Boualem Sansal - Harraga

The next day, some other freak was trailing her back to the halls of residence. No need for binoculars to spot this one, the other girls knew immediately where this nasty piece of work came from. The dark glasses, the walkie-talkie glued to the ear, that swagger like a boat putting out to sea, that arrogance that says you have the world at your feet and a Colt 45 swinging by your side, these are the hallmarks of an institution, the most important institution in this country: the police.

Her new companion offered Chérifa a season ticket to the seediest parts of Algiers which, if Mourad is to be believed, are among the most stomach-turning in the solar system. Things move at a break-neck pace, Chérifa learns to smoke, to drink, to fight, to strike a pose and she also learns a new vocabulary. The other girls stop their ears and listen, the little fool dropped words like bombs. She would go out at ridiculous hours, come back at all hours without so much as a by-your-leave. The girls at the halls of residence couldn’t handle it, one by one they closed their doors to her. Young women from good families are more terrified by a whiff of scandal than they are by terrorism. The caretakers started to grumble openly, the rumours spread. Attracted by the scent, dubious cars began showing up on the campus. Before long the sticklers came out of the woodwork claiming that stranglers were operating in the area. I suspect this means the sermonisers and the Defenders of Truth. It’s high time we standardised the vocabulary, we can’t go on using different words for the same things. The problem is people stammer and shift and shilly-shally about anything to do with Islam. It’s like the Tower of Babel, people say stickler, strangler, cut-throat, Islamist, lunatic, fanatic, fundamentalist, terrorist, suicide bomber, jihadist, Wahhabi, Salafist, Djazarist, Taliban, Tango, Zarqaouist, Afghani, born in the banlieue , member of al-Qaeda and I don’t know what else — it’s like these people had nothing to do with Islam. But they’re all basically the same person with different clothes and different beliefs. The specialists should at least agree on their terms, that way we would be able to have a frank discussion about the problem, but let’s be honest, if Islam is responsible for anything, it’s producing Muslims, there’s no way of knowing how they will turn out later, and there’s no after-sales service. For crying out loud, if people have children, they should keep them under control.

Chérifa imposed herself on Scheherazade, a seven-month swollen belly commands respect. But Chérifa did not change her ways. A few days later, she showed up with a clueless journalist who had a pen tucked behind his ear and a newspaper tucked under his arm. Scheherazade, who has a mouthful of peculiar expressions from her part of the country, dispatched him quickly: ‘A skinny little runt who wouldn’t need to catch a sheep to play knucklebones.’ The handover between policeman and journalist did not go well, there was a punch-up and the newshound found himself in hospital with cuts and contusions. The following day, the front-page story in his newspaper read: Our star reporter K.M. suffered a savage beating from police officers as a result of his hard-hitting investigation into the misconduct of Inspector H.B., who has been implicated in a major arms-dealing racket with the Islamist maquis . Scheherazade showed me a press clipping. What a story!

The authorities’ response came the following day via the pages of the government daily El Moudjahid (The Holy Warrior), from which Truth spills out over the country. Under the banner headline there is journalism and then there is journalism, it reads: It has been discovered that Monsieur K.M., a disgrace to a profession that has done so much for democracy, is involved in drug trafficking on a vast scale in collaboration with a certain sister country whose hatred for our homeland is matched only by its vicious oppression of the heroic Saharan people engaged in a legitimate struggle for independence recognised by the international community, and with certain groups in Algiers known for their pathological greed and their contempt for the extraordinarily progressive policy initiated by the President of the Republic. When challenged by the heroic Inspector H.B., the suspect attempted to corrupt the officer, offering him the services of a prostitute known to the police, a certain C.D., however the gallant officer, a man of irreproachable morals, flatly refused. Concerned by the seriousness of the facts alleged, and alarmed at the effects on law and order, the Public Prosecutor immediately issued a warrant for the arrest of Monsieur K.M. and ordered a search of the newspaper’s offices. The case continues.

What has Morocco got to do with any of this? And what, precisely, has the President’s policy achieved? God, how these people love things to be complicated!

The university campus witnessed a brief war of attrition between the press and the police, and then everything went back to normal, the journalist vanished without trace, the newspaper was shut down, the offices auctioned off and the editor got two years’ hard labour. While they were about it, the police interrogated and tortured a few other journalists as a precaution. The inspector was not forgotten in all this chaos: he received a promotion.

Chérifa, having brought disgrace on the university halls of residence, was formally requested to leave the premises. There was nothing else the girls could do, their exams were looming, their parents were panicking and visiting more often. This was no time for jokes.

Chérifa wandered the city for a while before hooking up with the pilot in a café next door to the offices of Air Algérie. Scheherazade caught a glimpse of him behind the wheel of his magnificent car when the runaway returned to campus to collect her belongings. Fortysomething and with a little paunch, the pilot looked quite dapper and seemed to be a cheerful character. Scheherazade thought she heard the shameless hussy refer to him as ‘Rachid’.

Their goodbyes were minimal, since the little madam is incapable of saying good morning or goodnight.

Since then, there had been no news. Had she taken the train? Had she gone back to Oran? Is she somewhere else and, if so, where?

Curtain. End of drama. Now, I could let myself weep.

Who would have believed that I, Lamia, a paediatrician, a strong-minded, intelligent woman, oblivious to everyday contingencies and immune to sentimentality, would be turning my life upside down for the sake of a little country girl who’s become a scarlet woman! I was filled with a curious feeling. Guilt? That’s certainly part of it, I smothered her and she ran away. Telling her she needed to be educated was another mistake, it made her feel a fool, cut off from the world. Anger, the resentment that comes from failure, from…? Not just that, rage, a desire to… It’s envy, pure mother-daughter envy! Yes, I suppose. Chérifa is happy to give her all to the first man who comes along, and yet I love her, I offered her my life, my home, and she refuses even to grace me with her presence. Not a single visit, not a phone call, not even a message. It’s stupid, it’s pathetic to get involved in such idiotic relationships.

What was it that I called her, what was the word I spat in her face when all she wanted was a smile, a glance, a hug?

I give up. I’ve already given her everything I had to give!

Louiza and Sofiane left me with deep scars, Chérifa ripped my heart out. It’s not fair. I’m done with it, I need to move on. I am not going to let this haunt me to my dying day.

‘So, tell me, my dear Scheherazade, do you really miss that lunatic so much that you’ve come all the way to Rampe Valée? Isn’t that a little like something out of a fairytale?’