expects us to be Muslims 24/7, that’s no life for anyone.’
‘That’s obvious – calm down.’
‘Oran is cool, we spent all day hanging out.’
‘I never had the chance. Algiers is not like Oran, the government doesn’t tolerate joyous outbursts, it’s best you know that right now. So, you fell head over heels and before you knew it you were pregnant. So what did he do then, your brave and gallant friend Hachemi?’
‘He went back to Algiers. He’s a big shot, a manager or something. He promised he’d come back for me.’
‘Don’t tell me, let me guess: it slipped his mind.’
‘No, he used to visit two or three times a month, he brought me presents, clothes, jewellery . . .’
‘The get-up you’re wearing now?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I see . . .’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. What else did he give you?’
‘Money, and he took me to cafés and to restaurants.’
‘Well, well, so you were a kept woman?’
‘I already told you he was generous.’
‘But then, one morning, he was struck by amnesia.’
‘Struck by what?’
‘By some pressing business.’
‘How did you know? Biba came by and showed me a photograph of him in the paper, he’d just been appointed Minister or Waz ī r or something like that. I don’t know how to read, but she told me what it said, only I don’t remember.’
‘OK, I’m with you now, I knew I’d seen his ugly mug somewhere. Now I remember! I saw him on the television once, he was so wooden you could have sawn him in half.’
‘What are you talking about? He’s not a magician!’
‘On that point we agree. Does he know about the baby?’
‘I told him.’
‘And that’s when he forgot all about you.’
‘He promised . . .’
‘You silly girl, a government minister can’t afford for people to find out he’s got fleas.’
‘Why are you talking like that? He’s very clean!’
‘Did you come down with the last shower? People like that are dangerous lunatics.’
‘But he wasn’t a minister when I told him.’
‘You told him before the amnesia, that’s good, and then the baby was thrown out with the bathwater.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. So, given your choices were coming to Algiers to beard him in his ministerial den, committing suicide or going back to your douar where your father would likely cut your throat, what did you decide?’
‘To go to Morocco, to Spain.’
‘And that’s how you met my idiot brother, there you both were down on the shore looking for a likely boat. And viva España !’
‘Now where am I supposed to give birth? I don’t have anyone to sign for me.’
‘Sign what?’
‘Everything . . . the paperwork . . . and what about money?’
‘And you think that in Europe no one has to sign anything?’
‘Sofiane said it was dangerous to be a harraga in my condition. At the Moroccan border, they shoot at people and you have to dive into the ditch. He told me to come to you.’
‘And now that you’re here, we’ll make the best of a bad job.’
‘. . .’
It’s three o’clock in the morning and still the night drags on. Three times the hall clock has tried to make its presence felt but these are troubled waters, even a ghost would struggle to make itself heard. This is no country for rational people. Not that I have been rational recently, things have been moving too fast.
Chérifa passed out, arms folded, mouth agape, legs likewise, drunk on laughter and Turkish delight. I know, it’s her way of dealing with things and now that I know her secret I find her a lot less indecent.
Secret is a bit of an overstatement . . . the whole story is a cliché! Older man seduces girl, refashions her to his taste, keeps her as a little indulgence for his business outings, then tosses her overboard with a bun in the oven. A well-worn tale that just keeps repeating itself.
It’s a cliché I experienced myself – minus the bun in the oven – so I can hardly cast the first stone. I was the same
‘That’s obvious – calm down.’
‘Oran is cool, we spent all day hanging out.’
‘I never had the chance. Algiers is not like Oran, the government doesn’t tolerate joyous outbursts, it’s best you know that right now. So, you fell head over heels and before you knew it you were pregnant. So what did he do then, your brave and gallant friend Hachemi?’
‘He went back to Algiers. He’s a big shot, a manager or something. He promised he’d come back for me.’
‘Don’t tell me, let me guess: it slipped his mind.’
‘No, he used to visit two or three times a month, he brought me presents, clothes, jewellery . . .’
‘The get-up you’re wearing now?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I see . . .’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. What else did he give you?’
‘Money, and he took me to cafés and to restaurants.’
‘Well, well, so you were a kept woman?’
‘I already told you he was generous.’
‘But then, one morning, he was struck by amnesia.’
‘Struck by what?’
‘By some pressing business.’
‘How did you know? Biba came by and showed me a photograph of him in the paper, he’d just been appointed Minister or Waz ī r or something like that. I don’t know how to read, but she told me what it said, only I don’t remember.’
‘OK, I’m with you now, I knew I’d seen his ugly mug somewhere. Now I remember! I saw him on the television once, he was so wooden you could have sawn him in half.’
‘What are you talking about? He’s not a magician!’
‘On that point we agree. Does he know about the baby?’
‘I told him.’
‘And that’s when he forgot all about you.’
‘He promised . . .’
‘You silly girl, a government minister can’t afford for people to find out he’s got fleas.’
‘Why are you talking like that? He’s very clean!’
‘Did you come down with the last shower? People like that are dangerous lunatics.’
‘But he wasn’t a minister when I told him.’
‘You told him before the amnesia, that’s good, and then the baby was thrown out with the bathwater.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. So, given your choices were coming to Algiers to beard him in his ministerial den, committing suicide or going back to your douar where your father would likely cut your throat, what did you decide?’
‘To go to Morocco, to Spain.’
‘And that’s how you met my idiot brother, there you both were down on the shore looking for a likely boat. And viva España !’
‘Now where am I supposed to give birth? I don’t have anyone to sign for me.’
‘Sign what?’
‘Everything . . . the paperwork . . . and what about money?’
‘And you think that in Europe no one has to sign anything?’
‘Sofiane said it was dangerous to be a harraga in my condition. At the Moroccan border, they shoot at people and you have to dive into the ditch. He told me to come to you.’
‘And now that you’re here, we’ll make the best of a bad job.’
‘. . .’
It’s three o’clock in the morning and still the night drags on. Three times the hall clock has tried to make its presence felt but these are troubled waters, even a ghost would struggle to make itself heard. This is no country for rational people. Not that I have been rational recently, things have been moving too fast.
Chérifa passed out, arms folded, mouth agape, legs likewise, drunk on laughter and Turkish delight. I know, it’s her way of dealing with things and now that I know her secret I find her a lot less indecent.
Secret is a bit of an overstatement . . . the whole story is a cliché! Older man seduces girl, refashions her to his taste, keeps her as a little indulgence for his business outings, then tosses her overboard with a bun in the oven. A well-worn tale that just keeps repeating itself.
It’s a cliché I experienced myself – minus the bun in the oven – so I can hardly cast the first stone. I was the same
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