he’d forgotten to mention that he was already married. The affair made a huge splash: the polygamous husband had to accept all Rahma’s conditions, and once she was back in France (after beating him soundly without leaving any marks), Rahma demanded her own divorce—on the grounds of polygamy! Ammar had been ordered to pay three-quarters of his pension to his wife and children.
Rahma: now there was a strong, capable, determined woman. When the couple were Mohammed’s neighbours , people used to say she beat her husband, but it was hard to believe, since in their milieu it was usually the other way round, and Ammar wasn’t the kind to complain and admit to any mistreatment by his wife. Although his pals suspected something, they didn’t dare broach the subject with him, but they could see he was unhappy, listless, in poor shape. Rahma was the one who handled everything; Ammar came home from the factory, ate, and wasn’t allowed to spend the family’s money in bars. She always took charge of his earnings, letting him have only enough to go to the café now and then. Whenever he dared protest, she’d shut herself up with him in their bedroom and whack him with the children’s big Larousse dictionary, and she must have had to buy them a new one, because the first one was a wreck. Physically she was stronger than Ammar, a peasant woman unfazed by anything, fearless, sure of herself, forging ahead, sweeping everything from her path. Ammar had thought about a divorce, but it was complicated , and besides, it just wasn’t done in histribe—Rahma was a distant cousin. No one would have believed him if he’d admitted she beat him, so he kept quiet, submitted, and like all weaklings, ran away instead of standing his ground. He’d thought to get back at her by leaving some money on the kitchen table and taking off, never imagining she would follow him to foil his plan.
Smiling at the idea of the henpecked husband, Mohammed began to walk along, staring idly at the sidewalk, with his fists clenched in his pockets, as if following a doctor’s orders to get some exercise. When he thought about his children, he had the feeling he’d lost them. It was more than a feeling: a certainty, a definite certainty. It was as if he’d been pitched into a void, tipped into nothingness like a sack of trash. A sack full of useless junk. There was a dead rat in the sack, rotting away with a dreadful stench. I’m the sack and the rat, Mohammed told himself. I’m the rubble and the rusting iron. I’m the animal no one loves. He saw himself tossed onto a garbage dump, tumbling down its side with broken bits of things, old wires, debris, dust, and suddenly—oblivion. He no longer exists. No one thinks of him or wants to see him. He’s at the end of the long road: it’s over. None of his children has come to reclaim him from the dump. Then the rat woke up and scratched Mohammed’s leg, making him jump: it was a plant he’d just brushed by.
11
MOHAMMED’S SON MOURAD had a good position in a department store and had married Maria, a Spanish woman, born like him in France but whose parents had gone back home to Seville. Mourad was athletic. He could have been a professional soccer player, but he had a heart murmur, so he’d studied accounting and continued to play several sports. His greatest desire: to escape his suburban neighbourhood and everyone in it to go live in Paris. He was fond of his parents but loved his freedom more, the independence he’d won by working even while he was still in school. He kissed his father’s hand and his mother’s forehead, signs of respect but not submission. As soon as he had begun earning money, Mourad had decided to give some of it to his parents, for which his father had thanked him, saying that the money would go toward the construction of the house. What house? Mohammed had only gestured vaguely and turned away without another word.
After his marriage, Mourad had stopped spending his
Rahma: now there was a strong, capable, determined woman. When the couple were Mohammed’s neighbours , people used to say she beat her husband, but it was hard to believe, since in their milieu it was usually the other way round, and Ammar wasn’t the kind to complain and admit to any mistreatment by his wife. Although his pals suspected something, they didn’t dare broach the subject with him, but they could see he was unhappy, listless, in poor shape. Rahma was the one who handled everything; Ammar came home from the factory, ate, and wasn’t allowed to spend the family’s money in bars. She always took charge of his earnings, letting him have only enough to go to the café now and then. Whenever he dared protest, she’d shut herself up with him in their bedroom and whack him with the children’s big Larousse dictionary, and she must have had to buy them a new one, because the first one was a wreck. Physically she was stronger than Ammar, a peasant woman unfazed by anything, fearless, sure of herself, forging ahead, sweeping everything from her path. Ammar had thought about a divorce, but it was complicated , and besides, it just wasn’t done in histribe—Rahma was a distant cousin. No one would have believed him if he’d admitted she beat him, so he kept quiet, submitted, and like all weaklings, ran away instead of standing his ground. He’d thought to get back at her by leaving some money on the kitchen table and taking off, never imagining she would follow him to foil his plan.
Smiling at the idea of the henpecked husband, Mohammed began to walk along, staring idly at the sidewalk, with his fists clenched in his pockets, as if following a doctor’s orders to get some exercise. When he thought about his children, he had the feeling he’d lost them. It was more than a feeling: a certainty, a definite certainty. It was as if he’d been pitched into a void, tipped into nothingness like a sack of trash. A sack full of useless junk. There was a dead rat in the sack, rotting away with a dreadful stench. I’m the sack and the rat, Mohammed told himself. I’m the rubble and the rusting iron. I’m the animal no one loves. He saw himself tossed onto a garbage dump, tumbling down its side with broken bits of things, old wires, debris, dust, and suddenly—oblivion. He no longer exists. No one thinks of him or wants to see him. He’s at the end of the long road: it’s over. None of his children has come to reclaim him from the dump. Then the rat woke up and scratched Mohammed’s leg, making him jump: it was a plant he’d just brushed by.
11
MOHAMMED’S SON MOURAD had a good position in a department store and had married Maria, a Spanish woman, born like him in France but whose parents had gone back home to Seville. Mourad was athletic. He could have been a professional soccer player, but he had a heart murmur, so he’d studied accounting and continued to play several sports. His greatest desire: to escape his suburban neighbourhood and everyone in it to go live in Paris. He was fond of his parents but loved his freedom more, the independence he’d won by working even while he was still in school. He kissed his father’s hand and his mother’s forehead, signs of respect but not submission. As soon as he had begun earning money, Mourad had decided to give some of it to his parents, for which his father had thanked him, saying that the money would go toward the construction of the house. What house? Mohammed had only gestured vaguely and turned away without another word.
After his marriage, Mourad had stopped spending his
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