had thrown up.
I didnât go back again to Jipâs with Henriette. If someone asked me to bring her in, I replied that my baby was not a specimen for some colonial exhibition â¦
II
I still havenât told the Arab on the corner that my ex cleared off to the home country a few months back. Iâll have to come clean about it one of these days, Iâm going to run out of excuses soon. If Iâve kept quiet about it until now itâs because I know heâll have a heart attack when he finds out.
When Iâm opposite him, heâs the one who always does the talking, he wonât let me get a word in edgeways. Once heâs finished with his rant he asks after my ex and my daughter, and I always tell him the same thing: theyâre on holiday in the Congo. Itâs like heâs delivering the same speech from the day before, he just adds a few new hand gestures here, a few new frowns there. As soon as I walk into his bazaar, I know heâll want to bend my ear for at least twenty minutesâ worth. It wonât be long now before I need what our neighbour, the young man on the seventh floor, Staircase A, the one whose mother is poorly over towards Champagnac de Belair, calls a âcast-iron alibiâ. But my tactic is to deal with the problem as it arises. I just canât see myself saying, out of the blue:
âIâve been lying every time you asked me for newsabout my daughter and my partner, itâs been ages now since they left for the home country with that good-for-nothing, the Hybrid.â
Thereâs no point in jumping ahead of things, Iâm not ready to give the game away. Itâs a matter of honour, and dignity â¦
From his cash till, our Arab on the corner can see everyone who comes out of our building. His shop isnât actually on the corner but in the middle of the street, right opposite our block. Which means, properly speaking, we should call him the Arab opposite instead of the Arab on the corner. Then again, since the dawn of time, people have always talked about the Arab on the corner, and itâs not for me to snap my fingers and start a revolution. I mean, if we decided to question everything that reminds us of how unfair, or even offensive, the French language can be towards certain groups of people, well, weâd never hear the end of it. There would be civil wars in the former territories of the French Empire, and Gaul herself would be torn apart to fall into the hands of the Romans. We would have as many trials as there are dead leaves waiting to be shovelled up. Weâd lose all track of who was complaining about what, not to mention the date of this or that injustice. So the Members of the Académie Française would finally have a full-time job on their hands. Iâm imagining the prostitutes would be keenestto hold people to account because the French language is a real bitch when it comes to them. They might want to know, for example, why a man with the common touch is a national treasure while a woman with the common touch is a whore? Why is a man with an eye for the ladies a charmer while a lady with an eye for the men is a trollop? Why is a âcourtierâ someone who is close to power while a âcourtisanâ is a streetwalker? No, I donât want to fight that battle. People talk about the Arab on the corner, and so do I, even if his shop is opposite our building, while down on the corner thereâs a locksmith whoâs your typical Frenchman, except that he hasnât got a beret and a baguette â¦
If youâre not in the mood to greet our Arab on the corner, heâll step outside and give you a curt lecture on good manners. Even when you think heâs got his back turned and you can dodge him, he manages to lay his hands on you. Itâs as if heâs got a third eye in the back of his neck thatâs more powerful than the Bible stories about the eye watching Cain. And since, like
I didnât go back again to Jipâs with Henriette. If someone asked me to bring her in, I replied that my baby was not a specimen for some colonial exhibition â¦
II
I still havenât told the Arab on the corner that my ex cleared off to the home country a few months back. Iâll have to come clean about it one of these days, Iâm going to run out of excuses soon. If Iâve kept quiet about it until now itâs because I know heâll have a heart attack when he finds out.
When Iâm opposite him, heâs the one who always does the talking, he wonât let me get a word in edgeways. Once heâs finished with his rant he asks after my ex and my daughter, and I always tell him the same thing: theyâre on holiday in the Congo. Itâs like heâs delivering the same speech from the day before, he just adds a few new hand gestures here, a few new frowns there. As soon as I walk into his bazaar, I know heâll want to bend my ear for at least twenty minutesâ worth. It wonât be long now before I need what our neighbour, the young man on the seventh floor, Staircase A, the one whose mother is poorly over towards Champagnac de Belair, calls a âcast-iron alibiâ. But my tactic is to deal with the problem as it arises. I just canât see myself saying, out of the blue:
âIâve been lying every time you asked me for newsabout my daughter and my partner, itâs been ages now since they left for the home country with that good-for-nothing, the Hybrid.â
Thereâs no point in jumping ahead of things, Iâm not ready to give the game away. Itâs a matter of honour, and dignity â¦
From his cash till, our Arab on the corner can see everyone who comes out of our building. His shop isnât actually on the corner but in the middle of the street, right opposite our block. Which means, properly speaking, we should call him the Arab opposite instead of the Arab on the corner. Then again, since the dawn of time, people have always talked about the Arab on the corner, and itâs not for me to snap my fingers and start a revolution. I mean, if we decided to question everything that reminds us of how unfair, or even offensive, the French language can be towards certain groups of people, well, weâd never hear the end of it. There would be civil wars in the former territories of the French Empire, and Gaul herself would be torn apart to fall into the hands of the Romans. We would have as many trials as there are dead leaves waiting to be shovelled up. Weâd lose all track of who was complaining about what, not to mention the date of this or that injustice. So the Members of the Académie Française would finally have a full-time job on their hands. Iâm imagining the prostitutes would be keenestto hold people to account because the French language is a real bitch when it comes to them. They might want to know, for example, why a man with the common touch is a national treasure while a woman with the common touch is a whore? Why is a man with an eye for the ladies a charmer while a lady with an eye for the men is a trollop? Why is a âcourtierâ someone who is close to power while a âcourtisanâ is a streetwalker? No, I donât want to fight that battle. People talk about the Arab on the corner, and so do I, even if his shop is opposite our building, while down on the corner thereâs a locksmith whoâs your typical Frenchman, except that he hasnât got a beret and a baguette â¦
If youâre not in the mood to greet our Arab on the corner, heâll step outside and give you a curt lecture on good manners. Even when you think heâs got his back turned and you can dodge him, he manages to lay his hands on you. Itâs as if heâs got a third eye in the back of his neck thatâs more powerful than the Bible stories about the eye watching Cain. And since, like
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