“And what if we went directly to the chief of police?”
“Why not?”
They went to the police headquarters.
None of the officers knew about Mohamed’s situation. Zineb spoke first:
“Well, in that case we are going to press charges for theft!”
“You’re going to file a charge against the police? Where do think you are, in Sweden?” the officer asked with a wicked smile.
“We just want our cart back.”
“I understand you. Give me your ID cards so that I can make photocopies, and I’ll contact you if there’s any news.”
Zineb didn’t trust him; she refused, pulled Mohamed by his arm, and they left.
They walked through the streets for a long time, holding hands, and, at times, with their arms around each other’s waist.
A car pulled up beside them.
Plainclothes police officers said:
“Your papers.”
“But you’re not married. It’s illegal to walk in deserted streets at this time of the night.”
Zineb used her charm and begged the officer not to report them.
“My father’s very violent. Please, let us go. We’ll go home. We weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“OK, get going. You’re off the hook this time.”
They both went straight home.
Mohamed had a very restless night; he hadn’t told his mother about what happened. Stress made her blood sugar rise, his father had said.
21
Early the next morning, Mohamed washed himself, and then, for the first time since his father’s death, he decided to pray. He changed into clothes that were all white. His mother was asleep; without waking her, he kissed her forehead. He glanced at his sleeping brothers and sisters. Then he ran out of the house. He borrowed his brother’s old motorbike, stopped at a gas station and filled a plastic water bottle with gasoline. He put the bottle in a small bag and headed toward the town hall.
Once there, he asked to see an official.
No one wanted to see him.
He returned to the place where the two police officers had confiscated his cart.
They were there again, and the cart was in a corner. Empty.
Mohamed went up to them and asked to have his cart back.
The male officer slapped him hard and shouted:
“Look, you dirty rat; get lost before I beat the shit out of you!”
Mohamed tried to defend himself. This time the female officer took her turn slapping him and spitting on his face. She shouted:
“You creep, you’re spoiling our breakfast! You have no manners. You’re a nobody…”
Mohamed lay prostrate. He didn’t speak anymore, didn’t move anymore; his face was immobile, his eyes were red, his jaws clenched. Something inside him was about to explode. He stayed in this position for two or three minutes — to him, it felt like an eternity.
The male officer said:
“Go on, get out of here. Your cart, you’ll never see it again. It’s all over. You’ve shown us no respect. And, for this, you pay a price in our beloved country.”
Mohamed’s mouth was dry, his saliva bitter. It was hard for him to breathe. He said to himself, “If I had a gun, I would empty it into these bastards. I don’t have a gun, but I still have my body, my life, my wasted life. This is my weapon.”
22
Mohamed got to his feet and backed away from them. He started up the motorbike and headed back toward the town hall.
He locked his bike to a pole when he arrived and again asked to speak to the mayor or one of his deputies. The man at the front desk was even more furious than he had been the day before. Back outside, Mohamed thought about the bottle of gasoline in the small bag, adjusted his white clothes, and walked around the square. No one noticed him.
It was a sunny December morning. The seventeenth of December. A confused jumble of images rushed through his mind: His mother in bed, his father in his coffin, himself at the Faculty of Arts and Letters, Zineb smiling, Zineb angry, Zineb begging him not to do anything; his mother getting out of bed and calling for him; the face of the woman who had slapped him earlier, who slapped him again; his body bent forward as though he were offering himself to an executioner; the blue sky; a huge tree sheltering him; himself in Zineb’s arms under the tree; himself as a child, running so as not to be late for school; his French teacher praising him; himself taking his college exams, showing his diploma to his parents; the diploma pinned to a sign beside the word unemployed; his diploma burning in the sink at his place; his father’s burial again; screams; birds; the President and his wife wearing huge black sunglasses; the woman who had slapped him; the other who had insulted him… a procession of sparrows crossing the sky; Spartacus; a public faucet; his mother and his two sisters standing in line to get water; the police brutalizing him again; insults, blows, insults, blows…
One last time, Mohamed asked to see the mayor. Refusals and insults. The man at the front desk pushed him with his club and he fell to the ground. Mohamed rose in silence and went to stand in front of the town hall’s main entrance. He took the bottle of gasoline from the bag, poured it over himself, from head to toe, until the bottle was empty. Then he lit his Bic lighter, looked for a moment into its flame, and drew it toward his clothes.
The fire ignited instantly. Within moments, the crowd ran toward him. The front-desk clerk screamed. He tried to put out the fire with his jacket, but Mohamed had transformed into a torch. By the time an ambulance arrived, the fire was out, but Mohamed had lost all human resemblance. He was entirely black, like a grilled lamb.
The front-desk clerk was crying, “It’s all my fault. I should have helped him.”
23
Mohamed is in the hospital. His entire body is wrapped in bandages. Like a shroud. He is in a coma. A commotion in the hallways. Doctors in white coats and nurses race down the hallway that leads to Mohamed’s room. The President has come; the President has just inquired about Mohamed’s fate. The President is not happy. He hears about the mayor who refused to see Mohamed. He orders him fired. The President is angry. He finds out that the international press is covering the story.
A horde of doctors follows the President into the hospital room.
Obscene and ridiculous displays.
The entire country is in revolt. With her hair tied back, Zineb is leading a demonstration. Her fist raised, she’s shouting and screaming.
Mohamed dies on January 4, 2011.
There are demonstrations everywhere. Everyone is shouting: “We are all Mohameds.”
The President leaves the country like a thief. His plane disappears into the starry night.
24
More demonstrations in the country.
Photographs of Mohamed are everywhere. A victim and a symbol. The international media rush to the country to interview his family.
Even a film producer comes to see them. He hands an envelope to the crying mother and says:
“Please accept this help. It’s not much. Such is fate, cruel and unjust.”
Then he bends down and whispers into the weeping woman’s ear:
“It’s important that you don’t speak to anyone else. Don’t give any interviews to journalists. I am going to help you. I will tell Mohamed’s story. The entire world should know what happened. Mohamed is a hero, a victim, and a martyr. Do we agree? You will not speak with anyone else but me. I have to go now, but if you need anything at all, here’s my card, and here’s a cell phone so you can call me.”