Our Riches, page 2
Abdallah went back to the bookstore. Wrapped in his white sheet, he lay down on the mezzanine at Les Vraies Richesses. Just before falling asleep, he remembered his first night there, and how he couldn’t believe that he was in a place like that, a man like him, who hadn’t been able to go to school before the country’s independence, who had learned to read Arabic at the mosque, and French, oh but that was much later on, and with great difficulty.
Since the closure, Abdallah has slept in a tiny room attached to the pizzeria next door. It’s where they keep the flour, the yeast, the crates of tomatoes, the drums of oil, and the jars of olives. Now there’s a sponge-rubber mattress too, and a few cushions. Moussa hasn’t told the owner that he is giving shelter to a friend. The bookseller spends all his waking hours standing on the pavement with the white sheet around his shoulders, propped on his walking stick. His eyes are moist, and the ruin of this man’s final years is a shame on all the city.
We take turns to make sure that he has what he needs. The lawyers have started going to another neighborhood for lunch, so they won’t have to face Abdallah and his endless questions.
And one night, while the young are down in the street, in front of their apartment buildings, solving the world’s problems, twenty-year-old Ryad arrives, with the key to Les Vraies Richesses in his pocket.
Algeria, 1930
One of the men has a twelve-year-old son who has learned to read French at the School for Native Boys. They stand in a circle around him, smoking quietly. He shows them the front page of the Petit Journal illustré dated May 4, 1930, sold for fifty centimes. It’s a poster for the centenary of Algeria. The headline, in large, bold, capital letters, reads ALGERIA: FRENCH FOR A HUNDRED YEARS. The boy doesn’t dare go on, scared by the suddenly serious looks on the faces of the men, who have even stopped smoking. His father encourages him with a gesture. Slowly, he deciphers the subtitle: “From the conquest of Algiers to the present day, within a century the Barbary Coast has been transformed into a rich and prosperous province.” The newspaper is passed around the circle. The men snort as they examine the illustration: a French regiment landing on a deserted coast in 1830. They’ve erased everything: the Casbah, the port, the gardens, the houses, cafés, markets, inns, but also businesses, bridges, fountains, barracks, trees, language, religion . . . “The Centenary Cantata” sung before Gaston Doumergue, President of the Republic, in May 1930 at the Algiers Opera House tells the same story: before the arrival of the French, all was barbarity.
The men speak quietly:
“How long are we going to hang our heads? The Native Code makes us second-class citizens in our own country. This is our home, our land.”
“We have to fight, and demand our rights; we have to get organized.”
The boy is careful not to draw attention to himself; he knows that the slightest movement will remind the men of his presence, and make them clam up.
“They’ll throw us in jail or send us to New Caledonia.”
We are the natives, the Muslims, the Arabs. Only a handful of us can educate our children when by some miracle there is a place available in one of the rare native schools. And then we have to be able to do without the child’s help on the farm, the farm that belongs to one of the big colonial clans. The clans that make up a powerful lobby, controlling the whole country. No one in Paris cares much about us, us or the thousands of families who have come since the start of colonization, from France, Spain, and Italy, to live in the working-class neighborhoods.
The Centenary is a chance to reinforce colonial authority. It is celebrated in pomp on both sides of the sea. Exhibitions are organized. The politicians who come to Algeria are greeted with proud and beaming smiles. Dances are held on village squares. The women wear cotton dresses; the men wear jackets with broad lapels. Laughter resounds late into the night. Writers sing the sunlight and the joy of living in Algeria. As for us, we shrug our shoulders because we can’t read what they write, and anyway we know it’s all lies. They say that we believe in all kinds of superstitions, that we are picturesque, that we live in tribes and cannot be trusted. They are annoyed by the swarms of children who mill around the passengers coming ashore, offering to carry their suitcases in the hope of earning a little spare change. The first classes of native schoolmasters are photographed at the teaching college. Not until 1921 are they allowed to wear the same uniform as their European counterparts: the navy blue tunic lightened by a few stripes of sky blue and a white collar. And the finishing touch: a black tie. For us, they chose a fez with a violet tassel, an orange jacket, and a green belt. We are shown off because we look like figures from an oriental postcard; we become exotic in our own country. Jean Guillemin, director of the teachers’ college, writes a report on the reorganization of native education. On March 20, 1923, he alerts the inspector of the Algiers education board to the potential danger of mixing native and French students. He is eminent. His expression is grave. His mission is of the utmost importance: to ensure that the two communities coexist in the school system without coming into contact. He recommends separate streams, since it would be too humiliating if a native student were to outperform a French student in the same class. Jean Guillemin is concerned about the self-esteem of certain students.
All is well. It’s the Centenary. Charlie Chaplin opens the Aletti, an art deco hotel built at great expense. All is well. The sun shines brightly; the Mediterranean is beautiful; large colonial houses are going up, with their gardens laid out around them. And in Algiers, the President of the Republic listens to his opera, content with the Centenary that glorifies the power of the nation in his charge. He is pleased that the natives have been involved in the organization of the event. He is unaware, or unwilling to know, that they felt underrepresented. All is well. We are not yet making enough noise to disturb the festivities. The police have locked up or deported native activists and politicians. All is well. And yet the sky is strangely dark, and large black clouds mass overhead.
The father takes his son by the hand and leads him through a maze of narrow streets. “You have to go home, straightaway; your mother will be worried. Hurry up.”
Edmond Charlot’s Notebook
Algiers, 1935–1936
June 12, 1935
I will be bald. That’s one thing I can be sure of, at the age of twenty-one. I comb my thinning hair over my scalp before philosophy class with Jean Grenier at the Algiers lycée. He’s incredible. He doesn’t teach, he tells stories. We never know what to expect when he starts talking. He thinks along with us and gets us to push our thinking to the limit. One day we asked him about his latest book, and he took us on an imaginary tour around the islands that are mentioned in it. I’ve come a long way from that prison-house of a Jesuit school where I studied up to the eleventh grade.
July 23, 1935
Back in Algiers after a short trip to Paris. Talked with my father in the kitchen till late. I told him how deeply I admire Adrienne Monnier. I got a chance to visit her extraordinary lending library, La Maison des amis des livres, at 7 Rue de l’Odéon. Hundreds and hundreds of volumes! They have everything! And what an extraordinary woman Madame Monnier is . . . She told me that she started out with just a few thousand francs. It’s what we need in Algeria. My father agrees, but on a smaller scale, he said. Yes, a smaller scale, as long as it’s in the same spirit. That is: a store selling new and secondhand books, which is also a lending library, and not just a business but a place where people come to talk and read. A sort of meeting place for friends, but with a Mediterranean outlook too: bringing together writers and readers from all the Mediterranean countries, regardless of language or religion, people from all around this sea. And we really have to take a stand against the Algerianists. We have to think bigger!
September 18, 1935
Grandfather Joseph is back from Ghardaïa. At dinner, he was telling me how he had delivered a camel team to a place in the desert, accompanied by a big-game hunter to protect him against bandit attacks. Odd man: trading is his life, and the stories he tells are largely invented. Grandmother was shaking her head in exasperation. We stayed up late drinking and talking about literature and art. He gave me a copy of Roland Dorgelès’s Wooden Crosses, signed by the author, and told me that before it won the Prix Femina, it had been shortlisted for the Goncourt, but lost out to Proust in the last round. All the same, his publisher put a publicity strip on the book that read: Prix Goncourt: 4 votes out of 10. Grandfather never studied, but I’m amazed by all the things he knows. Grandmother went to bed early, but first she made me promise to go to the Sainte-Eugène cemetery with her on Sunday, to visit my mother’s grave.
October 9, 1935
When I was putting books on my shelves, I found ten boxes of breath mints left over from a summer when I used to sell them to stores in the city. I went round to all the grocers, in a short-sleeved shirt, under the burning sun, trying to make a bit of pocket money. It would take me a year at least to finish this lot. I’ll give some to my friends. Do mints have an expiration date, or are they good forever, like books?
October 14, 1935
I helped the lady next door to bring in her shopping. She thanked me and said I was very kind, but added that I had a birdlike stare, like an eagle, no less, as if I wanted to gobble her up. Just as well you’re smiling, she said, otherwise I’d be frightened. Always a pleasure to hear that sort of thing. I pretended not to take offense and pushed my glasses up to the bridge of my nose to give myself a nonchalant air.
November 6, 1935
Grenier asked each of us what we hope to do when we finish our studies. I said that I was fascinated by the printed word. He observed that there is an opening for a bookseller and publisher in Algiers, and said I should seize the opportunity. I told him that I didn’t have the means to set myself up in business. “When two or three people get together,” he said, “with a bit of determination, they can easily achieve things that might have seemed impossible.” And he added: “If you do start publishing, I’ll give you something to help you along.” I offered him some mints. He thought that was funny.
December 24, 1935
Nostalgic, depressed. I went through the box of family photos that my father keeps in his desk drawer. The humidity has damaged them slightly: there’s one of my great-grandfather, a ship’s baker, who came to Algiers with the French fleet in 1830. And one of my parents on their wedding day. The date is inscribed on the back in pencil: “April 6, 1912, Algiers,” nothing more specific. Victor Charlot looking tough and proud: mustache like an upside-down V, tightly knotted tie. And Marthe Lucia Grima: beautiful, so beautiful, and ill at ease. Twenty-three and eighteen, respectively. And then an old press cutting dated August 5, 1919: my mother’s death notice. Just glanced at it, couldn’t bear to read it line by line: Monsieur Victor Charlot and his two sons, Edmond and Pierre . . . deepest sorrow that we inform you . . . sad loss . . . wife, mother, daughter . . . died at Kouba . . . in her twenty-sixth year . . . funeral, which will be held today . . . four-thirty p.m. . . . Villa Hélène, Kouba, Oasis stop . . . church of Saint-Augustin . . . Saint-Eugène cemetery. Had to pull myself together. Literature, at least, will never abandon me. My father brought me some books. I don’t know how I’d ever satisfy my appetite for reading if he wasn’t in charge of book distribution at Hachette.
January 6, 1936
I was thinking again about what Professor Grenier said. I mentioned it to some friends. Jean Pane and Madame Couston (as she insists on being called since her husband died) are very enthusiastic. I dream about it day and night.
February 12, 1936
At dinner, my grandmother handed me a slip of paper she had found when she was tidying up. There was a mischievous little smile on her face. It was a note from one of my old teachers at the Jesuit school: Difficult student; head in the clouds. I take this as support for my decision not to go to university so that I can dedicate myself fully to literature.
March 2, 1936
I keep doing all sorts of calculations. I don’t have much saved up: just the bit of money I earned giving lessons at a business school.
March 4, 1936
Madame Couston doesn’t want to get too involved: she doesn’t have much time because she has to raise her children on her own. I’ve managed to scrape together 12,000 francs. That will have to do for what we’re hoping to set up: a publishing house, a bookstore, and the rest! We might not be facing deserts or panthers, but it’s an adventure all the same.
March 9, 1936
Talked to various members of the family, who are supportive even if they’re disappointed by my choice. They could already see me working in the postal service. But I think I glimpsed a little spark of pride in my father’s eyes; he can’t afford to lend me any money, but he’s promised to give me all the unsold books he can pick up at Hachette. My brother, Pierre, was enthusiastic. Grandfather doesn’t understand. For him, books are a wonderful way to occupy leisure but they have nothing to do with work. “Look what your father earns, a pittance . . .” He thinks I’m going off the rails; I even heard him saying to my grandmother that if I was really determined to sell something, I should go into wine or fruit.
March 11, 1936
Spent the afternoon on the premises of the African Musical Society, over in Belcourt, with student actors from the recently established Workers’ Theater: Sicard, Camus, Poignant, Bourgeois. They’re frantically rehearsing Revolt in Asturias, a play in four acts, which they’ve sketched out together. The action takes place during the workers’ uprising in Spain, in a little town divided into two: on one side, the bourgeoisie; on the other, the proletarians. They’re all together in a café listening to the radio, waiting for the election results. The right-wing party wins. At the same time, we learn that striking miners are occupying the town; they’re armed. Some storekeepers are killed, a truck explodes . . . The government sends in the army and bombers to cut the miners down. The play is brilliant, sharp, scathing. It’s going to be a hit, for sure. The money they make will be donated to charities for children in need, European and Arab.
April 17, 1936
Amazing stroke of luck: there’s a store to let at 2b Rue Charras, right next to the university. It’s tiny: about seven yards by four, but we’ll be fine there. Jean Pane, Madame Couston, and I had fun trying to touch both walls with our outstretched arms. A very steep, creaky staircase — I’ll wax it — leads up to what we have pretentiously dubbed “the second floor.” In fact, it’s a little, closet-like space that we’re planning to turn into an office by setting up a plank on trestles. I’m happy! I’ve got no money left, I’m deep in debt, but I’m happy.
April 20, 1936
Meeting with Emmanuel Andreo who has taken over Victor Heintz’s old printing works at 41 Rue Mogador. Very interesting conversation: he’s a good man, keen to be involved in my projects, and he has faith in the young. He encouraged me to seek out new work, to read, to create. We agreed to do great things together.
April 21, 1936
Camus wants me to print Revolt in Asturias immediately. The authors are furious and desperate: the mayor of Algiers, Augustin Rozis, has decided to shut down the play. A sensitive subject; it could stir up unrest. The mayor is afraid of four literature students! More than two months of work down the drain. And now the troupe has to pay all the expenses: six hundred francs just for the set. I agreed, of course. If the play can’t be performed, it should at least be read. Camus is also planning to distribute a little red tract, which, he said, will start like this:
WORKERS’ THEATER GAGGED
Municipality Takes Fright at
“REVOLT IN ASTURIAS”
Authorized by the Prefect, Banned by the Mayor.
Without a Reason: Arbitrarily.
April 28, 1936
Revolt in Asturias will be published in a few weeks. The dedication reads: “To Algiers, for the friends of the Workers’ Theater. To Sánchez, Santiago, Antonio, Ruiz, and León.” The authors are not named. I’m choosing the paper, the fonts, the colors. The red characters of the title will have a really striking effect. Too risky to publish it under my own name; they could come to the store and seize it. After thinking it over, I decided to use my initials, in lower case and italics: e. c.
May 5, 1936
This will be a library, a bookstore, a publishing house, but above all a place for friends who love the literature of the Mediterranean. As soon as I took possession, I was overjoyed. I’m starting to meet the neighbors, the storekeepers, the waiters. These are the characters in my new world. Revolt in Asturias is on sale. People are saying that e. c. stands for Éditions Camus. They’ll see through the ruse soon enough, but we’re in no hurry to set the record straight; the main thing is, the play is selling.
May 9, 1936
A letter came yesterday from Jean Giono! The great Giono. Without getting my hopes up, I had written to ask for his permission to call the bookstore Les Vraies Richesses, after one of his books, which dazzled me, a book in which he urges us to return to the true riches, that is, the land, the sun, the streams, and finally literature too (land and literature: what could be more important?) — I almost tore the letter as I was opening it, I was so excited. I told Jean Pane what he’d written in reply: “Of course you can use the title. It doesn’t belong to me.”
