11am. The guard looked at them quizzically. Seven indigènes. All of them unkempt except for this one man in the white suit and speaking perfect French.

  ‘No visits on a Saturday,’ said the guard.

  Mohand explained his situation politely and asked if he could speak to the director. Normally, the guard would have laughed off this request, but something about Mohand made him reconsider. Minutes later the director was at the gate. Again Mohand explained his situation.

  ‘…so after twenty years in Devil’s Island, I would dearly love to see my brother.’

  ‘This is a special occasion,’ the director said, once Mohand had stopped speaking. ‘I think we can make an exception today.’ A pass was quickly written up for all seven of them and they were guided into a small room and asked to wait.

  Inside the room, Kaci could not stand still. He paced the four corners. Rubbing his hands as he walked. Dahmane had been the closest person to him on the planet. After eighteen years’ absence what would he look like? Would he have aged like Amar? How would he be handling the pressures of life in prison?

  Eventually, a door opened and a guard entered. Dahmane followed. He stood in the doorway, paused for a beat, then took a tentative step toward the group of men facing him. He scanned the faces. Recognised Amar. But an expression of confusion formed on his face when he looked at Mohand.

  Mohand feasted his eyes on his brother. His lined face. A body less muscular. Still wearing a long moustache. A tear ran down his cheek.

  ‘Don’t you know me, brother?’

  Dahmane’s mouth fell open. ‘Mohand?’ He walked towards his brother, arms wide. Emotion robbed him of strength. He stumbled. Mohand stepped forward to catch him and they were in each other’s arms. They stood in a hug, gripping each other for long minutes. Weeping, laughing … grounding themselves in the moment and the truth of Mohand’s homecoming.

  Then Dahmane murmured, ‘Now that you are back, I can die in peace.’

  Mohand answered, ‘Nobody is dying. And no-one has anything to worry about any more. I am home to look after the family.’

  * * *

  And now here he was, on a train and minutes away from Maillot, wearing his suit. He checked his palms were clean and then ran them carefully over his thighs, down to the knees. Then he squared his hat. He wanted to make a good impression.

  The steam engine on this train was interminably slow. Mohand willed it closer to the station. The patience that had served him so well on his eight-month journey home almost betraying him at the last.

  Calme-toi, he told himself. What are a few more moments?

  The engineer sounded his horn. They were close to the station. Mohand stood up and looked out of the window.

  All he could see was people.

  Hundreds of them.

  Would Saada be among them? His heart beat faster. He cursed himself again for a fool. Whatever the family had decided, he would have to live with it.

  It was clear that people had come from all around the region to welcome him home. In the field behind the station he could see lots of mules, horses and donkeys.

  Just before the train stopped, Mohand walked to the end compartment. While people were waiting for him at the front end, he descended from the back. The family members who had travelled with him, let him walk ahead.

  Walking towards the waiting crowd in this way meant he could watch them. Many, he knew, would be there out of curiosity. Some of them, the important ones, would be waiting out of love.

  As he walked, he examined the excited faces. Mouths open in anticipation. Eyes searching for the man of the hour. Then a shout went up: ‘There. He is there.’

  Then a clamour. Cheering. Drumming feet. Hands touching him, tugging at his jacket. Wet faces pressed against his. So many faces. Smiles. His name being spoken: here, in a whisper; there, in a shout. All voices reverent. Thankful.

  ‘El hamdou Allah,’ were the words he heard over and over again.

  Then a horse was brought forward. It was three kilometres from the railway station to Maillot itself. The great man should not be allowed to walk. With gratitude to the horse’s owner, Mohand climbed on its back and began the last leg of his journey accompanied by a crowd.

  His first stop, he insisted, was to visit the families of the men who didn’t make it back: Arab and Ali. At Arab’s house, he kissed all of his cousin’s children, embraced his wife and said, ‘I am very sorry that Arab didn’t come home. We must forget the past and embrace the future.’ He took in their gaunt, lined faces, bellies swollen with malnutrition and their threadbare clothing. A sight, he noted with sadness, that was prevalent wherever he looked. This post-war period wasn’t being kind to his people. ‘Whatever I can do to help you, I will,’ he said.

  He repeated this performance at Ali’s former home, and was then determined to make good on his promise to visit the grave of his step
mother, Hana Addidi.

  By now, the crowd had thinned and only close family remained. Amar was on a donkey to his right. They chatted as their home drew near. Mohand looked over and, not for the first time, took in his ragged condition. His weak frame, his impressive beard and moustache. He smiled at his brother.

  Amar’s pleasure was clear to see; his answering smile shrunk the cares from his lined face. Moved, Mohand waited until his brother was closer. He leaned over and drew him into a hug and whispered in his ear. ‘You have nothing to fear now, brother.’

  He drew away from him and considered his next question.

  ‘Saada. My wife. What became of her?’ he asked and braced himself for the answer. Amar’s expression was one of puzzlement. ‘You don’t know? Dad wrote and told you. Years ago.’

  Mohand made a face of apology. ‘I didn’t read… couldn’t read all of the letters.’

  ‘Dahmane,’ Amar answered.

  Mohand swallowed. Nodded. Looked away to the far hills. Bit his lip. That one word was enough of an answer. It made complete sense. The old ways were there for a reason.

  ‘I hope he makes her happy,’ he said, while thinking that would be difficult when Dahmane was in a prison cell. Poor Saada. Both of her husbands had fallen foul of the French penal system.

  When they arrived at the low building that was Mohand’s childhood home, he jumped from the horse. He looked around him, taking in the spread of hills on the distance, the light scrub, low trees, the dry earth. He breathed deep, aware of the earth through the soles of his shoes, feeling his connection with the place.

  He turned to Amar. ‘Where are they buried, brother?’ He would deal with the emotions concerning his wife another time. He had goodbyes to say.

  ‘Over there.’ Amar pointed to the far end of the field behind the house, knowing exactly who his brother was talking about.

  There in the earth, side by side, lay his father and the woman who cared for him more than anyone else, Hana Addidi. Two graves. No signs. Only dirt and one modest stone each, in the Muslim tradition.

  ‘Do you mind if I…?’ Mohand asked.

  Amar shook his head in understanding and stepped back towards the house.

  In between the graves, Mohand slumped to his knees. He leaned towards Hana’s burial mound first and offered a silent prayer to Allah. He considered all of the pain his decision to remain silent had caused his family. No one would have suffered more than this woman, with the kindest heart and warmest embrace. He closed his eyes and allowed the tears to flow.

  He could see her there in his mind’s eye. Her toothy grin. That way she had of telling him she loved him, without words and with the smallest of gestures.

  He allowed the emotions to swamp him and somehow three words escaped the morass of emotion in his mind and slipped past the tremble of his lips.

  ‘Hana, I’m back.’

  EPILOGUE

  Bashir’s Story

  I was on my way to my father’s funeral.

  The plane landed in Algiers at around 12pm in the harsh, dry heat of 31st August, 1991. A heat ardent enough to dry the tears from my face, had I been crying as I exited the plane. I was travelling light and, on autopilot, I walked past the customs officers carrying my small duffel bag containing toiletries and a change of clothes.

  My wife had packed it in Boston and placed it in my hand while my three boys – aged ten, five and two – were quiet for once, holding themselves statue-still. They knew Daddy was sad. They knew it was something about Papa, but sensing the adults’ need for silence, they hadn’t asked.

  Outside the airport, a crowd of Algerians waited for their loved ones. Shouted names and laughter clamoured around my ears. People rushed to returning relatives. Backs were patted, shoulders gripped, cheeks kissed.

  Before me stood my cousin Abdenour, wearing the universal uniform of T-shirt and jeans. Sunglasses were pushed high on his head and a cigarette was being worked in his mouth.

  ‘I wish it were happier circumstances, cousin,’ he said, squeezing my shoulder and kissing me on the cheek. I returned his kiss and patted his arm. Tried a weak smile.

  Our village was 142 kilometres from Algiers and I spent most of the journey in silence, like a facsimile of a human, my thoughts closed even to myself. I simply stared at the heat haze in the distance as Abdenour drove at high speed along the empty roads while chatting incessantly.

  At one point I interrupted.

  ‘Did he suffer?’ I asked.

  ‘He never complained,’ he answered.

  No surprises there.

  I looked around me. Traffic was light. For long minutes, it seemed like we were the only people on the road.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s the heat,’ answered Abdenour. ‘Drives everyone indoors.’

  ‘The heat,’ I repeated, thinking about the force that slammed into me when I exited the plane. ‘I’d forgotten about the heat.’

  ‘America has made you soft, cousin,’ laughed Abdenour.

  The thought hit me again. Squeezed at my heart. I was on my way to my father’s funeral.

  My dad was dead.

  Someone else was making me move. I wanted to stop travelling any closer to the event I had flown across an ocean for. I needed time to process the information. To assimilate this new dread fact. But time was not on my side. Ritual had to be observed and it ran on its own clock.

  Eventually – it could have been minutes or days – we reached Maillot. Abdenour turned into the dusty road that led to my father’s house. Both sides of the track were lined with cars and people.

  This threw me from my mental malaise.

  ‘All of these people…’ I managed to say.

  ‘For Vava Mohand,’ Abdenour said, pride evident in his voice. He was related to this great man and he was proud that people had come from many miles around to pay their respects.

  People also assembled in front of our gates. Mainly men. The women would be gathered inside the house, under shelter from the strong sunshine.

  Abdenour parked the car. I stepped out into the heat. Faces crowded me. Hands pressed my shoulders. Deep voices praised me for rushing to my father’s side. Everyone knew the distance I had travelled and remarked that it demonstrated great love and respect. I accepted their words but internally thought, how could I not?

  News reached the house of my arrival and all of the Saoudi menfolk gathered around me; my brothers, uncles and cousins. Each of them greeted me with hugs, and sorrow made their voices gruff.

  My uncle Dahmane stood apart. He appeared lost, gaunt with grief. His eyes dimmed, his face slack with the depth of his loss.

  I was guided towards the big garages built on to the side of the house, where even more people waited. The space here had been emptied, cleaned and lined with chairs. In the middle of the garage, my dad was laid on a table.

  As was the custom, his body was covered with clean, white sheets. Only his face could be seen. By his head stood the imam, reading from the Koran.

  How can we be in mourning? I wanted to say. He’s here, right here. How can he be gone, if he is right here?

  My feet were locked on to the earth. My limbs leaden. I studied the shape under the cloth. This is my father? I looked at the people around me, their faces lengthened in grief. Then back at my father, his face waxed in death. His features seemed different. It was clearly him. But it wasn’t. Where was the vitality, the colossus that had strode through my life? I refused to accept that he could be diminished by death.

  My body belonged to someone else. This other person reached out for Papa, desperate for contact one last time… one last hug. Before I reached him, I felt the heat from someone’s hand on my shoulder.

  ‘The body has been washed and made ready for burial,’ my uncle said kindly, reminding me that contact was not allowed.

  I stood by my father’s head and closed my eyes in prayer. It was true. Mohand Saoudi was dead.

  After just thirty minutes with
him, my uncle said, ‘It is time for his burial.’

  ‘Already?’

  Of course, they were in a hurry to prevent the body from decomposing in the heat.

  As was our custom, a grave had been dug at the top of the back garden. This was fitting. My father’s favourite spot. From here, you could look in one direction over the village, and turn to the other and see in the distance the great Djuradjura mountains. Dad had loved his garden. It was to my shame that I struggled to name more than a few of the trees, bushes or flowers that scented this small corner of home. Dad had spent most of his days since retirement among these plants, creating a sanctuary from the upheaval that politicians continued to foist onto Algeria’s present. Given everything that he had suffered, who would know more than he how nature could soothe?

  Past, present and the future were here in this garden, and as my father’s meat and bones would be claimed by the soil, one of the last links to the events of yesterday would be lost.

  Algeria’s history is a long and bloody one. The recent past – my father’s lifetime – was no exception. Perhaps his life was a demonstration of this fact, his life story reflected the torrid and tormented era of colonialsation by the French, and our country’s painful attempt to break free.

  More people should know what happened to him. He was only one innocent in a long history of colonial abuse and yet… I should tell the world his story, I thought. Again it occurred to me that we should demand an apology from the French government.

  * * *

  By late afternoon, the sun was still baking the earth. Four men carried the body on a stretcher. In procession, the Saoudi menfolk walked slowly up the length of the garden to my father’s final destination. The garden was full of people – they even hung over the fence that bordered it – but they were all silent in their love and support.

  So many people, so little sound, I thought. I could hear every footfall as I stepped over grass. Eventually someone spoke.

  ‘Oh Saoudis, who do you have now to fill the shoes of this great man?’