Pondering that episode, Mohammed had to admit that although immigrants from the Maghreb were the targets of racism in Europe, they in turn despised black Africans, whether in France or at home in their own countries. Racism is everywhere! he thought. How would he have reacted if one of his girls had married an African? He even found it hard to imagine such a situation until he sorted things out by considering Moha Touré, his co-worker from Mali on the assembly line. He knew Moha’s family well and had been impressed by the education this man had managed to give his children. I’d rather my daughter married one of Moha’s sons, he told himself, than a Christian boy who hasn’t even been circumcised. Moha was an observant Muslim, unprejudiced, and especially concerned with presenting a good image of Islam. He lectured his children — taught them manners, tolerance, and respect. He was lucky, because they obeyed him. Mohammed’s kids did whatever they wanted. He had no say.
3
MOHAMMED THOUGHT ABOUT his five children. They would stand by him, no question; they wouldn’t abandon him or let him fall prey to sadness but take care of him, fuss over him, give him presents, send him on another pilgrimage to Mecca. No, the children were his pride and his protection against feeling lonesome. They respected him even though they rarely spoke with him. He never said much to them, either; they hadn’t a great deal to talk about. When a problem arose, they’d go to their mother, who would then talk it over with him. Habit and tradition.
They hadn’t seen a lot of their father. He’d always left for the automobile plant while they were asleep, come home in the afternoon, and gone to his room to rest. He praised them when they received good grades at school. He gazed at them tenderly and gave them big smiles. On Sundays he saw his pals at the mosque, then at the Café Hassan, which served no alcohol. It was a place of weary melancholy. Strictly male clientele, some of whom played dominoes. Against the background of a TV always tuned to a Moroccan station, they discussed the high cost of real estate in Agadir and Marrakech or watched Parliament in session and ridiculed those Westernised men dressed up in white djellabas. They talked about plans to go home and sometimes discussed their thorniest problem: their children’s future.
So all that only to wind up without our children! No, that’s not quite it. Let’s just say that our kids are more up-to-the-minute than we are. They’ve discovered modern life and they love it. When you take them home to the countryside, they find everything old-fashioned, don’t like it; at first they’re happy enough, but then they get bored, they’re tourists, tourists in their own country, but they’re not even curious about it, they’re uncomfortable and don’t understand why we love being there while they complain about the dust, the flies, the starving cats, and the old people who do nothing. The landscapes seem weird to them; they expect to see some hero from Star Wars pop up with a light sword in his hand. They wait for something to happen. Nothing, absolutely nothing happens. There are only stones, prickly pear cacti, and dogs staggering around in the stifling heat. Back home is the back of beyond: tons of boredom. It’s hard to talk to our children about our roots. They’ve no idea what home means to us!
But just a minute, my brother! It isn’t their country, let me explain this to you: it’s your country, you’re the one who’s attached to it, while they see it through the eyes of foreigners, and most of them don’t even speak the language, so the truth of it is, it’s our fault, for not teaching them Arabic or Berber! I’m not going back, that’s for sure. When I get my ’tirement, I’m setting myself up here, I’ll open a small café and wait for them to give me some grandchildren! I sold the house in Agadir, at a good price. It was French retirees who bought it; they’re going to live out their lives over there, in the sun — it’s the world turned upside down! And look at the Frenchies themselves: they have kids, who then leave them behind to fend for themselves, and they all go their own ways!
Yes, you’re right, the parents do the best they can, and then one day it’s real hot, really, really hot; it’s a huge heat wave, and then they croak, alone: fifteen thousand old people died from the heat, can you imagine? Alone, with nobody to give them a glass of water, and where were the children? On vacation. Hey, wait a minute — lots of them were in Agadir for the sun and the sea, while their parents were dying alone back in France like animals forgotten by the roadside!* Well, if my son does that to me, I’ll … kill him — no, I’ll disown him — but our children are blessed, they won’t let us die like dogs!
It’s true: in Morocco we don’t have old folks’ homes. We’re not modern, but we’ve still got some good things going for us. You know, the children of the people killed by the heat, they didn’t all come home to bury them. Some of them waited for LaFrance to do that before they bothered to show up! Why? I don’t understand! It was just because. Because they didn’t want to pay for the funerals. Oh yes, my friend, they pinch every sou in this country, they’re not like us. Our parents — Allah said you owe them respect or you’ll go to hell.
Allah says lots of things. He even says it’s our mothers who get us into paradise!
Allah said that? I don’t remember it.
Well, then you’re a godless fool!
Mohammed recalled the story of the man everyone called Momo, Hajji Momo, tall and thin, always wearing a greasy old cap of threadbare velvet, a former soldier in the French army who had left his village in the Aurès Mountains of eastern Algeria to make war against the Germans, to liberate France. He’d had a fight with his brothers and sisters about an inheritance and had been so disgusted that he never again wanted anything to do with that family tearing itself apart over money. He’d gone off to war, fought like a lion, and then in 1945, instead of going back home, decided to stay in France. There he met Martine, a buxom and warm-hearted woman from Normandy. His military pension was not enough to live on, so he worked for Renault with the same energy he’d shown during the war. He was a good man, but he had one fault: he drank. He sobered up in Mecca and for three months did not touch a drop of alcohol. When he returned, however, Martine went through a depression — Momo never knew why — and left him. Momo went straight back into alcoholic hell. Abandoned, without children, he died alone in their tiny apartment and was found three days later. The Arab community was stunned: this was the first time an immigrant had died utterly alone, as sometimes happens in French society. Dying so forlorn, that was intolerable. People had thought this would never happen to Muslims because they all belonged to the same clan, the same house, the house of Islam, which unites the rich and the poor, the great and the humble.
The shadows of Brahim and Momo haunted Mohammed’s thoughts. The life left in front of him, he reasoned, was bound to be shorter than the life behind him. It wasn’t death that frightened him; it was what led up to and brought on death that preoccupied him, even though he was counting on his faith for comfort. That left loneliness, which didn’t scare him, because he was absolutely sure that neither his wife nor his children would abandon him. But the spectre of solitude kept him constant company anyway.
It was during this period of doubt that Mohammed ran away. Like an angry adolescent, he decided one day not to go home as usual after work. He took a different train and wound up where he’d never been before. It was in late spring, when the air was mild; the landscapes had pretty colours, passers-by were smiling, and some said hello to him. He felt buoyant, imbued with the energy of his childhood. Fewer people from the Maghreb lived there; it was mostly eastern Europeans. He went into a bar and asked for a nonalcoholic beer. The waiter, who had his back turned, replied, We don’t carry that stuff here! Thinking he’d made a gaffe, Mohammed ordered a Coke. Still busily cleaning glasses, the waiter said without turning around, With ice, lemon, or nothing? Nothing. The man slid a can of Coke down the bar to Mohammed, who would have liked a straw but didn’t dare ask for one. Making an effort, he said softly, Omelet, I’d like an omelet. The waiter came over, looked him in the face, and shouted, An omelet how? Your choices are country ham and cheese, Parisian ham and button mushrooms, Spanish ham and cheese, Italian prosciutto…. I’d like just an omelet, with nothing else. I don’t eat pork…. Ah! You’re a Muslim! But with a plain omelet, a little glass of white would go very nicely! No, I don’t drink alcohol either. So it’ll be a plain omelet! Not even aux fines herbes? Plain, yes, just eggs and a bit of butter.