Far from the city and far from danger, sheltered within its circle of lopsided stones, the cemetery has a tranquil air. Step inside and time seems to stand still. Magnificent trees solidly rooted in the stony ground serene as Buddhist monks. It is deeply reassuring. In summer and autumn and especially in spring, the birds will come to disturb the peace of these leafy branches, but it is always wonderful to see life whip up the wind, anarchic and joyous. So it had been for me back when I trudged through the wilderness. A bird landed on my shoulder. ‘Cheep cheep, cheep cheep…!’ he chirruped in my ear as he fluttered and frolicked. I did not understand since my life was made up of silences, mindless rituals and second-rate ramblings. Since then, I have learned the language of the birds; it is glorious. Wild cats will come and brush against the trunks of these trees and mewl at the moon. Right now, they are pretending to doze on the ramparts. They too have abandoned the cottages and forever forgotten their masters. Blood will drip from the low branches as, breaking the hushed silence, frantic squawking erupts from the higher branches, a terrified chirping that could put a scarecrow to flight. Cats are like that, it is senseless to condemn them, it is in their nature to lie in wait and attack by surprise. Chérifa will have all winter to sleep like an angel; here on the shores of our much-loved Mediterranean, the rains merely soak the grass and the winds scarcely ruffle the owls’ feathers. The skies are so deep that everything vanishes into the distance and the nights too short to give melancholy time to fear the worst. The cold is piercing, but this is not the North Pole, it would not kill a homeless tramp. For the dead who have felt the cold when they were alive, it is an evening by the fireside. And besides, three months’ sleep is enough for a flighty girl with all eternity ahead of her.
With my black marker, I added a line to the gravestone that the sun will have faded before night falls:
Her Maman who loves her
And then I remembered what I had called her, the cruel taunt I had spat in her face: harraga. ‘You’re a harraga, that’s what you are, and you’ll die as one.’
God, I can be cruel when I don’t listen to myself.
Forgive me, ma chérie. I said those things, I screamed and spluttered not because you couldn’t hear, but because I couldn’t understand: you were searching for life and in these parts we can only talk about death.
Sister Anne could read my thoughts. I suddenly turned and we stared at each other through the curtain of tears. In her poor, tormented face I saw strength whereas mine was a mask of defeat, of helplessness, of infinite regret. She blinked her eyes gently, and on her closed lips I could read the entreaty: Pray, it is the only thing we have to overcome fear and find our way.
Where can it be, the path
Which from the unknown
Will fashion my native soil
My love, my life
And my death?
I had been feeling somewhat melodramatic and a little foolish when, in the depths of despair, I wrote those lines; the reality had proved to be infinitely more heartbreaking. It brought a lump to my throat.
I fell to my knees, I threw my arms around the headstone and I prayed:
God who art in heaven, my daughter Chérifa is with you. She’s sixteen, she hasn’t got a lot of meat on her bones, and life had left her black and blue. I couldn’t protect her. I only had a few short months in which to find her in this misbegotten world and to realise she was my daughter. Please, take care of her, love her as I loved her, but keep a close eye on her, she’s quite capable of doing a bunk from heaven and leaving a dreadful mess behind her. I know it doesn’t look good, a Lolita among all the sinless souls dressed up in white silk, but give her time, she likes to be eccentric. Intercede on my behalf, tell her I never intended to hurt her when I called her a harraga. This country is governed by soulless men who have refashioned us in their image, petty, spiteful and greedy, or rebels who curl up in shame and insignificance. Our children are suffering, they dream of goodness, of love and of games and are lured into evil, hatred and despair. They have only one way to survive, become harragas, burn a path as once people burned their boats so they could never return. My idiot brother Sofiane is caught up in that chaos, help him find his path. Take care of my sweet, gentle Louiza, my beloved Carrot Cake, her life is a living hell. Thank you for giving me a daughter and a granddaughter when I had long since given up hoping for anything from life. Believe me, I will prove myself worthy. Give my love to my parents, to my brother Yacine and watch over us. Amen.
I took a deep breath, I could feel life coursing through me. I was like a ship run aground suddenly floating free and setting a new course. I am not the sort to let myself be beaten or to give up along the way, this was something else I could ask of God:
Please, God, recall to Yourself the ghosts that haunt my house, Mustafa and the others. They deserve some rest, life betrayed them and death has forgotten them, I think that they are tired having wandered the earth for so long. They are my friends, they supported me when I too was but a shadow on the walls, but now I have a baby to bring up, I need freshness and light.
I long wondered whether our lives truly belong to us, I despaired of ever finding meaning. All things come with time. Was it foolish of me to doubt it? At the time, I could not have known: I was dead then, my eyes had yet to be opened to life.
I kissed Sister Anne, I cradled little Louiza in my arms and I climbed back into the taxi. Before it disappeared around the first bend, I glanced back to that place, that convent, where I had just been born. The nuns waved us off cheerfully but I knew, I could sense, that in fact they were crying their hearts out.
To Bluebeard at his window, quivering with joy, like a hunchback dancing a jig, I sent the silent thought: Oh, Bluebeard, Sister Anne was right, Chérifa has come back to us! I felt inspired, Sister Anne really exists. I should bring Louiza over to visit the old hermit and tell him it’s Chérifa, wasted away from all her running around. At his age, he’s bound to be half-blind so he’d probably believe it. And when she smiled at him, he’d have a stroke.
On the way back, the gallant and dangerous cab driver didn’t say a word, or perhaps he muttered to himself but I heard nothing, not even the sound of his rattletrap leaking oil; I was beyond the reach of the diatribes that he and his kind liked to spout, I was already dreaming of a new world.
Louiza, my child
When a new sun rises
Upon your first smile
We will take to the road
We will become harragas.
Louiza, my love
We will leave our misfortunes
And wash away our memories
In the first river we find
As harragas do.
Louiza, my darling
We will travel roads unknown