Cinema was invented for this. For making us see our mothers in a new light. Keep them forever. Share them with no reserve, no jealousy.
My name is Jallal.
I am the son of Marilyn Monroe.
In the end, the soldiers all left.
My soldier will disappear.
He gave me a gift. Two gifts.
An old Sony VHS player.
A movie. A VHS tape. A western. In two versions, original and dubbed in French.
The tree is not dead. I finally understood.
Without the soldier, without my mother, tirelessly, again and again, I watched River of No Return, where colors shatter, explode and caress us. A movie devoid of people, devoid of others. A movie that goes back to the very beginning. Where there is no one. Only danger. Only freedom and its dangers. Only temptations and their misunderstandings.
There are three people in that movie.
The man. The woman. And the little boy.
Tonight, the soldier will leave for the obscure war in southern Morocco. There will still be three on our color television.
My mother will be with a customer. The soldier will quickly say goodbye to her. He’ll come to see me. And I’ll sing.
The movie will start the same way. The tree that is cut down. It falls. It dies. It’s on the ground, takes its last breath. Will it resuscitate tonight?
The movie is that uprooted tree, soon transformed.
It took me a while to grasp it, put the signs into the same thought, the same sentence.
I don’t understand French.
I watch the movie and reinvent it my own way. Bodies speak better than languages. I’ve known that forever.
Tree in Arabic is chajara, a feminine word.
Tonight, the chajara will fall again. Die again and again.
Tonight, with a song, with my raspy young teenage voice, I’ll save this chajara. She’ll change sex, orientation. Identity.
I’ll die with her.
We’ll fall together.
We’ll rise again. Through faith. My faith. My song. And this promise: Marilyn Monroe is waiting for us, she will never betray us.
This happens in a camp. Nobody but cowboys there. All looking for gold. In vain. They rest. They forget. It’s nighttime. A man has returned. He just got out of prison. He cut the tree. And did something else we don’t know about yet. He found himself a horse. And headed for the camp. Lost men are drunk. They wait. For a discovery. An apparition. An ending. The crowd is getting bigger and bigger. You can see it all over the screen. A wild crowd at breaking point in search of a fleeting moment of tenderness. They drink. And they drink. And they drink. In the middle of these men, a little boy, a little man. Ten years old. Maybe eleven. He’s at home in this dangerous crowd on the brink of despair. He serves them. He knows all of them, the men in this crowd. He wanders like they do. He waits like they do. He hasn’t begun to drink yet. He isn’t innocent anymore. He’s seen everything, here in this camp. The thirsty. The deranged. The mad. The saints. The prostitutes. The priests. The songstresses. The warriors. The dead. The survivors. The leaders. A mother. Marilyn Monroe. Fire on her head. She performs on the stage of the cabaret. In a tent.
The man quickly finds the child. He says: “I’m your father. I’ve come back to take you back. To find you.”
The child asks for proof.
The father pulls out a star. The child has the same one on him.
This doesn’t last a minute. They didn’t even know each other a moment ago. Now they proclaim themselves father and son.
And they go.
They leave the tender and dangerous crowd. The crowd in love with Marilyn Monroe. Kay. Her name in the movie is Kay. She’s on stage. She sings. She shows her legs, her shoulders, her arms. Her soul. She radiates gentleness. She isn’t vulgar. Her gestures are almost childlike. Her words are prayers. The men have opened their mouths. They no longer care about booze. With Kay, they rise very high. They aren’t greedy golddiggers anymore. They regress. They play like children.
Kay is mother to all.
Father and son have crossed the whole screen, the whole frame. They are now in Kay’s dressing room.
The son introduces his new father to the singer.
The father looks at her kindly, with an uneasy respect.
The singer and the son say goodbye to each other. Embrace. It doesn’t last long.
That’s the end of part one.
These three characters will not see each other again. There is no reason for that to happen.
Now the dream can begin and cinema show its true power. The impossible will become possible.
Outside of the world. Fleeing. On a fragile raft. A family. The son, the father and the singer survive a flood. They are being chased by Indians. Impending death forces them to drift on a raging river. The hope of another paradise compels them to stay together, to save their skin, their souls, their bodies. Try being a family. Reinvent family. Hatred. Betrayal. Love, in the end.
The tree wasn’t cut down for nothing. It has come back to life. It was used to build a raft, that simple and strong raft.
River of No Return is also the story of a raft that goes on and on . . . The intrepid river doesn’t stop it. Death will be its enemy but never break it.
The tree died that first time. At the very beginning.
It rose to heaven.
The movie takes place in another world. A Hereafter where the tree can live again, be transformed.
Resurrection is not a fiction. Cinema proves it. Marilyn Monroe is convinced of it. My mother and I, too.
We weep.
All three of us.
I run to the television and kiss it.
I want the blessing of Marilyn Monroe. I want her fire.
Just at that moment, the soldier returns.
My mother wipes her tears. She stands up. And silently leaves for the room next door.
The soldier says:
“See you in a while, kid. Don’t forget me . . .”
I stay glued to the television screen. I enter it.
I join the other family. On the raft.
I sing River of No Return.
And I understand that a little bit later, I will sing it just the way it should be sung, like Kay. The soldier will be proud of me.
I know that now.
The eyes and hair of Marilyn Monroe confirm my intuition: life doesn’t stop.
Something happens. I see it. I’m there now.
I change realities, really and truly enter fiction, cross the border, take on other colors.
Time stops.
I’m in the true.
In the song.
On a tree.
II. For Love
1
“You don’t like the singer Samira Said? Is that true, Slima? It can’t be! Everyone in Cairo loves Samira Said. She’s a very big star in the Arab world. She’s Egyptian. We really think of her as Egyptian now . . . You don’t like Samira Said? You’re Moroccan and you don’t like Samira Said? Have you no shame? I’m sure your son Jallal loves her.”
For once, I’d agreed to accompany my mother Slima to her favorite beauty salon.
I was very entertained by the hairdresser’s chitchat with his many clients.
I had no opinion of Samira Said, but my mother really didn’t like her.
The hairdresser didn’t want to believe it. Could not. And set himself a challenge that annoyed my mother no end, to make her change her mind.
“Tell me, Slima . . . What Egyptian and Arab singers do you like?”
“Do you know Aziza Jalal?”
“Ah! The other Moroccan singer who’s become a star in Egypt! Is that who you like? The one with the big intellectual glasses?”
“Aziza Jalal has more distinction, more clas
s.”
“So everyone says. But her angelic voice and perfection leave me cold.”
“Her voice is like the divine Ismahane’s. You must have noticed.”
“Not you too? My dear Slima, you’ve fallen into the trap of that comparison!”
“It’s the truth. She’s as great as Ismahane.”
“Aziza Jalal and Ismahane are too cold. Too much the diva and high priestess. They overplay the mystery card.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Anyway, I’m right to love Samira Said. She’s more deserving. No one gave her anything. No one made things easier for her. She’s a fighter. She’s the one who’s still fighting.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Aziza Jalal retired, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“And why?”
“She didn’t want to sing anymore. She had nothing more to give her audience. She was probably too exhausted. So . . . so . . . she retired. I respect that decision.”
“No, no, my dear Slima, that’s not that the real reason. She stopped singing because her rich Saudi husband asked her to. She was only thirty when she retired. All that to please Hubby. To please a man who believes that a woman’s place is in the home. Slima, don’t tell me you support that kind of decision, that hypocrisy!”
“I respect . . . yes . . . I understand . . . Aziza.”
“Respect isn’t the issue, darling. It’s comparing two Arab stars from Morocco. Aziza Jalal and Samira Said.”
“And?”
“Samira Said is still out there fighting. Taking the hits. Defending herself . . .”
“For who?”
“For you. For women. Strange you haven’t noticed! You’re smart. What exactly do you have against Samira Said?”
“She’s not natural. She lacks sincerity, truth.”
“Since when is art about being natural?”
“What do you mean?”
“Songs are mainly inventions, constructions. Natural is boring. Building a persona over many years is what I respect in artists like Samira Said. Strong commitment, all the way. Real conviction that goes beyond singing. Intelligence put toward a real cause. Freedom you can see the moment she appears . . .”
“You’re making a good case . . .”
“I love women who don’t let themselves be dominated by men. And Samira Said is that kind of woman, besides being a gutsy modern singer . . . So stop giving us the runaround. Tell us the real reason you don’t like her . . . What have you got against Samira Said?”
The debate on this frivolous topic was conducted with utter seriousness, with passion. But in truth, the reason people talk about stars is to avoid talking about themselves. That’s why stars were invented, according to the hairdresser.
“I really do not like Samira Said. I don’t like that singer. Do you understand? I don’t like anything Moroccan.”
This last sentence, calmly spoken, sent a shock through the entire salon. All the customers had their eyes on my mother.
“Aren’t you ashamed?”
The judgment came down in one fell swoop, from all of them at once.
My mother pretended to read her magazine, Al Mawed.
“And your son Jallal?” the hairdresser suddenly asked, after a minute of discomfort that seemed endless.
I wanted to answer. My mother beat me to it:
“My son Jallal is like me. He doesn’t like Samira Said.”
Of course the hairdresser didn’t believe her.
“Let him answer. He’s old enough, isn’t he?”
Again my mother spoke in my stead.
“My son is mine. He likes what I like. He’s my memory and my forgetting. He’ll like what I tell him to like. He’ll be what I tell him to be.”
She uttered these last words bluntly. Tonelessly. She was not being light anymore.
After a long moment of silence and discomfort, she spoke again.
“My son will carry me as I carry him. He comes from me. I’m his origins, his country, his future. I’ve found him again. I’ve just found him again. We’re in Cairo. We’ll go to the ends of our fate. Right to the limit. Every day since I’ve been able to see him and touch him again, I’ve urged him to shed a skin that’s not ours. Morocco? What’s Morocco? A country? An idea? A feeling? Why am I forced to keep on wearing it, here in Egypt? I left that country, I left that world behind. I also left that country’s language, its Arabic, the way they say words in Arabic there. I broke out of that mold. Three years of silence and darkness helped me to think, change, see things clearly. They wanted to kill me. I’m dead. The woman you all see before you is someone else.
I shed blood. A lot of blood. They took everything from me. I have the right to rebuild. To start from scratch. Now, in 1988. Here, in your country. Do you get me? Do you grant me that right? Cairo doesn’t only belong to you Egyptians. The city is mine too. It belongs to all rootless Arabs. I choose it. I’m taking it for my second life. My rebirth. I just arrived. It was one . . . one year ago . . . One year already! I’m one year old. My son is barely three months old.
I’m not Moroccan. My son isn’t either. End of story. Don’t talk to me about that past, please.”
“And Samira Said? Morocco’s against her too, you know. There’s a rumor going around . . .”
The hairdresser was no longer out to attack and provoke.
My mother’s rather complicated, abstract speech had baffled and intrigued him. He wanted to understand, to know what had happened. But he was going about it the wrong way.
My mother asked:
“What rumor?”
“About the porn. Samira Said made a porn movie, so they say. To get ahead. They say she slept with a lot of sheikhs in the Gulf countries to become a star in Egypt and the Arab world. Supposedly they’re the ones who backed her and are backing her still. But, something about the story escapes me. She’s very intelligent. I don’t see her making porn. Sure, people will do anything to succeed, but she’s really smart, not like other singers. There’s something about the story that I don’t get . . .”
The hairdresser was passionate about this piece of gossip. He wanted to keep feeding us details but my mother didn’t let him.
“And where did this rumor start? Do you know? Morocco, I suppose. She couldn’t have been born anywhere else. No other country pushes its citizens to the brink the way Morocco does. Tries to destroy them at all costs. Follows them everywhere with its curse. I don’t know if Samira Said slept with those petrodollars, but in any case she was right to go, leave Morocco, get the hell out. You can’t succeed in Morocco. People will do anything to stop you, control you, keep you down. They force you to whore yourself. They take your money then pretend they don’t know you. They call you a slut, a disgrace, an infidel. But they’re the infidels. Totally heartless. I’m sure Samira Said didn’t make that porn movie. Now that they have no hold over her, the Moroccans are furious and invented the story. They don’t understand why we’d go anywhere else and flourish. It’s beyond their understanding. Right away, you’re a traitor. She was right to leave and defy them all. To go far away. If they think success means becoming a whore, then all Moroccan women are whores. Aren’t they?”
The Egyptian women waiting their turn listened open-mouthed to my mother’s
politics.
The hairdresser couldn’t believe it. He felt he’d almost accomplished his mission. With a touch of irony, he complimented my mother. He said she had a bit of an intellectual look.
“You’ve got to be kidding, darling! Me, an intellectual?! A whore, yes! Officially a whore. An intellectual, never! I leave books and ideas to others, those other people who must despise us even more than the rich. A whore, yes, I’ve never denied it. A scholar, not on your life!”
My mother’s frankness disturbed the room. One woman rose
and, shooting her a long severe look, left the salon grumbling.
“Oh! I’m sorry, ladies, I speak too freely. Are Moroccans too free for you? Am I offending you? You’ve never heard anyone talk like me? Should a woman keep her mouth permanently shut? Even in Cairo?”
The hairdresser didn’t give them time to answer. He suggested something else, a moment’s relaxation.
“Why don’t we play a song by Samira Said? Like her hit from ’85, ‘I’ll never give you up.’ What do you think? Is that alright, my darlings? Is that okay? No one will be upset? And after that, we’ll talk. We’ll see if this revolutionary Moroccan will finally let her heart be touched by her compatriot . . . Okay? Okay? They say that music soothes the soul. Don’t they? All right then, let’s listen to Samira Said . . .”
The other women smiled kindly.
My mother lowered her eyes.
The hairdresser pressed Play.
Those who hadn’t heard the singer before expected something light and forgettable. But the song was anything but trivial. War was declared from the very first note. This woman, Samira Said, was not afraid of repeating herself, of saying the same words over and over, fighting a solitary battle. The battle of love, of course.
You whose love gave my life flavor, color
I’ll never give you up, whatever happens
Whatever happens
And if a word was said in anger
And injured our hearts
We forget our sadness
And which of us spoke,
It’s through the soul that we love
We’ll always be together
All our lives, together
Whatever happens
I loved you
When I found you
Before my eyes a distant dream
Was in my eyes
Out of reach
The next moment it was in my hand
Who chooses to leave paradise?
Why destroy our own hopes
And spend the rest of our lives regretting
What happened?
You whose love gave my life flavor, color
I’ll never give you up, whatever happens
Infidels Page 5