What can I do?
It’s a fact, I take her out less and less. Not at all, if truth be told. Where can we go? Algiers is no place for a quiet stroll, it’s exhausting; women find themselves constantly followed, pointed at, harassed. The old men spout shrill scathing proverbs, the old crones make disparaging remarks as we pass, the cops wolf-whistle and stroke their truncheons suggestively. The little boys are the worst. They shout, they make obscene gestures, they walk behind us, egging on the crowds. It says a lot about their upbringing that hardly are they out of the womb than they’re waging war on womankind. The more I think about them, the more they remind me of the film Gremlins. What a story: in the dim recesses of ancient China (an antique shop somewhere in the heart of Chinatown run by a venerable old man more ancient than his antiques), an American explorer — half crackpot, half bumbling inventor but wholly charming — discovers a curious creature, a strange furry animal with eyes like a lemur and ears like a panda, a creature so adorable anyone would want to take it home. The man offers to buy it: it would make an ideal birthday present for his son. The ancient Chinaman demurs. The American lays down another $100 bill. Still the old man refuses: With Mogwai, comes much responsibility. I cannot sell him at any price. But the old man’s grandson rushes after the American and secretly agrees to sell the creature, warning the man: keep him out of the light, especially sunlight, it’ll kill him. Second, don’t give him any water, not even to drink. But the most important rule, the rule you can never forget, no matter how much he cries, no matter how much he begs, never feed him after midnight. These are the three commandments for anyone who would have a Mogwai under their roof. Our explorer agrees to these conditions and returns to present-day America — about three blocks away. Everything happens as it was foretold. The man’s son is delighted, as is his mother since she doesn’t need to feed or wash the new pet. And then one night, the boy feeds the creature after midnight, then spills a glass of water on his head in broad daylight. What follows is horrendous: the adorable Mogwai spawns a vicious creature, a Gremlin, which immediately begins to multiply. By the end of the film, America the indomitable is on its knees, besieged by these mischievous scamps who scream and laugh and pillage, eating and multiplying until they can overrun the planet and destroy it. This is a long-winded way of saying that I, too, felt under siege. It’s impossible to face down everyone and so you bow your head, you cross the street, you put a compress on the wound. Typically, the few decent men, the genuine believers, the humble fathers — those lifeless men — express their compassion by not lifting a finger, by giving the impression that there is much they would say if only life were not so short. Afterwards, they resent us, they are embarrassed by our misfortune which serves only to emphasise their own. This country may lack many things, but we have no shortage of would-be sermonisers, of lazy bastards happy to leave you to sweat, of pathetic cowards quick to fade into the background. What with me trying to look like a fashionable mother and Chérifa’s hip and glamorous clothes, we were an affront to the prevailing air of sanctity. We reeked of brimstone, of bitches on heat, of shameless heresy, our insolence knew no bounds. ‘Like mother, like daughter’ people whispered as we passed, squinting at us, pursing their lips. One day, I’ll tell them exactly what I think of their ‘absolute perfection’. Because they think they believe in Allah, they think that means they can do what they please, throw bombs and worse, sermonise from dawn to dusk, Monday to Friday. Is it my fault that Chérifa has the beauty of a fallen angel and I look like a Madonna? The streets of Algiers are dismal, dirty, choked with seething crowds, what is there to do but stare longingly through grimy shop windows and fend off rogues? It’s true I scold Chérifa more than I realise. She’s petulant by nature and I’m turning into a cantankerous old crone, I’m starting to lose the plot, I’m sick to the back teeth of the bled, I’m eaten up by worry, I’m missing Sofiane, I’m worn out working at the hospital. The compromises and cuddles of traditional family life are not Chérifa’s thing. And the best that can be said about housework is that she loathes it.
If only she could read! My library is filled with treasures, the viscount and the saintly doctor left behind books enough to last us till the end of time. The others also left books by the basketful, but they’re potboilers, I keep them out of pity. Aside from a respect for the old, Papa instilled in us a love of the printed word that I have never outgrown. Everything else, I could live without. Over time, I’ve made my own additions, a handful of pearls and dozens of third-rate novels bought by the kilo and mottled with aphids and fly specks. I had to buy them in order to ride out my grief, to survive my time in the wilderness. I think I’ve probably read more books than a monkey eats peanuts in its life. The whole house is stuffed with them and I could get more if she needed them. But Chérifa doesn’t realise what she’s missing. For every single person on this planet, there is a book that speaks directly to them, that is a revelation, that tells them everything they need to know. To read that book — your book — without being forever changed is impossible. The problem with people who know nothing is that you have to explain everything, and the more you explain, the more they shut themselves off. They cling to their ignorance, it keeps them warm.
I decided it was time for a spring-clean. It was all I could come up with to keep us busy. Chérifa shrugged. I was about to suggest a tactical retreat but it was too late, the young hate it when their elders go back on their word. We put on our battle dress, tucked our skirts into our knickers, tied our hair back with bandanas and then set off, full steam ahead. This was spring-cleaning Algerian style — slopping water everywhere until it seeps under the rugs, making a racket loud enough to wake the dead, whipping up such a commotion a person could lose her marbles. It is a continuation of domestic housework by military means, a complete clear-out; it is the tradition of the harem.
This is how I learned to do it, this is how I do it, full stop!
By eight o’clock that night, we had made little progress and the house was a disaster area. We laughed, we larked, we vied to see who was faster, we set each other challenges, we slogged heroically, we mopped, we swabbed, we dusted, but it was joyless and half-hearted. In the thick of spring-cleaning, it occurred to me that playing the skivvy in order to ward off disaster was the worst thing to inflict upon a girl in love. I imagined how terrified Chérifa must feel, now that she glimpsed the yawning chasm between the dreams she had cherished and the reality I was offering. But when you have nothing, what can you offer? Sadness leached into our deepest thoughts and by a process of cross-contamination we polluted the atmosphere. Our laughter was too loud, too forced, our conversation filled with too many things unsaid.