Mohamed Choukri - For Bread Alone

But you also go out with certain pickpockets.

No! I don’t know any thieves.

Don’t you know Abdeslam and Sebtaoui?

Sometimes I see them at the Café Trancats, but I don’t go out with them.

Have you any idea where they might be?

I don’t know.

How long is it since you saw them?

More than a week.

He looked down briefly at the papers on his desk. Ayayay! he exclaimed. After a moment, he said: All right. You can go. But be careful you don’t get caught with thieves some day.

I thanked him and went out. In the street I began to spit out the flecks of blood that I had been swallowing while I was in the presence of Señor Alba. (That was the name we used to give him in the old days.) I was thinking: If there’s anybody in the world I wish would die before his hour comes, it’s my father. And if there were others, they would surely look like him. How many times have I killed him in my mind? All that’s needed is for me really to kill him.

I refused to eat the meal, although it tempted me. I did not want to be late to the cinema. I had decided to eat chicken and peas in my imagination that evening. My hand always shakes when I cut a piece of meat in front of him. He glares at me, so that I eat distractedly, like a nervous cat. His essence stays with us even when he is not there himself. None of us had the right to touch anything. His will was necessarily our choice. Sometimes I ask for my share of the food earlier, so that I can eat it by myself. But my mother tells me: No. You shouldn’t eat alone. It’s a bad habit.

My father is closer to Allah than we are, and nearer to the prophets and saints. Many times I have imagined being able to eat in peace, and all I wanted. His presence makes me doubt the reality of whatever food is offered me. My mother tells me: Your father’s not going to eat with us today. Sit down at the taifor with us and eat.

I don’t want anything.

He is not at home but he is here because I’m afraid of him.

Mohamed! Sit down with us and eat, I tell you!

No! I shout. I’m not going to eat.

Why not?

I’ve already eaten chicken with onions, raisins and almonds.

Where? she demanded.

I tapped my forehead. Here, I told her.

Are you crazy, or what?

I told you, I’m full. You understand?

Don’t let him come in later and find you eating by yourself.

Thus she holds him over my head when she wants her own way. My glance upwards at her was dictated by my fear. I began to eat without appetite. My love for her is bound up with my hatred for him. I ceased to eat. He came in. Now the fear is really with me. An instant ago I was imagining his existence. But now here he is, as real as the dish of repulsive tripe on the taifor .

Why aren’t you eating?

I’m full, I told him.

It’s a lie. You’re not full. Not to my way of thinking.

I swear I can’t eat any more.

You’re lying. I know you. You’re the son of this whore here.

I’ve been a whore only with you, she told him. People would know about it if I’d been a whore.

He hit her in the face.

You always humiliate me like this, she cried defiantly.

He hit her a second time, and bellowed at her and at Khemou: Stop eating, you two! Then he turned back to me. You’re going to eat it all by yourself. Just you. He’s going to eat it all, and with no help. By himself! You’re going to eat it, I tell you. Did you hear me or not?

So that he will not hit me, I say: Yes.

Well, get busy. What are you waiting for?

No! No! cried my mother. You’re going to kill him!

Shut up! What a whore she is! Let him die. After he’s gone, you can follow him.

She knelt, raising her face to his. He faces her, like a giant looking down at a midget. The flock is his. He can begin with whichever one he wants. Her resistance has dissolved into sobs. Khemou is all bent over, and I can see her trembling.

By himself! Come on! Start! I’ll show you how to eat. From now on you’re not going to refuse anything that’s offered you. Do you hear?

I looked back at him with tempered revolt on my face.

Don’t look at me that way! He slapped me with all his strength. I hung my head. With the tip of my tongue I felt along the inside of my lower lip. There was a painful cut.

You won’t even refuse carrion if it’s given you!

My mouth is slowly filling with liquid, warm, salty, sweet, delicious. I can feel my stomach swelling. With all my willpower I forced myself to believe that this was a bet, and that I had to win it.

Chewing was a bloody, salty operation. Each mouthful deepens the hatred. Why am I always with this man, simply because he happens to be my father? If I were stronger than he, he would be sitting here in my place eating. I’d be just as hard and crazy as he is.

I awoke in the Hospital Nacional, breathing slowly. They had pumped my stomach. I could still feel the cramps.

His voice reminds me of the needle going into the flesh when the injection is badly given.

Her voice: Asleep.

He’s got to eat with us.

He’s tired. He’s been working very hard with me at the stall.

She puts him off. Which is why I do not hate her as I do him, or wish for her death as I do for his. When he comes into the house, only he has the right to exist.

Sometimes I make mistakes. I heard him talking, thought there was someone with him, went upstairs, and was surprised. I could not go back. I found him sitting alone, an ominous expression on his face. He frowned when he saw me. He had been cursing us who were not present, and thus we were all there around him. He drags back those who are not here, and pronounces judgement on them. Whatever he pleases. Like Allah.

Where’s your mother?

Buying vegetables. At the wholesale market.

Who’s at the stall?

Khemou.

And you?

Mother didn’t want me to go with her.

And now you’ve come here to eat?

No.

Come on. You thought I’d gone to the Feddane. I know a little about you, when you come in and go out, you son of a bitch. Tell me. Isn’t that true? Speak up. I don’t feel like your father. Who knows? Maybe somebody else was with your mother. You’re nothing like me. More like her. She spoils you the whole time. You plot together against me. You defend each other. You never listen to what I tell you. Isn’t it true, what I’m saying? Speak up, you damned whelp! You hate me so much you wish I were dead.

I thought to myself: Now you’re beginning to make sense.

You want her all to yourself. She’s the only thing in the world you care about.

That’s true, I thought. You don’t think I’m going to love a dog like you!

I can see the love in her eyes, and in yours too. Anybody’d think you were still sucking her milk.

And you? I thought. I wonder how your mother was with you.

You’ve still got her milk in you. But I’m the one who married her. She’s your mother, yes. But I’m your father. If there’s anybody you should listen to, it’s me. Nobody else, just me! Me alone! You obey me, not her, do you hear?

I hear you perfectly, O Khalifa of Allah on earth, I said without speaking.

But it’s no good talking to you, he went on. Words don’t mean anything. Even when I’m in front of you, you don’t believe I’m here. I want every one of my children to think of me as always in front of him, whether I’m here or not. Do you hear me, damn you?

I hear, O messenger of Allah!

The only thing you’re good for is to bite your mother’s nipples.

I remained present in front of him as he wanted me to.

Tell me. Just why did you come here now?

Mother told me to come home.

Why?

To clean the room.

You’re all alike, you liars. She doesn’t dare to leave you at the stall because you steal the money. She doesn’t take you with her to the market because you eat everything in sight. The vegetable men and the porters down there have told me all about you. They’ve caught you in the act. Filling your pockets with fruit and nuts, and insulting them if they say anything. If only I could find a way to get rid of you once and for all, damn you!