end of his working life, a change of habits, a new existence. How could he tell her all that? He’d have to prepare her, find the right tone, simple words. If I sound happy, she’ll be content; if I feel sorry for myself, she’ll be disheartened. It was momentous news. He wasn’t used to talking to her about his work. But what will I do with a new life? he wondered. I really liked the old one. I’d gotten quite used to it, had no gripes; I got up and left for the plant, it was work, that’s all, yet I was fond of that routine, that early morning departure, with my lunch box in my bag. What will a new life be like? Colourful, full of joy? Or dull and cheerless? I didn’t ask for anything. I’m not the type to ask for anything at all. In a pinch I might dare to ask for directions: Where is city hall please thank you very much excuse me for bothering you….
According to his documents, he’d reached the mandatory age. Suddenly he remembered that he’d had to add on two extra years for some administrative reason known only to the mokaddem back home. Negotiatewith management? Gain two more years of work at the plant? Scrounge around for whatever he could get, even offer to work for less pay, but above all, avoid winding up without any work, any routines. Why forbid a man in good health to work? It was too late now, though, to fiddle with his papers. He might even risk prosecution for having lied. He gave up his idea; he wasn’t the kind to commit fraud. Said not a word to his wife or children.
As usual he rose early, made his ablutions, prayed, donned his overalls, fixed himself some tea that he drank standing up as if he were late, took the lunch box prepared by his wife, and left the apartment, saying, See you tonight. It was seven o’clock. On his way to the station , he stumbled two or three times. A small worry kept nagging at him: he should have been sleeping late that day, taking a bath, dressing as if for a holiday, beginning his new life. Something inside him was fighting back; he felt that his fate had strayed from the line traced long before, a clear, straight, dignified line. He took the métro , recognised some familiar faces, smiled a couple of times, then got off at his usual stop. He sat down on a bench to reflect. What exactly am I doing? I must snap out of this. The plant is over. I can’t handle the assembly line anymore. I’m ridiculous. People will make fun of me. I’ll be a unique case in the history of this plant. No one’s ever seen an employee return to work when he’s been fortunate enough to retire! I’m not even looking to earn any money, I could just be there, be useful in case someone gets hurt or sick; I’d fill in for absentees, be the guy who keeps things going, get set up in an office whereI’d wait for the call to go wherever I’m needed—and that’s something that’s never been done before. The unions would have a fit. They’d label me a troublemaker, say I was nuts. No, I don’t want any problems with the unions, they don’t like it when anyone steps out of line.
Outside the entrance to the plant, Marcel, the union delegate, came over to say how much he envied Mohammed in his retirement, having all his time to himself now. Mohammed smiled; he felt like offering to switch places with Marcel, but replied instead that he’d come to settle some administrative issues, that he was glad to have a chance to spend time with his children, whom he hadn’t seen much of as they were growing up. He cranked out a few more empty phrases before thanking Marcel for his kindness. Standing at the big gate, he let the others pass by, stared for a while at the ground, took a last look at the entrance, now completely deserted, and walked away. Mohammed was despondent; he felt so sick at heart that his memory felt stuck in the day he’d arrived in France. He had trouble walking, felt his body collapsing, but he got a grip on himself and went to the nearest café to order a large glass
According to his documents, he’d reached the mandatory age. Suddenly he remembered that he’d had to add on two extra years for some administrative reason known only to the mokaddem back home. Negotiatewith management? Gain two more years of work at the plant? Scrounge around for whatever he could get, even offer to work for less pay, but above all, avoid winding up without any work, any routines. Why forbid a man in good health to work? It was too late now, though, to fiddle with his papers. He might even risk prosecution for having lied. He gave up his idea; he wasn’t the kind to commit fraud. Said not a word to his wife or children.
As usual he rose early, made his ablutions, prayed, donned his overalls, fixed himself some tea that he drank standing up as if he were late, took the lunch box prepared by his wife, and left the apartment, saying, See you tonight. It was seven o’clock. On his way to the station , he stumbled two or three times. A small worry kept nagging at him: he should have been sleeping late that day, taking a bath, dressing as if for a holiday, beginning his new life. Something inside him was fighting back; he felt that his fate had strayed from the line traced long before, a clear, straight, dignified line. He took the métro , recognised some familiar faces, smiled a couple of times, then got off at his usual stop. He sat down on a bench to reflect. What exactly am I doing? I must snap out of this. The plant is over. I can’t handle the assembly line anymore. I’m ridiculous. People will make fun of me. I’ll be a unique case in the history of this plant. No one’s ever seen an employee return to work when he’s been fortunate enough to retire! I’m not even looking to earn any money, I could just be there, be useful in case someone gets hurt or sick; I’d fill in for absentees, be the guy who keeps things going, get set up in an office whereI’d wait for the call to go wherever I’m needed—and that’s something that’s never been done before. The unions would have a fit. They’d label me a troublemaker, say I was nuts. No, I don’t want any problems with the unions, they don’t like it when anyone steps out of line.
Outside the entrance to the plant, Marcel, the union delegate, came over to say how much he envied Mohammed in his retirement, having all his time to himself now. Mohammed smiled; he felt like offering to switch places with Marcel, but replied instead that he’d come to settle some administrative issues, that he was glad to have a chance to spend time with his children, whom he hadn’t seen much of as they were growing up. He cranked out a few more empty phrases before thanking Marcel for his kindness. Standing at the big gate, he let the others pass by, stared for a while at the ground, took a last look at the entrance, now completely deserted, and walked away. Mohammed was despondent; he felt so sick at heart that his memory felt stuck in the day he’d arrived in France. He had trouble walking, felt his body collapsing, but he got a grip on himself and went to the nearest café to order a large glass
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