This is the text of my translation of Tahar Ben Jelloun's Par le feu/By Fire that appeared in the September 16, 2013 issue of The New Yorker. If you have a subscription, you can go the magazine's Web site archives and search for the September 16, 2013 issue. If not, the text follows.
Returning home from the cemetery where he had just buried his father, Mohamed felt as though the burden he carried had become heavier. He was bent, aged. He walked slowly. He had just turned thirty. He’d never celebrated his birthday. The years went by, and they were all alike. Poverty, deprivation, and a vague resignation imbued his life with a sadness that had, over time, come to seem natural. Like his father, he never complained. He was not a fatalist, or even religious.
But his father’s death had turned his life upside down. He was the eldest, and was thus responsible now for the family. Three brothers and two sisters. A diabetic mother, not yet an invalid. Mohamed’s latest job hunt, like many before, had yielded nothing, and now he was nervous. It wasn’t a question of being lucky or unlucky. It was more, he said, a problem of injustice, linked to the misfortune of being born poor. He was not going to sit in front of the Finance Ministry headquarters to protest unemployment anymore. Some formerly unemployed graduates had found work, but he wasn’t one of them. His degree in history interested no one. He could have taught, but the Ministry of Education wasn’t hiring.
He dug out his old schoolbag, hidden in the linen closet, emptied it of all its papers and documents, including his diploma, made a small pile in the sink, and burned them. He watched the flames consume the words, and by chance they burned everything but his name and his date of birth. With a piece of wood, he rekindled the fire until all had turned to ash. His mother, alerted by the smell, rushed in.
“You’ve gone crazy! How will burning your diploma help anything? Now how are you going to apply for a teaching position? Three years gone up in smoke!”
Without a word, he collected the ashes, threw them into the trash, cleaned the sink, and washed his hands. He was calm. He had no desire to speak about or justify his action. What was the use of hanging on to a piece of paper that wasn’t going to get him anywhere? His face remained inscrutable. His mother reminded him to pick up her medicine. The pharmacist would give it to him on credit, she said.
Later, he sat on a bench and stared at a trail of ants on the ground. He asked a boy who sold loose cigarettes for one, lit it, and smoked slowly. The ants had deposited their loads and now headed back to where they had come from.
His mind was made up: he would take over his father’s cart. It was in
bad shape. He would have to repair the wheels, replace a rotten plank, have the scale recalibrated, and get in touch with Bouchaïb, the fruit and vegetable supplier. Where would he find the money?
His mother had sold all her jewelry when his father got sick, and she had nothing left. Mohamed had heard about “microcredit.” He looked into it, and was given a thick stack of forms to fill out. He was quickly discouraged by all the paperwork. He began to regret having burned his diploma.
Mohamed had won a trip to Mecca in a raffle at the Faculty of Arts and Letters, where he had studied. The one time he’d got lucky, he couldn’t take advantage of it. What was he going to do with a plane ticket? He had no desire to go on a pilgrimage to Mecca, and, anyway, he didn’t have the money to carry out the ritual. He wanted the airline to refund the cost of the ticket to him, but it refused. The only thing he could do was sell it to a pilgrim. He managed to get a third of the price, but still had to bribe the travel agent to change the name on the ticket. With the meagre amount he had left, he repaired the cart and, finally, began to sell oranges and apples.
Mohamed knew that Bouchaïb was a crass and dishonest man. His father had often told him this. The man immediately claimed that Mohamed’s father owed him money and hadn’t paid his last two bills. Mohamed had no way of verifying this. He had to come to terms with the guy because Bouchaïb was the only one who sold on credit, charging a markup of ten to fifteen per cent. Mohamed didn’t argue and gave him a deposit for two crates of oranges and one of apples; he also asked for a few baskets of strawberries.
Bouchaïb took him aside and, in a hushed voice, asked after his younger sister. Mohamed answered that she was doing well and was getting ready for her college-entrance exam.
“You know, your father promised her to me,” Bouchaïb said. “I want to get married, have a family. You and I could even become partners. You can’t make ends meet with the fruit cart. There’s a lot of competition, and, also, to get the right spot you have to be on good terms with the police.”
Mohamed looked at him, bowed his head, and left without saying anything. He didn’t really know where to set up his cart. Some venders moved around; others found themselves strategic spots, usually near an intersection or at a traffic circle. He soon saw that the best places were taken, and decided to keep moving. He loudly hawked his oranges and apples, but nobody could hear him over the honking horns. When Mohamed stopped for a moment next to a grocer’s stand, the owner instantly chased him off, shouting, “Are you crazy? What’s wrong with you? I bought my license, and I pay taxes. How am I going to make a living if you plant yourself right in front of me? Go on, get lost!”
On his first day, Mohamed just wandered around, from one street to another. Even so, he managed to sell more than half his produce. He realized that he would need to wake up very early the next day if he wanted to get a good spot before all the others arrived.
At dinner that night, he looked at his younger sister and imagined her in Bouchaïb’s arms. He felt ashamed. A young and innocent girl in the hands of such a brute. Never.
After dinner, he told his mother that Bouchaïb had demanded money from him.“Your father couldn’t stand having debts,” she said. “He paid them off as soon as he could. Bouchaïb is a crook. He has no proof. Just forget about it. Did you remember to get my medicine? I have only one pill left.”
Mohamed took out a box full of books and laid them in front of the house for sale. History books, paperback novels, and a leather-bound copy of “Moby Dick” in English—a prize he won for coming in first in his English class during his senior year of high school. He sold three books, making just enough to buy the medicine. Nobody wanted “Moby Dick,” so he kept it. That night, he reread a few pages and realized that his English was a little rusty.
Before falling asleep, he thought about beautiful Zineb. He had loved her for two years. But with no money, no work, and no home of his own, it was impossible to get married. He was unhappy. What could he promise her when he had nothing to offer? But for now he had more pressing priorities, and he felt that he would succeed if he tackled things one at a time. Zineb would wait for him.
Zineb worked as a secretary at a doctor’s office. She really loved Mohamed. Because she was an only daughter, she had suggested that they get married and live at her parents’ place. But Mohamed was proud; it was unthinkable to depend on his wife and live with his in-laws.
Usually he and Zineb met at a café. They talked a lot, kidded around, and often burst into laughter. More than three months had passed since they’d been able to make love. The last time, Zineb’s cousin had lent them her small apartment while her roommate was travelling.
“Someday,” Zineb said, “we will reach the end of this tunnel. I promise you. I know it. I can feel it. You’ll have a good job, I’ll stop working for this
sleazy doctor, and we’ll start our life. You’ll see.”
“Yes, someday, but you know I’ll never get on one of those flimsy boats and become an illegal. I know your plan: Canada! Yes, we’ll all go to Canada, and we’ll all go to paradise. It’s written some-where. But, in the meantime, I have to feed a big family, take care of my mother, and fight to get a good spot for my cart.”
Zineb took his hands and kissed them. He took hers and did the same.
Mohamed woke up at six. He tried to make as little noise as possible,
so as not to wake his brothers, with whom he shared a room. There was Nabile, twenty years old, an unlicensed tour guide, who often had problems with the police. There was Nourredine, eighteen, a high-school student, who worked in a bakery from Friday evening until Monday morning. And then there was Yassine, fifteen, intelligent, lazy, handsome, and spiritual. He’d promised his mother that he would become a millionaire and take her to visit the Pyramids.
Mohamed washed himself, swallowed a piece of bread, and took out his cart. At the corner of the narrow street, a traffic cop stopped him.
“This is your old man’s cart. Where is he?”
“He’s dead.”
“And you’re just taking over, as if nothing had happened?”
“What’s the problem? Is it forbidden to make an honest living?”
“Don’t be insolent! Your papers.”
Mohamed gave the man all the papers he had on him.
“No insurance. Can you imagine? If you ran over a kid, who would pay? You?”
“Since when is it necessary to have insurance for a fruit cart? This is new.”
The policeman took out a notebook and started writing something while watching Mohamed out of the corner of his eye. After a moment, he said, “You’re playing the fool—pretending you don’t understand.”
“I’m not doing anything. You’re the one who’s doing everything you can to keep me from working.”
“O.K., you can go now, but think about the insurance. I’m telling you this for your own good.”
Then, with both hands, the policeman helped himself to oranges and apples. He bit into an apple, and said, with his mouth full, “Move on now!”
Mohamed found a good spot; it was still quite early. He put down the cart and waited. A car stopped; the driver lowered his window and ordered: “One kilo of each, and give me the good ones.” The next customers were in less of a hurry; they got out of their cars, felt the fruits, asked for the price, bargained, and bought a few oranges.
An hour later, another vender arrived, with a decorated cart and a better, more attractive selection, including some expensive and rare exotic fruits. He had his regular customers. With a look and a slight nod of his head, the man indicated that Mohamed should leave this spot. He obeyed without protesting. Once again, he had to wander the streets. He’d had a good morning all the same, and he decided to have more variety the next time.
By the end of the day, he had sold everything. He went back to Bouchaïb to refill his cart. That evening, although he was tired, he went to see Zineb at her parents’
place; they liked him. He told Zineb about his day and ate some crêpes with her before heading home.
In the meantime, a plainclothes policeman visited Mohamed’s mother.
He asked her about Mohamed and wanted to know why he didn’t see the “unemployed graduate” group anymore. The poor woman answered as well as she could, with hesitation and apprehension. The policeman handed her a summons, according to which her son was to report to the police department that evening. She started to cry, knowing that the police never brought good news. She thought it best to tell the officer, “My son is not political.” He left without replying.
When she gave Mohamed the summons, he looked at it and then stuffed it into his pocket.
“I’ll go in a little while. They’re going to interrogate me. If I don’t go, they’ll come for me, which will be even worse.” “Son, this visit has raised my blood sugar. I can tell; my mouth is dry, and I don’t feel well.”
“These people are paid to create problems for us. In all likelihood, that cop comes from a family as poor as ours. But, as you know, the poor don’t like one another.”
At the police department, Mohamed waited on a bench for a long time. Now and then he got up and tried to find out why he had been called in. No one knew. He suspected that the summons was intended simply to intimidate him. He had received a similar summons when he first joined the unemployed graduates’ demonstrations. Beside him sat an old man who was clearly impoverished; he didn’t say a word, and seemed about to fall asleep. What could one hold against this man, who was coughing and spitting and would have been better of in a hospital room? Mohamed moved away from him. He was afraid of catching tuberculosis.
There was also a woman in a djellabah; she smoked cigarette after cigarette and railed against life. “I was happy in my village. My God, why did I ever marry that imbecile who has now abandoned me?”
She called Mohamed to witness: “I’m a prostitute! I am not ashamed to say it. But someday all this will change, you’ll see; I know this. It can’t go on. . . .”
Around midnight, a man signalled for Mohamed to follow him. Identity verification. Classic interrogation.
The police officer found it intriguing that Mohamed was no longer in touch with his former fellow-activists. He asked if the Islamists had approached him.
“No, it was my father’s death that changed everything. I took over his cart, our only means of survival.”
“Yes, I know. How is it going?”
“I’ve barely got started.”
“You know, there are no miracles. There are those who manage and make quite a bit of money, and there are others—the chumps, the losers. It’s up to you to choose.”
It took Mohamed some time to understand the deal the police officer was offering him: become an informer and have a profitable spot or refuse and say goodbye to his business.
“Think about it hard. Tomorrow I’ll meet you at the Independence traffic circle. Now go home.”
Mohamed knew that if he showed up the next day at the appointed place he would have to accept the cop’s proposition. Early in the morning, he took his cart and headed toward a working-class neighborhood far from the famous traffic circle.
His mother’s diabetes was out of control. She needed to go back to
the doctor and get a new prescription. He made some calculations. Not enough money to meet this unexpected expense. He decided to take her to the public hospital. His seventeen-year-old sister went, too. Mohamed left them at the entrance and started to sell his produce. He realized that this was an excellent spot. People visiting the hospital bought fruit for the patients. An hour later, two police officers, one of them a woman, appeared before him: “Your papers.”
He gave them his papers.
“This is not your neighborhood. What are you doing here?”
“I brought my mother to the hospital; she has high blood sugar.”
“Bless you! It’s good that you brought her here, but you’ll be even more blessed if you clear out. We won’t make you pay a fine this time, but you’ve been warned. Don’t come here again. Is that clear?”
“But this is how I earn my living.”
“God’s earth is vast.”
Mohamed would have liked to answer that God clearly did not like the poor, and that the earth was only vast for those with means. But he told himself, “It’s not worth it; it’ll just make things worse. They could even arrest me for atheism.”
He was perhaps not an atheist, but since the Islamists were almost everywhere now he had distanced himself from religion. His father used to say to him, “The believer is destined for sorrow; God tests him. So be patient, my son!”
Just as Mohamed was about to leave, a car stopped in front of him. The driver, who seemed to be in a rush, asked him to weigh all his fruit and put it into a big basket, which he was hold- ing out. “I want to buy it all. Today is a day of celebration; my son just graduated from high school. Can you believe it? I am going to send him to study in America, yes, sir, to America, because here you can study day and night and then there’s no work, but when you have an American degree they hire you right away. I am happy; he’s my
only son. My daughters don’t count—I can’t get them married, nobody wants them. . . . Well, hurry up, quick, quick! How much is it? Calculate quickly; if you want, I can help you.”
Then, suddenly, there was panic. The street venders all began running—security agents were chasing them. Violently, the police managed to catch two people—a parrot man and a DVD seller. Blows, insults. The parrot was screaming. The DVDs lay smashed on the ground. Among them was the movie “Spartacus,” starring Kirk Douglas. All that remained of the movie was its sleeve. The two venders were thrown into a National Security van. Mohamed felt like screaming, but he thought about his mother, about his entire family. He swallowed his anger and told himself, “I have to see Zineb.”
He was glad to see her. He told her about his day and avoided talking, at first, about the police attack on the street vendors; he suggested that they have some fish in a popular restaurant by the harbor. Soon the two of them were laughing like children in a splendid meadow on a spring day.
They discussed their marriage again. “We have to wait; I just started working. I’ve got to pull off something big first.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to rob anyone! But I’d really like to open a store at the market. One of our neighbors is sick, and he owns a well-positioned store in the central market. It’d be great if he let me take over; I could pay for it little by little. I’ve looked into it. His children don’t want to continue the business; they’re engineers and technicians, so they don’t have job problems. This would be an ideal solution for me. My mother is going to speak to the man.”
“You’re right,” Zineb said. “But I’m tired of waiting. We need to have our own place, even if it’s just a shack, a hole in the wall, a shed. . . .”
At home, the old TV was showing a program celebrating the President’s thirty-year reign over the republic. The President appeared with his wife, who had gained a lot of weight. Both wore makeup, were well dressed—too well dressed, too tidy, with not a hair out of place, and smug, satisfied smiles. The camera followed them through their palace, through their immaculate gardens with perfectly manicured trees and automatic sprinklers to water the lawns. The President’s wife was saying, “My husband works so hard that I have to force him to rest a little; thank God the country is doing well. The people are grateful; they show us their support every day, because they realize that the country is prosperous and is moving forward!”
He had a dream. His father, dressed all in white, was beckoning to Mohamed to join him. He was saying something, but Mohamed couldn’t hear him. He had no desire to join the deceased. Suddenly his mother appeared and said, “Don’t listen to what he’s asking you to do; he is with God, perhaps in Heaven.”
Mohamed woke, disturbed; the dream had been so powerfully real.
It was high time that Mohamed and Zineb had cell phones. He bought two used phones in the central market. The phones were simple. No monthly fee, just a rechargeable SIM card, which allowed them to receive calls even when
the credit was used up.
Mohamed also decided to improve his fruit cart. On one side, he set up a manual juice press. On the other side, he arranged the different fruits in a more appealing way. He also attached a board to show the prices. And, to make it look pretty, he hung a picture of the singer Umm Kulthum. He even bought a flyswatter.
Mohamed seemed destined to be a wandering street vender, since those who collaborated with the police took all the good spots. But one morning he decided to return to the area by the hospital, where business was good.
Soon two police officers arrived and started circling him.
“Umm Kulthum! You like her voice? We do, too. But why have you hung a picture of an old singer who died a long time ago and not one of our beloved President? May God grant him a long life and prosperity!”
“I hadn’t thought about it. If you want, I can remove the singer’s picture.” “No, keep it, but hang a nice picture of our dear President above it, and one that’s bigger than Umm Kulthum’s. O.K.?”
“O.K.”
The officers left. Mohamed was covered in cold sweat. He’d had enough of this almost daily harassment. He called Zineb and told her about the incident. “They want you to give in. These people are rotten. Corrupt to the bone. I admire you for standing up to them.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“So shall we see each other this evening?”
“Yes, see you tonight.”
He found an old newspaper with a full-page picture of the President and tried to hang it on his cart. But the page kept falling. So he folded it up and put it under one of the crates. He would bring it out if they asked him again for a picture of the President.
While Mohamed waited for customers on a busy street, a newspaper vendor stopped and handed him an Arabic newspaper. On the front page was written, “Scandal: An M.P. from the majority party extorted money from unemployed graduates by making them fill out forms to emigrate to Canada: 500 riyals per file; 252 victims. He has not been charged.”
Mohamed knew about this swindle and would have been a victim of it—if he’d ever managed to save the required “file fee.”
The newspaper vendor said to him, “You see, we can write about everything, denounce everything, but it doesn’t change anything. The bastard is still an M.P.; he raked in a huge amount of money, and the authorities didn’t take any action against him.”
“You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if one day one of those victims slit his throat. After all, you can always take justice into your own hands.”
A sudden disturbance. Mohamed guessed that the police were making a roundup; he quickly pushed his cart into a narrow alleyway to hide. Some cats were fighting by an overturned trash can; children played with plastic guns.
He took a deep breath, crouched down, and held his head in his hands; he felt like throwing everything away and being done for good. But then he thought of his mother, saw Zineb’s face, his brothers, his sisters. . . . He got up and headed back toward the main street.
Mohamed had been working for more than a month, despite the countless obstacles he encountered. One morning, however, he had a bad feeling. As he was getting his cart out, one of the wheels fell off. He didn’t know whether this was an accident or the result of sabotage. He’d had problems with some of his neighbors, who disapproved of his criticizing the regime. One day, the husband next door had said, “If you continue speaking against the government, you’re going to bring trouble on all of us. Why do you have to run everything down? You want everyone to be rich? You’re a Communist, aren’t you? You’d better calm yourself, because, in this country, when the police arrest people you never know what shapethey’ll be in when they return.”
“See—you, too, are criticizing the government.”
“No, I’m only stating facts. I’m happy; life is good.”
Then he started shouting at the top of his lungs, “Long live the President! Long live the First Lady!”
Mohamed began repairing the wheel. Children stood around him, wanting to help. The cart was soon on its feet, and he left. At the first intersection, a policeman stopped him.
“Where are you off to like this?”
“I’m going to work.”
“Your work permit?”
“You know very well that it doesn’t exist.”
“Yes, I know. But it can exist in other forms.”
Mohamed pretended not to understand. The police officer said, “Too bad for you. That response may cost you a lot more. See you later.”
Mohamed left without turning around. He ran into a funeral procession. There were a lot of people, and, strangely, some of them were carrying the national flag.
Mohamed asked who was being buried. “A poor guy, like you and me. No one knows exactly how he died. He was arrested last week for something to do with the Internet, and then yesterday his parents found his body dumped in front of their door.”
“Killed by the police?”
“Clearly, but there’s no proof,” the man said in a low voice. “He was a great guy. He worked in a café, and in the evening he played on the Internet.”
Mohamed followed the procession while pushing his cart. He noticed that plainclothes policemen were taking pictures.
After the burial, he left for the wholesale market.
It was violent. He didn’t even have time to get up. Two uniformed police officers, a man and a woman, threw him to the ground and seized the cart.
“Confiscated!”
“You have no right to sell illegally. You have no work permit, no license; you don’t pay taxes; you’re stealing from the state. So it’s over: your cart is confiscated.”
The female officer said, “Now get lost. You’ll get a summons to appear in court. Get the hell out of here!”
Mohamed remained on the ground, because the other officer was still kicking him. Passersby stopped to watch. Some of them protested. The police threatened them. A jeep arrived, and an officer got out. After the police had explained the situation, he got back into the jeep and disappeared.
Then a police van arrived. Other cops got out and gathered the fruit that had fallen off the cart. One of them even bit into an apple he’d picked up.
Mohamed, powerless, said nothing. He wandered through the streets, stunned by what had just happened and incapable of thought. Without his realizing it, his steps carried him to the town hall. He asked to speak to the mayor. The man at the front desk made quick circles at his temple with his index finger to indicate that Mohamed was crazy.
“You think you can see the mayor just like that?”
“Why not? I need to speak to him.”
“Who do you think you are? Are you rich? Are you important? Get out of here and let me drink my tea in peace.”
Mohamed insisted, “Perhaps the deputy mayor . . .”
“They’re all out. The governor is opening a new mosque.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Let me give you some advice: drop it.” “All right, but before I go I have to tell you why I want to speak to the mayor.”
“Why?”
“The police confiscated the one thing I need to make a living, the cart I use to sell fruit. It’s my livelihood.”
“And you think the mayor will over-rule the police for the sake of your beau- tiful eyes?”
“For the sake of justice.”
“Well, aren’t you special! Where did you come from?” Lowering his voice a little, the man asked, “Where have you seen justice done in this country?” Then he stepped out for a moment and returned armed with a club. “Now get lost! Or I’ll break your pretty face.”
Mohamed didn’t insist anymore.
That evening, he saw Zineb, who suggested that she go with him to the town hall. Also, she had another idea.
“What if we went directly to the chief of police?”
“Why not?” They went to the police headquarters. None of the officers there knew about Mohamed’s situation. Zineb spoke first.
“Well, in that case we are going to press charges for theft!”
“You’re going to file a charge against the police? Where do think you are, Sweden?” the officer asked with a wicked smile.
“We just want our cart back.”
“I understand. Give me your I.D. cards so that I can make photocopies, and I’ll contact you if I have any news.” Zineb didn’t trust him; she refused, pulled Mohamed by the arm, and they left.
They walked through the streets for a long time, holding hands, or with their arms around each other’s waist. A car pulled up beside them: plainclothes police officers.
“Your papers. . . . But you’re not married. It’s illegal to walk in deserted streets at this time of night.”
Zineb used her charm and begged the officer not to report them.
“My father’s very violent. Please let us go! We’ll go home; we weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“O.K., get going. You’re off the hook this time.”
They both went straight home. Mohamed had a very restless night; he hadn’t told his mother what happened. Stress made her blood sugar rise, his father had said.
Early the next morning, Mohamed washed himself, then, for the first time since his father’s death, he decided to pray. He changed into clothes that were all white. His mother was asleep; without waking her, he kissed her forehead. He glanced at his sleeping brothers and sisters. Then he ran out of the house. He borrowed his brother’s old motorbike, stopped at a gas station, and filled a plastic water bottle with gasoline. He put the bottle in a small bag and headed toward the
town hall.
There he asked to see an official. No one wanted to see him. He returned to the place where the police had confiscated his cart. They were there again, and the cart was nearby. Empty. Mohamed went up to them and asked for his property back.
The male cop slapped him hard and shouted, “Look, you filthy rat, get lost before I beat the shit out of you!”
Mohamed tried to defend himself. This time the female officer took her turn slapping him and spitting in his face. “You creep, you’re spoiling our breakfast! You have no manners. You’re a nobody.”
Mohamed lay prostrate. He didn’t speak, didn’t move; his face was immobile, his eyes were red, his jaw clenched. Something inside him was about to explode. He stayed in this position for two or three minutes—to him, it felt like an eternity.
The male officer said, “Go on, get out of here. Your cart—you’ll never see it again. It’s all over; you’ve shown us no respect. And, for this, you pay a price in our beloved country.”
Mohamed’s mouth was dry, his saliva bitter. It was hard for him to breathe. If I had a gun, I would empty it into these bastards, he thought. I don’t have a gun, but I still have my body, my life, my wasted life: this is my weapon.
Mohamed got to his feet and backed away from them. He started up the motorbike and headed to the town hall. He locked the bike to a pole and again asked to speak to the mayor or one of his deputies. The man at the front desk was even angrier than he’d been the day before.
Back outside, Mohamed thought about the bottle of gasoline in the small bag, adjusted his white clothes, and walked around the square. No one noticed him.
It was a sunny December morning.
December 17th. A confused jumble of images rushed through his mind: his mother in bed, his father in his coffin, himself at the Faculty of Arts and Let- ters, Zineb smiling, Zineb angry, Zineb begging him not to do anything; his mother getting out of bed and calling for him; the face of the woman who’d slapped him earlier, who slapped him again; his body bent over as though he were offering himself to an executioner; the blue sky; a huge tree sheltering him; himself in Zineb’s arms under the tree; himself as a child, running so as not to be late for school; his French teacher praising him; himself taking his college exams, showing his diploma to his parents; his diploma pinned to a sign beside the word “unemployed”; his diploma burning in the sink; his father’s burial again; screams; birds; the President and his wife wearing huge black sunglasses; the woman who’d slapped him; the other who’d insulted him; a procession of sparrows crossing the sky; “Spartacus”; a public fountain; his mother and his two sisters standing in line to get water; the cops brutalizing him again, insults, blows, insults, blows . . .
One last time, Mohamed asked to see the mayor. Refusals and insults. The man at the front desk pushed him with his club and he fell to the ground. Mohamed rose in silence and went to stand in front of the town hall’s main entrance. He took the bottle of gasoline from the bag, poured it over himself, from head to toe, until the bottle was empty. Then he lit his Bic lighter, looked for a moment into its flame, and drew it toward his clothes.
The fire ignited instantly. Within moments, the crowd ran toward him. The front-desk man screamed. He tried to put out the fire with his jacket, but Mohamed had transformed into a torch. By the time an ambulance arrived, the fire was out, but Mohamed had lost all human resemblance. He was entirely black, like a grilled lamb.
The front-desk man was crying, “It’s all my fault. I should have helped him.”
Mohamed is in the hospital. His entire body is wrapped in bandages, like a shroud. He is in a coma. A commotion in the hallways. Doctors in white coats and nurses race down the hallway that leads to Mohamed’s room. The President has come; the President has inquired about Mohamed’s fate. The President is not happy. He hears about the mayor who refused to see Mohamed. He orders him fired. The President is angry. He finds out that the international press is covering the story. A horde of doctors follow the President into the hospital room.
Obscene and ridiculous displays.
The entire country is in revolt. With her hair tied back, Zineb leads a demonstration. Her fist raised, she is shouting and screaming.
Mohamed dies on January 4, 2011. There are demonstrations everywhere, cries of “We are all Mohameds!” The President leaves the country like a thief. His plane disappears into the starry night.
More demonstrations.
Photographs of Mohamed are everywhere: victim and symbol. The international media rush to the country to interview his family. Even a film producer comes to see them. He hands an envelope to the tearful mother and says, “Please accept this help; it’s not much. Such is fate, cruel and unjust.”
He bends down and whispers into the weeping woman’s ear, “It’s important that you don’t speak to anyone else. Don’t give any interviews to journalists. I am going to help you. I will tell Mohamed’s story. The entire world should know what happened. Mohamed is a hero, a victim, and a martyr. Do we agree? You will not speak with anyone but me. I have to go now, but, if you need anything at all, here’s my card, and here’s a cell phone so you can call me.”
The mother didn’t understand anything this person said. But her daughters understood very well: “This guy wants to buy our brother’s death and profit from it! What a nightmare! What an utter nightmare! Mohamed’s story doesn’t belong to anyone. It’s the story of a simple man, like millions of others, who, after being crushed, humiliated, and denied in life, became the spark that set the world ablaze. No one can ever steal his death.”
(Translated, from the French, by Rita S. Nezami.)
But his father’s death had turned his life upside down. He was the eldest, and was thus responsible now for the family. Three brothers and two sisters. A diabetic mother, not yet an invalid. Mohamed’s latest job hunt, like many before, had yielded nothing, and now he was nervous. It wasn’t a question of being lucky or unlucky. It was more, he said, a problem of injustice, linked to the misfortune of being born poor. He was not going to sit in front of the Finance Ministry headquarters to protest unemployment anymore. Some formerly unemployed graduates had found work, but he wasn’t one of them. His degree in history interested no one. He could have taught, but the Ministry of Education wasn’t hiring.
He dug out his old schoolbag, hidden in the linen closet, emptied it of all its papers and documents, including his diploma, made a small pile in the sink, and burned them. He watched the flames consume the words, and by chance they burned everything but his name and his date of birth. With a piece of wood, he rekindled the fire until all had turned to ash. His mother, alerted by the smell, rushed in.
“You’ve gone crazy! How will burning your diploma help anything? Now how are you going to apply for a teaching position? Three years gone up in smoke!”
Without a word, he collected the ashes, threw them into the trash, cleaned the sink, and washed his hands. He was calm. He had no desire to speak about or justify his action. What was the use of hanging on to a piece of paper that wasn’t going to get him anywhere? His face remained inscrutable. His mother reminded him to pick up her medicine. The pharmacist would give it to him on credit, she said.
Later, he sat on a bench and stared at a trail of ants on the ground. He asked a boy who sold loose cigarettes for one, lit it, and smoked slowly. The ants had deposited their loads and now headed back to where they had come from.
His mind was made up: he would take over his father’s cart. It was in
bad shape. He would have to repair the wheels, replace a rotten plank, have the scale recalibrated, and get in touch with Bouchaïb, the fruit and vegetable supplier. Where would he find the money?
His mother had sold all her jewelry when his father got sick, and she had nothing left. Mohamed had heard about “microcredit.” He looked into it, and was given a thick stack of forms to fill out. He was quickly discouraged by all the paperwork. He began to regret having burned his diploma.
Mohamed had won a trip to Mecca in a raffle at the Faculty of Arts and Letters, where he had studied. The one time he’d got lucky, he couldn’t take advantage of it. What was he going to do with a plane ticket? He had no desire to go on a pilgrimage to Mecca, and, anyway, he didn’t have the money to carry out the ritual. He wanted the airline to refund the cost of the ticket to him, but it refused. The only thing he could do was sell it to a pilgrim. He managed to get a third of the price, but still had to bribe the travel agent to change the name on the ticket. With the meagre amount he had left, he repaired the cart and, finally, began to sell oranges and apples.
Mohamed knew that Bouchaïb was a crass and dishonest man. His father had often told him this. The man immediately claimed that Mohamed’s father owed him money and hadn’t paid his last two bills. Mohamed had no way of verifying this. He had to come to terms with the guy because Bouchaïb was the only one who sold on credit, charging a markup of ten to fifteen per cent. Mohamed didn’t argue and gave him a deposit for two crates of oranges and one of apples; he also asked for a few baskets of strawberries.
Bouchaïb took him aside and, in a hushed voice, asked after his younger sister. Mohamed answered that she was doing well and was getting ready for her college-entrance exam.
“You know, your father promised her to me,” Bouchaïb said. “I want to get married, have a family. You and I could even become partners. You can’t make ends meet with the fruit cart. There’s a lot of competition, and, also, to get the right spot you have to be on good terms with the police.”
Mohamed looked at him, bowed his head, and left without saying anything. He didn’t really know where to set up his cart. Some venders moved around; others found themselves strategic spots, usually near an intersection or at a traffic circle. He soon saw that the best places were taken, and decided to keep moving. He loudly hawked his oranges and apples, but nobody could hear him over the honking horns. When Mohamed stopped for a moment next to a grocer’s stand, the owner instantly chased him off, shouting, “Are you crazy? What’s wrong with you? I bought my license, and I pay taxes. How am I going to make a living if you plant yourself right in front of me? Go on, get lost!”
On his first day, Mohamed just wandered around, from one street to another. Even so, he managed to sell more than half his produce. He realized that he would need to wake up very early the next day if he wanted to get a good spot before all the others arrived.
At dinner that night, he looked at his younger sister and imagined her in Bouchaïb’s arms. He felt ashamed. A young and innocent girl in the hands of such a brute. Never.
After dinner, he told his mother that Bouchaïb had demanded money from him.“Your father couldn’t stand having debts,” she said. “He paid them off as soon as he could. Bouchaïb is a crook. He has no proof. Just forget about it. Did you remember to get my medicine? I have only one pill left.”
Mohamed took out a box full of books and laid them in front of the house for sale. History books, paperback novels, and a leather-bound copy of “Moby Dick” in English—a prize he won for coming in first in his English class during his senior year of high school. He sold three books, making just enough to buy the medicine. Nobody wanted “Moby Dick,” so he kept it. That night, he reread a few pages and realized that his English was a little rusty.
Before falling asleep, he thought about beautiful Zineb. He had loved her for two years. But with no money, no work, and no home of his own, it was impossible to get married. He was unhappy. What could he promise her when he had nothing to offer? But for now he had more pressing priorities, and he felt that he would succeed if he tackled things one at a time. Zineb would wait for him.
Zineb worked as a secretary at a doctor’s office. She really loved Mohamed. Because she was an only daughter, she had suggested that they get married and live at her parents’ place. But Mohamed was proud; it was unthinkable to depend on his wife and live with his in-laws.
Usually he and Zineb met at a café. They talked a lot, kidded around, and often burst into laughter. More than three months had passed since they’d been able to make love. The last time, Zineb’s cousin had lent them her small apartment while her roommate was travelling.
“Someday,” Zineb said, “we will reach the end of this tunnel. I promise you. I know it. I can feel it. You’ll have a good job, I’ll stop working for this
sleazy doctor, and we’ll start our life. You’ll see.”
“Yes, someday, but you know I’ll never get on one of those flimsy boats and become an illegal. I know your plan: Canada! Yes, we’ll all go to Canada, and we’ll all go to paradise. It’s written some-where. But, in the meantime, I have to feed a big family, take care of my mother, and fight to get a good spot for my cart.”
Zineb took his hands and kissed them. He took hers and did the same.
Mohamed woke up at six. He tried to make as little noise as possible,
so as not to wake his brothers, with whom he shared a room. There was Nabile, twenty years old, an unlicensed tour guide, who often had problems with the police. There was Nourredine, eighteen, a high-school student, who worked in a bakery from Friday evening until Monday morning. And then there was Yassine, fifteen, intelligent, lazy, handsome, and spiritual. He’d promised his mother that he would become a millionaire and take her to visit the Pyramids.
Mohamed washed himself, swallowed a piece of bread, and took out his cart. At the corner of the narrow street, a traffic cop stopped him.
“This is your old man’s cart. Where is he?”
“He’s dead.”
“And you’re just taking over, as if nothing had happened?”
“What’s the problem? Is it forbidden to make an honest living?”
“Don’t be insolent! Your papers.”
Mohamed gave the man all the papers he had on him.
“No insurance. Can you imagine? If you ran over a kid, who would pay? You?”
“Since when is it necessary to have insurance for a fruit cart? This is new.”
The policeman took out a notebook and started writing something while watching Mohamed out of the corner of his eye. After a moment, he said, “You’re playing the fool—pretending you don’t understand.”
“I’m not doing anything. You’re the one who’s doing everything you can to keep me from working.”
“O.K., you can go now, but think about the insurance. I’m telling you this for your own good.”
Then, with both hands, the policeman helped himself to oranges and apples. He bit into an apple, and said, with his mouth full, “Move on now!”
Mohamed found a good spot; it was still quite early. He put down the cart and waited. A car stopped; the driver lowered his window and ordered: “One kilo of each, and give me the good ones.” The next customers were in less of a hurry; they got out of their cars, felt the fruits, asked for the price, bargained, and bought a few oranges.
An hour later, another vender arrived, with a decorated cart and a better, more attractive selection, including some expensive and rare exotic fruits. He had his regular customers. With a look and a slight nod of his head, the man indicated that Mohamed should leave this spot. He obeyed without protesting. Once again, he had to wander the streets. He’d had a good morning all the same, and he decided to have more variety the next time.
By the end of the day, he had sold everything. He went back to Bouchaïb to refill his cart. That evening, although he was tired, he went to see Zineb at her parents’
place; they liked him. He told Zineb about his day and ate some crêpes with her before heading home.
In the meantime, a plainclothes policeman visited Mohamed’s mother.
He asked her about Mohamed and wanted to know why he didn’t see the “unemployed graduate” group anymore. The poor woman answered as well as she could, with hesitation and apprehension. The policeman handed her a summons, according to which her son was to report to the police department that evening. She started to cry, knowing that the police never brought good news. She thought it best to tell the officer, “My son is not political.” He left without replying.
When she gave Mohamed the summons, he looked at it and then stuffed it into his pocket.
“I’ll go in a little while. They’re going to interrogate me. If I don’t go, they’ll come for me, which will be even worse.” “Son, this visit has raised my blood sugar. I can tell; my mouth is dry, and I don’t feel well.”
“These people are paid to create problems for us. In all likelihood, that cop comes from a family as poor as ours. But, as you know, the poor don’t like one another.”
At the police department, Mohamed waited on a bench for a long time. Now and then he got up and tried to find out why he had been called in. No one knew. He suspected that the summons was intended simply to intimidate him. He had received a similar summons when he first joined the unemployed graduates’ demonstrations. Beside him sat an old man who was clearly impoverished; he didn’t say a word, and seemed about to fall asleep. What could one hold against this man, who was coughing and spitting and would have been better of in a hospital room? Mohamed moved away from him. He was afraid of catching tuberculosis.
There was also a woman in a djellabah; she smoked cigarette after cigarette and railed against life. “I was happy in my village. My God, why did I ever marry that imbecile who has now abandoned me?”
She called Mohamed to witness: “I’m a prostitute! I am not ashamed to say it. But someday all this will change, you’ll see; I know this. It can’t go on. . . .”
Around midnight, a man signalled for Mohamed to follow him. Identity verification. Classic interrogation.
The police officer found it intriguing that Mohamed was no longer in touch with his former fellow-activists. He asked if the Islamists had approached him.
“No, it was my father’s death that changed everything. I took over his cart, our only means of survival.”
“Yes, I know. How is it going?”
“I’ve barely got started.”
“You know, there are no miracles. There are those who manage and make quite a bit of money, and there are others—the chumps, the losers. It’s up to you to choose.”
It took Mohamed some time to understand the deal the police officer was offering him: become an informer and have a profitable spot or refuse and say goodbye to his business.
“Think about it hard. Tomorrow I’ll meet you at the Independence traffic circle. Now go home.”
Mohamed knew that if he showed up the next day at the appointed place he would have to accept the cop’s proposition. Early in the morning, he took his cart and headed toward a working-class neighborhood far from the famous traffic circle.
His mother’s diabetes was out of control. She needed to go back to
the doctor and get a new prescription. He made some calculations. Not enough money to meet this unexpected expense. He decided to take her to the public hospital. His seventeen-year-old sister went, too. Mohamed left them at the entrance and started to sell his produce. He realized that this was an excellent spot. People visiting the hospital bought fruit for the patients. An hour later, two police officers, one of them a woman, appeared before him: “Your papers.”
He gave them his papers.
“This is not your neighborhood. What are you doing here?”
“I brought my mother to the hospital; she has high blood sugar.”
“Bless you! It’s good that you brought her here, but you’ll be even more blessed if you clear out. We won’t make you pay a fine this time, but you’ve been warned. Don’t come here again. Is that clear?”
“But this is how I earn my living.”
“God’s earth is vast.”
Mohamed would have liked to answer that God clearly did not like the poor, and that the earth was only vast for those with means. But he told himself, “It’s not worth it; it’ll just make things worse. They could even arrest me for atheism.”
He was perhaps not an atheist, but since the Islamists were almost everywhere now he had distanced himself from religion. His father used to say to him, “The believer is destined for sorrow; God tests him. So be patient, my son!”
Just as Mohamed was about to leave, a car stopped in front of him. The driver, who seemed to be in a rush, asked him to weigh all his fruit and put it into a big basket, which he was hold- ing out. “I want to buy it all. Today is a day of celebration; my son just graduated from high school. Can you believe it? I am going to send him to study in America, yes, sir, to America, because here you can study day and night and then there’s no work, but when you have an American degree they hire you right away. I am happy; he’s my
only son. My daughters don’t count—I can’t get them married, nobody wants them. . . . Well, hurry up, quick, quick! How much is it? Calculate quickly; if you want, I can help you.”
He took out his cell phone and started calculating as Mohamed dictated the numbers.
“Well, it comes to two hundred and fifty-three riyals.”
The man handed him three hundred-riyal bills. “You deserve it. You are a good guy—it shows.”
Mohamed started pushing his cart toward the wholesale market. He wasn’t going to go to Bouchaïb anymore. He would pay cash. At the end of the afternoon, he put his cart away and went to wait for Zineb at the entrance to her office.
Nearby were a large number of busy young people. He was stunned by how many ways these people had thought of to make a living: there were people speed-washing cars; helping the elderly; making toys out of soda cans; or selling loose American cigarettes, hand-drawn postcards, maps, or photographs of Mi- chael Jackson and Ben Harper.
There were acrobats dressed in red, performing tricks; there were monkey trainers, parrot trainers, venders of pirated DVDs, with films for all tastes—Indian, the latest American, classic films, Egyptian and French; there were also storytellers with microphones pinned to their jackets. Only snake charmers, fortune-tellers, sorcerers, and other swindlers were missing.
There were acrobats dressed in red, performing tricks; there were monkey trainers, parrot trainers, venders of pirated DVDs, with films for all tastes—Indian, the latest American, classic films, Egyptian and French; there were also storytellers with microphones pinned to their jackets. Only snake charmers, fortune-tellers, sorcerers, and other swindlers were missing.
Then, suddenly, there was panic. The street venders all began running—security agents were chasing them. Violently, the police managed to catch two people—a parrot man and a DVD seller. Blows, insults. The parrot was screaming. The DVDs lay smashed on the ground. Among them was the movie “Spartacus,” starring Kirk Douglas. All that remained of the movie was its sleeve. The two venders were thrown into a National Security van. Mohamed felt like screaming, but he thought about his mother, about his entire family. He swallowed his anger and told himself, “I have to see Zineb.”
He was glad to see her. He told her about his day and avoided talking, at first, about the police attack on the street vendors; he suggested that they have some fish in a popular restaurant by the harbor. Soon the two of them were laughing like children in a splendid meadow on a spring day.
He said to her, “The police defeated Spartacus! He was crushed under the tires of the van.”
They returned home on foot. On the way, they saw some street kids making a fire to warm themselves. One of them asked for a cigarette.
“I don’t smoke,” Mohamed said, “but take this and buy something to eat.”
Police vans drove slowly alongside them. Prostitutes were being asked for their papers. Zineb noticed one of the girls slipping a banknote into a cop’s pocket. It was routine. That was how things went.
They discussed their marriage again. “We have to wait; I just started working. I’ve got to pull off something big first.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to rob anyone! But I’d really like to open a store at the market. One of our neighbors is sick, and he owns a well-positioned store in the central market. It’d be great if he let me take over; I could pay for it little by little. I’ve looked into it. His children don’t want to continue the business; they’re engineers and technicians, so they don’t have job problems. This would be an ideal solution for me. My mother is going to speak to the man.”
“You’re right,” Zineb said. “But I’m tired of waiting. We need to have our own place, even if it’s just a shack, a hole in the wall, a shed. . . .”
At home, the old TV was showing a program celebrating the President’s thirty-year reign over the republic. The President appeared with his wife, who had gained a lot of weight. Both wore makeup, were well dressed—too well dressed, too tidy, with not a hair out of place, and smug, satisfied smiles. The camera followed them through their palace, through their immaculate gardens with perfectly manicured trees and automatic sprinklers to water the lawns. The President’s wife was saying, “My husband works so hard that I have to force him to rest a little; thank God the country is doing well. The people are grateful; they show us their support every day, because they realize that the country is prosperous and is moving forward!”
The President made a gesture with his hand, as though waving to a child. These images were accompanied by some syrupy background music, which got on Mohamed’s nerves. His mother was dozing. His brothers and sisters were getting ready for bed. Yassine showed Mohamed his report card. For every class, it said more or less the same thing: “Intelligent boy, talented student, but lazy. Could do better.” Yassine laughed and said, “I get bored in class, and, in any case, what’s the point of studying? You’ve seen it yourself—you studied like crazy, and then no job. Now you’ve taken up Dad’s cart.”
Mohamed tried to give his brother some hope, but it was difficult. There was too much injustice in the country, too much inequality and humiliation. Yassine told him that while returning home from school he had seen a man being beaten by the police. The man was screaming, and people stopped, but no one intervened.
“I recognized the guy; he was the caretaker of that glass building—you know, the one on the other side of the neighborhood. The guy was fired, but nobody knows why. Today he stole a chicken. It was bizarre; the man was screaming, and so was the chicken, because he wouldn’t let go of it.”
“I recognized the guy; he was the caretaker of that glass building—you know, the one on the other side of the neighborhood. The guy was fired, but nobody knows why. Today he stole a chicken. It was bizarre; the man was screaming, and so was the chicken, because he wouldn’t let go of it.”
Early the next morning, Mohamed left to buy his fruit. He bought a larger variety this time. Coming out of the market, he met a former fellow-activist, who had got a job at the town hall.
“I don’t do anything there. I’m in an office with four other clerks,” he said. “Some of them have files to work on, but I don’t. I’m bored. Plus, I haven’t
been paid yet; it’s been six months. I live on credit. I think they hired some university graduates just to make us shut up, when in fact they don’t have any positions for us. And how about you?”
“As you can see.”
They said goodbye and parted. Ten minutes later, as Mohamed was waiting at a red light, two policemen in plain clothes pulled him aside.
“What were you and your friend talking about?”
“Nothing.”
The first slap took Mohamed by surprise. He yelled and got a punch in his
stomach.
“Shut the fuck up. Come on, what’s your friend’s name?”
“I forgot his name.”
Another slap. Some passersby stopped. One of the cops threatened them.
“Clear off! He’s a thief. We’re doing this to protect you; let us do our job.”
Mohamed cried, “It’s not true! I am not a thief!”
Seeing the crowd close in on them, the cops knocked the cart over and left
Mohamed with all his fruit on the ground.
The crowd comforted him; they helped him pick up the fruit, though most of the strawberries were crushed. Some of the people said, “This is disgusting! How shameful! Attacking a poor street vender.” “They behave as if they were in Mafia movies. These bastards all want their share!” “This can’t go on! One day or another, God will bring the truth to light.” “God’s on the side of
the rich!”
Arguments followed.
“Villain! Infidel! God is with everyone! God is everywhere.”
The people decided to buy Mohamed’s fruit out of solidarity. He gave
away the strawberries that weren’t crushed. He didn’t feel like working anymore;
he felt sick.
He went home, put away the cart, and decided to take advantage of his brothers’ absence to sleep and recuperate a bit.
He had a dream. His father, dressed all in white, was beckoning to Mohamed to join him. He was saying something, but Mohamed couldn’t hear him. He had no desire to join the deceased. Suddenly his mother appeared and said, “Don’t listen to what he’s asking you to do; he is with God, perhaps in Heaven.”
Mohamed woke, disturbed; the dream had been so powerfully real.
It was high time that Mohamed and Zineb had cell phones. He bought two used phones in the central market. The phones were simple. No monthly fee, just a rechargeable SIM card, which allowed them to receive calls even when
the credit was used up.
Mohamed also decided to improve his fruit cart. On one side, he set up a manual juice press. On the other side, he arranged the different fruits in a more appealing way. He also attached a board to show the prices. And, to make it look pretty, he hung a picture of the singer Umm Kulthum. He even bought a flyswatter.
Mohamed seemed destined to be a wandering street vender, since those who collaborated with the police took all the good spots. But one morning he decided to return to the area by the hospital, where business was good.
Soon two police officers arrived and started circling him.
“Umm Kulthum! You like her voice? We do, too. But why have you hung a picture of an old singer who died a long time ago and not one of our beloved President? May God grant him a long life and prosperity!”
“I hadn’t thought about it. If you want, I can remove the singer’s picture.” “No, keep it, but hang a nice picture of our dear President above it, and one that’s bigger than Umm Kulthum’s. O.K.?”
“O.K.”
The officers left. Mohamed was covered in cold sweat. He’d had enough of this almost daily harassment. He called Zineb and told her about the incident. “They want you to give in. These people are rotten. Corrupt to the bone. I admire you for standing up to them.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“So shall we see each other this evening?”
“Yes, see you tonight.”
He found an old newspaper with a full-page picture of the President and tried to hang it on his cart. But the page kept falling. So he folded it up and put it under one of the crates. He would bring it out if they asked him again for a picture of the President.
While Mohamed waited for customers on a busy street, a newspaper vendor stopped and handed him an Arabic newspaper. On the front page was written, “Scandal: An M.P. from the majority party extorted money from unemployed graduates by making them fill out forms to emigrate to Canada: 500 riyals per file; 252 victims. He has not been charged.”
Mohamed knew about this swindle and would have been a victim of it—if he’d ever managed to save the required “file fee.”
The newspaper vendor said to him, “You see, we can write about everything, denounce everything, but it doesn’t change anything. The bastard is still an M.P.; he raked in a huge amount of money, and the authorities didn’t take any action against him.”
“You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if one day one of those victims slit his throat. After all, you can always take justice into your own hands.”
A sudden disturbance. Mohamed guessed that the police were making a roundup; he quickly pushed his cart into a narrow alleyway to hide. Some cats were fighting by an overturned trash can; children played with plastic guns.
Mohamed had been working for more than a month, despite the countless obstacles he encountered. One morning, however, he had a bad feeling. As he was getting his cart out, one of the wheels fell off. He didn’t know whether this was an accident or the result of sabotage. He’d had problems with some of his neighbors, who disapproved of his criticizing the regime. One day, the husband next door had said, “If you continue speaking against the government, you’re going to bring trouble on all of us. Why do you have to run everything down? You want everyone to be rich? You’re a Communist, aren’t you? You’d better calm yourself, because, in this country, when the police arrest people you never know what shapethey’ll be in when they return.”
“See—you, too, are criticizing the government.”
“No, I’m only stating facts. I’m happy; life is good.”
Then he started shouting at the top of his lungs, “Long live the President! Long live the First Lady!”
Mohamed began repairing the wheel. Children stood around him, wanting to help. The cart was soon on its feet, and he left. At the first intersection, a policeman stopped him.
“Where are you off to like this?”
“I’m going to work.”
“Your work permit?”
“You know very well that it doesn’t exist.”
“Yes, I know. But it can exist in other forms.”
Mohamed pretended not to understand. The police officer said, “Too bad for you. That response may cost you a lot more. See you later.”
Mohamed left without turning around. He ran into a funeral procession. There were a lot of people, and, strangely, some of them were carrying the national flag.
Mohamed asked who was being buried. “A poor guy, like you and me. No one knows exactly how he died. He was arrested last week for something to do with the Internet, and then yesterday his parents found his body dumped in front of their door.”
“Killed by the police?”
“Clearly, but there’s no proof,” the man said in a low voice. “He was a great guy. He worked in a café, and in the evening he played on the Internet.”
Mohamed followed the procession while pushing his cart. He noticed that plainclothes policemen were taking pictures.
After the burial, he left for the wholesale market.
It was violent. He didn’t even have time to get up. Two uniformed police officers, a man and a woman, threw him to the ground and seized the cart.
“Confiscated!”
“You have no right to sell illegally. You have no work permit, no license; you don’t pay taxes; you’re stealing from the state. So it’s over: your cart is confiscated.”
The female officer said, “Now get lost. You’ll get a summons to appear in court. Get the hell out of here!”
Mohamed remained on the ground, because the other officer was still kicking him. Passersby stopped to watch. Some of them protested. The police threatened them. A jeep arrived, and an officer got out. After the police had explained the situation, he got back into the jeep and disappeared.
Then a police van arrived. Other cops got out and gathered the fruit that had fallen off the cart. One of them even bit into an apple he’d picked up.
Mohamed, powerless, said nothing. He wandered through the streets, stunned by what had just happened and incapable of thought. Without his realizing it, his steps carried him to the town hall. He asked to speak to the mayor. The man at the front desk made quick circles at his temple with his index finger to indicate that Mohamed was crazy.
“You think you can see the mayor just like that?”
“Why not? I need to speak to him.”
“Who do you think you are? Are you rich? Are you important? Get out of here and let me drink my tea in peace.”
Mohamed insisted, “Perhaps the deputy mayor . . .”
“They’re all out. The governor is opening a new mosque.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Let me give you some advice: drop it.” “All right, but before I go I have to tell you why I want to speak to the mayor.”
“Why?”
“The police confiscated the one thing I need to make a living, the cart I use to sell fruit. It’s my livelihood.”
“And you think the mayor will over-rule the police for the sake of your beau- tiful eyes?”
“For the sake of justice.”
“Well, aren’t you special! Where did you come from?” Lowering his voice a little, the man asked, “Where have you seen justice done in this country?” Then he stepped out for a moment and returned armed with a club. “Now get lost! Or I’ll break your pretty face.”
Mohamed didn’t insist anymore.
That evening, he saw Zineb, who suggested that she go with him to the town hall. Also, she had another idea.
“What if we went directly to the chief of police?”
“Why not?” They went to the police headquarters. None of the officers there knew about Mohamed’s situation. Zineb spoke first.
“Well, in that case we are going to press charges for theft!”
“You’re going to file a charge against the police? Where do think you are, Sweden?” the officer asked with a wicked smile.
“We just want our cart back.”
“I understand. Give me your I.D. cards so that I can make photocopies, and I’ll contact you if I have any news.” Zineb didn’t trust him; she refused, pulled Mohamed by the arm, and they left.
They walked through the streets for a long time, holding hands, or with their arms around each other’s waist. A car pulled up beside them: plainclothes police officers.
“Your papers. . . . But you’re not married. It’s illegal to walk in deserted streets at this time of night.”
Zineb used her charm and begged the officer not to report them.
“My father’s very violent. Please let us go! We’ll go home; we weren’t doing anything wrong.”
“O.K., get going. You’re off the hook this time.”
They both went straight home. Mohamed had a very restless night; he hadn’t told his mother what happened. Stress made her blood sugar rise, his father had said.
Early the next morning, Mohamed washed himself, then, for the first time since his father’s death, he decided to pray. He changed into clothes that were all white. His mother was asleep; without waking her, he kissed her forehead. He glanced at his sleeping brothers and sisters. Then he ran out of the house. He borrowed his brother’s old motorbike, stopped at a gas station, and filled a plastic water bottle with gasoline. He put the bottle in a small bag and headed toward the
town hall.
There he asked to see an official. No one wanted to see him. He returned to the place where the police had confiscated his cart. They were there again, and the cart was nearby. Empty. Mohamed went up to them and asked for his property back.
The male cop slapped him hard and shouted, “Look, you filthy rat, get lost before I beat the shit out of you!”
Mohamed tried to defend himself. This time the female officer took her turn slapping him and spitting in his face. “You creep, you’re spoiling our breakfast! You have no manners. You’re a nobody.”
Mohamed lay prostrate. He didn’t speak, didn’t move; his face was immobile, his eyes were red, his jaw clenched. Something inside him was about to explode. He stayed in this position for two or three minutes—to him, it felt like an eternity.
The male officer said, “Go on, get out of here. Your cart—you’ll never see it again. It’s all over; you’ve shown us no respect. And, for this, you pay a price in our beloved country.”
Mohamed’s mouth was dry, his saliva bitter. It was hard for him to breathe. If I had a gun, I would empty it into these bastards, he thought. I don’t have a gun, but I still have my body, my life, my wasted life: this is my weapon.
Mohamed got to his feet and backed away from them. He started up the motorbike and headed to the town hall. He locked the bike to a pole and again asked to speak to the mayor or one of his deputies. The man at the front desk was even angrier than he’d been the day before.
Back outside, Mohamed thought about the bottle of gasoline in the small bag, adjusted his white clothes, and walked around the square. No one noticed him.
It was a sunny December morning.
December 17th. A confused jumble of images rushed through his mind: his mother in bed, his father in his coffin, himself at the Faculty of Arts and Let- ters, Zineb smiling, Zineb angry, Zineb begging him not to do anything; his mother getting out of bed and calling for him; the face of the woman who’d slapped him earlier, who slapped him again; his body bent over as though he were offering himself to an executioner; the blue sky; a huge tree sheltering him; himself in Zineb’s arms under the tree; himself as a child, running so as not to be late for school; his French teacher praising him; himself taking his college exams, showing his diploma to his parents; his diploma pinned to a sign beside the word “unemployed”; his diploma burning in the sink; his father’s burial again; screams; birds; the President and his wife wearing huge black sunglasses; the woman who’d slapped him; the other who’d insulted him; a procession of sparrows crossing the sky; “Spartacus”; a public fountain; his mother and his two sisters standing in line to get water; the cops brutalizing him again, insults, blows, insults, blows . . .
One last time, Mohamed asked to see the mayor. Refusals and insults. The man at the front desk pushed him with his club and he fell to the ground. Mohamed rose in silence and went to stand in front of the town hall’s main entrance. He took the bottle of gasoline from the bag, poured it over himself, from head to toe, until the bottle was empty. Then he lit his Bic lighter, looked for a moment into its flame, and drew it toward his clothes.
The fire ignited instantly. Within moments, the crowd ran toward him. The front-desk man screamed. He tried to put out the fire with his jacket, but Mohamed had transformed into a torch. By the time an ambulance arrived, the fire was out, but Mohamed had lost all human resemblance. He was entirely black, like a grilled lamb.
The front-desk man was crying, “It’s all my fault. I should have helped him.”
Mohamed is in the hospital. His entire body is wrapped in bandages, like a shroud. He is in a coma. A commotion in the hallways. Doctors in white coats and nurses race down the hallway that leads to Mohamed’s room. The President has come; the President has inquired about Mohamed’s fate. The President is not happy. He hears about the mayor who refused to see Mohamed. He orders him fired. The President is angry. He finds out that the international press is covering the story. A horde of doctors follow the President into the hospital room.
Obscene and ridiculous displays.
The entire country is in revolt. With her hair tied back, Zineb leads a demonstration. Her fist raised, she is shouting and screaming.
Mohamed dies on January 4, 2011. There are demonstrations everywhere, cries of “We are all Mohameds!” The President leaves the country like a thief. His plane disappears into the starry night.
More demonstrations.
Photographs of Mohamed are everywhere: victim and symbol. The international media rush to the country to interview his family. Even a film producer comes to see them. He hands an envelope to the tearful mother and says, “Please accept this help; it’s not much. Such is fate, cruel and unjust.”
He bends down and whispers into the weeping woman’s ear, “It’s important that you don’t speak to anyone else. Don’t give any interviews to journalists. I am going to help you. I will tell Mohamed’s story. The entire world should know what happened. Mohamed is a hero, a victim, and a martyr. Do we agree? You will not speak with anyone but me. I have to go now, but, if you need anything at all, here’s my card, and here’s a cell phone so you can call me.”
The mother didn’t understand anything this person said. But her daughters understood very well: “This guy wants to buy our brother’s death and profit from it! What a nightmare! What an utter nightmare! Mohamed’s story doesn’t belong to anyone. It’s the story of a simple man, like millions of others, who, after being crushed, humiliated, and denied in life, became the spark that set the world ablaze. No one can ever steal his death.”
(Translated, from the French, by Rita S. Nezami.)
