‘You see. Now you’re thinking. If it’s a girl, we’ll call her Louiza, it’s beautiful, it’s charming, it’s elegant.’
‘Hmm.’
‘OK, that’s settled. And if it’s a boy, you’ll call him… um…’
‘Hachemi?’
‘Don’t even think about it!’
‘Sofiane?’
‘Oh, no! One harraga in the family is more than enough! Now Yacine is a fine name, a very fine name. It’s all the rage in Algiers.’
‘Hmm.’
So, that’s one thing settled. Now I need to come up with a system for tackling the rest. Teaching her to read is the most pressing problem, I can’t possibly live with an illiterate under my roof, I’d end up killing her. Once I’ve taught her to cook, to sew, to mend, at least she can make herself useful. But first I need to get the golden rule for living in Algiers through her thick skulclass="underline" be suspicious of everyone: passers-by, neighbours, sermonisers, hooligans, policemen, judges, and especially well-dressed men who use their refined manners to seduce young girls.
Then there are the basic virtues she needs to get into her head once and for alclass="underline" order, discipline, kindness, cleanliness and whatnot. I set great store by the inspirational properties of self-control, cleanliness and a dulcet speaking voice. She’ll feel my fists before long, believe me.
Good God, you can’t help but wonder sometimes what it is that parents teach their children.
My first plan of action is to re-read Robinson Crusoe which is full of pointers on how to teach savages. I feel a certain affinity with the congenial castaway. I already have my desert island, my house is out of time and far from any thoroughfare, and if memory serves, my own little savage showed up on a Friday or some other day. As for me, even in these straitened times, I have no shortage of pugnacity and good manners. All of which is good news for her. Providence has brought the sickness to the cure. And another thing, I’m beginning to enjoy my role as the kind-hearted lady of the manor. All I need is a sedan chair or a Rolls-Royce to bear my solitude, I already have a pallid complexion, a deportment that is aloof without being excessive while the house itself is pervaded by an end-of-era atmosphere, while outside, in Algeria, life is strange: the proletariat are disoriented, the patricians exhausted by their vices, the Emirs sated on blood and the poor President has no opponents left to assassinate. What news of the outside world trickles through to us arrives centuries late, drowned out by the whine of machines and the sighs of the mourners. All of which seamlessly becomes my image as the benevolent lady of the manor holed up in the ancestral home.
Chérifa falls asleep earlier and earlier. By midnight, she has drifted far away. She’s sleeping for two. I’ve started giving her herbal tea enriched with baby sedative. I continue on my own, as I’ve always done. I potter around the house, tidy up, have a nibble, I read, I think and when my legs or my eyes start to tingle, I curl up in a corner and doze off. I listen to the silent darkness, to the creaking of the house and, high above it all, the ineffable pulse of time. It is a beautiful music, it enfolds me, seeps into my skin, into every molecule, every atom and deep inside me it blossoms as a giant corolla. It comes from so far, and extends so far, that everything becomes hazy, everything stops, and little by little the moment becomes eternity. I don’t move, I don’t breathe, a gentle, preternatural warmth radiates through me. I feel at peace with everything. I am about to sink… I am sinking…
As I teeter on the brink of sleep, a cry goes through my head: I have to contact Chérifa’s parents, to let them know she is all right. How could I not have thought of it before? I spent more than a year with no news of Sofiane and all the while every fibre of my being was waiting: I know their pain, I can feel it. I’ll talk to Chérifa, we’ll do what we have to do.
Another thought occurs to me: we should contact the man in the photo, the minister-for-whatever, make him face up to his responsibilities. I immediately dismiss this thought, the bastard has power, he could have us thrown in jail, have the baby adopted by a tattooed harpy like some chador-wearing Madame Thénardier who would force the child to fetch and carry water and later introduce her to a life of crime. He could have the child taken from its mother, taken from me, he could set the State against us. Dear God, he could mould the babe in his own likeness to become a wheeler-dealer, a crook, a profiteer! There’s no point even considering it, the man doesn’t deserve to live.
And while I’m thinking about such weighty matters, tomorrow afternoon I’ll go and find out what’s happening down at the Association. It’s been a while, maybe they will have news for me.
I don’t hold out much hope, but still I go. When your whole life is measured out by nagging heartache and the same haunting questions, you need some sort of ritual. Where are you, Sofiane? What has become of you? When are you coming home?
The Association offices occupy the ground floor of a city-centre building that in some former life must have been palatial. Half ruined, it still has a certain magnificence, surrounded as it is by buildings wholly ruined. The plaque next to the entrance is inscribed with a name as long as a gibbon’s splayed arm: ‘Algerian Family Crisis Centre for the Location and Rehabilitation of Youth Missing as a result of Clandestine Emigration’ — the AFCCLRYMCE. There is a lot to be said about this splayed gibbon and his murderous missions but I prefer to keep things short and simple: I call it the Disappeared Association. At the bottom of the plaque on the aforementioned sanctuary, it stipulates that the Association is authorised by the Ministry of the Interior. I don’t know whether this stipulation is a requirement or whether in this case it expresses a sort of voluntary allegiance. I’m not about to cast stones, I know that in a criminal State such things are easily confused and if you don’t like it, well, too bad. I found out about the Association through Mourad, who gave me the address. The man’s brain is cluttered with information. I wonder about him sometimes — does he come to the hospital out of the goodness of his heart, or is he working there as a sort of unpaid spy? I can’t help but admire my colleagues, they know everything, always, before anyone else. I don’t know one of them who retreats in the face of complexity. Not a single one. Where do they get such self-confidence? Sometimes I feel like killing one of them, putting a bullet through his forehead just to see that flicker of disbelief, that glint of fear as he faces the unknown; to hear him fall silent as he confronts something beyond his comprehension. Mourad is one of those people who knows everything, I thanked him profusely, I hope he remembers that.
The first time I met the President of the Association, she informed me I was asking all the wrong questions. I was helpless, I was desperate for information, I was bombarding her with queries. What she meant, she explained, was that wittering and whining were useless, I needed to stay calm, to let the experts do their job. As she said this she flashed me the sort of smile reserved for polite little girls and cheerfully strode off, briefcase in hand, phone pressed to her ear, with a sardonic swagger. A modern superwoman in pursuit of glory — even TV commercials don’t feature such airheads any more. I never saw her again, thank God. She’s a show-off, a charlatan, the sort of person who frequents salons, fraternises with the lumpenproletariat who monopolise the upper echelons of government and chairs pointless meetings. Her assistant, a sea lion wallowing in an ocean of files, simultaneously advised me not to give up hope and to prepare myself for the worst. This, she took great pleasure in emphasising, showed dignity and responsibility. She showered me with statistics, with grisly photos and press clippings, she bamboozled me with statements intended to reflect the seriousness of the tragedy. The country is being drained of its young and no one is doing anything about it — this was the gist of what she managed to say.