The Happy Marriage (25 page)

It’s crazy how men are so afraid of being alone. What a sin! I’m not afraid of being alone. I even go to the length of creating that solitude and allowing it to reign. It doesn’t make me neurotic. I’m just like a fly, I’m independent-minded and don’t like compromises. My man thought I was rigid. He’s certainly right, but I don’t like that word. It reminds me of death. As for solitude, I get along with it just fine. There’s no need to whine about it to other people, people who are probably all too happy to despise you. I am solitude. Solitude is the fly that takes its time and refuses to budge. I am the solitude that crawls under my man’s skin. I’ve stopped calling him that. He’s never been “my” man, but has instead always belonged to other women, starting with his mother and those two sisters of his, both of whom are witches
.

Today I’m a fly. We’ve lived in solitude for a long time, way before his accident happened. I’ll admit I’m exaggerating a little, dramatizing this as much as I can. I’m left without a choice. I suck blood out of the tip of his large nose. I bother him, bump into him, insult him, spit on his skin, and there’s nothing he can do about it, he can’t even move his arms, hands, or fingers. He’s been taken hostage by his illness and I try not to neglect any details
.

I’m nothing but a fly, any old fly, stupid and stubborn. I’m obstinate. It’s in my genes. The only way I know how to be. It’s just the way things are. I know that’s moronic, but that’s how it is. There’s nothing I can do about it. I am—and always have been—stronger than he ever was. Just like a fly. I have eyes on the back of my head and I’m suspicious of everyone, and I think this suits me very well. This is how it is and nothing’s ever going to change my mind. I’m a fly, a dangerous fly
.

My Version

Before giving you my version of events, I must warn you that I’m nasty. I wasn’t born that way, but when people attack me, I defend myself by any and all means, and I give as good as I get. Truth be told, I don’t give as good as I get, I inflict even worse damage. That’s how it is, I’m not nice, and I hate nice guys, they’re weak, vague, and they’re all alike. I like my relationships with people to be direct, frank, free of compromise and hypocrisy. Yes, I’m inflexible. Flexibility is for snakes and diplomats. I’m not ashamed to say what I’m like because I’m an honest woman. I don’t lie. I cut to the chase. I don’t equivocate. I sprang out of rocks and prickly pears. I was born in an arid land, devoid of all water and shade. There were no trees or plants where I grew up. But there were animals and men. Wretched animals and women resigned to their fate. I rebelled against all that. I reacted to droughts by becoming hard. As far as I’m aware, animals don’t bother with civilities. I’m tough because nice people always wind up dead, wondering why people treated them so badly.

I don’t know the meaning of fear. I’ve never been afraid. I don’t know the meaning of shame. Nobody’s ever been able to shame me.
That’s how it is. No shame, no fear. I’m not afraid of anybody. I’m ready to die, anywhere, any time. I forge ahead, and I don’t look back.

I endured hunger, a great deal of hunger. I endured thirst. I endured the cold. Nobody ever came to my rescue. Very early in life I understood that life isn’t an endless series of dinner parties where everybody loves everybody.

I’m right, and I keep my head high. I don’t allow anyone to push me around or betray me. Betrayal is the worst thing someone can do as far as I’m concerned. I’m capable of killing anyone who betrays me. That’s how it is. I don’t hide my intentions; besides, I don’t have any intentions to start with. I follow through with my decisions. I belong to the night, to a cruel, unforgiving world.

I wonder why I felt the need to warn you. It’s not like me at all. I don’t waste time on chatter. I act. But all I’ve done here is talk. At the risk of failing to act.

My name is Amina, and I am the woman mentioned in this story. I’m tall, five seven, and have brown hair, my natural color. I love life, I’m comfortable in my own skin, and I like to help people. I’m not formally educated, but I’m curious and I’m an autodidact, I read and look things up all the time. I’m telling you all this because I want you to know who I really am. My husband took a lot of liberties with the truth.

I come from a dry, rotten land where nothing grows, that’s dotted only with rocks and prickly pears. It wasn’t even a village, or a
douar
, but a cemetery inhabited by the living. Sometimes the dust was gray, sometimes it was ochre. It would depend on the day. The dust clung to the wild weeds, to the young girls’ faces, and on the hungry dogs and cats. The rest of the world couldn’t have cared less about my village. It was just a nameless place in the middle of nowhere. Some called it Bled el Fna, the village of nothingness. No saint or prophet ever stopped by there. What would have been the point? Why would
they have bothered? For some miserable peasants and a few starved animals? Nothingness, that’s right, the village of nothingness.

My father wanted me to be a shepherdess, and I obeyed him right up to the day when I discovered school. Instead of collecting firewood and looking after the cows, I followed my cousin to the school that lay an hour’s walk from the village. I covered my head in a gray scarf and blended in with the other children. Since most kids hardly ever showed up, the teacher didn’t notice me until I squabbled with a classmate who’d refused to lend me a pencil and a piece of paper. I’m violent, and if anyone refuses to give me something, I just take it. That’s the way it is. I snatched her satchel away from her and started to use it. Then she screamed, and the teacher stepped in and made me spend the whole morning standing in the corner. My father was told about the incident. In any case, he’d never wanted his girl to mix with boys at the local school. “What’s the point of learning how to read and write?” he’d told me. “It would be better if you learned how to birth a calf or an ewe.” My mother didn’t share his opinion and wanted me to study to help dispel the gloominess that sometimes took hold of me and made me very sad. But she had no say. My father was kind to her, but he said it was better for everyone to know their place and to resign themselves to it. He forbade me from going back to school and entrusted me into the care of his uncle Boualem, a grocer in Marrakech who treated me as though I were his maid. Boualem was a miser, a real miser. He spent all of his days in the shop counting tins of sardines, then moving them around and counting them all over again. He never washed very often and thought the ablutions before his prayers were enough—it was his way of being pious! His grooming was incredibly basic. His clothes stank of sweat. He was skinny as a rake, not an ounce of fat on his bones. It was said that skinny men lived for a long time. My aunt would scream at him. Once, he struck her ferociously. She cried. I cried. He forbade us to eat that evening. I was always hungry. On one occasion, I snuck into the grocery shop, which was connected to the house, and stole a jar of
jam. I’d never tasted jam before. The next day, he slapped me so hard it almost knocked my head off my shoulders, without even asking me a question. “That’s the price I had to pay for stealing a jar of jam,” I told myself.

The day Boualem told me he was going to send me to live with strangers, I was frightened and yet relieved. He dropped me off in front of a house where the gate opened by itself. There was a sign that read: “Vicious dog.” I advanced slowly, carrying all my belongings inside a plastic bag. I saw a lady who seemed to find it difficult to walk come toward me. “Come here, little one,” she said, “I’m going to show you your room.” At first, I didn’t understand what I would have to do there; those people were very nice to me and bought me some new clothes (yes, that was the first time anyone had ever bought me any clothes, my mother would usually dress me in hand-me-downs), and they gave me plenty to eat and let me sit at the table with them. I didn’t know how to behave, I found using a fork and knife difficult, so I ate with my fingers, which shocked them. I had to learn to cut my meat and bring it to my mouth gracefully with a fork. They told me about distant countries and the travels they’d been on. They said they were happy to be my new parents. I didn’t understand everything they said, but Zanouba, their maid, translated them for me. I cried and I tore up my new blue dress. They bought me some more dresses and enrolled me in a private school that didn’t have many pupils. They would drop me off there in their car and give me a snack they’d wrapped in a piece of very shiny white paper. I didn’t say a single word at school. I made grimaces and gesticulated, pricked my ears wide and learned French. I remembered everything, I had a great memory. In the evening, I would tell them what I’d learned that day. I got words and things mixed up. Whenever I missed my parents a lot, I would go to Zanouba and cuddle up to her. She would whisper kind, reassuring words and console me. I was lucky, she told me. Yes, lucky to be torn away from my parents and siblings. I never missed the bled, but I couldn’t forget my grandmother. My difficulties at school made things
more difficult. The French couple hired a young man to tutor me. He was handsome. I think I fell in love with him. He was a high school student. I didn’t dare look him in the eye. I must admit that he helped me a lot. He taught me how to read and write. My life changed completely from that moment on. One day, I bled all over my panties. I was ashamed. Fortunately, Zanouba explained it all to me and cleaned me up. I was in love then, and so I started paying attention to what I wore. I wanted to draw the young man’s attention. But by the time the summer arrived, he left and I never saw him again.

I saw my parents twice over the course of three years. They came to bring me my share of oil and honey that my cousins had distributed amongst the villagers.

One day, my new parents told me that they had to return to France. We went to the bled. I felt weird, as though I were a stranger in that village that was devoid of water. There were children covered in flies playing with a dead cat. They had snotty noses and nobody was looking after them. My father came out to meet me, and I thought he was going to kiss me like my foreigner parents did, but instead I was the one who had to kiss the back of his large hand that smelled like dry earth. Without looking me in the eye, he told me: “We’ll see one another again someday, my daughter.” Then he spoke to me about a trip and papers that had to be signed. I saw bundles of banknotes being exchanged between the French couple and my father. I suddenly understood what had happened. My father had sold me! It was dreadful! I started to cry. The lady consoled me. She told me that my father would always be my father. They hadn’t been able to adopt me, so they’d needed a letter from my father so that I could leave with them. That’s how I got my first passport. It was green. The man from the
wilaya
told me in a menacing tone: “Be careful, this is valuable, if you lose it we won’t give you another one, and you’ll spend the rest of your life without a passport and you won’t be able to go anywhere.” When I was about to leave the office, the same man grabbed me and whispered in my ear: “You’re lucky that these Frenchmen are looking
after you, so make sure you don’t embarrass us. Don’t forget that this little green booklet means you are representing Morocco!” But he was wrong, I wasn’t representing anyone, not even my mother, who’d stood motionless while she watched me leave. Maybe she cried too. I shut my eyes and decided I would never think about that unhappy village ever again.

A few weeks later, I left with the French couple in a ship bound for Marseilles. They didn’t speak throughout the entire journey. They were in a bad mood. The woman cried in secret. She told me that she didn’t want to leave that wonderful country but that her husband had to go back to look after his parents, who were old and ill. I told myself that he was a good son. But there was something else that was wrong with this couple who had never managed to have children. I could feel things even though I wasn’t able to call them by their names. They would argue over trifles. The woman wanted to be in charge and her husband would resist her, while I would watch them and remember that my parents had never raised their voices.

We went to live in an apartment that wasn’t very big. Our neighbors, who were Armenians, came to welcome us and brought us marzipan cakes. They had a daughter who was very beautiful, tall and with brown hair. She was seventeen years old even though she looked like she was in her twenties. She quickly became my friend. She often invited me over so she could show me photos that people had taken of her. She wanted to become an actress. “And what about your studies?” I asked her.

“You don’t need to study to become an actress!” she replied, laughing. She already worked as a fashion model and had been fairly successful. As we were the same size, she told me: “You know, if your parents agree, maybe you should try your luck too. People are interested in girls like us now and it’s our turn to become famous. Never cut your hair, instead let it grow and get it blown up, so you’ll look like a lioness!”

I thought that was funny. I loved my hair and took good care of
it, I used henna that gave it a nice red color with brown highlights. My friend then undressed herself, asked me to do the same, and started comparing our measurements: waist, chest, and hips. She said that if I wanted to, I could be a big hit in the fashion world.

I attended high school and took my studies seriously. My Moroccan parents had simply disappeared, whereas my French parents were often nostalgic for Morocco. Then a bunch of their time was sucked up by a complicated drama over their inheritance after my French father’s parents died. For the most part, they gave me a lot of freedom and their absolute trust. I would take advantage of this and accompany my Armenian friend to her fashion shoots. That’s how a guy with red hair asked me to walk in front of him as though I was carrying a jug full of water on my head. I tried to picture what that might look like and walked carefully. “Watch out,” he shouted, “the jug’s going to fall and shatter into a thousand pieces!” So I took a deep breath and walked normally. A woman took me by the hand, undressed me, and told me to put on a weird dress that was full of holes. In fact it was see-through. I didn’t want to wear this dress that made me look like I was naked. So she gave me another dress that was more presentable and told me to walk around the room.