Tahar Ben Jelloun - A Palace in the Old Village

Ever since Jamila had left the house, no one had spoken her name in Mohammed’s presence. She had wounded him so deeply that he could not forget his pain.

On Eid al-Kebir, the Feast of the Sheep, Mohammed learned that his other two sons had dropped out of high school to go work in the provinces. None of his children were home for this all-important holiday except little Rekya and Nabile, and for the first time Mohammed realised that the boys had made lives for themselves elsewhere without anyone telling him. One son was a mechanic at a garage in Dreux; the other, who had a real nose for business, had gone to work in his uncle’s grocery store in Compiègne, and he too sent his mother a money order from time to time. The apartment was now too big for Mohammed, his wife, Nabile, and Rekya, the last girl, who worked hard in school and wanted to be a veterinarian. The family had broken up.

Mohammed consoled himself with the thought that life was like that: You have children, you spoil them, then one day — off they go. They hardly remember us anymore, but what can you do? If we were in the village, they’d all be there, before my eyes, but here we’re in a country that knows no pity: you must fight every moment to live, to breathe, to sleep in peace. Mohammed dreamed of bringing everyone back together and having a celebration, but since he was sure his children wouldn’t come, he decided to fall ill, gravely ill. That was the solution! They would come to say good-bye to him in his hospital bed. Mohammed was superstitious, though: one shouldn’t trifle with disease and death and the will of God. Now all his affection was turned toward Rekya, who, having neither the time nor the inclination to comfort him, shut herself in her room to study. At least she’ll pass her finals, her father thought, and go on to graduate school. She’ll be an animal doctor and will come give me a hand on the farm back home.

Mohammed couldn’t imagine, still less accept, that his children’s lives could slip through his hands. He would never forget what Jamila had shouted in anger: You’re sick — you need to get help! Loving your children, wanting them to love you, wanting to be close to them and wishing only the best for them — that’s being sick? That’s why I need help? Fine: I’ll go see a doctor for crazy people and tell him, Well, I’m sick because I love my children, so what medicine should I take for that? Should I swallow some anti-paternal-affection syrup or stuff myself with suppositories to make me forget I have five children, including a daughter who went off with someone foreign to our culture, our religion, and our land? Her behaviour was appalling! And I–I did everything to raise my kids properly, I don’t know where they got this raging resentment of their parents. I don’t think French schools teach children to hate their mothers and fathers. No, it isn’t school; it’s the TV, all those American and French films where families aren’t families anymore, where parents have lost their authority. And I need to get help! I’m sick, all right, and that’s the way I like it!

One day their mother told me: A father should have authority or else nothing works. Just what is this authority ? Is it the authority of fear? Is it being harsh, like those who beat their children only to lose them because they run away, get into drugs, and wind up in prison or the hospital morgue? I always thought that authority came naturally, that I had no need to shout or say the same thing over and over, but when children don’t listen to you, when they do only as they please, then you’re helpless. That’s how it is, so you can only wait it out and hope they’ll be smart enough not to get in trouble. My children have never torched a car or trashed any motorcycles. When the projects blow up, my kids are the first to be frightened by what their friends get up to. They always wanted to be successful, were never tempted by violence and disorder.

It was Nabile who came to console him. He took Mohammed’s hand, embraced him, and they looked into each other’s eyes. Then they went out to a café to have some ice cream.

That afternoon, his head heavy with sorrow, Mohammed hugged Nabile tight without saying a word, blinking back tears. He waited for Rekya to get home from school, kissed her, packed his suitcase, prepared a few provisions, and told his wife, I’m going back home to rest for a while. You’ll come join me with Nabile and Rekya over vacation, so, I’ll leave you some money, and if you need anything, go see Sallam.

Mohammed was going to take the train, since his car — along with many others — had been torched that October, when some youths had gone on a rampage after the accidental electrocution of two of their friends.* The 78—the postcode for Yvelines — had not erupted, but some kids eager to play copycat had set fire to cars in the neighbourhood just for the hell of it, to impress everyone, make a statement. What were they trying to say by burning my Renault? thought Mohammed sadly. Bought on credit at a good price because I was an employee of the firm…. What did I ever do to those wretched kids? Why did they take away my car, when I’m on their side, when we’re of the same blood? Who knows! Someone forgot to bring them up right. Great: those kids, lowlifes, raised rotten, lousy students, disobedient to their parents, couldn’t find anything better to do than set fire to my old car that was so useful to me, especially in the summer. And the insurance guy told me to forget it. Without even looking up at me he says, We are not liable. Those are risks we don’t insure: bad weather, natural catastrophes, civil disorder on public thoroughfares — that’s not our responsibility. We insure against accidents, not gang rebellions, and anyway, if that’s the case, it’s one of your kids who set the fire, because my son isn’t going to torch my car, you follow me? So I can’t help you. Forget your car, buy another one, but if I were you I’d wait for things to calm down. They adore new cars, such a temptation…. Au revoir, monsieur , so sorry, really.

Mohammed had left the insurance office in despair. Why didn’t the French state reimburse poor people victimised by these disturbances? He looked around him; there were almost no parked cars: people had taken precautions. Mohammed just couldn’t understand how young people he saw every day in the elevator would abruptly try to set the city on fire because they were bored, because they wanted to stick it to LaFrance. But I’m not LaFrance! I’m a simple family man stranded in the street without a car to drive back home, that’s all. I’ve never shouted at those kids hanging out in the neighbourhood, and my children didn’t have anything to do with them, I’m sure of that, because they went to work at an early age and don’t live here anymore.

What should I do now? File a complaint at the police station? No, they won’t listen to me, and they’re swamped in any case and too angry. Never talk to an angry policeman. Besides, I hate going into a police station. I’ll take the train, then the boat, then the bus, then a taxi. It will take a long time, I’d better travel light — I’ll have to repack my luggage. Or I could wait until Thursday to take the Gennevilliers — Agadir bus. Yes, but last year the driver fell asleep: twenty dead and as many injured. Can’t trust it. Run by Moroccans who want to make a lot of money in a hurry, so they hire drivers they pay poorly and give them a small bonus only if they drive fast and get there first. So, the driver in the accident got a big bonus: death, poor fellow! The government ought to do something about those buses, but the companies are all corrupt, they pay for whatever they want — permits, surcharges, speeding. Too bad, I’ll take the train, at least I’ll be able to sleep. Well, maybe not, but I’ll try.