Boualem Sansal - Harraga

‘Now listen to me, mademoiselle , since my idiot brother has cleverly finagled things, I’m prepared to put you up, but let me tell you right now that my home is not a hotel, and it’s not a crèche where you can drop off your little problems. Now it’s not an army barracks, either, but I do expect a little discipline — assuming you know what the word means — and you’ll need a permit if you’re going out!’

‘But, Tata, I can’t stay cooped up in here!’

‘You go out when I go out… is that clear?’

‘Hmm.’

‘I said is that clear?’

‘Hmmmm!’

‘Now, here’s the deal. Tomorrow, I’ll take you for a check-up, we need to know what’s in that belly of yours. Then we’re going to get rid of these frills and fripperies you’re wearing and get you a wardrobe more appropriate for an expectant mother. And we need to think about the baby too, whether it’s a boy or a girl, it’s going to need a cot and some baby clothes.’

‘And a bottle, a bonnet, nappies, a rattle, some…’

‘We’ll make a list. Thirdly, and this will be the hard part, you’ll have to lead a healthy lifestyle: wholesome food, lots of exercise, lots of rest. And a little reliability.’

Over dinner, we drew up a list of baby things. The longer we sat at the table, the longer the list grew. We talked about colours. Unable to choose between pink and blue, we decided white would fit the bill. Before it’s even born, this baby is costing the earth and creating problems. But, well, you treat people according to their merits and this child had already tugged at my purse strings and my heart strings, there was no going back now. Never forget that children are the oldest and most expensive joy in the world.

Today was truly one of those auspicious days for which Algiers is famous.

What a wonderful moment, I could already see myself going gaga!

Suddenly I felt a flash of pain. An association of ideas, a call to order, a warning to be cautious? I was besieged by memories of Louiza, my foster sister, my beloved little Carrot. What morgue does she live in now?

We were no older than our dolls

We dreamed our dreams of wonders

Eternity cupped us in its hands

In a world filled with enchantment

Little noticing

Little realising

We died

Walled up alive

Such is the law

Allah be praised

And may they rot in hell

The Defenders of Truth!

I scrawled this in my splenetic notebook, one day when loneliness had the acrid taste of poison.

That night we laughed until we cried. I was liberal with the jokes, with the Turkish delight, thinking this was a good way to coax the little runaway’s secrets from her. By midnight, she was doubled up in stitches, her cheeks streaked with tears she was too tired to wipe away. Mustafa, Louis-Joseph-Youssef, Carpatus, Daoud Ben Chekroun excelled themselves — I could see them sniggering in their graves. I tore Mourad off a strip, the silly man, him and his tales of proletarian bus stations and university halls of residence. Ending with a flourish, I put Bluebeard in the dock and accused him of comical crimes of my own invention.

All that remained was to steer the conversation to get her to open up. The trick is to begin with ‘I’ve never told anyone this, but…’ to bait the hook and then pass the baton, ‘What about you, what did you do and with whom?’ It’s essential to recognise the perfect moment, to create an expansive mood, nurture the urge to talk freely — that is the real trick.

Being a well-brought-up woman of a certain age, I had little to confess beyond a small scar and a bruise that had long since healed. I was evasive, I was not about to invent trials and tribulations simply to cajole her, after all I’m not the one who’s pregnant and isolated from everyone I know. I told her about the secret boyfriend I had back when I was eight and Papa had already begun to stand guard at the school gates. An only daughter is a father’s worst nightmare.

As it turned out, I was right: the man in the photograph was indeed the culprit responsible for her swollen belly. There was a moment when I both feared and hoped that it might turn out to be that idiot Sofiane. If my horoscope decreed I was to raise a child, I thought, it might as well be my own flesh and blood.

The man’s name, she told me, was Hachemi and he was thirty-eight. In the photo, he could pass for ten years younger. It was this discrepancy that had dazzled the little ninny. ‘He’s so handsome,’ she told me, squirming in her seat, ‘he’s so intelligent, and kind, and strong…’ I cut short her litany, this man was not the good Lord, he was a swine, he was a complete and utter bastard. You can find a baker’s dozen of them in the nearest alleyway.

‘Where and how did you meet him?’

‘In Oran. I was walking along the Corniche with my new best friends, Lila and Biba…’

‘Lila and Biba, did you ever hear of such a thing!? So then what happened?’

‘He came up to us and said: I’d like to buy you girls some ice cream.’

‘So you went with him.’

‘Yeah. Afterwards, he took me for a drive in his car.’

‘Don’t tell me, I can guess what happens next. He offered to show you his etchings, or his collection of human scalps.’

‘Huh?’

‘Never mind. What were you doing in Oran, I mean it’s not your douar , is it?’

‘I ran away, I couldn’t stand it. My parents were getting on my nerves, they wanted me to stay at home, to wear the hijab , to hide away. There were Emirs prowling around slitting young girls’ throats. The imam said the girls deserved it, but he’s a moron. He 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 Wazīr 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.’