Men Don't Cry

by Faïza Guène

  Next, he gave us a 15-minute-whistle-stop-tour of the last five years’ worth of current affairs. He talked about certain communities struggling to assimilate, about Muslims praying in the street, about linguistic impoverishment in the banlieues, about the veil in schools, about isolationism.

  He mixed his cocktail with beguiling ease, like Tom Cruise, in you know which movie, back in the day.

  Dounia was nodding and gazing at him adoringly.

  I recalled my first lesson with my Year 7s, the one where I was explaining to them what a cliché was. From listening to Tartois-the-gobster, I was revising my opinion: if you want to succeed professionally, it turns out it’s not strictly necessary to spot the clichés..

  I’m not sure what came over me, but I interrupted his speechmaking.

  ‘So, just to recap here, Bernard, France has a problem with Islam?’

  Tartois eyeballed me and gulped, as in swallowed his drool for the first time since August 1977. He was staring at the guests, like a kid caught red-handed.

  ‘No, no, now listen… that’s not what I said! Far from it! No, that’s absolutely not what I’m saying! Put simply, I’m a strong believer in secularism, and we need to recognise that it’s more difficult for certain communities to adopt the French way of life, it seems to me, than it is for others…. In certain situations, there are traditions and practices which appear to be wholly incompatible with our secular Republic. We have to recognise this is the reality and open our eyes. It’s our job both to acknowledge this and to put forward solutions.’ ‘Incompatible?’

  As incompatible as you and my sister, for example?

  Dounia jumped to the defence of her Bernie-kins.

  ‘Come on, you’re not seriously accusing Bernard of Islamophobia, just because he acknowledges this? Or saying that he’s someone who doesn’t respect personal freedoms?’

  ‘Whose freedoms are we talking about?’

  ‘Oh, please! Don’t try that with me! I fight for women’s freedom, in particular those women held hostage by an archaic patriarchal system which has no place in this country! Banning the veil in schools, for example, seems to me entirely justified! I can’t begin to imagine why that would be challenged today!’

  Even the journalist with smelly armpits had ditched his fork to follow our debate. The minister’s and ambassador’s eyes were sparkling, and the translator was stepping up her efforts so as not to miss anything.

  I could feel my blood boiling.

  ‘That’s because you’ve got a personal problem with the veil!’

  ‘Absolutely not! I have a personal problem with anyone who gets in the way of women being free!’

  ‘But that’s precisely what you’re doing by banning the veil at school! You can’t say to people: ‘Be free OUR way, there’s only one way to be free, and it’s our way!’ That’s an absurd idea! And it doesn’t work! It creates resentment and injustice! You say you’re defending women, but what about the number of girls who’ve quit school because of this law?! They’ve drawn a line through all their ambitions, as well as through their only chance of escaping this archaic system you claim to be fighting…’

  ‘No one’s talking about imposing anything,’ declared Bernard Tartois, crossing his arms, and staring at the ceiling. ‘It’s about everybody abiding by the same rules. It’s about preventing a situation whereby, because of this insularity, because of this identity crisis we’ve been talking about, Dounias and Mourads are unable to feel French, to flourish and to contribute to the enrichment of this country.’

  ‘What do you mean by “Dounias and Mourads”?’

  ‘Er… Well, if we can put aside our personal paranoia for one moment, it’s just a way of saying that we have to avoid isolationism at all costs, whatever people’s social or ethnic origins…’

  ‘I don’t agree. And no, it’s not whatever their origins, seeing as you’ve just highlighted our heritage in front of everybody…’

  ‘So, what are you trying to say, Mourad?’ my sister wanted to know.

  ‘Yes, what’s the problem? I don’t see what’s so shocking in any of this!’

  ‘It’s the contradiction I find shocking… I mean, to be fully French, you have to deny part of your heritage, part of your identity, part of your history, part of your beliefs, and yet even when you succeed in achieving all of that, you’re still endlessly reminded of your origins…. So what’s the point?’

  Dounia was frowning. She didn’t appear to share my view at all. As for her Tartois, I had got under his skin and now he was secreting ministerial drool. Yves Michonneau, the guy responsible for reintegrating ex-offenders, and who I’d warmed to instantly because he mopped up the gravy on his plate with his bread, spoke out.

  ‘I totally hear what Mourad’s trying to say. These are exactly the kind of remarks we come across in our organisation. Ex-offenders constantly feel side-lined and, as a result, they feel less and less motivated, well it’s the same principle, isn’t it…?’

  My sister was sulking.

  I think the poster boy minister was fired up by our exchange, because he kept whispering things in Swedish to the ambassador. Up until then, maybe he’d thought his trip to Paris wouldn’t amount to much more than buying lingerie and French perfume for his wife.

  Bernard Tartois put his hand on my arm. He meant it as a brotherly gesture, but I found it patronising. Was I being paranoid?

  ‘What I said was in no way intended as a judgement, I think it’s marvellous to exceed the limits imposed by the clan. Take Dounia, she offers an extraordinary example, and not just for you, but for all those younger brothers and sisters who’ll look up to her and think: “She looks like me, she is like me, I too can succeed!”’

  I smiled and politely removed Tartois’s hand by taking hold of his wrist.

  ‘Bernard? Are you familiar with Babar, King of the Elephants?’

  ‘… Yes… And your point is?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter that Babar can walk on two legs, that he wears a three-piece suit and a bowtie, or that he drives an open-top car, he will always be an elephant!’

  Tartois half-smiled.

  Dounia was typing nervously on her Blackberry, texting under the table.

  ‘The Minister wonders whether perhaps, having only read The Adventures of Babar in Swedish translation, he may have missed something,’ queried the ambassador.

  I kept quiet until coffee.

  Tartois continued to proffer his opinion on every topic, through a suspension of spittle.

  ‘Fancy joining me outside? I’m going for a smoke,’ Dounia asked me after the meal.

  I nodded and followed my big sister as she strolled ahead in her high heels, clutching the Philip Morris packet in her left hand and her Blackberry in the right.

  In the courtyard, her fulsome lips pinched the filter tightly, but the flame from the lighter kept sputtering out. I tried giving her some wind cover, and when Dounia finally lit up she took such a deep drag on her cigarette I thought she’d go up in smoke herself.

  ‘What’s your little game?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Oh, please! Don’t take me for a complete airhead!’

  ‘I simply gave my point of view!’

  ‘You were spiteful!’

  ‘No I wasn’t! I didn’t agree with your man, that’s all… or isn’t that allowed? Come off it, Dounia, he was talking bullshit! He was mixing everything up!’

  ‘You do know he was responsible for handling the Ali Semsini affair? The kid who started firing on students in a Marseille lycée, d’you remember? About two years ago!’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘Well then, stop talking to him like he’s unqualified! He’s an expert on the subject. What he sees are extremists, young people who’ve lost their way, some of whom, let me tell you, leave prison, hang with the wrong crowd and get a ticket for Afghanistan!’

  ‘But what does the fight against terrorism have to do with excluding girls who wear the veil from school? An
d what’s Ali Semsini got to do with you? You think you’re some kind of role model for boys like him?’

  ‘I don’t claim to be a role model for anyone. But I thought you might make the effort to get to know Bernard! Instead, you did nothing but argue with him! I could have been listening to Maman!’

  ‘Look, Dounia, your problem is you’re after revenge! None of this has anything to do with me. Maman’s Maman, and I’m me.’

  ‘I know. Okay, I shouldn’t have said that… but please, make an effort? Be nice to him, for my sake. I’m really committed to him.’

  ‘We’ve had no contact for ten years! And now you’re wanting everything to happen too quickly! Next up, you’ll be asking me to witness your wedding! You can’t make me hit it off with him or to share his views!’

  ‘I never said I wanted you to! But you could try not being rude. I was so looking forward to introducing Bernard to another member of my family…’

  ‘Was I really so rude?’

  ‘You were disrespectful. Listen, Mourad, I need to tell you something, I had a bit of a sensitive health issue last year, which left me sterile. I can no longer have children… It’s something that’s very painful for me to come to terms with, and it’s affected me deeply. Nothing will ever grow inside my womb. But I have Bernard, he’s here, he supports me, he loves me and takes care of me. If only for that, you owe it to the guy to give him a chance…’

  Philip Morris smoke was wafting from her nostrils.

  ‘I know it’s stupid,’ she added, inhaling again, ‘but I often think Maman’s won… because I can’t stop thinking about her, about what she would have said or done. The thing is, a few years back, I fell pregnant, but it was an unwanted pregnancy and it was my body after all. I had an abortion, the timing was all wrong, I didn’t want a kid, not like that… But today I can hear Maman’s voice cackling in my ear: ‘You’re being punished! You’re paying for what you’ve done!’’

  I put my hand on her shoulder while she crushed her cigarette with her shoe.

  She gestured as if to say Forget it, come on, let’s talk about something else.

  Maybe she would adopt some East Asian children. Tartois would throw his energies into persuading Dounia to travel all the way to China for them, what with the compelling economic and geopolitical arguments.

  Dounia started up again about going to see Big Baba.

  ‘What time’s your flight, Mourad?’ she asked, tapping away at her Blackberry. And, when I told her, hey presto, ‘Done!’

  Having bought her ticket, she disappeared off to the Ladies, where she stayed for a while. Everyone was looking for her: the ambassador, the minister’s principal private secretary and her Bernie-kins.

  My sister’s in love with her Bernard, it’s glaringly obvious. Her vision may be blurred but I’ve got the eyes of a fighter pilot and I’m telling you he’s a one-of-a-kind asshole. I wonder if the shrink she sees twice a week agrees with me but can’t say so, given the duty of confidentiality.

  What bothers me about men like Tartois is their sleazy generosity, their latent racism, their convictions wrapped up in carefully chosen vocabulary, and the deliberate confusion they sow. We’ll see what they reap.

  I hate how they’re so persuaded that what they can teach you is worth more than everything you already know.

  Tartois would be the kind of person to say to Babar:

  ‘Sure, you wear patent moccasins and a bowtie, but have you taken a proper look at yourself in the mirror, my fat friend? You’re an elephant! Nothing more! And as for that fat trunk you drag everywhere, weighing in at 100 kilos, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed it? Because it’s the only thing we see! You’re nothing but an elephant, you came into this world an elephant and as an elephant you’ll croak it.’

  The Fruit That Falls

  From The Tree

  To streamline things for parents’ evening, I had made an index card for each of my students, listing their strengths and weaknesses in two columns. Some of them warranted little in either column. These are the more ‘transparent’ students I fear I may have forgotten in two or three years’ time.

  As with every first occasion, I was freaked out.

  While I sat there at my classroom desk, waiting for the first parents to arrive, I clipped two biros to my jacket pocket.

  It was my tribute to Big Baba, the finest tribute I could pay him.

  The parents of young Murugan Urvashi, from my Year 10 class, were the first to enter. I remembered Madame Laurent, one of the Maths teachers, remarking one day: ‘I struggle to pronounce some of those Indian names, but let me tell you, their parents are always first in line for parents’ evenings…’

  Monsieur and Madame Urvashi smiled as they walked into the classroom, while Murugan, who was at least 15cm taller than his mother and father, trailed behind with his head down, looking ashamed, despite his outstanding grades. His embarrassment caught me off-guard.

  As they listened attentively to me, I couldn’t help noticing that his parents’ heads bobbled from side to side with such striking regularity they could have been following a metronome. Was this some kind of a tic? What did I know? I didn’t want them to think I was racist, so I pressed on.

  I said something along the lines of: ‘I’m pleased to tell you that Murugan has been getting top marks in French and is making pleasing progress, he’s a very intelligent student!’

  They carried on staring at me and smiling blankly.

  Murugan broke his silence.

  ‘Sir, my parents don’t speak French very well, but they understand a little…’

  I gave Monsieur and Madame Urvashi a silly thumbs up, which seemed to have the right effect because they laughed a little and looked relieved. Murugan translated a few snippets for them, and his parents appeared to be happy, they laughed again and were filled with pride. It was wonderful to behold. They thanked me warmly and shook my hand before leaving the room, satisfied.

  My index cards, with the keywords written on them, were working well as prompts. Parents came and went, they were more or less involved in their child’s progress, more or less shattered after their working day.

  Sylvestre Douville’s mother, with her freckled cheeks, was worried about her only son. ‘He didn’t have a complex about his ginger hair in Year 6! But now some of the black kids make fun of him in class. ‘Mum,’ he tells me, ‘I want to be black, but have you ever seen a black kid with red hair?’’

  I pointed out to Madame Douville that Sylvestre was producing some excellent written work. He might not have many friends, but he possessed a lively imagination.

  Monsieur Rahim, whose son Saïd was a model student, spoke to me in Arabic: ‘If he causes any trouble, you hit him! Agreed? Let him have it! Afterwards, tell me and I’ll hit him again!’

  Jonathan Krief’s father came back into the classroom to give me a piece of his mind, ‘I want my son to switch classes! This one is rubbish. And you’re behind with the curriculum!’ Then he scratched his neck and asked me: ‘How old are you anyway? 21?’

  Asma and Sarah Zerdad’s mother was clasping her daughters warmly by the shoulder, one on either side. The resemblance was striking. All three had big black eyes with long eyelashes. Seeing them together brought back images from my childhood, images from before everything was broken.

  Madame Zerdad could hardly believe her ears at my enthusiasm. She kissed her daughters’ cheeks, stroked their hair and smiled brilliantly.

  ‘If I only had Asmas and Sarahs in my classes, everything would be perfect! You should be very proud!’

  ‘I am very, very proud of my children. Thanks be to God,’ said Madame Zerdad, glancing again at the phrase ‘exceeds expectations’ on both their report cards. ‘Papa will jump for joy when we show him this!’ she exclaimed, turning to Sarah.

  Next, I heard some familiar beatboxing before Mehdi Mazouani appeared, his face still covered in bruises. He was staring at me as he made his way towards my desk.

  ‘They really got
you, didn’t they?’ I said.

  ‘Whatevva, man.’

  He turned around and, seeing as no one was following him, called out, ‘Papa! Papaa! S’over here, innit!’

  A squat stocky man with small dark eyes and thick, unruly eyebrows entered the classroom. His fingers were drumming on a small leather bag.

  A cigarette was wedged behind his right ear, just like Mehdi the first time I’d seen him.

  Monsieur Mazouani gave me a limp handshake and then pulled up a chair.

  Mehdi insisted on standing despite me urging him to sit down with us.

  ‘’Low it man, s’cool, I’m not tired.’

  The father kept blinking like a deer. He didn’t bother looking at Mehdi’s report card when I handed it over (admittedly, it was far from glorious). He was happy to fold it in four and stuff it inside his leather bag.

  ‘Monsieur Mazouani, we need to have a serious talk about Mehdi’s future. It would be a pity for him to ruin his chances. We should think about next year…’

  ‘Look, M’sieur, I know what he’s like, my boy. I’m used to him giving me a headache, aren’t I? I’m in the tiling trade, see. They’re always on the lookout for young kids in plastering, boilers, air-con, all that. They’ll give them work, the bosses.’

  ‘Maybe he’d like to do something else?’

  ‘He can only screw things up! He smokes drugs! It’s me who smashed his face in, isn’t it? His mum’s still blubbing! “You shouldn’t hit him!” she says. Words are wasted on him, he never understands. He’s not smart like his brothers and sisters, he’s the last one, damaged goods. He’s screwing up his life, you hear me. At 15, he’s a man. In Tunisia, 15 means you’re a man – no ifs, I’m telling you, no buts. He needs a job!’

  So Mehdi had made that whole story up, from start to finish, about the gang at Maraîchers station. It sounded better than being beaten up by a dad who referred to you as ‘damaged goods’.