Ahmed the Philosopher: Thirty-Four Short Plays for Children and Everyone Else

THE DEMON. You know what I love more than anything else? Informing. Denouncing an innocent person with a nice anonymous letter; seeing him getting arrested at the crack of dawn, crying, pleading, down on his knees before the snickering cops or militia men; or, even better, seeing him getting kicked in the stomach or getting his hands or knees bludgeoned, you know, where it really hurts; and then they drag him in front of a wall, still pleading and not understanding anything that’s happening to him; and they shoot him! What joy! I like to imagine that I’m hidden behind a curtain. I salivate! No one knows it’s me who blew the whistle! What I’d love even more is if, when they shoot him, they bungle it. He’s wounded, he’s bleeding everywhere, he’s groaning and screaming. And then the militia man walks over to him, grabs his head by the ears, and shakes him! Then he throws him back on the ground and rams his gun into his temple while insulting him. The other guy, whose legs are broken because he has a bullet in the knee, is squirming and begging, but nothing doing! The huge gun makes his brains come squirting out. And all because one evening, putting my mind to it, sucking on my penholder, I wrote the authorities a little missive full of plausible lies.

Here, let me read you one of them, my latest: “To the under-prefect for homeland security affairs. I must bring to your attention the fact that one Ahmed Ben Malhouf, as he calls himself, residing at number 5 Dog-breath Street in Sarges-les-Corneilles, in an attic room on the seventh floor, on the one hand according to my observations does not at all have his Arab papers in order, seeing as how he looks around him all shifty-eyed whenever he leaves his building.²¹ On the other hand, he’s definitely illegal in terms of the law on temporary work permits that was passed thanks to Senator Jacasse. The fact is that the butcher told me that this Ahmed Ben Malhouf had done some odd jobs in his shop, like putting the carcasses of mad cows in sealed bags so no one could distinguish them from the carcasses of sane cows. And the said butcher confirmed my suspicions, seeing as how Ahmed Ben Malhouf was unable to present him with either a residence permit or a work permit. He said by way of excuse to the butcher, who reported it to me in just these words, that he’d been in our country for thirty-three years and eight months, but that Senator Jacasse’s law made it impossible for him to renew his papers. Which, by the way, proves how effective and patriotic the Jacasse law is. I must insist that I have nothing personal against the aforementioned Ahmed Ben Malhouf, to whom I have never said a word. But, as a Frenchman, I believe I am doing my duty in bringing these offenses to your attention. I will add that the aforementioned Ahmed Ben Malhouf is regarded by almost everyone on the block as a decent, quiet man who is helpful and works as hard as he can. Even the butcher for whom he transported the mad cow carcasses didn’t see any reason to alert the authorities, because, so he said to me, and laughing to boot, what’s the point of harassing someone who busts his carcass hauling carcasses around for twenty-five Euros a day. With a great reputation like that, it’s quite possible that this Ahmed Ben Malhouf could become an agitator in the streets. This is why I am informing you that he has been leaving his building at four o’clock in the morning, going, or so claims the concierge of the building next door, to peel vegetables in a Chinese restaurant in Paris. If you draw the proper conclusions from everything that I have been able to observe, it will certainly be advisable to do a stake-out nearby, and to put an end to his career as a clandestine and illegal immigrant, threatening our national unity, at an hour when real Frenchmen are asleep in the bosom of their law-abiding families.” Not bad, huh? Of course, it’s not going to make them shoot him at the crack of dawn. Not yet. The Jacasse law only means you get locked up for a while in some detention center, then deported, by military goons, back to the fleabag country you never should have left. I think that in time they’ll be able to improve the Jacasse law. I have a very old friend who wrote letters during the Pétain period and the German occupation. Then you could really get somewhere! You’d sniff out a Jew, you’d write a few lines, and, bam! The guy would fall right into the trap. Mind you, whether they’re Jews or Arabs or Senegalese, or even Levantine, I don’t give a damn. What I like is to act. To act in the shadows, obviously. I never show my face. Showing your face is very dangerous. Look at Ahmed Ben Malhouf: this guy showed his face to the butcher, to the concierge, to me … And what’s going to happen to him, you know what I mean? You can never be too scared, that’s what I tell myself every night. No, you have to write as night is falling and put the letter in a mailbox far from where you live. And then, slowly but surely, it makes its way. The asshole postal workers don’t even know what kind of a bomb they’re transporting, and then, pow! one fine morning it comes along and blows up in the face of some Ahmed Ben Malhouf or other. Serves him right! That’s what you get for showing your face! Do I show mine? It would just be too much if all these illegal immigrants could show their faces, and even enjoy a good reputation in their neighborhood, while I, wise to the ways of the world, never show my face. It’s not just that they’d be living here, even though they’re not French, but, on top of that, they wouldn’t be afraid, even though I, a good Frenchman, am scared shitless all day long! And because of them, to boot! Because, let’s face it, there’s no way a Frenchman who believes in the proper philosophy of being afraid of his shadow is going to put up with seeing Arabs and Negroes running around not afraid of anything! Just you wait, Ben Malhouf! You’re going to be afraid, like me!

THE DEMON. This is really a good theme. It could make for a great letter; it’s solid as a rock. Listen. OK, so, the machinations of the aforementioned Maurice Labouche. It has come to my attention via his neighbor, then in a state of inebriation, that being on vacation in Conflans-Sainte-Honorine, the individual named Labouche, normally residing in Dog-breath Street in Sarges-les-Corneilles, wrote several letters to his wife to persuade her that his own father, an invalid needing to be taken out for a walk every day like an animal, was planning in his will to leave what little fortune he still possessed to the Association for Friendship with the Arab Peoples. The presence of this decrepit and incontinent old man in the conjugal abode was already exasperating the Labouche couple. The diversion of the family money was the straw that broke the camel’s back, Madame Labouche having declared time and again, especially in the presence of the neighborhood butcher and the concierge of the building across the street, that she was sick and tired of “wiping the old man’s ass every night,” quote unquote. Given the national opinions of Maurice Labouche and his wife, the former Bernadette Crapaud, the Arab destination of the old man’s will was the other straw conducive to the breaking of the camel’s back. Due to this, harassed by her spouse’s letters, Madame Labouche one day pushed the old man down the stairs while she was taking him out for his walk, resulting in his tumbling head over heels until death ensued. The death was ruled accidental, but I have been able to arrive at the certainty that, hatched in Conflans-Sainte-Honorine, a crime has indeed been committed in Sarges-les-Corneilles. I have at my disposal several pieces of evidence, including one of Maurice Labouche’s letters, which sheds a harsh light on what deserves to be called the Dog-breath Street Case. I will make this document available to you, provided that you don’t ask me how I got it.