27

ABDO-JULIEN

PAPA'S FACE HAS SOMETHING troubling and fragile in it, something he owes to his years of famine and anguish, something that comes from way back, from his childhood I imagine; the attraction of nothingness is visible in his eyes, too. Every evening, his account of what was really a rather banal day has sounded strange to our ears recently. The words, first of all: words of a hounded man, of a wounded soul. And then the tone: a tone of elegy. One silently wonders how much oxygen is left in this tall, reserved man. Most people around here respect him a great deal, and he's head and shoulders above those who ignore him. People from all walks of life come to our house: Blacks and Whites, browns like me, the nobodies of the day and the phantoms of the night. Opponents of the regime who slip in stealthily. Reciters of 114 suras of the holy Book. He listens to their complaints and dips into his pocket more often than he should.

Ancestors also move surreptitiously around our home at sunset. Spirits who live with us: we can sense them crossing the courtyard at set times; a little whirlwind of sand follows them. Sometimes we breathe in their smell hours after they've gone by; we can also hear their clicking, and Papa announces that they, too, are beginning their day of cooking and household chores. No need to be in on the secret; all you have to do is perk up your ears and open wide your eyes. Nor do you need the strength of the cart-pullers you can see on Place Rimbaud to stand up to those spirits: they're quite peaceful and avoid us, because we're the ones who have remained blind, unable to see them coming. It is said that they go to great lengths not to crush us like eggshells. Unless you have the bad luck to surprise them, but then all they do is slap you—which may well send you straightaway into the other world. So many of us are found at dawn with frightened eyes, bewildered minds, and drool at the corner of the lips. A sheikh or a djinn-hunter is called to the rescue. Someone who can do nothing, or just about, most of the time. And the unfortunate victim drags himself around on his bottom every day, or never leaves his bed again. His life will be nothing but misery and survival, between rats and garbage. A stench that almost makes you faint.

Speaking of rats, they say they graze on you in your sleep; you can feel them walking over you. The boldest ones nibble the rough skin of your feet and breathe on the exact spot they just bit as if to soothe you or keep you asleep. If you sleep without any light—and worse, with no mosquito netting—watch out for your toes; they can bite you bloody. If you're exasperated by the squeaks of these rodents or the whirring of bat wings, don't try to kill them; the ancestors have forbidden it. They have been blood relations for eternities. Outside, only the gleam of braziers or storm-lamps and the sounds of people clearing their throats give life to the alleys. The best you can do is leave the muddy days on the tip of your toes, wait for dawn, and pray to the Ancients. Only children, boys in particular (they are considered a source of wealth comparable to the fat accumulated in a ram's tail), have some small chance of being listened to—and even then. Tomorrow we'll see if the lying, limping hyena has not carried everything away in its path. Tomorrow we'll see if the beggars can do something for the many, the very many, who have not gained favor with the spirits of the dead. Those who the ebb and flow of famine have progressively deposited in the city like alluvium in the hollow of oases. Papa used to tell a story that he got from Grandpa Awaleh, to wit: alms are given to the mystical beggars of Bengal so that the seven lotuses that sleep in each of us may blossom. A story brought back to us by the Yemenites, those Phoenicians of the Red Sea.