Yasmina Khadra - What the day owes the nigth

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s obvious – if you saw his eyes. He looks like a zombie.’

‘What about Jonas? Are you going to take him to see his mother tomorrow?’

‘No.’

‘But you promised.’

‘I’ve changed my mind. He’s barely crawled out of the gutter; I’m not about to push him back into it.’

‘Mahi . . .’

‘Don’t go on about it. I know what I’m doing. Our son has to look to the future. There’s nothing back there but misery.’

I heard Germaine shift nervously in her chair.

‘You can’t give up so easily, Mahi. Your brother needs you.’

‘Don’t you think I’ve tried to help him? Issa is like a ticking time bomb – touch him and he’s liable to explode. He won’t give me a chance. If I offered him a hand, he’d cut my arm off. As far as he’s concerned, anything he gets from other people is charity.’

‘But you’re not other people, you’re his brother.’

‘You think he doesn’t know that? To him, it’s all the same. His problem is that he won’t admit how bad things are. He’s a shadow of the man he was. Besides, he resents me. You can’t imagine how much he resents me. He thinks that if I had stayed with him, we could have saved the farm, the family lands. He’s convinced of it, now more than ever. He’s obsessed with the idea, I know he is.’

‘You’re the one who blames himself . . .’

‘Maybe, but he’s obsessed. I know him. He’s never said anything, but he nurses his anger. He hates me, he thinks I sold out, turned my back on my family, married a heathen. As far as he’s concerned, I sold my birthright for a house in the city, traded my gandurah for a European suit, and even though I wear the fez, he hates me for giving up the turban. We’ll never get along.’

‘You should have given the money to his wife.’

‘She wouldn’t take it. She knows Issa would kill her.’

I rushed upstairs and locked myself in my room.

The following day at noon, my uncle shut up the shop and came to fetch me. Having slept on it, he had changed his mind, or perhaps Germaine had persuaded him; whatever the reason, he was determined to set things straight. He was tired of living in fear. Tired of watching as my father became more and more withdrawn. Tired of worrying that my father might show up unannounced and take me away without so much as an explanation.

My uncle brought me back to Jenane Jato, and the place seemed more terrible than it ever had. Here, time stood still; nothing ever happened; the same weather-beaten faces stared into the sun, the same shadows melted into the darkness. When he saw me, Peg-Leg doffed his turban and the barber almost cut off the ear of the old man he was shaving. The street urchins stopped dead, then lined up to stare at us as we passed, their tattered rags hanging from their scrawny bodies.

My uncle did his best to ignore the abject poverty, walking straight ahead, head held high, his face expressionless. He did not come into the courtyard with me, but waited outside.

‘Take all the time you need, son.’

I dashed inside. Two of Badra’s kids were fighting near the edge of the well; the smaller boy seemed to be trying to dislocate his brother’s elbow. In a corner, near the toilets, Hadda was bending over a pail doing her laundry. Her skirt, hiked up to her thighs, exposed her bare legs to the gentle sun. She had her back to me and didn’t seem to notice the vicious brawl her neighbour’s sons were having.

I lifted the curtain to our tiny room and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I saw my mother lying on a pallet, blanket thrown over her, her face wrapped in a shawl.

‘Is that you, Younes?’ she whimpered.

I ran over and threw myself at her. She wrapped her arms around me and hugged me close. Her arms felt weak. She was burning with a fever.

Feebly she pushed me away; my weight was making it difficult for her to breathe.

‘Why did you come back?’ she asked.

My sister was sitting by the low table, so silent and meek that I hadn’t noticed her at first. Her big vacant eyes were staring at me, wondering where they had seen me before. I had barely been gone two months and already she hardly remembered me. My sister had not yet started to talk. She was not like other children her age; she seemed determined not to grow up.

From my bag I took out the toy I had bought for her and put it on the table. My sister didn’t take it; she simply glanced at it and then went back to staring at me. I picked up the toy – it was a little rag doll – and put it in her hands. She did not even notice.

‘How did you manage to find the house?’ my mother asked.

‘My uncle is waiting outside.’

My mother gave a little cry as she sat up, then threw her arms around me again and hugged me.

‘I’m so happy to see you again. What is it like in your uncle’s house?’

‘Germaine is very nice. She baths me every day and buys me anything I want. I’ve got lots of toys and shoes and I can have jam whenever I want . . . It’s a big house, Maman, there’s lots of rooms for everyone. Why don’t you come and live with us?’

My mother smiled, and all the pain that lined her face disappeared as if by magic. She was beautiful, my mother, with long dark hair that fell to her hips, and eyes as big as saucers. Sometimes, back when we lived on the farm, and I saw her standing on a hill looking out over the fields, I thought she looked like a sultana. She was beautiful, graceful, and when she raced back down the little hill, the misfortune snapping at the hem of her dress could not catch up.

‘It’s true,’ I insisted. ‘Why don’t you come and live with us in my uncle’s house?’

‘That’s not how things work with grown-ups, son,’ she said, wiping something from my cheek. ‘Besides, your father would never agree to live in someone else’s house. He wants to get back on his feet by himself, he doesn’t want to be in anyone’s debt . . . You’re looking well,’ she said. ‘I think you’ve put on weight. And you’re so handsome in your new clothes! You look like a little roumi.’

‘Germaine calls me Jonas.’

‘Who is Germaine?’

‘My uncle’s wife.’

‘It doesn’t matter. The French don’t know how to pronounce our names. They don’t do it to be hurtful.’

‘I’ve learned how to read and write.’

She ruffled my hair.

‘That’s good. Your father would never have let your uncle take care of you if he didn’t know that your uncle could give you things he cannot.’

‘Where is he?’

‘He’s at work. He’s always working . . . You’ll see, one day he’ll come and take you to the house of his dreams. Did you know you were born in a beautiful mansion? The shack you grew up in used to belong to one of the tenant farmers who worked for your father. When your father and I got married, he was rich. The whole village came to celebrate our wedding. We had a proper house with big gardens. Your three elder brothers were born like princes. They didn’t survive. When you were little, you used to run around the gardens until you were exhausted. Then God decided that spring should turn to winter and the gardens died. Such is life, my son. It gives with one hand and takes with the other. But there is no reason why one day we might not get it back. And you – you will be a success. I asked Batoul, and she read it in the ripples of the water. She said you will be a great man. That’s why, whenever I miss you, I know I’m being selfish and I say to myself, he’s better off where he is. He’s safe.’

I DID not stay long with my mother, or perhaps I stayed for an eternity, I couldn’t tell. Time did not matter; there was something else, something more dense, more fundamental. Like prison visiting rooms, what matters is what you remember of the moment shared with the person you have missed so much. I was young, I had no idea of the pain my leaving had caused, of the wound I had become. When I left, my mother did not shed a single tear. She would find time to cry later. She took my hand, she talked to me and smiled. Her smile was like a benediction.