of milk. Sitting at his table, he fiddled with the ashtray piled high with butts, then shoved it away and began to make plans.
He thought about spending a few months in Morocco, to start with, but he wouldn’t act like Hassan, who’d taken advantage of his ’tirement to get himself a second wife—a younger, prettier one, obviously—and had never returned to France. He had promised the new wife to take her to the wonderland across the water, but his courage had failed him, and when his young wifebecame pregnant, Hassan was forced by the disapproval of his entire village to move to the city, where he wrote off his first family and his immigrant past, to start all over again in difficult conditions.
To Mohammed, abandoning your loved ones to begin a new life back home could only be the work of Satan, who loves to divide and destroy families. In his tribe that was not done, no: a man never deserted the mother of his children. Mohammed did not look at other women. He lowered his eyes whenever he spoke of his wife. He did not mention her name or pay her compliments or display any tenderness toward her—at least not in public . He barely glanced at his daughters, never said, How beautiful you are, my princess! Not like that character in a Lebanese soap opera he’d seen on TV.
Was he going to spend his days in Areski the Kabyle’s café? To do what? Play cards or dominos? He didn’t like either game. Drink beer? Never. Watch TV, follow the races, daydream about those half-naked girls in the American shows? Didn’t interest him. As Mohammed was leaving the café, one of his pals called out to him: It’s my old friend! So, I hear you’re in ’tirement, finally, free at last, can you imagine—they pay you not to work anymore , fantastic, no? That’s France! So grateful to us, it’s wonderful, not like back home, where if you get sick, you croak; if you go to the hospital, you have to buy your own medicines and even the thread they sew you up with after an operation, so if you’re lucky, you make it, otherwise you’re done for. Here, you see, you work, and, all right, we don’t make millions, but we earn a good living, and then when you’re tired out they give you yourpension to live on, and you can still go to the hospital. It’s free and first rate too, which is wonderful in this country where there’s racism, as you know, but when you step into the hospital you’re treated like everyone else, no racism—I can testify to that—and besides, when you go for a consultation, what do you see? There’s more blacks and Arabs waiting than Frenchies, you ever notice? Not bad! No racism, plus you don’t pay— that’s LaFrance. This country—you’ve got to admit, after all—there’s not just those Le Pen guys here. Hey, let’s drink to that, I’ll buy you a sparkling water! Me—thanks be to God and Mecca—I don’t touch alcohol anymore, but cigarettes, ah, that’s harder, I can’t manage that, so anyway , what are you going to do with yourself? Move back home, take a pretty girl as a second wife—you’re allowed, mind you, you can do as you please, and you know, Ammar is over sixty and he’s a father again, got himself a girl and got her in the family way; it’s all legal, but his kids won’t have anything more to do with him, which is tough but his own fault, he should have been more discreet about it and above all, not made her pregnant! Well, so long, see you soon. Oh, I forgot to tell you: I opened a little grocery store nearby, I sell everything, stop by to see me sometime!
Mohammed remembered how Ammar’s wife Rahma had taken revenge on him after he abandoned her for that brunette from Agadir. Arriving one day out of the blue with her five children, Rahma passed herself off as his younger sister, moved into the newlyweds’ apartment , and presented the young wife with a fait accompli. Frightened, the girl ran home to her parents, whodemanded a divorce and damages from the husband; seems
He thought about spending a few months in Morocco, to start with, but he wouldn’t act like Hassan, who’d taken advantage of his ’tirement to get himself a second wife—a younger, prettier one, obviously—and had never returned to France. He had promised the new wife to take her to the wonderland across the water, but his courage had failed him, and when his young wifebecame pregnant, Hassan was forced by the disapproval of his entire village to move to the city, where he wrote off his first family and his immigrant past, to start all over again in difficult conditions.
To Mohammed, abandoning your loved ones to begin a new life back home could only be the work of Satan, who loves to divide and destroy families. In his tribe that was not done, no: a man never deserted the mother of his children. Mohammed did not look at other women. He lowered his eyes whenever he spoke of his wife. He did not mention her name or pay her compliments or display any tenderness toward her—at least not in public . He barely glanced at his daughters, never said, How beautiful you are, my princess! Not like that character in a Lebanese soap opera he’d seen on TV.
Was he going to spend his days in Areski the Kabyle’s café? To do what? Play cards or dominos? He didn’t like either game. Drink beer? Never. Watch TV, follow the races, daydream about those half-naked girls in the American shows? Didn’t interest him. As Mohammed was leaving the café, one of his pals called out to him: It’s my old friend! So, I hear you’re in ’tirement, finally, free at last, can you imagine—they pay you not to work anymore , fantastic, no? That’s France! So grateful to us, it’s wonderful, not like back home, where if you get sick, you croak; if you go to the hospital, you have to buy your own medicines and even the thread they sew you up with after an operation, so if you’re lucky, you make it, otherwise you’re done for. Here, you see, you work, and, all right, we don’t make millions, but we earn a good living, and then when you’re tired out they give you yourpension to live on, and you can still go to the hospital. It’s free and first rate too, which is wonderful in this country where there’s racism, as you know, but when you step into the hospital you’re treated like everyone else, no racism—I can testify to that—and besides, when you go for a consultation, what do you see? There’s more blacks and Arabs waiting than Frenchies, you ever notice? Not bad! No racism, plus you don’t pay— that’s LaFrance. This country—you’ve got to admit, after all—there’s not just those Le Pen guys here. Hey, let’s drink to that, I’ll buy you a sparkling water! Me—thanks be to God and Mecca—I don’t touch alcohol anymore, but cigarettes, ah, that’s harder, I can’t manage that, so anyway , what are you going to do with yourself? Move back home, take a pretty girl as a second wife—you’re allowed, mind you, you can do as you please, and you know, Ammar is over sixty and he’s a father again, got himself a girl and got her in the family way; it’s all legal, but his kids won’t have anything more to do with him, which is tough but his own fault, he should have been more discreet about it and above all, not made her pregnant! Well, so long, see you soon. Oh, I forgot to tell you: I opened a little grocery store nearby, I sell everything, stop by to see me sometime!
Mohammed remembered how Ammar’s wife Rahma had taken revenge on him after he abandoned her for that brunette from Agadir. Arriving one day out of the blue with her five children, Rahma passed herself off as his younger sister, moved into the newlyweds’ apartment , and presented the young wife with a fait accompli. Frightened, the girl ran home to her parents, whodemanded a divorce and damages from the husband; seems
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