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At night he counted on his physical fatigue to put him to sleep before he had to confront the familiar mountain, which kept growing bigger. Sometimes it came to him wreathed in thunderclaps, then toppled onto his back and buried him. He would see heavy stones piling up on his body, crushing the breath from him as he lay paralysed and defenseless. He wasn’t in pain but in trouble, pinned down. When the mountain finally withdrew, leaving him for dead, he would wake up, drink a large glass of water, and go sit in the kitchen to wait for dawn. To keep busy, sometimes he cleaned the spotless floor — old linoleum printed to look like wood — by polishing it with a wet rag. He’d rearrange the small stock of provisions, check the refrigerator to make a mental note of what was needed, brew himself some tea, and study the sky while awaiting the first gleam of sunrise.

He’d never thought the ax would fall so soon, so brutally. He was stunned. Lost. And already in mourning, because there was no escape from retirement, or, as he called it, “’tirement.” No matter how often his children corrected him, he still said “’tirement.” That was his invisible, two-faced enemy, because even though for some people it represented freedom, to him it meant the end of life. Period. The end of everything. No more daily routine, no more paid vacations back home, year after year. Well-earned vacations! His conscience was clear: he had worked hard to earn his living. He detested easy money, hated cheaters, swindlers, loathed fraud and deceit. He’d seen how some of his co-workers’ children lived; he knew what “fell off a truck” meant and had expressly forbidden his children to buy stolen goods.

On the first day in July, he would fill the family car with suitcases and gifts and head straight down the road, like a migratory bird anxious to catch up with the flock. He didn’t speed, rarely stopped, and was happy only when he reached his village, a full 2,882 kilometres from Yvelines. The children and their mother would sleep; he alone drove on and on, covering the distance with impeccably steady resolve. Sometimes he drove with another family — the cars would take turns following each other — but he really preferred to make the trip as the sole person in charge. At the wheel he had but one thought: to get to his house in the village, arrive at the best time to hand out the presents, visit his parents’ tomb the next day, go to the hammam, get a massage from Massoud, and eat crêpes prepared by his elderly aunt. He drove, and in his mind’s eye he saw all that in living colour, bathed in light. He used to smile to himself while his wife slept beside him in the front seat.

At the automobile plant, Mohammed was a creature of habit. Always on time. Determined never to be late or absent. Except when bedridden with flu, he insisted on going to work even if he was sick. He brought his lunch, ate quickly, parked himself on a bench, and closed his eyes. When his comrades teased him, he replied that he needed this little doze, a ritual that never took more than ten minutes. He was as reliable as an expensive watch. Never angry, never at fault: a model worker. In fact, he dreaded the thought of botching anything, being reprimanded; he couldn’t have handled that. At first he was assigned to the automotive assembly line, moving later to the painting shop, which was less tiring but more dangerous. He worked there with a face mask. His health hadn’t suffered; he didn’t smoke, had never touched alcohol. He had a sound body, which too much sugary mint tea was threatening with the first signs of diabetes.

Retirement? No, not for him — and especially not now! What was it, anyway? Who invented it? It was as if they were telling him he was sick and no longer useful to society. An incurable illness, a prognosis of endless ennui — that’s what it was, a curse, although he knew other workers longed for it impatiently. Well, he didn’t. He didn’t think about it. He’d watched his pals retire, and the next thing he knew, death had done for them. Retirement was the introduction to death, lurking at the end of the tunnel. It was a trap, a diabolical invention. He saw no need for it and no possible benefits, especially to his health. No, he was convinced that the real face of retirement was just a skull wearing makeup.

The memory of Brahim then flared up like a flame in the darkness: Brahim, who died five months after leaving the plant in good health, permanently retired by ’tirement. Yes, done in by utter uselessness, condemned to die a few months after his sixtieth birthday. Sentenced by silence to die of idle loneliness. He, Mohammed, was useful! Whenever flu laid him low, knocked him clean off his feet, he knew the assembly line would be less productive, less profitable that day. One morning when his car broke down, he’d raised the hood to see what was wrong and thought, This is a flu car! Whenever he was out sick, nuts, bolts, and other things did not get properly tightened and adjusted. Mohammed was so strict, so meticulous at his job, that he figured the car company would soon collapse if it put him out to pasture. Being useful was vital to him, in fact he wondered how the factory could survive without him, without his obsessively conscientious care, and without men like Brahim, or Habib, who’d quit overnight after winning 752,302 francs in the lottery. Then Mohammed remembered Brahim’s only daughter, who had married a Senegalese and abandoned her family. That story had made the rounds of every Maghrebian family in Yvelines and beyond.

Kader and his spiteful tongue had had a field day, unleashing all his hatred for black Africans: Brahim gave his girl to a black! A black went off with his only daughter! Blacks and Arabs can’t mix! Berbers and blacks aren’t meant to marry. We’re not racist, but the tribe has to stick together! Our daughters should stay within the tribe. At least if he’d been Algerian or Tunisian, there’d be less talk! Back in Morocco, we call blacks abid, “slaves,” and we don’t mix. That girl must be a natural-born slut, you know what I mean? Racist we’re not, but to each his own! Me, I’ve nothing against black Africans, I even think they’re okay, but what I can’t stand, it’s their smell, and yes, we all have a smell, but me, I’m allergic to the smell of Africans, I can’t help it, but I’m not racist, and besides, they probably can’t stand our smell, either. Brahim should have laid down the law — there’s no way his daughter would have disobeyed him!

But Kader, you know we have no control over our children now, and for the slightest thing, a little slap, a light tap on the shoulder, they up and call the police! It’s LaFrance keeping us from educating our children, LaFrance giving them too many rights, and then it’s us in the shit. France, Belgium, Holland — those countries haven’t a clue what authority is anymore.

Too true, my brother, children here are not like those back home: here you can’t raise your hand or chastise them for coming home late or not doing their homework — here everything is ass backward! Poor Brahim, he hasn’t slept a wink since that business. His wife left him; he’s just a shadow of himself, victimised by his daughter, gone off to make babies with a black who claims to work in a bank when the truth of it is, he’s a doorman there, so not only do they smell, they lie! We Algerians, we have no blacks at home, while you Moroccans and Tunisians, you’ve got plenty of them, ’specially in the southern provinces, so if Brahim’s daughter plays “knees up” with a Negro, it’s because where you come from other women do it too!

Well, you, you’re just looking for a fight. Algerians are all aggressive, they’re violent and don’t like the other countries of the Maghreb, everyone knows that, so if Brahim gave his daughter to an African, it proves that us, we’re not racists!