There are a lot of things I don’t understand. And you, Yasmina?
The same with me. There are many things I don’t understand either, her eyes seemed to say.
6
It was the neighbours who forced a truce between my father and me. I went back to helping my mother run her vegetable stand. But I was forbidden to go out at night, which was unbearable. Nights were all I had, since I spent the entire day in the street with my mother.
One morning two secret policemen stood beside the vegetable stand: a Moroccan and a Spaniard. Come with us, said the Moroccan. I thought then of Abdeslam and Sebtaoui. Across from our stall Lalla Kinza sold mint. Her son was there. I asked him to mind the stall for me until I got back, or until my mother returned from the market.
They took me to the jefatura. Where are Abdeslam and Sebtaoui? the Moroccan asked me.
I don’t know them.
What do you mean, you don’t know them?
That’s right.
He slapped me twice and seized the front of my clothing with one hand, twisting it around. Listen! If you don’t tell us the truth, we’re going to put your face on the back of your head. You understand?
A Spanish policeman put his head out of an office and said: Take him to Señor Alvarez.
He was looking down when I went in. Then he slowly raised his head. Aha! So it’s you!
I remembered Aïn Khabbès. In the old days I gave his son Julio all the birds that had died in my traps, because they were not edible. And his wife used to send me to the baqal or take me to market with her to help carry the food back to her house.
Where does your family live now? he asked me.
In Trancats.
Does your mother still sell vegetables?
Yes.
And you. What do you do?
I help her at the stand.
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?