Tunis, December 4, 2010
Aunt Neila and Uncle Mounir made an odd couple. Light years away from Mom and Dad’s noisy relationship. There was sadness in Aunt Neila’s eyes that never left her, even when she smiled. It was as though she and sadness were one and the same. More than a few times since I’d been staying with them, I’d come upon her crouched on her prayer mat, bent forward, thighs touching her stomach, head hung low as if she was a prisoner of war. The only difference was the way she held her hands in front of her, almost completely covering her face. When she would get up from the prayer, I didn’t dare look her in the eye. I felt like vanishing, or making myself invisible so as not to disturb her.
“How was your Arabic class today?” she inquired in her high-pitched little girl’s voice.
Her eyes were red. I pretended not to notice.
“Oh, not too bad,” I would say, as I always do, in a nonchalant tone. “I don’t know what good it’s going to do me.”
Then, with a rapid motion she removed her prayer cloak, showing her short black hair streaked with grey.
She would come over and kiss me on the cheek, just as Mom would do. The odour of rose water followed her, as inseparable from her as her shadow. I loved Aunt Neila dearly, but I didn’t entirely understand why.
Uncle Mounir was another story altogether: something about him frightened me. Mostly it was his honey-coloured eyes. I could see hardness in them. Perhaps something had happened to him, something that changed his life. He always wore the same worn grey wool sweater. His curly hair was always carefully combed to the right. There was an old scar along his forearm, wide, swollen, like a snake glued to his skin. Its colour — darker than his skin — caught my eye. It was the first thing I noticed about him when he shook my hand. I noticed a faint smile on his lips when he saw me glance at the scar. A strange kind of smile that I couldn’t place. Bitterness, pride, nostalgia, pain?
Aside from that slightly mysterious air, Uncle Mounir seemed normal enough. He never raised his voice. Only rarely could I hear him from my room: “Neila,” he would call out, “would you make me a coffee please?” Almost imploring. Soon after, the strong smell of coffee came wafting from the kitchen, floating across the living room to my room, tickling my nostrils. I was no coffee drinker, but each time I smelled it, the odour dazzled me like the first rays of spring sunshine. I breathed it in deeply, filling my lungs. Coffee was the only thing Uncle Mounir asked his wife to prepare for him. Often I would see him cooking, a fouta wrapped around his hips and his old sweater over his shoulders and chest. He fried the sliced potatoes in boiling oil and the smoke rose up like a volcano erupting after a long slumber. Today, he was fixing keftaji.
“It’s poor people’s food,” he announced, to make me laugh.
Aunt Neila smiled. The wrinkles around her eyes formed half-moons that intersected as if to keep each other company. But there was always sadness in her gaze, always the same melancholy. She opened her mouth to say something, but thought better of it. Still that same look in her eyes.
“Is it really true, Aunt Neila? Do poor people really eat keftaji?”
“Sort of. It’s street food. Everybody likes it, young and old, rich and poor. It’s like hotdogs there where you live, in America,” she answered.
Uncle Mounir was dropping vegetable slices into the bubbling oil. First came the red and green peppers, followed by chunks of squash. Uncle Mounir knew what he was doing. His movements were skilled and rapid. Keftaji was a culinary delicacy. Once fried, the vegetables were finely chopped, mixed, and spiced. A fried egg nestled in the centre of each plate, like the sun in the middle of the sky. Mom never cooked this dish for me. It was one of the best I’ve tasted since I arrived in Tunisia.
Every night after the late news, Uncle Mounir took a seat on the balcony and smoked a cigarette. I knew he was finished when the yellow light of the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling of the balcony switched off and no light shone into my bedroom.
When Aunt Neila and Uncle Mounir talked, it was mostly a monologue: the words went one way, from uncle to aunt. She listened with a certain detachment, as if her mind were wandering, but her eyes were full of love. She never contradicted him; she was there for him, like the pillar that supports the dome. But she was a fragile pillar, one with invisible cracks. Mom always has something to say; there was always something in her voice when she talked with Dad. Not Aunt Neila. Not in front of me in any event.
When I came back to the apartment out of breath from climbing eight flights of stairs, I could only think about one thing: getting some sleep. The meeting with Donia and her friends and the discussion about the social situation in Tunisia had worn me out. I needed calm in order to get a grip on things.
Aunt Neila and Uncle Mounir were sitting in front of their TV. The apartment was almost completely dark; a floor lamp was on in a corner. Light from the screen illuminated the room. It was like a movie theatre, with lights bright, then dim. My arrival disturbed the calm atmosphere.
“So, how was it, your meeting with your friends?” Uncle Mounir asked, with a knowing grin.
“I hope you got along with Donia and her pals,” added Aunt Neila.
I sat down close to them in a grey armchair. My knee joint was creaking. My muscles were stiff and were not responding to my brain. The climb up the stairs had exhausted me. I put my hand on my knee and gave myself a quick massage.
“Yes, I had a nice afternoon with Donia and her friends. The view over the lagoon was magnificent.”
I didn’t say a word about the blogger who had been arrested, or about the political discussion I’d heard. I pretended everything was normal. Aunt Neila seemed relieved by my answer, but Uncle Mounir wanted to know more.
“These friends of hers, they pulled up in BMWs of course, good-looking guys, from good families.”
Now he wasn’t speaking in Arabic, but in French with a strong accent, rolling his r’s. There was a touch of sarcasm in his words, but I couldn’t figure out what he was leading up to.
“Well, Donia drives a car. I don’t remember what kind it is. But I’m not sure the others have one. She drove one of them to a metro station. He was on his way to Etta . . . Ettadamoun Township, I think that’s what it was.”
The name had a strange effect on Uncle Mounir. His gaze softened. Aunt Neila smiled, and came to my rescue: “Uh, it’s a poor part of town.”
Uncle Mounir scratched his scar. There was a hint of wistfulness in his eyes; he dropped his resentful attitude. “Ettadamoun Township, that’s where real men come from.”
Then he got to his feet and went into the kitchen. Something in his movements gave me the idea that he wanted to say something, but an obstacle, a solid, impenetrable wall impeded him.
I looked at Aunt Neila, confused and inquisitive at the same time.
“How come Uncle Mounir doesn’t seem to like rich people? Why does he seem to like the poor without even knowing them?”
Aunt Neila came over to me. I saw the same sadness that always seemed to lie deep in her eyes. She put her hand on my shoulder. I caught the scent of rose water. I smiled at her.
“It’s a long story. Didn’t your mother ever tell you? I thought you knew everything about us.”
I shook my head. Mom had always spoken of her friends with admiration, with enchantment. She wanted me to spend my stay in Tunisia at their house. But she never said a word about their past. Suddenly Aunt Neila took my hand.
“You know something, Lila. If I had a daughter I’d like her to be like you — intelligent, forthright. But God did not grant me that gift. Perhaps He will grant it to me in another life.”
Her words threw me into turmoil. The hand that she grasped was shaking. Should I step away from her, or move even closer? Take her in my arms and kiss her? Tear away the veil of sadness that seemed to envelop her? I stood motionless, unable to speak.
Uncle Mounir came from the kitchen with a platter full of oranges cut into quarters. Aunt Neila let go of my hand. A tear gleamed in the corner of her eye. She picked up a piece of orange and handed it to me. The scent of the fruit and its intense flavor reinvigorated me. Slowly, my strength returned. This city was setting a trap for me. I could feel it. Uncle Mounir and Aunt Neila were more than just mother’s friends; they were part of a story and a past that was painful for some people, one that still captivated Mom. I was letting go of my indifference. Curiosity had penetrated my inner life; I couldn’t hold back any longer. I was about to ask them how they met when Uncle Mounir put his finger to his lips.
The announcer on TV had just said the word “Tunisia.” It wasn’t a local station. Uncle Mounir was watching Al Jazeera, which was broadcasting from Qatar.
He turned to us and said in a serious voice: “People are going on strike in the south. Ben Ali can’t be happy!”
I thought about the worried tone of Mom’s messages. “So, Mom was right! Yesterday she was really nervous and upset. She was telling me that troubles were breaking out all over the country.”
Aunt Neila nodded. “Yes, there are troubles, but you won’t hear a word about them on local TV. Here, in Tunis, nobody knows anything. People are going about their business as if everything is fine.”
So, my hosts knew exactly what was going on. Donia and her friends knew too. Even my mother, who was five thousand miles from here, knew. I was the only one, it seemed, who didn’t know and hadn’t wanted to know. I ventured: “The cyber-dissidents and the bloggers, the ones that are sent to jail because they criticize the dictatorship, have you heard about them?” I asked them, a worried look on my face, as though I’d just revealed a state secret.
Uncle Mounir and Aunt Neila seemed startled.
“How did you know? Where did you hear?” they asked in unison.
“From Donia and her friend Jamel, the one who comes from Ettadamoun. They brought it up.”
Uncle Mounir and Aunt Neila stared at me, eyes full of wonderment, as if I were their baby and had just taken my first steps. Suddenly, I discovered two different people. A couple that was resisting in its fashion; a couple that had surrounded itself with silence to escape the past.
But what was the past that lay hidden behind their shadowed eyes, their sad smiles? That day, for the first time, I felt at ease in this land. I almost felt like staying longer.