Men Don't Cry

by Faïza Guène

‘I’m having regrets, Mourad! I should never have gone ahead with this! I can barely smile! And my expression is one of permanent astonishment! I look ghastly!’

  ‘You so don’t look ghastly! Please, don’t worry! Remember what the surgeon said, it will all settle down with time. Your skin will relax. Just like the leather on new shoes.’

  ‘The leather on new shoes?!’

  ‘Sorry, Liliane, it’s the first example that came to mind. You have to remember my father’s a cobbler… Where’s Miloud?’

  ‘Miloud’s asleep. He’s sleeping peacefully, with his whole life ahead of him. Why would he lumber himself with a silly old goose like me?’

  ‘Don’t talk like that! You know Miloud’s crazy about you.’

  Is that what’s called a white lie?

  ‘Please, Mourad! I’m not as naïve as I look! I know he loves me, but the way he would a mother. Because, guess what, I’m exactly the same age as his mother!’

  That didn’t help me any.

  ‘I should have listened to him! He told me not to meddle with my face! What’s my son going to say? Edouard’s coming to Paris shortly! He’s taken a few days off for Thanksgiving.’

  ‘That’s great news! How long has it been since his last visit?’

  ‘If I’m doing the maths right, we haven’t seen each other for six years. Can you imagine, Mourad? Six years? The only proof I have that he’s alive is that automatic bank transfer…. If you knew what he shakes me down for each month. It’s scandalous! I can see the words ‘daylight robbery’ in my accountant’s eyes. I’m just a cash cow with a facelift.’

  I felt distinctly awkward. I’d been staying rent-free at Liliane’s for nearly three months now.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that! I’m not talking about you! I’m talking about my own son, who doesn’t even deign to ring me on my birthday! I know he holds it against me for leaving his father! Children are horrible! They’re so selfish!’

  ‘Don’t think about it any more! It’s late, you should get some rest.’

  ‘Rest? If only! I’ve taken two Stilnox – and I still can’t catch a wink of sleep! It doesn’t have any effect on me any more! My body’s too used to hypnotics… Tell me something, Mourad?’

  ‘Yes?

  ‘Would you mind staying with me for a little while? I get terribly anxious at night, you know.’

  ‘Of course, no worries, I’ll stay with you, Liliane. We can talk about it, if you’d like.’

  ‘Let me tell you something, I don’t think anybody’s ever truly loved me, or at least not in the right way.’

  We sat together on the couch.

  I held her hand and she talked about her unfaithful exhusband, about her mother who was so perfect, about her absent father and the great-uncle with the house in the Champagne region where she and her sister Violette used to spend their holidays. He would insist on giving them a bath, even when they were12 and 14. The tears poured down the taut skin of Liliane’s face.

  As night falls, so too do people’s masks.

  Tsunami

  My worst nightmare, after the one about the obese saddo with salt-and-pepper hair, involves a tsunami at the end of time.

  I’m on a beach, which is outrageously beautiful and deserted. The sea looks calm. As I stroll along, I’m fretting about whether the damp sand between my toes will create a mess in the hallway.

  I can already picture my mother making a song and dance about it and shaking her bottle of bleach at me. ‘What d’you take me for?’ she’ll complain. ‘A skivvy? A slave? Do you want to watch me dying with a mop in my hands?!’

  I try to put those thoughts out of my head and I keep on walking. I can see someone in the distance: it’s Big Baba, and he’s waving at me. As I draw nearer, I realise he’s in a wheelchair which has sunk into the sand.

  ‘Mourad, help me!’ Big Baba implores. ‘Have pity on me! I’m stuck!’

  I push with all my strength, but there’s no dislodging the wheelchair. Down on my knees, I dig around the wheels. I can feel the sand wedging itself under my nails. Nothing shifts. It’s as if the contraption is bolted into the ground. Big Baba is begging me to rescue him but, despite all my efforts, the wheelchair won’t budge a millimetre. My chest crumples with anxiety as the sobs rise up inside me. I want to cry.

  There’s no escaping my emotions, and so I cry a flood of tears salty as seawater.

  ‘No!!! No!!!’ Big Baba is shouting now. ‘Don’t cry! Don’t do that! Men don’t cry!’

  And then I hear a dull rumbling, a terrible noise, the sound of the famished earth opening up its belly, preparing to swallow everything. I turn around and see the towering wave – it’s so high, so rapid.

  My father bellows.

  He bellows and I cry, the wheels of the wheelchair are stuck in the sand, the wave is coming straight for us.

  Babar Syndrome

  I used to adore the stories of Babar the elephant. They cradled my childhood. I even read them to Big Baba at bedtime.

  Not the other way around.

  Mina had called me earlier in the day to find out what I planned to do with my book collection. She and Jalil were clearing out Big Baba’s sheds in the garden.

  ‘Papa’s got so much stuff! It’s unbelievable! I can’t get over the junk I’ve found!’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like a rusty pneumatic drill, a tractor tyre, a blow-up Perrier bottle, a javelin, 55 metres of rope and at least 20 Beatles records! I mean, come again? The Beatles! Since when was Papa into the Beatles?’

  I don’t think he had ever listened to the Beatles. He must have found all that vinyl somewhere, scooped it up and dumped it in the shed, along with everything else.

  ‘And, wait for it! Every pair of shoes from his shop! The shed’s full to bursting with them!’

  Big Baba enjoyed a special relationship with what he referred to as the ‘orphans’: occasionally, customers would drop off their shoes never to reclaim them. Our father stockpiled these abandoned pairs on the basis that their owners might one day re-appear. The result was an outsize orphanage of clodhoppers in the wooden shed at the end of the garden.

  ‘So, Mourad, back to your books from when you were little. What are we doing with them? There’s all your Babars…’

  ‘Don’t throw them out, whatever you do! They’re very special to me!’

  ‘Fine, but what d’you want me to do with them?’

  ‘Why don’t you rescue them for your own children?’

  ‘Not on my watch! Never!’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because Babar is just a story to glorify colonialism… I’m not reading that to my kids!’

  ‘You and your theories, Mina! Aren’t you going a bit far?’

  ‘Really? An old white lady who teaches an elephant how to behave in polite society? From one day to the next, he starts walking on two legs, wearing three-piece suits and driving a car, so he can return to the jungle and foist his new way of life upon his entire tribe of elephants… What would you call it, then?’

  Viewed from that angle, her argument held up.

  ‘How’s Papa doing?’

  ‘Hamdoullah. He’s doing okay. They’re trying to get him to walk now, with the walking frame.’

  ‘Good. That’s progress.’

  ‘But you know what he’s like… Always moaning. He keeps saying things like: ‘It’s too much for me’ or ‘Leave me in peace’. All he wants to do is eat, sleep and mope. He’s desperate to get out of hospital, he’s had it with that place. Oh, and he keeps saying how much he misses his cat.’

  ‘What cat?’

  ‘Who knows? Maybe he’s talking about Moustico, the neighbour’s cat.’

  ‘So where are we at with getting permission for him to leave hospital?’

  ‘His doctor hasn’t got back to us yet. It’ll only be for a weekend, in any case. But it might help motivate him. How about you? When are you coming back? Have you bought your tickets yet?’

  ‘You bet. Eight
days to go ‘til the end of term!’

  ‘I’m telling you, start starving yourself – Maman’s made your favourite cakes, as well as her makrouts and griwechs.’

  My mother would be offended if she found out that I’d developed a taste for Mario’s delicious rhubarb brioches over her Algerian cookies and fritters.

  I couldn’t wait to return to Nice. It was as if ten years had gone by.

  At school, things were back to normal with Hélène, at least on the face of it. But there was still something niggling me, like a small stone in my shoe. I noticed she didn’t smile at me so often, and that she spent all her breaks with Gérard, who openly taunted me.

  At the IUFM, they kept assaulting us with gobbledygook about teaching, woolly concepts and some abstract guff about knowledge transfer, all of which bored me to tears.

  Why didn’t anyone talk to us about boys like Mehdi Mazouani, where the only thing keeping them at school was the threat of being sent back to the bled? Or girls like Emilie Boulanger, who jacked in their education when they found themselves pregnant at 13, before they’d even labelled a diagram of a uterus in a biology lesson? And why didn’t they explain how to go about cutting a rough diamond like Sarah Zerdad, without her becoming demoralised and losing her sparkle?

  On the subject of Mehdi Mazouani, I’d heard from some of the students that he’d been badly beaten up by a gang of youths at Maraîchers station. I was worried about him, to be honest I was fond of the kid, and yes, I even did givva-shit. I pictured him, trying to force back his tears, the bitter taste of blood filling his mouth.

  I wondered if his father would show up at parents’ evening. I was very curious to meet him, just as I was curious about meeting the parents of my other students. It would be an occasion to put to the test that old proverb, ‘the fruit never falls far from the tree’.

  Big Baba had never missed a parents’ evening, not once.

  ‘How is it that you never get into trouble for talking in class?’ he had asked me one day.

  ‘Nobody wants to talk to me.’

  Dounia had been trying to get in touch. I was deliberately avoiding her. We were supposed to be travelling to Nice together, during the school holidays, so she could visit Big Baba in hospital, but I’d already bought my ticket.

  Back at Liliane’s after a day’s teaching, I finally decided to listen to my voicemails.

  Dounia has this irritating habit of starting her messages with: ‘Hi, it’s Dounia, we’re Tuesday, it’s a tad after four…’, or ‘Hey Mourad, it’s Dounia, Thursday, and it’s a tad before 9am. …’.

  How annoying is that? Firstly, it’s pointless, because the voicemail automatically gives you the date and time, and secondly, no one’s said ‘tad’ since at least the mid-Eighties.

  She was talking about some dinner being held the following evening at the Swedish embassy. It was in honour of the Swedish minister for immigration and integration who was on an official visit to Paris. My sister, as part of the French delegation, was cordially inviting me to join them.

  I know it’s silly, but I couldn’t help thinking of those ads for Ferrero Rocher: ‘The ambassador’s receptions are noted in society for their host’s exquisite taste, that captivates his guests…’

  The voiceover was followed by suggestive music and an elegant Chinese guest biting into the crunchy chocolatecoating before exclaiming: ‘Delicious!’

  I was convinced Dounia had an ulterior motive. And that ulterior motive doubtless involved a centre-right dynamic 40-something with over-productive salivary glands. Knowing her, she’d found the dream occasion to introduce me to Bernard Tartois, the man who made her happy.

  ‘Next weekend, I’m free to visit Papa in Nice,’ her message went on, ‘if that still works for you…’

  I can’t deny that Dounia’s got balls.

  Good to know, at least she’s got them.

  I showered and borrowed some clothes from Miloud, who’s always thrilled to show off his Armani suits, Dior jeans and patent leather Weston shoes.

  I don’t think I’d ever been so smart and presentable.

  ‘I swear, you’re looking the part, cuz! Saha! I’ll drop you off, if you like! I’m taking Liliane out tonight cos she’s feeling down…’

  I smiled at Miloud, who was dripping with the effort of putting on such a show.

  ‘What’s with the eligible bachelor act, Miloud! Why don’t you ’fess up to her being the one taking you out!’

  Miloud and Liliane dropped me off at rue Barbet-de-Jouy, in the 7th arrondissement. Dounia came to welcome me at the metal gates, wearing a sophisticated trouser suit and 15cm heels, minimum. Which made giving her a peck on the cheek an odd experience.

  Anyway, she seemed relieved to see me.

  ‘I was worried you might be a no-show…’ she whispered.

  Which is exactly what should have happened.

  I thought of Big Baba and what he’d said back in the summer when he had asked to see Dounia. I owed it to him to respect his wishes, or risk feeling like a bad son for the rest of my days. Make that an even worse son.

  There were already about 15 guests in the ultra-chic reception room, holding on tight to their wine glasses. Everybody had formed a natural circle around the minister, and they nodded while listening to him religiously, as if participating in some kind of occult ceremony.

  But the person leading the ceremony was neither long in the tooth nor an obscure guru. Mr. Erik Ullenstrass, the Swedish minister for immigration and integration, was young and handsome and apparently very witty, because whenever he opened his mouth everybody split their sides.

  Sadly, my level of English wasn’t up to laughing. Pity about Hélène, I mused. I’ve missed out on private English lessons too.

  Dounia led me by the arm to the west side of the circle.

  I recognised Tartois, who greeted me with his politician’s smile while modelling a firm and frank handshake, exactly the way he’d been taught.

  He was in ‘Bernard’s-out-campaigning’ mode: the fish market in Saint-François, say, on a Sunday morning, before the second round of presidential elections. He was this close to handing me a leaflet and urging: ‘Vote for me!’

  Holy shit. I already regretted accepting the invitation.

  One of the Cambodian waiters wore spotless white gloves, stood bolt upright and glided with quick, tiny steps: a carbon copy of Mario, albeit one that smiled more readily. He held out a silver tray arrayed with champagne glasses. I considered those tiny bubbles rising to the surface, like so many Bulgarian working-girls surfacing along the promenade des Anglais, in Nice’s red-light district.

  ‘No. Thank you,’ I managed in English. I didn’t dare ask for anything else, even though my throat was so dry and tickly I was about to start coughing up dust.

  While the guests were bidden by the ambassador to make their way towards the dining room, another waiter held out another tray, this time arrayed with tiny wooden sculptures bearing guest cards. When I spotted the words ‘Mourad Chennoun’, I instinctively reached out.

  ‘That’ll be my one,’ I muttered under my breath. The Cambodian waiter subtly averted my hand, shaking his head and smiling politely.

  ‘That’s the table plan, Mourad,’ Dounia whispered in my ear, coming to the rescue. ‘It’s just so you know where to sit….’

  Talk about humiliating. I felt like something out of la Fontaine’s The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse.

  What would Mehdi Mazouani have said? You for real, my Made-in-Taiwan breddah, with your 3D table plan? ’Low it, fam! Man’s sittin’ where I want, you get me? Like, do I even givva-shit?

  Moments like these are a classic trigger for my laxophobia.

  Imodium. Imodium. Imodium.

  Luckily, I’ve always got some on me.

  The guests were mostly top brass, but also included the director of a charity supporting ex-offenders to reintegrate into society, as well as a young newspaper journalist with strong BO. They looked as out of place as I
did. And that’s factoring in my head start with the knives and forks, thanks to the number of posh dinner parties thrown by Liliane.

  Everyone had introduced themselves and now it was my turn.

  ‘I’m a secondary school French teacher in a ZEP, meaning an educational priority zone, in Montreuil.’ It felt like justifying being there. Trying to save face.

  On my right, a plump blond woman shook with nerves as she explained her job. I gleaned that it had something to do with sociology, ethnology and statistics, and that she published essays, the most recent being The Failure of Assimilation.

  The young journalist with smelly armpits made a brief presentation. He wrote for the education section of a major daily, which was all he told us, apart from his name. He seemed more interested in what was on his plate. If my mother had been a guest at the table, she’d have told him: ‘Hey! You there! Easy does it! Anyone would think you’d never seen food before in your life! Born in a barn, were you? Makhlouh!’

  Erik Ullenstrass narrowed his blue eyes and stroked his chin with his thumb and index finger as he listened to his guests, nodding occasionally. A female assistant was translating everything into Swedish for him, while affording us a view of her nostrils.

  Tartois began to speak. At length. Considerable length.

  He went on for long enough to produce litres and litres of drool, enough gob and spittle to drown out an entire continent.

  ‘So, in your view,’ Erik Ullenstrass inquired in English, ‘is the French model of integration in trouble?’

  Tartois came straight back at him, adopting the expression of someone deeply concerned by the issue: ‘Let’s be absolutely clear about this, we are currently experiencing an unprecedented crisis of identity!’