Boualem Sansal - Harraga

And what kind of life is it that I am leading, entombed here in my ancient house?

I spent a whole month going round in circles, I shed every tear in my body. I scarcely looked up: Maman, my little brother is lost; Papa, my little brother is lost… I was racked with guilt at the thought of having let them down. I slept in Sofiane’s room so I would feel better.

Then one night he phoned. From Oran. From that godforsaken hole where nothing — not the language, nor the religion, not even the taste of the bread — is the same as it is in Algiers.

‘Where in Oran?’

‘At a friend’s place.’

‘Who are you trying to kid? Your friends are here, in their own homes or in conclave electing a new pope.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘This has gone far enough, come home.’

‘Later.’

‘When?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Give me your address so I can send you some money.’

‘I ain’t got no address.’

‘This friend of yours, is he homeless?’

‘…’

‘Hello? Hello? Helloooo ?’

The little shit had already picked up an Oran accent, he said yeah for yes , he even clicked his tongue. Otherwise he was just the same: impulsive, mule-headed, thick as two short planks… and sweet as an angel when it suited him. He never phoned again. Was it something I said? Maybe, but it doesn’t matter; they’re all the same: stupid, easily offended, quick to pick a fight. Even now the question haunts me. It’s hard to be the sister of a man who’s still a boy. How many men realise that?

Suddenly, the house seemed terrifying. The emptiness swelled, the silence became oppressive. I had no answers, I had no more questions. Nothing mattered any more, the daily tedium could come and sweep everything away. Dying did not seem like an agonising inevitability but a consummation devoutly to be wished. I won’t deny, there were times when I contemplated suicide. I even made my decision; all that remained was to work out when and how. I couldn’t make up my mind; premeditation made it difficult to think straight. After a while, I bounced back. That’s what I’m like, I lose hope and I bounce back.

And then Chérifa showed up. ‘Invaded’ might be a better word. What on earth am I going to do with her? She gets on my nerves, I can’t be dealing with her vanishing acts. Or her tantrums. Or her mess. Or her being here. And I can’t abide that high-pitched little-girl voice of hers. I need peace and quiet, I need things in my life to be straightforward. At any moment, I need to be able to tell myself: this is my freedom, that is my will.

Just how much, dear Lord, do our lives truly belong to us?

The first disappearing act came soon enough. It came the morning after her arrival. We were finishing our breakfast. To apologise for my torture session the night before, I brought out Maman’s best tablemats and the secret stash of Turkish delight I’d been hoarding since Eid al-Fitr. We were in slippers and dressing gowns, our eyes still thick with sleep. It was nice enough, pleasant, domestic, I still feel moved at the memory. She popped a sugar cube into her mouth and went upstairs to get dressed. What she said, what I said, I don’t remember. It was short-lived. And I was spiteful. To be completely frank, I gave the little madam her marching orders. I regretted it straightaway.

‘I’m just going out for a walk, Tata Lamia,’ she announced from the lofty height of her elephantine heels.

‘Go wherever you like, go with my blessing, but I don’t want to clap eyes on you again.’

‘Could you give me some money?’

‘You’ve got some nerve! You’ve had a good night’s sleep, you’ve had food, you’ve had a laugh… look, here’s 100 dinars… no need to thank me.’

‘A hundred dinars? Is that it? What am I supposed to do with that?’

‘It’s enough to phone your parents… Are you listening to me? What was I saying again? Look, I don’t know the first thing about you, I have my own life, and just because my idiot brother gave you my address doesn’t mean I have to take you in. All right, here’s another hundred… which, I’ll have you know, leaves me without a santeem . Salaries are paid once a month, not that you’d know…’

‘…’

While I was rambling on like a half-wit, she pocketed the money, grabbed her bundle, popped a piece of Turkish delight in her mouth, shrugged her shoulders and stormed out. If I was waiting for a goodbye or a thank you, I’d be waiting still.

Good riddance!

The return to the void was brutal. I hadn’t been expecting it, I’d assumed I would calmly go back to my solitary bliss. It was a wrenching pain, that emptiness that comes with separation. Then a sense of loss takes hold, saps the will. I had suffered it before, now here it was again. Shit! That crazy girl is no concern of mine. Only yesterday, I treated her like an extraterrestrial who had brazenly materialised in my garden and made itself at home. I wondered whether her swollen belly had something to do with Mars or Jupiter. The fact that she comes from Oran, a one-horse town in Algeria, and that my brother sent her doesn’t change a thing. What little I know about her — homeless, destitute and pregnant by person or persons unknown — is hardly likely to endear her to me. If everyone minded their own business, we’d all be better off. Now, suddenly all is silence and sorrow. Bluebeard’s shadow is still standing guard. Does the man never sleep? I don’t mind him being mysterious, but not all the time. A hieratic statue, he is watching me from above. Then, suddenly, the shadow turned and vanished. What the…? Are my eyes playing tricks? Did Bluebeard just turn his back on me contemptuously? Damn it, what the devil has any of this got to do with him?

At the Hôpital Parnet, I glared at my male co-workers as though each one harboured murderous thoughts. I looked again. But, no, they bore the usual scars, nothing more. God, they’re vile, and they dress like a symposium of scarecrows. I don’t like the way they puff out their chests, the way they cut a swathe through the air before them. I’d hear their delusional prating: ‘Hum, hum, we’re the friends of the Sultan, get out of our way.’ They come and they go with the same couldn’t-give-a-shit attitude that has not only destroyed this country but, by the miracle of globalisation, fobbed off any responsibility on others. They talk in loud, bellowing voices, leaving the rest of the populace half-deaf. Whether singing or whistling, moaning or snivelling, whether bickering, backslapping or brown-nosing, they do it with the same gusto; there’s never anything new or different. Their lives are pitted with a thousand and one crimes, routine mistakes, petty slip-ups, but they don’t care. I can’t help thinking that they smile too much. Can there be a reason — any reason — to rejoice in failure? Can there be any excuse — however slim — to justify why they strut about like peacocks when their work is only half done and that badly? I wonder what true crimes they have committed to have such an air of inane innocence.

Shame is a funny thing. The world seems to whirl endlessly, it makes me dizzy. I’m ashamed that other people are not as ashamed of their flaws as I am of mine. On their supercilious faces their faults stick out so much you could forget they had a nose. Maybe I should see a shrink and talk to him about it.

I can tell it’s going to be a long day. I’ll visit the children’s ward, kids understand comedy, to them it’s not a synonym for hypocrisy.

My head is spinning, I’m sweating; worse still I have the terrible feeling of something wriggling in my belly. Could I be pregnant? By what? By whom? The Holy Spirit? An extraterrestrial? A film noir is running through my head, I feel like I’m about to kill somebody.