“Oum Kalthoum! You like her voice? We do, too. But why have you hung the picture of an old singer who died a long time ago and not one of our beloved President? May God grant him a long life and prosperity!”
“I hadn’t thought about it. If you want, I can remove the singer’s picture.”
“No, keep it, but hang a nice picture of our dear President above it, and one that’s bigger than Oum Kaultoum’s. OK?”
“OK.”
The officers left. Mohamed was covered in cold sweat. He’d had enough of this almost daily harassment. He called Zineb and told her about the incident.
“They want you to give in. These people are rotten. Corrupt to the bone. I admire you for standing up to them.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“So, shall we see each other this evening?”
“Yes, see you in the evening.”
He found an old newspaper with a full-page picture of the President and tried to hang it on his cart. But each time he tried, the page kept falling. So he folded it up and put it under one of the crates. He would bring it out if they asked him again for a picture of the President.
17
While Mohamed waited for customers on a busy street, a newspaper vendor stopped and handed him an Arabic newspaper. On the front page was written: “Scandaclass="underline" An MP from the majority party extorted money from unemployed graduates by making them fill out forms to emigrate to Canada. Five hundred rials per file and 252 victims. He has not been charged.”
Mohamed knew about this swindle, and he would have become a victim of it — if he had ever managed to save the required amount for the “file fee.”
The newspaper vendor said to him:
“You see, we can write about everything, denounce everything, but it doesn’t change anything. The bastard is still an MP. He raked in a huge amount of money, but the authorities didn’t take any action against him.”
“You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if one day one of those victims slit his throat. After all, you can always take justice into your own hands.”
A sudden commotion.
Mohamed guessed that the police were making a roundup; he quickly pushed his cart into a narrow alleyway to hide. Some cats were fighting by an overturned trash can; children played with plastic pistols.
He took a deep breath, crouched down, and held his head in his hands; he felt like throwing everything away and being done for good. But then he thought of his mother, saw Zineb’s face, his brothers, his sisters…. He got up and headed back toward the main street.
18
Mohamed had been working for more than a month despite the countless obstacles he encountered. This morning, for some reason, he had a bad feeling. As he was getting his cart out, one of the wheels fell off. He didn’t know whether it was an accident or the result of sabotage. He had had problems with some of his neighbors who disapproved of his criticizing the regime. One day, the husband next door had said:
“If you continue speaking against the government, you’re going to bring trouble on all of us. Why do you have to run everything down? Do you want everyone to be rich? You’re a communist, aren’t you? You’d better calm yourself, because, in this country, when the police arrest people you never know what shape they’ll be in when they’re returned.”
“See, you too are criticizing the government.”
“No, I’m only stating facts. I’m happy. Life is good.”
Then he started shouting at the top of his lungs, “Long live the President! Long live the First Lady!”
Mohamed got down to repairing the wheel. Children stood around him, wanting to help. The cart was soon working again, and he left.
At the first intersection, a police officer stopped him.
“Where are you off to like this?”
“I’m going to work.”
“Your work permit?”
“You know very well it doesn’t exist.”
“Yes, I know. But it can exist in other forms.”
Mohamed pretended not to understand.
The police officer said:
“Too bad for you. This may cost you a lot more. See you later.”
Mohamed left without turning around. He ran into a funeral procession. There were a lot of people, and, strangely, some of them were carrying the national flag.
Mohamed asked who was being buried:
“A poor guy, like you and me. No one knows exactly how he died. He was arrested last week for something to do with the Internet. Yesterday, his parents found his body dumped in front of their door.”
“Killed by the police?”
“Clearly, but there’s no proof,” the man said in a low voice. “He was a great guy. He worked in a café, and in the evening, he played on the Internet.”
Mohamed followed the procession while pushing his cart. He noticed that police officers in plainclothes were taking pictures.
After the burial, he left for the wholesale market.
19
It was violent. He didn’t even have time to get up. Two uniformed police officers, one of them a woman, threw him to the ground and seized the cart:
“Confiscated!”
“That’s right, you have no right to sell illegally. You have no work permit, no license, and you don’t pay taxes. You’re stealing from the state. So it’s over. Your cart is confiscated.”
The female officer said:
“Now get lost. You’ll get a summons to appear in court. Get the hell out of here!”
Mohamed remained on the ground, because the other officer was still kicking him.
Passersby stopped to watch. Some of them protested. The police threatened them. A jeep arrived, and an officer got out. After the police explained the situation, he got back into the jeep and disappeared.
Then a police van arrived. Other police officers got out and gathered the fruit that had fallen off the cart. One of them even bit into an apple he picked up.
Mohamed, powerless, said nothing, and then he cleared out.
He wandered through the streets, stunned by what had just happened and incapable of thought. Without his realizing it, his steps carried him toward the town hall. He asked to speak to the mayor. The man at the front desk made quick circles at his temple with his index finger to indicate Mohamed was crazy:
“You think you can see the mayor just like that?”
“Why not? I need to speak to him.”
“Who do you think you are to talk to him? Are you rich? Are you important? Now, get out of here and let me drink my tea in peace.” Mohamed insisted:
“Perhaps the deputy mayor…”
“They’re all out. The governor is opening a new mosque.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Let me give you some advice. Drop it.”
“All right, but before I go, let me tell you why I want to speak to the mayor.”
“Why?”
“The police confiscated the one thing I need to make a living, the cart I use to sell fruit. It’s my livelihood.”
“And you think the mayor will overrule the police for the sake of your beautiful eyes?”
“For the sake of justice.”
“Well, aren’t you special! Where did you come from?”
Lowering his voice a little, the man asked:
“Where have you seen justice done in this country?”
Then he stepped out for a moment and returned armed with a club.
“Now, get lost! Or else, I’ll break your pretty face.”
Mohamed didn’t insist anymore.
20
That evening, he saw Zineb, who suggested that she go with him to the town hall. Also, she had another idea: