A Country for Dying

by Abdellah Taïa

  No trace. Day of mourning in advance. Day of ending. Of everything. Absolutely everything.

  How to live after that, after that departure?

  A house without a father. Only the mother: radiant dictatress, on her throne.

  Cry? No. Tears are useless. Go back home? Yes, but only physically.

  Can you hear me, Papa? I am finally grasping the meaning of what I lived, of what I lost.

  I didn’t rebel.

  I never again saw the man who gave me the fifty dirhams.

  But I went to visit Sawssane the Irish girl. My only friend. She lived in the old town of Salé, and it was with her that I learned, little by little, to protect myself from men while making them pay.

  I didn’t tell her what happened at our house, what was happening in me. But as soon as she saw me she could tell how much I was suffering.

  She brought me to the hairdresser and asked them to dye my hair blond. I didn’t protest.

  My face, with that new color, transformed. My eyes became bigger. My nose smaller. My cheeks hollowed. And all around my head, fire.

  The hairdresser turned me into what he wanted. He massaged me, for a long time. He touched me, softly, differently. He caressed my neck, my scalp, my forehead, my cheeks.

  He didn’t want to do me harm. His hands moved back and forth around my head. Played with my hair. Pulled my hair, hard, very hard. I liked that: a little violence.

  The hairdresser’s hands were like yours, Papa. Exactly the same. Large. Never-ending. Hands for another body, another world.

  I closed my eyes. The whole time.

  My friend Sawssane wasn’t far. She devoured all the issues of the magazine Al-Mawed that were in the salon. She sang. English words. Sad and soft. Soothing through their repetition. I didn’t understand the words. I recognized them. It was an ABBA song.

  Sawssane comes from far away. She has freckles all over her body. Her hair is red. It smells good. She really does come from far away, very, very far away.

  In the eighteenth century, the pirates of our town, Salé, attacked the ships of Christians, nonbelievers, Europeans, who passed near Morocco. They stole the riches being transported and sank the ships. They say that they brought Christian women back to Salé, kidnapped them, again and again. Irish women. They converted them to Islam, by force. The women quickly became Arabs, Muslims. And on top of it: women of Salé. Better guardians than anyone else of that corsair memory, those women who were slightly mad, slightly combative, always uncontrollable.

  She is here in front of me. Sawssane, woman from the past, from another time. Gentle. Tender. Machiavellian. She taught me everything. Love, sex, secrets. I owe her everything. I am not angry at her.

  Later, the world would end up turning that Irish girl into something other than what was planned. From one day to the next she would abandon her job as a madam. She would go to Mecca to repent and become pure once again.

  Mother of a family, Sawssane! I never would have thought!

  I’m told she has three girls now, with red hair like her, as pale and foreign as she is.

  Sawssane calls me sometimes. I send her money. Not much.

  Sawssane knows that you’re gone, Papa. Every time we talk on the phone, though, she asks me the same question: “How’s your father?” And at the end, she always asks me to tell you hello.

  She prayed for you at Mecca. She said your last name and your first name aloud. Does that make you happy, up there?

  Do you hear all the prayers I say each day for you?

  Do you still remember François Mitterrand, the president of France? Over there, where you are, from one sky to another, have you met him? Has his appearance changed, his personality? Does being in heaven suit him? Does death soothe him?

  It was winter. The moment of your final departure was drawing near.

  Autumn had spared you, but as soon as the cold settled in for good in Salé, you stopped walking. You no longer turned in circles on the second floor. You almost never got up to stretch your legs, to give the illusion that you were still resisting. You remained splayed out. Day and night, night and day. You didn’t even watch television anymore. The small screen of your TV set demanded too much concentration. Your eyes could no longer focus. You saw double. And that heightened the fatigue, the confusion, the questions that were too deep and had no answers.

  What were you doing then? Tell me, little Papa, tell me . . .

  “I was dreaming . . . I was preparing myself . . . I was already no longer there, in that life.”

  “That I know, Papa . . . But what else?”

  “I learned to stop breathing. To do without the air here, in this world where you still live. I took my own breath away. And I observed what was happening.”

  “What? What, Papa?”

  “I was rising up. I was no longer sick. My lungs, which had betrayed me, were renewing, regenerating.”

  “You were being reborn?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand, Papa . . .”

  “I didn’t want to stay alive, deprived of taste, salt, blood, sugar.”

  “Mama stopped going up to see you at night, I know. I know.”

  “She killed me.”

  “Don’t say that, Papa.”

  “She killed me. Don’t protect her.”

  “Yes, Papa. But sometimes, I understand her side, too. The world asked too much of her. She was the one who had to manage everything, steer everything, organize everything.”

  “She killed me, I’m telling you. Killed, ruthlessly. Don’t anger me, Zahira.”

  “Okay, Papa. Okay, little Papa. Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about François Mitterrand. Why did you love him?”

  “I didn’t love him.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t love him?”

  “I’m more than sure.”

  “Then why did you come down to our home, below, to look at the last images of his life, his visit to Egypt, his funeral?”

  “I wanted to catch his death.”

  “‘Catch his death,’ you say?”

  “He was further along than me. He was already on the other side. He was already living and dead. I wanted to see him on a large stage, recognize myself in him through the television. Like an enemy brother, a traitor who might finally extend his hand to me.”

  “But you were also afraid. I remember it well. You drew nearer to me. You warmed yourself up with me. You put a blanket over our legs, for a moment glued together, over our knees.”

  “I wasn’t afraid. You’re wrong. I was learning death from him . . . And I remembered, as I watched him, my years as a French soldier in Indochina.”

  “Indochina? You were in Indochina?”

  “I fought for France during the war in Indochina.”

  “When?”

  “A long time ago.”

  “With François Mitterrand?”

  “No . . . It was atrocious. Atrocious. Atrocious. I killed so many people I didn’t know, Asians who had done nothing to me . . . In Indochina, too, I wanted to leave the world for good. For someone to kill me. I wanted to disappear like my sister Zineb. Never come back. Vanish. Suddenly no longer exist. Somewhere find Zineb again at last . . .”

  “You never forgot her, Zineb . . .”

  “Zineb . . . Zineb . . .”

  “And afterwards? Did you stay in Indochina for a long time?”

  “The war ended . . . France tossed me aside, too . . . They sent me back to Morocco and forgot about me.”

  “You never received any retirement pay?”

  “No.”

  “Was it François Mitterrand’s fault?”

  “Perhaps.”

  I would never understand that. But I tried.

  Can death be learned?

  To kill oneself, yes,
I can conceive of that, see it in my eyes: the steps to follow. The irrevocable decision. A small stool. A rope. The darkness. The end of the night, just before the voice of the muezzin who, alone, calls for the first prayer.

  I see it all. What you did, Papa. I’m not angry at you. Don’t worry.

  The stool fell. I still hear the sound of that little fall. A dry sound, rapid, distinct, no echo.

  THUD.

  Life slips away. You rise up. You’re no longer breathing. You learned how to do it. To do without. It doesn’t take that much time.

  I heard it, that THUD. I opened my eyes. I thought: It’s just a cat passing by. I closed my eyes again. I fell back to sleep without even thinking of you.

  You were just above. You were leaving the world.

  The cat had passed.

  I went back to sleep.

  It was Friday. Holy day. White day.

  They all cried.

  Not me.

  We hid the essential. The shame. We said: “A heart attack.” I said it, too.

  That night, on the terrace, where we were preparing the food for the funeral, Sawssane the Irish girl taught me something new.

  She spoke differently. With a new voice.

  “You will be alone from here on out, Zahira. It’s true. It’s true. I won’t lie to you. But not forever. Through your mystic willpower, you will be able to maintain the connection with your father. Not by going to see sorcerers. No. By eating, simply by eating. In the sky, he will receive everything, he will eat with you what you’ve cooked while thinking of him. Your father gave you life. He did, not the heavens, not the gods, not the stars. You came from him. Now he is far, bring him back to you, to your body, to your breath. Eat him! Prepare very sweet mint tea. Make crêpes. Five. Drink all the tea. Eat all the crêpes. Each sip will be for him. Each bite, too. You will be two. You will live for him and for yourself. To achieve this miracle, it all comes down to that simple, trivial thing: food. Cooking, invested with a bit of yourself, your skin, your scent, your taste. You will be your father. He will be within you forever.”

  Yes, I am you, my father.

  You died young. I died with you.

  2. Before

  Tomorrow, I’m cutting it off. Do you hear me, Zahira? I’m going to do it. It’s happening. God commands it. Not me. Do you still support me? Do you think I’m right? Tomorrow, I’m cutting it off completely. It will be erased. Disintegrated. I will not suffer. I will be asleep. In its place, I’ll have something else.

  An opening.

  Dr. Johansson will do the operation. I trust him. He’s not French. He’s Swedish, from Stockholm. He told me himself. He’s blond, of course. And handsome, very handsome, of course. Since starting the three-year-long procedure, I’ve fantasized about him, about what’s under there when he lifts his little bright white doctor’s smock. I don’t know his first name. His last name is enough for me. Since the beginning of this week, every night I’ve repeated his name to fall asleep: Dr. Johansson. Dr. Johansson. Dr. Johansson. Dr. Johansson. Dr. Johansson. Come. Come. Come and cut it off of me. Oh, yes! Please! Please, Doctor!

  I’m cutting it off. Do you hear me, Zahira? I don’t want it anymore. What a relief! What joy! To finally leave this cursed realm of men! Exit. Leave. Change. Finally reveal myself. Whether they like it or not. I will be other. Myself.

  I’M CUTTING IT OFF.

  No cock. No penis. No dick. No tumescence. No sperm. No balls. No useless thing between my legs that’s ruined my life ever since I was born.

  Do you understand? Do you find it funny? Laugh, then! Go on and laugh, Zahira! Forget your sadness! Forget your poor broke Parisian clients and laugh! What’s wrong? Did you lower your prices yet again? Yes? Is that it? Poor thing! Poor thing! You’re making me lose hope, truly . . . Pay attention, please! Don’t distract me. In any event, your own problems will always be there. Let’s stay focused on my big day.

  Tomorrow, I’ll be like you. Tomorrow, I’ll have my revenge. Tomorrow, I’ll screw them all. I won’t abandon my hatred for them. Absolutely not. I will hold on to it. That’s what allows me to survive still and always in this world of enraged dogs, assholes who are always thirsty. I will pamper it, my hatred. I will make a small mausoleum for it in my apartment. Just for my hatred. Are you still with me, Zahira? I’m right, aren’t I? Hatred isn’t a driving force for you, I know. It is for me. It has been forever and ever. If I could, I would kill them all. One after another. I would line them up against the wall. I would look them straight in the eyes. I would withdraw a bit, just a bit. And then I would give the signal to my army. My enemies would be shot in two, three seconds. I would witness their deaths, slow or rapid. Satisfied. True bliss, at last.

  Ah, what a life, what sweet vengeance!

  I’ve really earned it, my revenge. I paid for it. I gave everything. My skin. My cock. My ass. All the fantasies those clients had in their poor repressed heads, I made them come true. You know it, Zahira. You saw it firsthand. I broke my back from leaning over every night, hunched for hours, in the glacial cold of Porte Dauphine. Subjected to their mockery, their stupidity. Their cowardice.

  My apartment, behind the Blanche metro stop, is mine. I worked like a tigress, a real she-devil, to have it. I slogged nonstop. I’m not like you. When the Yemeni sorcerer from Porte Saint-Denis offered me stronger, diabolical spells to attract more clients, I didn’t hesitate. I said yes. I jumped at the chance. I didn’t act pure, like you. Hesitant. Like someone who still has a heart, values. No. It would have been useless. They have to pay, all those men, those frustrated men, those men starving for dick, those assholes. I want all their money. All of it. The maximum amount of dough. I don’t like them, in any event. Not in Algiers, where I was raped free of charge for years, and not here in this shithole that people still dare to call the most beautiful city in the world.

  My ass! My shithole, too, sure, but not the most beautiful city in the world!

  My apartment is magnificent. Jean-Jacques and Pierre decorated it well, and for free. I won’t forget. But on the other hand, I did countless favors for those two Parisians over the years. I cooked them heaps of couscous and tagines. I brought them to the Barbès hammam numerous times and took perfect care of their bodies. Exfoliation. Massage. Regularly, at least twice a week, I satisfied their overflowing libidos. A quickie with one. A blow job for the other. Two fingers in Jean-Jacques’s ass. Just one, the thumb, in Pierre’s. That was the only way they could come. And they say they’re not passive . . . Yeah right! And I’m masculinity incarnate! You know them, too, Zahira. You know what I’m talking about. They call you up from time to time, for other services. I found out. There’s no point in denying it. It doesn’t bother me. That’s between you and them. You know, that oh-so-Parisian French couple, who have completely forgotten the backcountry of the Vosges where they came from, are only still together because of me. I told you they’re opposed to my operation. They’ve tried everything to dissuade me. They say that I’ll regret it. That it’s irreversible. That I’m not considering all the terrible consequences I’ll have to deal with afterwards.

  But what business is it of theirs?!

  They act like intellectuals, those two queers. It’s time for them to come back down to earth. Mr. Jean-Paul Sartre and la señora Simone de Beauvoir, it’s over. It has been for a long time. Since even before the end of the last century. Do they realize it, you think? Do you speak with your clients about such things?

  Sorry. I wasn’t trying to make fun of you . . . All of France knows you specialize in humanitarian rescue. You only offer yourself to dirty, broke immigrants. Don’t be so shocked, then, that you’re still living in a 195-square-foot cage in Barbès. When I knew you, you were living in 97 square feet. Seventeen years later, you’ve doubled it! Bravo, Zahira! Bravo, Moroccan girl! Your compatriots must be ashamed of you. You’re forty-five years old now, is that right?

&n
bsp; Okay, okay, I’ll stop acting like an idiot. But even so, I would like to know why you go to your Berber sorcerer from Gadir? And the Jew in Les Halles, do you still see him? Does he cast the spells that you really need? Don’t you find that you’re stagnating, that you’re out of the loop and never stop to question yourself?

  Answer me! Answer me!

  Come on, come on, don’t get angry. You know how much I love you. I just want what’s best for you . . . All right . . . All right . . . Back to me. I’ll talk about myself. It’s better. It’s more fun. Lighter. More festive. No? I’m the one who puts on a ton of makeup every night. Not you. I’m the one who wears miniskirts. Not you. I’m the one who wears wigs. Not you. And I’m the one who has more clients. Not you.

  You’re not saying anything. I’ve hurt you. You came to have tea with me and I turned our reunion into a trial. I’m sorry! It’s just that I’m afraid for you, for your future. Everything passes, dies, so quickly. Money is the only thing that’s real and eternal . . .

  You’re still not saying anything. I’m annoying you, is that it? Have some pastries. They’re really good, don’t you think? I bought them at La Bague de Kenza, as always. Take some home with you when you go . . .

  Do you still see Hamdi the Egyptian? He’s the one who gave me your news when you disappeared. He comes to see me regularly. Are you listening to me? Regularly. Another gay Arab man incapable of accepting himself. Honestly, what are they so afraid of? Do you know? It’s just some ass. Two cocks meet, touch, come together, return to childhood together. It’s easy to admit, to understand, no? We all want to fuck. Well, not everyone. I aspire to something else. But they, the others, the ones who take the metro, slave away the whole year for next to nothing, pay their taxes and the VAT, who believe they’re freer than you and me, really, what are they so afraid of? That people call them fags because they come to see me? And? That people call them cocksuckers? Pedophiles? So what?

  They disgust me. All of them. No. Not all of them. I have to be honest. Not all of them. Some of them are romantics, they just want to talk a little, laugh a little, share a tender kiss.