Our Riches, page 10
April 17, 1960
I’ve noticed more and more young people coming to this store, but also the one at 2b, who simply can’t afford to buy books. When I can, I slip them something I love and say: “Take it, pay me later.” And a few weeks or a few months later, they come back with the money.
June 7, 1960
Yesterday, a young man, twenty years old, came to me with a manuscript. He could barely bring himself to look me in the eye. He has written beautifully about the lives of people here.
Idea for a magazine. Discussed it with Roblès, who’s willing to come on board. I’ve got financing for six numbers, at least! We’ll start in October, the whole group of friends. First number in January 1961: homage to Camus. Roblès has suggested a list of writers from Le Seuil who might contribute.
September 9, 1960
More attacks. The ultras issuing threats. Swine.
September 11, 1960
You’d have to be crazy to try launching a magazine in these circumstances. But if we don’t do it now, it will be too late.
September 24, 1960
I was shown a tract that has been distributed to the young Algerian conscripts. There will always be paper for printing trash, that’s the problem.
When our first soldiers came ashore in 1830, they did not find a nation, a sovereign, a government, a people, but tribes without defined territories, constantly at war with one another. The country was in a state of total anarchy. Nomads looted the villages. The cities bled the country dry. There was only one law: Might is right.
[. . .] And then, there is the future, your future. The reserves of oil buried under the sands of southern Algeria will yield, on estimate, 60 million tons per year — four times France’s annual consumption — and in the far reaches of the Algerian Sahara, there is iron, copper, manganese, and the world’s largest phosphate deposit.
October 6, 1960
For months, my customers have been asking me why I’m still here, what my plans are, where I will go. I’m staying; this is where I belong, and anyway, what would I do if I went somewhere else?
October 9, 1960
The banks are panicking because of all the transfers to French accounts. I can’t print anything. The project for the magazine is on hold.
October 17, 1960
I’ve heard that some of the people who signed the Manifesto of the 121 have been censored or barred from all state funding. Vercors refused the Legion of Honor to protest torture in Algeria. The future of this country is tearing whole families apart.
6
The first morning with Claire. The room was freezing. When she pulled up the quilt he saw her fingernails painted sky blue. He had watched her writing words and sentences in a notebook with a red leather cover, and secretly hoped she was writing about him. “It’s for me; stories from the past,” she had said with a smile.
Claire is beautiful. A slim young woman with cold blue eyes. The problem with the color blue is the way it draws you in. You drown in it. You lose yourself.
She often mumbles in her sleep but says it’s nothing, a bad dream, a cloud passing over, drifting by. She counts sheep and falls asleep again, smiling.
In the street, she walks quickly, glancing back from time to time, and always feels she’s being followed. Sometimes, on the way home, the stares even make her want to break into a run. She laughs at her own fear, and turns it into an eccentricity. One day Ryad found her curled up on the sofa. He took her hand. It was warm, soft, slightly dry. Claire sat up. “I like it here, in this brand-new apartment that already smells old. I like being with you, and what we have, however fragile it is.”
Ryad is impatient. He wants to finish this pseudointernship as soon as he can and get back to Paris to be with Claire. He can already see himself arriving at the apartment, finding her asleep in the double bed, slipping in beside her. She will make a grumbling noise and put her arm around him, kiss his neck.
Through the front window of Les Vraies Richesses, he sees drifting clouds reflected in puddles. This city is grim when it rains. Only a few sparrows break the quiet of the morning. Being happy is never simple in Algiers; even if all you have to do is clear out a bookstore and leave, it turns into an epic!
He gets back to work. In one of the books, The Roundness of Days, he finds a dedication: To Edmond Charlot, in friendship, with thanks for taking care of The Roundness of Days. Jean Giono. August 1937. He slips the volume into his suitcase. A present for Claire. Behind the shelves, he finds two black-and-white photos that have fallen down. One is of a group of men. On the back is an almost illegible inscription in black ink: Amrouche, Fouchet, Roblès, Charlot. The other shows a woman leaning against the trunk of a tree, wearing a broad-brimmed hat. On the back is written simply: Manon Charlot. He takes a bundle of a hundred or so subscription cards, their little blanks carefully filled out in a childlike hand — Abdallah’s, he thinks — and dumps them in the trash.
Night is falling when somebody knocks. Outside, the neighbor’s daughter, in her Mickey Mouse pajamas again, waves at him. When Ryad opens the door, she hands him a plate:
“It’s from Mom. She said to bring you something to eat because you don’t have anything and you’ll starve to death and we should take pity on you.”
“Well, tell your mother thank you from me.”
“It’s meatballs with tomato sauce.”
Ryad devours the meal while eyeing the titles of the books at his feet. He rinses the plate in the little bathroom, climbs the stairs, and stretches out on the mattress fully clothed. He hears the roaring of a plane overhead. He imagines the big white shell and its passengers, the darkness in the cabin, the invisible trail in the night. Again he remembers Provence, with Claire and their group of friends. He remembers the sky full of stars, and Claire, hair in a mess, the end of her nose always red, her soft hands, bursts of laughter, rain suddenly falling on the beach out of nowhere, grilled fish, boiled fish, fried fish. In his thoughts, he walks over the sand, avoiding the big black rocks, to the start of a little path. There were flowers climbing up the wall of a house.
He can no longer hear the plane.
It’s almost done. Ryad has dismantled the shelves. Only traces of dust are left to show that for years these walls were lined with books.
Abdallah is not out on the sidewalk. By the door, the horse-faced woman sprays her armpits with a fake perfume. Ryad watches her, disgusted. She notices and shouts:
“What are you doing? What do you want?”
Ryad says nothing.
“Pssscchhh! I’ll blind you, you’ll see, little pervert. Go on, that’s it, get out. Say a word to anyone, and I’ll tell my cousin in the army, and he’ll get you sent to the desert, and you’ll be eaten by a jackal, you little creep.”
Ryad slips away through the alleys. For the first time since arriving, he feels that this corner of Algiers has some kind of charm. He passes empty stores, an elementary school that’s closed, a municipal building on which a pasted sheet announces opening hours and reminds the people of Algiers that they must bring an identity card when making any kind of request. A gray car, a Renault, with two men in it, is keeping pace with him. Ryad glances at the men: mustaches, sunglasses, dark suits. He turns right; the car does the same. Annoyed, he steps into a big general store. He is jostled by a mother with a stroller full of children and packages.
He calls out to an attendant and asks for blue paint.
“What kind of blue?”
“Baby blue.”
“I don’t have any.”
“Navy blue then.”
“None of that either.”
“Sky blue?”
“No, sorry.”
“Periwinkle blue?”
“No, we don’t stock that.”
“Do you have some paint? Any color?”
“No. You know, kid, there’s been a problem with the supply and delivery of paint for a while now.”
“What about that big drum behind you with PAINT written on it?”
“Oh that? That’s nothing. Just for display.”
“OK, OK, forget it. Those blue boxes on castors, behind you, are they for sale?”
“Oh them, yes, you can have them.”
Ryad heads back to the bookstore grumbling to himself. The horse-faced woman is gone, but the gray car, the Renault from before, is now parked in her place. The two men sitting in it are reading newspapers, with the motor switched off. Ryad fills the bucket, pours in some bleach, finds a rag, and covers the floor with newsprint and papers, which crunch underfoot. He starts washing down the walls of the store. Soon they’re looking cleaner. The car remains on the pavement, oblivious to possible fines. When the sun goes down, Ryad decides, finally, to call it a day. He’s hot from all the scrubbing and covered in sweat but he knows that outside the temperature has fallen. The musty odor has been replaced by a stink of bleach. He looks around and makes a mental list of what remains to be done:
Get rid of the books.
Throw out the shelving.
Throw out the mattress.
Throw out the desk and the chair.
Throw out the fridge.
Grab his things and go back to Paris to be with Claire, hoping all the way that she hasn’t stopped painting her nails blue.
Kiss her.
Make her laugh.
He switches on the lights. A long time ago, in this place, he thinks, writers, poets, and painters stood. Enough. All these stories are giving me a headache.
He piles the books haphazardly into the blue boxes on castors. He pushes the boxes out the door and puts a sheet of paper on top that says: FREE, HELP YOURSELF, TAKE THE LOT!!!
The two guys in the gray car are watching. One of them, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, takes out his phone and makes a call. Ryad sets off for Chez Saïd. The black sky is like an enormous ceiling overhead, and the café seems farther away than before. He is weary, worn out, feverish. I have to get this done.
Abdallah is drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. Ryad sits down opposite him without a word. The evening clientele is more anonymous, noisier. Suddenly, a juddering rises from the depths of the earth: outside, a workman is breaking up the pavement with a jackhammer, while two others stare into the hole. After a few minutes, he takes a break. The men put down their tools, come into the café and make themselves comfortable. In the street: bearded men, groups of youths, children, animals, a little man lugging a huge flat-screen TV, an anonymous crowd of people going home. Some teenagers run by waving big Algerian flags, their faces painted green, white, and red. With a smile, Ryad watches them pass. They yell, dance, and sing. Cars honk their horns. The streetlamps flicker on, emitting a greenish light. Some no longer work; the bulbs are gone. Finally, Ryad breaks the silence:
“Interesting news?”
“Accident in a factory. A bad one. Three dead.”
“What happened?”
“They don’t know yet.”
“Is there going to be an investigation?”
“There will be, for sure. You know, when I was eight or nine, there was a terrible accident on one of the colonial farms. An Algerian, a native as they said back then, was crushed by a faulty cart. Nourredine, he was called; he had three children. The cart tipped over, and he fell; it was awful. One of the wheels went over his body. At the time, we didn’t have the right to an investigation. They said: That’s just how it is; no one’s to blame. And we buried the poor man.”
“And you still remember it?”
“It was my first funeral! I’m ashamed to admit it, but at the time I found it all very exciting. The men seemed enormous, like giants. They knew exactly what to do: the body was wrapped in a white sheet; they lifted it up without trembling. Everyone looked sad, but I couldn’t stop thinking about giants. I loved stories about giants. My mother was always making up tales to tell me. She told me that in the beginning the earth was inhabited by giants, but God shrank them down because they were bad. I knew I was supposed to be sad and pray for Nourredine, but I couldn’t. There had been the wake with all the wailing and the tears, and the babies crying, and the women telling stories about the dead man and laughing. Those sounds had lulled me to sleep. The men were gathered outside, full of anger. They were smoking bad tobacco, stamping and jumping to keep themselves warm (that winter was bitterly cold), and wiping away the odd tear. My father let me go with him to the cemetery, in spite of my mother’s protests: she thought I was too young, but I wanted to be with the men, and I felt so good, holding my father’s hand.”
“And why do you carry a sheet on your shoulders?”
“It’s my shroud.”
“Your what?”
“My shroud. The sheet I’ll be buried in.”
“That’s horrible. Why do you lug it around with you all the time like that?”
“So I won’t be a nuisance to anyone. The day God calls me, they’ll be able to bury me straightaway, and I won’t be a bother to my friends.”
“But . . .”
“When you get to my age and you’re on your own, you’ll understand.”
The waiter refills their coffee cups and asks:
“Are you staying to see the match?”
“What match?” asks Ryad
“What do you mean, what match? The match today.”
“Who’s it against?”
“France. A friendly match, sparks are going to fly . . . In five minutes’ time the whole of Algeria will be in front of the television, cheering on the team.”
“But we’ll lose, won’t we?”
“Shut up, you’ll bring us bad luck.”
The workmen look daggers at Ryad. The waiter announces:
“It’s about to start!”
He turns off the lights. Kids bang on the table, yelling excitedly. Students order beers and gulp them down. Abdallah gets up, Ryad follows him. They move to the bar, “the best place to watch a match.” The regulars, a handful of taciturn, sinister-looking drunks, have their eyes fixed on the screen. When the French team comes onto the field, there are boos from certain customers. To which others reply: “Hey shut up! Show some respect, you idiots.” An old man, pretty far gone, it seems, harangues the kids who have painted their faces red, white, and green:
“You look like clowns.”
“Listen, grandpa, don’t you start up again.”
“You’re watching the soccer like faggots . . . pfff.”
“Shut up, will you?”
“I had some dignity, at least, in my time. And how can you go around with a haircut like that?”
“Enough, grandpa!”
“A great player, he was, one of the greats. But you don’t want to learn anything, do you, bunch of idiots! The fourteenth of April 1958, I was what, fourteen. It was a month before the World Cup.”
“Who cares?”
“Two men come into the hospital room where Rachid Mekhloufi is laid up: Mekhloufi, star striker for Saint-Étienne, the reigning champions. He’s twenty-one . . . How old are you? He was injured in the match against Beziers, the day before, so he’s taking it easy. The two men are Mokhtar Arribi, coach of Avignon, you know Avignon? What? You kids know nothing! The other man is Abdelhamid Kermali, who plays for Olympique Lyonnais. All three are from Sétif. Since the massacres in May ’45, things have been going round and round in their heads. They ask Rachid to join them in founding the Algerian national soccer team. He would have to leave France in secret, and give up everything: his friends, his hopes of playing in the World Cup. All to join a team that doesn’t exist in a country that doesn’t really exist either. Rachid says yes straightaway. The other two are thrilled. They’ve been told to give him money if necessary but Rachid asks for nothing. He’s in the French army but he’s prepared to desert and give up the idea of winning the World Cup. He’s only twenty-one, did I say that? OK, all right.”
“Are you going to shut up now?”
“There are ten of them altogether who make the same decision: they cross the Swiss or Italian border and make their way to Tunisia. The risk they took was huge.”
“Shit! French goal.”
“It was in all the papers: ‘Nine French Muslim players from Algeria desert their teams,’ ‘The FLN team,’ ‘Algeria’s fighting team.’ Things went crazy. The secret hadn’t leaked; nobody knew. Not even the FLN, apparently! It was in the news for three days, on radio stations all around the world. The French were furious. The whole world was hearing about us. When did that ever happen? The team that was formed on a sandlot went on to tour the world. Sixty-five victories. France pressured the FIFA to stop them playing, but plenty of countries ignored the ban. People loved the story, and it was moving to see those guys. They advanced the Algerian cause by ten years. That’s not just what I think; I’m quoting Ferhat Abbas. You know who Ferhat Abbas is, right? The pharmacist from Sétif? I don’t know what they teach you at school.”
“Listen, grandpa, we don’t give a shit about that stuff. Drink your beer and watch the match.”
“You know, those kids gave up everything for an idea that could have failed. Some of them could have ended up in front of a firing squad. People in France at the time were calling them traitors. But they should have stopped to think, and asked themselves why young men with such bright futures would give it all away for a cause that France couldn’t see the justice of.”
Two half-drunk young men approach Abdallah and start touching his shroud.
“Oh, it’s so soft, can I stroke it . . . ?”
Abdallah pushes them away. A waitress steps forward to escort the louts from the premises. Her eyes are full of anger. She comes back to tidy and smooth the sheet, then kisses Abdallah on the forehead. He thanks her with a smile. She turns to Ryad:
