Tunis, January 5, 1984
Neila wouldn’t accept it at first. She refused to believe that Mounir could be a militant, that he could have taken part in the riots of the last few days. It was hard for me to accept too, but in another way. I’d immersed myself in the innocence of the years gone by to escape the new reality of my life. But now images were whirling in my head. Najwa had gone back home. Her mother had come to pick her up. Alone in my room, I thought about the happy moments of my life. How desperately I wanted to hold on to them.
I saw myself, heart pounding with delight, eyes sparkling with excitement, as Neila and I watched the cars and taxis rush through the narrow streets. We were riding a bus, a rickety, shimmying old white-and-yellow bus that spewed out thick clouds of smoke. The worn-out seats and the trash on the floor meant nothing to us. We were intent on one thing and one thing only. To see the new French film that all our classmates were talking about: La Boum. At first, Father didn’t want me going to the movies.
“There are always a lot of hoodlums loitering in front of the movie houses,” he said, looking me in the eye.
We were eating our evening meal around the dinner table: vegetable soup and quiche. A few slices of onion were floating in my soup. I hated onions. With the tip of my spoon I tried to push them to the side of the bowl. But with the slightest movement of the spoon, they slid back into the broth. I had a lump in my throat. It was hard to tell whether the onions or Father’s outburst had thrown me into this state.
Finally, Mother let out a sigh, and turned to him. “What of it? There are hoodlums everywhere. Can you name one place in Tunis where there aren’t men who harass women, who stare at them and make obscene remarks?”
I blushed. Sometimes, I couldn’t really understand Mother’s outspokenness. But this time, her attitude encouraged me, and I insisted: “Papa, please, let me go. All my friends have been. Neila and I are the only ones who haven’t seen the movie.”
I was lying. I wasn’t certain that all my schoolmates had seen it, but I did know that Neila and I wanted to see it together. In the meantime, I’d forgotten about the onions; I was swallowing them without a second thought.
Papa knew he was losing the battle. With Mother and I against him there was nothing he could do.
“Alright, you can go. But on one condition. I’ll come to pick you up at the end of the film. What theatre is it playing at?”
“The Colisée!” I exclaimed, my voice filled with excitement.
I could read the satisfaction on mother’s face. Father had finished his meal; he washed his hands in the kitchen sink and then retired to the living room, where his armchair waited for him.
At top speed I finished off the rest of the quiche and washed it down with a glass of water.
Two days later we were on our way to see the film; the posters had been plastered all over town. They showed a smiling teenage girl slow-dancing with a boy, whose back was to us. The photo was located in the “O” of the word boum. I knew what boum meant. Not too long ago, Sonia had organized a dance in her parents’ garage. To our surprise, she invited us — Neila and I didn’t know why. We went. And of course, we didn’t breathe a word to our parents. Outside, boys and girls were smoking. Inside, it was dark. I couldn’t see. Kids were dancing to the driving beat of American pop songs.
Breaking away from me, Neila joined the dancers, which made me feel even more like an outsider. Neila was moving every which way; she waved for me to join her. I shook my head no. From the ceiling above the dancers hung a mirrored disco ball, flashing light across the garage walls. Now and again, I could make out familiar faces. Slowly I backed up and stepped outside. There I was, with the group of smokers. I’d extricated myself from a weird situation, and here I was in an even weirder one. In spite of myself, I smiled. That was my way of masking my embarrassment, of forgetting how ill at ease I felt, and how much I really wanted to leave. A few moments later Neila joined me. Her cheeks were flushed; she was almost panting. How ridiculous she looks, I thought to myself. Her clothes — that green blouse and the pleated skirt — were totally out of style. All the other girls were wearing the latest look: leather jackets, moccasins, Burlington socks, and miniskirts or pre-washed Levis jeans.
She wanted to stay; I wanted to leave. Her eyes avoided mine. Neila never looked me in the eye when she was upset with me.
The group of smokers who’d been standing beside us went back into the garage to dance. Loud laughter ripped through the silence that had fallen between Neila and me.
Neila stayed; I went home. But the next day we walked to school and all had been forgotten. Our disputes were ephemeral, like raindrops in the Sahara.
We’d almost reached the city centre. Only one stop to go. Suddenly, the driver slammed on the brakes, throwing the passengers forward. We slid from our seats and almost toppled over.
The driver opened his window quickly. “Stupid bastard, you almost hit us!” he yelled at the driver of a Fiat that had come to a stop alongside us.
All the passengers were on their feet. A knot of them congregated around the bus driver, praising his quick reflexes and driving skill. People were talking in loud voices, gesticulating. Eyes were shining, tongues were loose, elbows were rubbing, odours were mixing. Everyone had a suggestion to offer.
“Why not take that crazy driver to the police station,” one passenger offered.
“For two cents I’d punch him out. He needs a lesson in good driving!” shouted another.
An elderly lady in a safsari was gripping the cloth between her teeth. The rest had slipped down her shoulders, revealing an old worn dress. She couldn’t stop praising God and the skilled bus driver. “May God protect you, my lad, may God bless you for saving our lives, may God preserve you for your children . . .”
She continued to declaim her prayers while readjusting her safsari. Other voices joined in, shouting in agreement. Neila and I couldn’t figure out what had happened. A husky man emerged from the Fiat. He was fuming. The two men stared at one another, like cocks about to fight. Our bus driver got up, the passengers massed around him to form a protective shield. Neila and I were shaking. We glanced at one another, and while those fine people were spoiling for a fight we slipped out the back door that, by some miracle, had remained wide open.
Once we got off the bus we began to run, not bothering to look behind us. We had no idea whether the crowd had beaten up the driver of the Fiat. Nor did we care. We wanted to see La Boum. Luckily for us, the movie theatre wasn’t too far away. We had to make our way along a section of Avenue Bourguiba to reach the Colisée shopping centre where the theatre was located.
“What time is it?’ Neila asked me halfway there.
“Ten to three. We’ve only got ten minutes until the film starts.”
It must have been quite a sight, two teenage girls running headlong down the city’s major thoroughfare. Passersby stared at us incredulously, shaking their heads with a look of disapproval.
Finally, gasping, choking, on wobbly legs, we reached the Colisée box office. Inside, the lights had already dimmed. The commercials flashing across the screen at full volume reassured us.
“We won’t tell Papa a thing about the bus incident,” I whispered to Neila.
“Are you crazy or what? You know me — I’m not a snitch. I won’t breathe a word, I promise!’ she responded, a big smile on her face. She’d already forgotten our misadventure.
But the excitement had just begun.
Sophie Marceau, the star of the film, her friends, and her parents, transported us to another world. The film’s romantic music, and the kisses exchanged by young people from another culture, another world, swept us away. Could we feel those emotions for a boy? I felt like Sophie Marceau, a heroine longing for love and adventure.
Papa was waiting for us outside the theatre. He was wearing his brown topcoat and carrying an umbrella. His features were strained. I spotted him as soon as Neila and I came through the door and we were about to make our way down the handsome marble steps.
He waved to us without so much as a smile. His face was indifferent, closed. A group of young men came out after us. They were zoufris, hoodlums, as Papa called them. They were chewing on glibettes, salted sunflower seeds, whose black pods they cracked and spat out with a single rapid and accurate movement. Neila stared at them. I lowered my eyes to avoid my father’s, as he looked out of the corner of his eye.
“So, how was the film?” he asked in a monotone.
“Terrific!” we piped up in unison.
“We really loved it,” Neila added.
Papa said nothing more. He was still watching the group of young men as it dispersed nosily.
“Uncle Ali, you studied in Paris. Is it as beautiful as in the film?”
“Paris was magnificent in my day. Now, I don’t know. It’s probably still as beautiful!” Father fell silent.
I said nothing. Neila teased me, pointing to one of the boys in the group.
“Look at that guy over there. Don’t you think he looks like Vic’s buddy?”
I nudged her hard with my elbow. I was afraid Papa would hear.
Neila could barely hold back her laughter. Dreams are my reality . . . I hummed the chorus of the music from the film. I remembered a few words, but my singing was off-key.
“So now you’re singing in English?” asked Neila, in a derisive tone.
It was dark outside. The lights shone on Avenue Bourguiba. A few raindrops began to fall. Papa was walking beside us; he opened his umbrella. He didn’t suspect a thing. His world was in order and ours was of no concern to him. We weren’t little girls that he had to protect from the insolent eyes of the zoufris any longer. We were adolescents, bubbling over. We wanted to know everything there was to know, up to and including the zoufris.