Tahar Ben Jelloun - A Palace in the Old Village

WHAT MOHAMMED NOW HAD TO DO was get to his feet, put away the prayer rug, close up that crack in the wall, stop that gone-crazy clock, and announce to his wife that as of tomorrow he would begin his ’tirement: the end of his working life, a change of habits, a new existence. How could he tell her all that? He’d have to prepare her, find the right tone, simple words. If I sound happy, she’ll be content; if I feel sorry for myself, she’ll be disheartened. It was momentous news. He wasn’t used to talking to her about his work. But what will I do with a new life? he wondered. I really liked the old one. I’d gotten quite used to it, had no gripes; I got up and left for the plant, it was work, that’s all, yet I was fond of that routine, that early morning departure, with my lunch box in my bag. What will a new life be like? Colourful, full of joy? Or dull and cheerless? I didn’t ask for anything. I’m not the type to ask for anything at all. In a pinch I might dare to ask for directions: Where is city hall please thank you very much excuse me for bothering you….

According to his documents, he’d reached the mandatory age. Suddenly he remembered that he’d had to add on two extra years for some administrative reason known only to the mokaddem back home. Negotiate with management? Gain two more years of work at the plant? Scrounge around for whatever he could get, even offer to work for less pay, but above all, avoid winding up without any work, any routines. Why forbid a man in good health to work? It was too late now, though, to fiddle with his papers. He might even risk prosecution for having lied. He gave up his idea; he wasn’t the kind to commit fraud. Said not a word to his wife or children.

As usual he rose early, made his ablutions, prayed, donned his overalls, fixed himself some tea that he drank standing up as if he were late, took the lunch box prepared by his wife, and left the apartment, saying, See you tonight. It was seven o’clock. On his way to the station, he stumbled two or three times. A small worry kept nagging at him: he should have been sleeping late that day, taking a bath, dressing as if for a holiday, beginning his new life. Something inside him was fighting back; he felt that his fate had strayed from the line traced long before, a clear, straight, dignified line. He took the métro , recognised some familiar faces, smiled a couple of times, then got off at his usual stop. He sat down on a bench to reflect. What exactly am I doing? I must snap out of this. The plant is over. I can’t handle the assembly line anymore. I’m ridiculous. People will make fun of me. I’ll be a unique case in the history of this plant. No one’s ever seen an employee return to work when he’s been fortunate enough to retire! I’m not even looking to earn any money, I could just be there, be useful in case someone gets hurt or sick; I’d fill in for absentees, be the guy who keeps things going, get set up in an office where I’d wait for the call to go wherever I’m needed — and that’s something that’s never been done before. The unions would have a fit. They’d label me a troublemaker, say I was nuts. No, I don’t want any problems with the unions, they don’t like it when anyone steps out of line.

Outside the entrance to the plant, Marcel, the union delegate, came over to say how much he envied Mohammed in his retirement, having all his time to himself now. Mohammed smiled; he felt like offering to switch places with Marcel, but replied instead that he’d come to settle some administrative issues, that he was glad to have a chance to spend time with his children, whom he hadn’t seen much of as they were growing up. He cranked out a few more empty phrases before thanking Marcel for his kindness. Standing at the big gate, he let the others pass by, stared for a while at the ground, took a last look at the entrance, now completely deserted, and walked away. Mohammed was despondent; he felt so sick at heart that his memory felt stuck in the day he’d arrived in France. He had trouble walking, felt his body collapsing, but he got a grip on himself and went to the nearest café to order a large glass of milk. Sitting at his table, he fiddled with the ashtray piled high with butts, then shoved it away and began to make plans.

He thought about spending a few months in Morocco, to start with, but he wouldn’t act like Hassan, who’d taken advantage of his ’tirement to get himself a second wife — a younger, prettier one, obviously — and had never returned to France. He had promised the new wife to take her to the wonderland across the water, but his courage had failed him, and when his young wife became pregnant, Hassan was forced by the disapproval of his entire village to move to the city, where he wrote off his first family and his immigrant past, to start all over again in difficult conditions.

To Mohammed, abandoning your loved ones to begin a new life back home could only be the work of Satan, who loves to divide and destroy families. In his tribe that was not done, no: a man never deserted the mother of his children. Mohammed did not look at other women. He lowered his eyes whenever he spoke of his wife. He did not mention her name or pay her compliments or display any tenderness toward her — at least not in public. He barely glanced at his daughters, never said, How beautiful you are, my princess! Not like that character in a Lebanese soap opera he’d seen on TV.

Was he going to spend his days in Areski the Kabyle’s café? To do what? Play cards or dominos? He didn’t like either game. Drink beer? Never. Watch TV, follow the races, daydream about those half-naked girls in the American shows? Didn’t interest him. As Mohammed was leaving the café, one of his pals called out to him: It’s my old friend! So, I hear you’re in ’tirement, finally, free at last, can you imagine — they pay you not to work anymore, fantastic, no? That’s France! So grateful to us, it’s wonderful, not like back home, where if you get sick, you croak; if you go to the hospital, you have to buy your own medicines and even the thread they sew you up with after an operation, so if you’re lucky, you make it, otherwise you’re done for. Here, you see, you work, and, all right, we don’t make millions, but we earn a good living, and then when you’re tired out they give you your pension to live on, and you can still go to the hospital. It’s free and first rate too, which is wonderful in this country where there’s racism, as you know, but when you step into the hospital you’re treated like everyone else, no racism — I can testify to that — and besides, when you go for a consultation, what do you see? There’s more blacks and Arabs waiting than Frenchies, you ever notice? Not bad! No racism, plus you don’t pay— that’s LaFrance. This country — you’ve got to admit, after all — there’s not just those Le Pen guys here. Hey, let’s drink to that, I’ll buy you a sparkling water! Me — thanks be to God and Mecca — I don’t touch alcohol anymore, but cigarettes, ah, that’s harder, I can’t manage that, so anyway, what are you going to do with yourself? Move back home, take a pretty girl as a second wife — you’re allowed, mind you, you can do as you please, and you know, Ammar is over sixty and he’s a father again, got himself a girl and got her in the family way; it’s all legal, but his kids won’t have anything more to do with him, which is tough but his own fault, he should have been more discreet about it and above all, not made her pregnant! Well, so long, see you soon. Oh, I forgot to tell you: I opened a little grocery store nearby, I sell everything, stop by to see me sometime!

Mohammed remembered how Ammar’s wife Rahma had taken revenge on him after he abandoned her for that brunette from Agadir. Arriving one day out of the blue with her five children, Rahma passed herself off as his younger sister, moved into the newlyweds’ apartment, and presented the young wife with a fait accompli. Frightened, the girl ran home to her parents, who demanded a divorce and damages from the husband; seems he’d forgotten to mention that he was already married. The affair made a huge splash: the polygamous husband had to accept all Rahma’s conditions, and once she was back in France (after beating him soundly without leaving any marks), Rahma demanded her own divorce — on the grounds of polygamy! Ammar had been ordered to pay three-quarters of his pension to his wife and children.