Tunis, February, 1984
I met Alexander — Alex, for short — at the American cultural centre in Tunis. I’d stop by every Friday to read books in English, listen to cassettes in the language lab, or leaf through magazines that I had trouble understanding. Sometimes I would take a few minutes to relax on the comfortable chairs in the reading room, think about my life, and escape from Mother’s orders and Father’s silence.
Alex worked there as a computer technician, installing the first computers. His father was Canadian, his mother American. He lived in Ottawa. He’d gotten his job a year before, and had jumped at the chance to work in Tunis for a year. I learned all those details from our weekly chats. He smiled at me first; I was trying to locate a book on the library shelves and mistook him for a librarian. I had no idea how to go about finding a book. I looked over all the titles and attempted to locate what I was looking for among the dozens and dozens of books packed in alongside one another.
“Is this where I can find . . . ?” I asked him in a low voice, so I didn’t disturb the people in the reading room nearby.
Alex had a Mediterranean look. I might have taken him for a Tunisian if there hadn’t been something distinctive about the way he carried himself. I could never have imagined he was Canadian or American. In my mind, an American was someone who looked like a movie star, someone like Clark Gable, Marlon Brando, or Rambo. Alex didn’t look like any of them. He was average height with close-cropped brown hair. His eyes were dark blue, almost black. His face was oval shaped, and he was always smiling, his shoulders broad and his posture straight. His gentle manners contrasted with his rapid step and serious expression. I spoke to him in French the first time. I was ashamed of my accent in English, but he answered me in good French, with a hint of what I thought was a Provençal accent. Only later did I learn that his accent was French-Canadian.
He pulled a book from the shelf in front of us and pointed to the small sticker on the spine that indicated letters and numbers.
“You have to find the right code to identify the book you’re looking for,” he explained.
I blushed. The young man had exposed my ignorance for all to see.
“Do you see that lady, over there, at the desk? I’m sure she’ll be able to help you better than I can. She’s the chief librarian. I’m in charge of setting up the computer system.”
I recognized her; it was Mrs. Williams. She did checkouts and returns. She had a severe, almost intimidating appearance. And I was far too shy to ask her for advice. I wanted to learn myself. Clearly, my approach wasn’t working. I wasn’t as clever as I thought I was!
Alex intuited my reservations. “I can help you later, if you like, but now I’ve got to get back to work, splicing cables and connecting computers.”
I stood there, taken slightly aback. He seemed so young, as though he were still a student at the lycée. The boys at school spent all their time talking about soccer, and making obscene comments about girls. Others kept quiet, and I never knew if they were unable to actually utter those insults or were just too well brought up to do so. Once, as I was about to talk to Samir, a boy in my class who was quiet and polite, and who sat behind Neila and me, I saw that he was staring at a photo of a nearly nude woman on one of the pages of his notebook. She was bare breasted and a microscopic string only barely concealed her most intimate parts. Samir quickly squirreled the photo away in his school bag, pretending nothing had happened. He couldn’t fool me. I was disgusted. I couldn’t look him in the eye. When I mentioned it to Neila during recess, she laughed.
“So, you think that all the boys are chaste like us little prissy princesses. They’re exploring life, sweetie. All of ’em,” she went on, tracing a semi-circle that encompassed the entire schoolyard with her index finger. “They’ve all slept with a girl or dreamed about doing it. The ones that don’t have the guts or the means make do with porn photos, like that dimwit Samir.”
“So how come you know so much?” I challenged her, hanging on to what was left of my self-constructed world of ideal romantic love.
“Mounir filled me in one time.”
Now I was really shocked. Her frankness was beginning to irritate me.
“So, you’ve been talking about it with him!” I said, adopting my mother’s censorious tone.
She shrugged, indifferent to my troubled expression.
“Sure, we talk about it, and why shouldn’t we? It’s perfectly normal, don’t you think? We have to. One day I’ll marry Mounir and I’ll have children with him.”
Neila was adept at shocking me and educating me at the same time. I fell silent, while she kept on laughing at my offended airs.
I promised myself I would never talk to another boy in my class. Ever since the incident with the daring photo, I couldn’t even look at any of them. In my eyes they were all vulgar and crude. Unlike them, Alex, who seemed to be about their age, was so polite, so different. I felt drawn to him. I wanted to talk to him and ask him questions, as though I’d known him for years, but I did nothing. I waited until I saw him again.
I didn’t say a word to Neila about my encounter with him. I didn’t want to touch the open wound left by Mounir’s arrest any more than I wanted to talk to her about something I couldn’t make sense of, couldn’t define. I didn’t even know why I was attracted to this foreigner, who didn’t even speak my language. The more I thought about him, the less I understood what was going on inside me.
The calm before the couscous revolt had reasserted itself. The dust had settled. My parents had slipped back into their routine. Neila stopped talking to me about Mounir. Only her gaze told me she was thinking about him. And in an attempt to forget, I did everything I could to avoid that gaze. The first signs of spring broke through the gloom that had settled in after the bread riots. Warm sunbeams proclaimed the early arrival of summer. The prospect reminded me every day that my final exams were approaching, and my stomach would tie itself in knots at the thought. Of course I wanted to do well, but I had no idea what I would do afterwards. Before the riots, I’d been a kind of automaton. I lived to study. But since Mounir’s arrest, my world had turned upside down, and that obsession had evaporated.
I’d regained control of my life. I enjoyed reading and writing. I uncovered a real passion for English, a passion I never suspected. I read the books I borrowed from the cultural centre and went back to borrow new ones every Friday. I discovered writers like Steinbeck, Dickens, and Fitzgerald. Body and soul, I dove deep into one historical period after another: the Industrial Revolution in England and its perverse impact on the working classes; the Great Depression in the United States and the changes that followed it; the Roaring Twenties, with their taste for luxury, extravagance, and escapism that led to the dark years that came in their wake. I couldn’t understand everything I read, but I loved the stories. Dictionary close at hand, stretched out on my bed, I spent hours savouring my newfound books and the new worlds they held out to me. My reading, and my visits to the centre, functioned as an escape hatch. Which did me the greatest good? The books I read or the sight of Alex? I couldn’t say for sure.
He was immersed his work the second time I met him. When he saw me, he smiled, but unlike our first meeting, this time I managed to return his smile. He was working on the centre’s computer system, coming and going from the main reading room and another room, which I glimpsed through the open door. The reading room was full of people. University students were talking endlessly about their final exams. I kept my nose deep in my book, but raised my eyes from time to time to look around. It was at such a moment that our eyes met. I immediately lowered my gaze and pretended to continue reading. But I wasn’t concentrating on the page in front of me. What could he be thinking? Why had he come to Tunisia? Why did he leave his country and come here to work? How did people in his country live? As I was getting up and preparing to leave, Alex came over to me and pointed to something on the floor.
“I believe you’ve dropped some sheets of paper.”
What a charming accent! I thought, almost forgetting to look down to the spot he indicated.
“Ah yes, right, they’re my notes. I put them on the floor and I was going to pick them up, but I almost forgot.”
In my excitement I kept talking as I stooped down to pick up my notes.
“Look, I totally forgot my promise to show you how to find books. I’ve got a few spare minutes today. Would you like to do it now?”
Mechanically I stuffed my scattered notes back into my school bag and without a second thought answered in the affirmative. He seemed as happy as a little boy letting a friend in on a secret.
“My name is Alexander. I’m Canadian, I’ve been working here for the last few months, and next summer I’ll be going back to Ottawa, where I live.”
He spoke so confidently. What a contrast with my perpetual case of nerves. An ocean separated our two worlds, but two cultures were meeting now. Alexander gave me a detailed explanation of the codes that were used to classify books. He explained how the little file-drawers that held thousands of cards filed in alphabetical order would be replaced by a sophisticated computer system soon.
“For example, you enter the name of the author you’re looking for and in a few seconds you see all the titles that match the name. Look, I’ll give you a demonstration. Which writer would you like to read?”
“Fitz . . . Fitzgerald,” I answered, stammering.
He looked at me, wide-eyed. I was afraid I’d mispronounced the name.
“You know, the one who wrote Tender Is . . . Is the Night, if you can make out what I’m trying to say.”
“That’s F. Scott Fitzgerald alright — a great American writer. I really like him myself.”
He sat down and typed on the keyboard, and then showed me the list of Fitzgerald titles.
“See, it’s like magic. Here are Fitzgerald’s other books: This Side of Paradise, The Beautiful and Damned, The Great Gatsby. Just before each title there’s a code you can jot down and then find on the shelves.”
I listened attentively. The way he pronounced the original English titles left me open mouthed with admiration. Not to mention his eagerness to explain things to me. Why was he so happy to show me his work, explain how to locate a title?
“Thank you so much for your kindness. You explained everything so well. Luckily for me you work here and could make it all clear for me.” I could barely get the words out.
He interrupted me.
“But this system isn’t available to the public yet. It will take a few more months before it’s in service. I’m working on it with my colleagues, but it’ll happen!”
“Don’t give up! You can do it!”
“Thanks,” he answered with a fresh smile. “You never told me your name.”
“Nadia. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
I could feel that it was time to leave. I no longer knew what I was doing or what I was saying. I kept on saying “thank you,” over and over, but that didn’t seem to bother Alex.
“You’re welcome, Nadia!”
“What a funny expression,” I thought as I repeated those last words. Then he waved. I left the centre, not knowing what to think of our meeting, and headed for the bus station. Alex’s smile stayed with me. The next day, on the way to school with Neila, I couldn’t help telling her about him. I was expecting her to tease me, or make fun of me. She turned pale instead.
“Don’t tell me you’re in love with a gaouri, Nadia! A foreigner, someone who’s not one of us? Don’t you understand? Your parents will kill you if they ever find out.”
Her reaction surprised me. I hadn’t even thought about my parents; I couldn’t believe that a young man could so constantly occupy my thoughts.
“Why are you insinuating things, Neila? Who says I’m in love with him? Who told you I’m going to tell my parents about him?
She threw me a strange look. “So why are you talking about him if you’re not in love with him?”
She was right. Why would I even mention him to my best friend if I weren’t attracted to him?
“Let’s say that I’m thinking about him, and I feel like his face is following me in my thoughts,” I corrected myself.
Neila tossed her head in exasperation.
“Look, we’re not talking philosophy here. By the look on your face it’s clear that you’re in love with him. If you’re talking about him, it’s because there’s something in your heart.”
Neila always won. I was angry with myself for having mentioned him in the first place.
“Why did you stop talking?” she snapped after a few steps in silence.
I was sulking now and didn’t want to answer.
“Do you know his name?”
“Alexander.”
She hesitated for a moment.
“Iskander! That’s it. Call him Iskander and he’ll be a Tunisian, at least in name.”
I burst out laughing, and she broke into a smile at her own joke. We’d almost reached the wall and were just about to climb over it before heading to our class. From a distance we spotted Botti making his rounds. His unbuttoned jacket displayed his potbelly. Seeing him there took the wind out of our sails; we dropped the idea and made our way around the fence to enter through the main door.
Suddenly Neila said: “Looks like we’re unlucky in love, you and me. I love a boy who’s in prison, and you love an American, what zhar!”
We both laughed boisterously. Neila was my best friend, I was more certain of it with every passing day. She was absolutely right; we had no luck at all.