Celebrations too soon over, our lives took a different turn as Papa’s job as a teacher called for him to stay home in the evenings and on the weekends to prepare lessons and grade papers.
Cinder Blocks
Ma was delighted at Pa’s spending more time at home, but his novel presence put a damper on the boys’ horsing around and curbed Zizou’s escapades with her “girlfriend Viviane,” as she called her boyfriend Alain. Mireille wallowed in the glory of Papa being a teacher and I, to my dismay, lost many opportunities to spend time with Albert.
Papa had even less time to manage his cemetery business than when he worked in the police force. Debbah filled in the gaps, carrying out Pa’s directions and overseeing their implementation. This meant that he no longer could come to Sidi Mabrouk to produce the cinder blocks needed for the jobs.
“Do you want to help making toubes?”
“Yaa! Oui, Papa,” Zizou and I said with one eager voice.
“I’ll show you how.”
“We know, Pa. We watch Debbah all the time.”
Just the same, Papa demonstrated how to measure and mix the exact doses of sand, cement, and water to make cinder blocks. It was like mixing ingredients for a cake. A big cake for sure, but a cake just the same.
Zizou and I took turns combining the “ingredients” on top of a large metal sheet, using the heavy spade, its handle smoothed out by use and too big for our hands.
Mimicking Debbah, we spat in our hands and rubbed the moisturizing spittle into the skin of our palms. Then, using our right knees as levers, we folded the mixture of gravel and cement again and again until it was well blended—just like a cake—then we scooped the heavy mix into a bucket.
Zizou and I took turns mixing the concrete and pouring it from the bucket into the mold before turning on the switch. The vibrations tamped down the mix; then Mireille took hold of one set of handles at one end of the mold and Zizou or I, the handles at the other end to release the block. Et voilà. One toube. One.
Toube after toube, we produced the different types Debbah needed for the jobs at the cemetery. Each block part of the skeleton without which no monument could come to life. Without our toubes, there would be no monuments.
Each day, ignoring the blisters on my hands and the spreading bruise on my right knee from the spade’s handle, I surveyed the ever-growing field of drying blocks. I could tell Zizou and Mireille shared the same sense of accomplishment and pride by the way they coolly dismissed their own blisters.
The boys insisted in sharing in the process and we had to shove and swat them away like horse flies. “If you stay out of the way, I’ll let you water the toubes,” I finally promised before spitting in my hands.
“When, Nanna?” asked Riri.
“When they’ve hardened.”
“Now, Nanna?” Yves asked every half hour.
“Later.”
“Now, Nanna?” until I turned on the tap and adjusted the flow of water. “Attention. It needs to be like a gentle shower and it’s important you don’t soak them. Just make them wet so they don’t crumble. D’accord?”
“Yaa, Nanna, we know.” They nodded gravely and studiously watered the blocks but soon grew bored with the task and Mireille took over.
When the blocks had cured, Debbah backed the truck into the yard and his team loaded our first batch. As the full truck drove away, I couldn’t wait to go to the cemetery and soon watch my first monument rise out of the earth.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
La Valise ou le Cercueil
March 1962
While we returned to work, proud of our contribution to a building process, the Accords d’Evian conspired to bulldoze our lives. The FLN prodded the Pieds-Noirs to leave with a renewed campaign of violence and intimidation and a not so veiled threat of, “La Valise ou Le Cercueil,” giving us the choice between the suitcase and the coffin.
Only then did I understand Pa’s grand design behind his bringing home prospectuses on Corsica, Malta, Argentina, Australia, and other distant places. We read about these countries’ history, geography, commerce and customs. We discussed whether we’d like it there, why and why not. I had thought it was my father’s way of teaching us geography, but I saw, now, that he was preparing us in case we had to leave.
The process had titillated my imagination, stoked my curiosity for faraway places, causing me, once more, to regret not having been born a boy. A male free to pick up a bag and set out to discover a new world behind each horizon. To “see where it went,” as Riri had said, long ago, when we thought he had been kidnapped.
But then, the thought of Albert living so close made me glad to be only a girl and, in spite of Papa’s vigilance and warning to stay away from him, Albert and I became friends. Without realizing what was happening. A little at a time.
Whenever my father wasn’t home, Albert and I sat on the bottom steps of our stairway, talking about books and things. He not only seemed to enjoy my company, but also sought it out. His gentle attention and sense of humor, sophistication and good looks flattered my ego. Compared to him, I saw now, Angelo had been a mere boy.
Maman invited Albert to Sunday meals. She shrugged when Papa dusted up his earlier accusation of, “Tu fais la Maquerelle à ta fille.”
“Non, chéri, I am not being a madam again. Albert is a young man away from home. He has no friends here. It is only normal we invite him on Sundays.”
“I’d like to read it,” Albert said after I mentioned my Atlantis story.
Papa’s rebuff of my first and only attempt at writing still stung. “I won’t let you read it,” I told Albert. “But I can tell you how the story goes.”
As he listened, I had the urge to kiss the soft smile at the corner of his lips, but of course didn’t dare.
“I like your descriptions of knights ‘riding herds of spirited seahorses’ and the ‘silver clouds of baby sardines,’ but the most beautiful image, in my view, is your likening of the glowing jellyfish to suspended moons,” he observed.
My heart raced with pride. “You really think my story’s beautiful?”
He took my hand and said, “You’ll be a great writer some day,” almost moving me to kiss the lids of his gorgeous eyes.
We also took advantage of Papa’s absence to play gin rummy in Albert’s room, being careful to leave his door and window open. These times with him were the most wonderful and exciting period of my life until, one fateful day, while we played gin on the eve of Easter Holidays, Papa’s car unexpectedly drove up the street. My heart turned to ice. I dropped my cards and fled Albert’s room in a panic, stepping over the threshold just as Papa opened the yard gate. Right under his nose.
I dashed to the stairs, took two steps at a time and, in the true tradition of our ancestors les Gaulois, waited for the sky to fall upon my head.
“La trahison est entrée dans ma maison.” Papa’s dramatic statement was so extreme that, thinking he was joking, the assembled family laughed with relief. But he meant it. Treason had invaded his home.
For several days, my father studied me as if trying to decide whether or not I had committed an unspeakable offense. Then, one afternoon, he darted into my room like a hawk on a field mouse.
Sins of a Daughter
“Did you have sex with him?”
I knew well who ‘him’ was. “Who, Pa?”
“You know who. The flat foot. The communist. Did he dishonor you?”
“No, Papa. He didn’t.” Hell, he didn’t even try to kiss me.
Pa went on as if he hadn’t heard me. “I decided to have the doctor check you out.”
I guessed what he meant but played stupid. “I’m not sick; I don’t need to see a doctor.”
“I want him to check whether you’re still a virgin.”
“I told you before, Albert never touched me. We are just friends.”
“You think I’m a fucking ass?” His eyes flared like Roman candles. “ ‘Just friends?’ If he really didn’t touch you he’s an even bi
gger ass than I thought he was.”
“Non, Pa, he’s not an ass. He just doesn’t have a filthy mind like yours.”
My father raised his hand to hit me, but dropped it and turned to leave. “I’ll have your mother make an appointment with Dr. Laurie.”
“Papa!”
He faced me. Though seized by anger more powerful than any I’d known, I let my measured words fall one by one from my lips like ice cubes into an empty glass. “I cannot stop you from forcing me to be examined, Papa, but I swear ….” I pointed a shaky finger at him. Tears of rage and frustration rolled down my cheeks. “I swear to you, Pa. On Pépé Vincent’s grave. I swear that I’ll run away and won’t care what will happen to me.”
Overcome by the effort to remain collected and not scream like a harpy, I gasped for air and enunciated each word, “The only way to stop me would be to beat me to a pulp or shoot me like a rabid dog.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. His eyes wavered then he gave a determined nod. “We’ll see who makes the rules in this house.”
Wounded, enraged, and dearly needing to hurt him, I blurted De Gaulle’s mordant words, “Daddy’s Algeria is over.” And, for good measure, I spat, “Kaput. Fini.” Wham! My head swung from left to right under the blow. My cheek stung with a thousand needles then turned boiling hot. Pride kept me from rubbing my face. I lifted my chin. Bull’s eye. My shot had found its target. I glared at him with the same self-satisfied, mission-accomplished corner smile he had perfected.
He drew back his hand for another blow. Fearing nothing, save losing face, I stood my ground and smoothed my disheveled hair, again smiling his corner smile. Papa’s arm dropped and his voice rattled as if out of breath, “You’ll stay in your room until further notice,” then he crossed the threshold and slammed the door behind him.
Clack—the key turned in the lock. “I’m leaving the key in the door.” The wooden panels between us dulled his words, “Bitches in heat can always find ways to screw, even through key holes.” His familiar jibe hit me even harder than the blow to my face but plain, stubborn pride kept me from kicking and clawing at the door like a wild cat.
During the next few days, my anger festered into resentment. Sour resentment at not having been born a male.
As a boy, I’d have my father’s respect, his support, and his trust. I’d travel from one country to another then another. As a girl, I could only dream.
I fantasized about building a giant kite—red. I’d ride the Sirocco across the sea, mount other currents and glide above the earth.
My red kite fantasy brought air into my lungs, cleared my head. I leaned over my balcony’s railing and watched young Arab girls jump rope in the middle of the street. They sang ditties I didn’t understand and laughed as one leapt to replace another in the arc of the whirling cord. Their carefree giggles and bouncing braids brought a smile to my dry lips. A smile that soon faded as I juxtaposed my future against theirs.
The moment they took their first breath, their fate was sealed. No matter how much their families loved them, their sacred, irreversible duty to their culture was unreserved compliance. They’d be veiled and confined at puberty. A marriage would be arranged, sometimes to older men. They’d be torn from their childhood homes and tossed into strange ones. Subjected to a mother-in-law or older wife and live their lives in unconditional submission to the family males. No appeal.
I was born lucky. Not a boy. But still lucky. I had a choice. I could choose to submit to my father’s will or stand firm and demand his respect. So, I’m confined to my room. How hard is this? After all, I get to enjoy time alone for a change and can afford to wallow in the conviction that I’m right and next time ….
Next time, I’ll make sure Papa will accuse me of something I really did. I’ll show him. I gave a hard nod. He’ll see.
While fantasizing about getting payback on Pa, I thumbed through his Victor Hugo book collection, opting for Ruy Blas. I perused the story of a slave in Spain who’s in love with the queen. Unable to appreciate Hugo’s flowery style, I returned the book to its shelf and walked to my balcony to check on the racket rising from the road.
Arab boys were playing with a small square of cloth tied around a handful of sand. They bounced the pouch on the instep of one foot, hopping on the other to keep their balance. They counted the bounces in hypnotic sing songs, “Ith-nain, thalatha, arba’a, khamsa, sitta, seba’a , thamaniya, tissa’s, ash-ara”—laughing, encouraging, and deriding one another. The lively challenges drew me in and I began counting in French, urging the players on, applauding as one bested another. Once they realized they had an impassioned spectator, the kids vied with added vigor, showing off, stealing quick glances at my balcony to make sure I watched, warming my heart with a sense of camaraderie, of connection to the human race.
One afternoon, when a hot wind swept the deserted road, I observed Albert retrieving a letter from the mailbox on the little black gate. On his way to his room, he glanced up at my balcony just as a gust of wind lifted the curtains, enfolding me. Albert winked at me. I brushed the curtain aside and curtsied, prompting a faint smile and a nod. Gosh, he’s beautiful and so sweet.
That evening, Zizou handed me a small red box. “Albert asked me to give you this.”
Heart thumping in my throat, I lifted the lid. It revealed a seahorse and a note, “Never stop dreaming.”
Zizou asked, “What’s the seahorse for?”
“Oh, nothing,” I said with a silly grin.
A grin that later morphed from delighted to resentful as I watched Papa coax Albert to La Guinguette while I was still restricted to my room. They walked up the road like two old buddies—or was it my father’s way of putting into practice one of his prized mottos, “Keep your friends close and your enemies even closer?”
I hoped Albert wouldn’t fall into my father’s net.
Non, he couldn’t—when I had related my father’s “Treason has invaded my home” comments to him, Albert had shaken his head in wonder. “A real character.”
“Who do you mean?” I’d asked.
“Your father. I’ve never met anyone like him.”
“Is this good or bad?”
“Both. He’s very intelligent. He worries about the welfare of his workers. He cares a great deal about his family, yet his intense and extreme pronouncements make him sound cruel and, at times, foolish,” Albert concluded, raising my chin with the tip of his fingers and brushing my cheek with a kiss.
No matter my father’s reasons for courting Albert, I felt cheated. Cheated the way I had when my teacher read my Atlantis story to the class and “Froufrou” attempted to steal my thunder. That analogy moved me to close my hand and lift my index and small finger into a pair of horns.
In this case at least, the Arab custom to fend off the evil eye really worked. At the end of five days, Papa came in my room and announced, “Your mother and I believe nothing happened between you and Bebert.” Geese, what’s a dove to do to prove her plumage’s white?
Pristine or not, I had spent most of the Easter Holidays locked up. At the news of my release, the rest of the family breathed a sigh of relief and, like an old dog settling down for the night, the house itself seemed to exhale.
But, as usual, my father wouldn’t let an old dog lie.
First Kiss
On the heels of my release, my father called a meeting with Albert and me and without preamble said to Albert, “You’ll have to marry ma fille.”
Appalled, humiliated, I opened my mouth to protest, but the set of my father’s mouth betrayed him—telling me his demand was a ruse to scare Albert away.
I turned to Albert, willing him to say no. “D’accord,” he said with a hint of challenge.
Papa’s lips thinned as if his best friend had spat in his soup. He turned to me, tilting his chin.
“D’accord,” I said, calling his bluff.
And I was glad it was a bluff. I was sweet on Albert, but I didn’t want to marry young, like my mother who had been sixt
een years old against my eighteen. Have five kids. Count my pennies to the end of my days. I took a malevolent pleasure beating Papa at his own game. “Does this mean Albert and I are engaged, Pa?”
“Over my dead body,” he spat, then left in a huff for La Guinguette.
I grinned at Albert. “You know that my father was trying to scare you—not into marrying me, but into staying away from me, right?”
Albert smiled. “I have been around him long enough. I knew what he was doing.” He took my hand. “Did you mean it when you agreed to marry me?”
I liked the feel of my hand in his, but took it back. “I’m not ready to get married. I was only repaying him for playing mind games.” I searched his face. “What about you. Did you mean it?”
“I played along to see how far he would go.” Reaching out, he raised my chin and looked into my eyes. “No hurt feelings?”
“No hurt feelings,” I said, meaning it. Still, I hoped he would take me in his arms and give me my first kiss.
The evening before school resumed, Zizou whispered, “Tonight, when Papa goes to La Guinguette, Albert will wait for you behind the house.”
“Zizou,” I whined, “You want me to get in trouble again?”
“Don’t you want to speak to your amoureux?”
“Oui, mais ….” The objection died on my lips. Now was the time to give my father reasons to indict me. Time for payback.
“Just go. I’ll keep watch.”
My sister doing the aoujak, as the Arabs say, I went to meet Albert. I found him smoking under the twilight shade of the vine arbor. He gazed at the splashes of gold, purple, and orange streaking the sunset sky. “This is stunning,” he said.
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