It did not surprise me in the least to find him in an office on the third floor of Block B, except that I understood immediately that my dream of a foreign posting was not on the agenda.
The major did not offer me a chair. He hitched up his belly to sit down, leafed disdainfully through a few papers that made up my file, then, after rubbing his nose, stared intensely at me.
‘Do you know why I have summoned you, Lieutenant?’
‘Captain,’ I reminded him.
‘Not yet. Your promotion will only take effect two months from now, which gives me the opportunity to oppose it.’
‘You would oppose a decree, Major?’
‘Absolutely. It’s one of my prerogatives. His Majesty’s special services have the right to annul any decision up to the highest level if it puts the kingdom in danger.’
He was exaggerating. He was just an underling mouldering in a cupboard through which soldiers who had come from the people had to pass in order to be intimidated; a bootlicker, happy to be trodden on like bird shit whenever he was faced with those stronger than him but ready to send an innocent man to the gallows to show his master how good he was at keeping an eye on things.
Because his name sounded like the king’s, Major Jalal Snoussi liked people to think that he was also from Algeria, as was His Majesty, and that he had excellent relations with the crown prince.
In reality he was as noble as a worm-infested jackal. He had a finger in every rotten pie, his eyes were always bigger than his stomach, and he demanded that his palm be greased for the slightest of favours. He filled his belly at the monarch’s expense, never putting his hand in his own pocket, and replenishing his supplies at every garrison where he had the chefs at his mercy: every night he took delivery of enough to feed a family for a month — poultry, a whole sheep, skinned and jointed by a master butcher, crates of fruit and vegetables, cases of tinned food — and every morning the ravenous waifs would fight like hell around his bins, which army wits had dubbed ‘the canteen of miracles’.
I loathed him and he knew it.
‘You’re here because that tentacle in your mouth is so long we could hang you with it,’ he shouted, slapping the file down on his desk.
I did not react. If this fat pig had any evidence against me, he would have sent me straight to the firing squad. I was convinced he was making it up.
‘I’ve got my eye on you, Muammar.’
‘Which one, Major? The one that squints or the one that swivels from side to side?’
‘Both of them, Lieutenant. The ones that will end up sending you six feet under. I know about your little schemes, you fucking devil. You fill the heads of cretins with your pathetic revolutionary theories, and you dare speak ill of the monarchy that has seen fit to make an officer out of the snivelling beggar you once were. You still stink of the shit of your camels, you know that?’
‘The important thing is not where one comes from, but the road one has taken. No one has ever done me any favours. I have studied without a single grant and I have made myself who I am. Your rank does not give you permission to insult me, Major.’
‘It gives me permission to walk all over you. In your shoes I would not play the hero. You’re not cut out for it. A bigmouth is all you are. A fine talker who believes in his own wild imaginings. I’ve been told about the secret meetings you have been holding all over the shop. You’re whipping up a band of hot-headed fools in your unit. Try and deny it.’
‘I challenge you to produce the proof, Major. Your accusation is extremely serious. I am a competent officer of integrity. I carry out my work according to regulations and I know my rights. I do not steal my men’s rations and I do not ask for a dirham from anyone I do a favour for.’
He looked as if he was about to burst into flames, and nearly ripped the papers in his hands to shreds.
‘Exactly what are you insinuating, Lieutenant?’
‘I am not insinuating anything, I am being perfectly clear and I am ready to defend my words in front of a tribunal. Are you ready to do the same?’
‘No, no, go back to what you just said. What is this tale of rations and dirhams?’
‘Do you want me to draw you a picture, Major? Everyone knows about your trafficking. As for whoever has put you up to this, I do not know what he seeks to gain from it, but I shall not let myself be walked all over. I have done nothing wrong, and your allegations are as far-fetched as they are dangerous. Do you realise what you are suggesting? That I am an agitator?’
I was shouting now, to unnerve him.
He asked me to calm down and have a chair. I refused and remained standing, trembling with anger. There was very little in the file that was burning his fingers and was probably not even mine.
He mopped his face with a handkerchief, breathing heavily.
I had him.
‘I want your informer’s name. He will answer for his calumnies in front of a court martial.’
‘That’s enough,’ the major said. ‘Be quiet. I summoned you because I have your best interests at heart. I hear word that you’re indulging in reactionary statements …’
‘“I hear word”. Who from?’
‘I’m doing my job, like you. I am not allowed to leave anything to chance. I’ve heard that—’
‘That what?’
The major really lost it then.
To shut him up, I clicked my heels and left his office, promising loudly that I would take the whole story to the head of the service prosecuting authority. The truth was that I was so scared, I was doing everything I could to confuse him. The next thing I knew was a sergeant stopping me in the corridor.
‘Muammar Gaddafi, come into my office.’
He had not saluted; he stood in front of me with his jacket over his belt and his sleeves rolled up, which was against regulations. For someone like me, a stickler for discipline, the NCO’s provocatively careless turnout bordered on sacrilege. And not only had he addressed me by name without using my rank, he had practically ordered me to follow him to his office. I could hardly contain my fury.
Slim and blond, the sergeant had the look of the élite, blue eyes and a girlish mouth, one of those cosseted young go-getters from the old Libyan bourgeoisie employed in His Majesty’s special services so that they learnt how to trample ordinary people underfoot. I had met dozens of them at the lycée, where I had had to put up with their overblown arrogance, which was so inflated I felt like killing every one of them. The deep hatred I felt towards these golden boys had been the seed of my diatribes. Every time I came across one of them, I spat secretly to ward off evil spells.
The sergeant was only interested in a single detail.
‘There is a minor problem with your filiation, Muammar.’
‘What problem? And say “lieutenant” when you address me. We did not grow up herding goats together.’
‘I have never herded goats, I’m glad to say,’ he retorted sourly, with heavy emphasis. ‘I don’t need to remind you that function trumps rank, Lieutenant. In this office it is I who decide what happens, like it or not. My department has ordered me to verify the information on your identification form. You will be aware that the higher you rise in rank, the more important the duties you will be called on to fulfil. In consequence it becomes imperative not to make an error about the applicant …’
‘And the problem is?’
‘Your father …’
Already outraged at being pushed around by this little NCO, I was doubly outraged to have to answer to him about my family.