Hope Has Two Daughters Page 5

  That same day I shared the news with Neila.

  “But what world are you living in? No one ever told you? That’s all my aunts ever talk about.”

  “Well, you know I don’t have an aunt, except for Auntie Rafika who does nothing but complain and is always depressed. She doesn’t count,” I fired back.

  “Yes, I know,” she said in exasperation, “but you could always open up a magazine, or read a book. Here,” she said, pulling a magazine from under her mattress. “Take it and read it.”

  She handed me a magazine with a beautiful woman on the cover. Her blond hair tumbled down about her face. Elle, the magazine was called.

  “Where did you find this?” I asked her, growing more startled by the moment.

  “At Samia’s, our neighbourhood hairdresser. Mother and I went to get our hair done. There’s always a pile of magazines on the table in the middle of the salon. I just love the photos, and also the articles. Here’s a whole feature on the monthlies.”

  “Monthlies,” I repeated, shocked. “You mean our monthly exams?”

  Neila suppressed another sigh of exasperation. “When are you going to grow up, Nadia? Monthlies, menstruation, the bleeding that comes every month. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “Okay, okay, I was just kidding,” I answered with a laugh and stuffed the magazine into my school bag.

  At school, not one single natural science instructor ever mentioned monthlies, never breathed a word about reproduction. We dissected pigeons, frogs, and mice, but never mentioned humans.

  So it was that I learned the facts of life thanks to Neila, to the magazines that we picked up at Samia the hairdresser’s, or the famous Larousse, which Dalia, one of our classmates, would bring to school from time to time. It was a book on human reproduction, and it showed men and women nude. Dalia’s mother was a physician. She had bought the book on a trip to France. That was how I taught myself, leafing through magazines and books and talking with Neila. But aside from these new insights, my life didn’t change. I believed everything my parents told me, or sometimes didn’t tell me. I attended school, did my homework, watched television, read books, and dreamed.

  The bread riots had a powerful impact on me. Now I began to doubt everything: my classes, my parents, my country, my opinions about others, my reading, my instructors. The sight of overturned cars, the red flames rising from burning tires, the police shooting at demonstrators, the crowds surging through the streets, the frightened politicians making public declarations and announcements had awakened me from a long slumber, from the indolence I’d gradually sunk into along with everybody else.

  But there was also the look in Mounir’s eyes when he’d spoken to me before I clambered up onto the school wall. That look, where injustice mingled with oppression, and where fury struggled against madness. That look hasn’t left me ever since. Now I understood that I could no longer live my life and overlook the suffering of others, could no longer think only of my family and myself. That look of his gave me the strength to reexamine my life, to criticize the choices my parents had made for me, and to make my own decisions.

  I spent the whole day at home. My parents didn’t go out either. Najwa was still sniffling; all she wanted was for me to play with her. Again and again we dressed and undressed her doll. We combed its hair, but the tiny plastic brush got stuck instead of sliding smoothly through the artificial locks. And if we pulled too hard, the nylon strands popped out of the doll’s head, to Najwa’s dismay. She began to panic. All she could think of was her balding doll. So while she worried, I snuck out of the room and into the garden. It was winter. All the fruit trees — the apple, apricot, and peach trees — had lost their leaves. Only the disparate cypresses that lined the fence at the rear of our yard had kept their green. Their dry, brown needles covered the ground. I walked around the house in an attempt to steal a glance or two beyond the wall. Nothing. Not a single car. Only an occasional passerby, moving with rapid steps.

  I climbed up into the enclosure that protected the gas and water meters. It was my personal observation post, the place from which I could see what was happening in the street without being seen. The corner grocer was closed. No bread delivery, no milk. The revolt was still going on. The bread riots. Further on, I spotted a black-and-white police van, the type we called baga.

  It was parked. Two policemen were standing guard in front, smoking and talking. Their colleagues were crammed inside like sardines, shoulder to shoulder. I could see their gray-rimmed helmets through the windows. What could they be thinking about? About the young punks who, as recently as yesterday, were pelting them with rocks aimed at their heads? About their starvation wages, on which they could never hope to live like the masters they protected? Or about their families, their wives who were always asking for a bit more money, or about the price of bread and the high cost of living? The two cops kept smoking, sullen looks on their faces.

  I noticed Hedia, Najwa’s mother; her husband had recently died of a heart attack. She was crossing the street, dressed completely in black, a scarf covering her hair. Even at a distance, hurt seemed to glimmer in her eyes. She stopped in front of the grocery store. Did she want to buy some bread? Not a soul was there. Hedia paused for a moment, at a loss, hands crossed in front of her. Then she made her way back. There would be no bread for her children that day. She did not come to pick up Najwa. She knew her daughter was in good hands. And there would be one less mouth to feed.

  I was just about to climb down from my observation post when I spotted Neila. She was heading for our house, long faced, clear eyed, hair pulled up into a ponytail. She passed directly in front of the baga. The two cops looked her over from head to toe as she walked by. Neila ignored them, walking with steady, rapid steps. She wanted to see me, I was sure of it. I made my way down from the enclosure and went over to open the garden gate. Neila stepped back, startled by my sudden appearance.

  “How did you know I was here? I didn’t even ring.”

  “I was watching you from my observation post,” I said, pointing to my secret hideaway.

  Neila brushed some strands of hair from her forehead. A veil of concern slipped across her face.

  “Why didn’t you come yesterday?” I asked. “I waited for you in front of your building as usual, but you never came down, and I had to go. Afterwards, you should have seen the lycée, Sonia yelling, the pushing and shoving in the corridors. And Mounir . . .”

  “You saw him? Where? I saw the demonstrations on TV, but I haven’t heard from him. He hasn’t called me since yesterday morning.” Her face darkened. She was hiding something from me.

  “Come on in,” I nearly ordered her.

  Neila almost let herself be pulled inside. I let go of the wrought iron gate, which closed with a creak.

  We went into my room and sat down. Najwa was in the kitchen, eating. I could hear her chatting with mother, who was cooking. Father was still in the living room, his ear glued to the radio, motionless; a block of stone that breathed. He was listening intently to one broadcast after another.

  “How come you didn’t come to school yesterday? On account of your father?”

  Neila shook her head energetically. “I was coming down the stairs, on the way out of the building to meet you outside, as usual, there by the streetlight, when Mounir popped up from I have no idea where. He was waiting for me. He told me: ‘Don’t go to school today, Neila. There’s going to be trouble. You know, the increase in bread prices has infuriated people across the country. Today that fury will reach Tunis and its suburbs. It won’t be pretty to see. Better for you to stay at home.’ His eyes weren’t soft, like before. It wasn’t the same Mounir. ‘How do you know? How do you know that there are going to be demonstrations here, not far from our place?’ I asked him, half-surprised and half-upset that he hadn’t said a word to me the day before.

  “You could see that Mounir was nerv
ous. I could tell he wanted to be on his way as fast as he could. He was afraid that one of our neighbours might see him talking to me. He stood there, mouth closed, unable to say a single word. I looked him in the eye. I wanted to slap him, to shake him out of his silence. After a couple of minutes, he mumbled, ‘I can’t talk about it now, Neila. It’s a long story. One day I’ll tell you. Yes, I know things that you don’t. Don’t be disturbed if you don’t hear from me in the next few days.’ Then, as quickly as he appeared, he turned away and vanished. I don’t have the faintest idea what he’s doing or who he’s working with. Nadia, I’m in a state of shock. All this time he’s been lying to me. Me, who loves him and believes in him. Do you understand, Nadia? Mounir is a liar.”

  She was gasping now, barely able to speak; her eyes brimmed with tears. The deluge was about to break loose, but I managed to forestall it. Stepping close to her, I took her by the shoulders. Normally, Neila was the stronger of us. She was the one who kept me up to date on all the gossip at the lycée. One day she told me that Sonia had gone all the way. How we laughed that day!

  “Gone all the way?” I’d responded, incredulous. “All the way to where? I’m surprised she tells you where she’s going.”

  Neila laughed so hard that she just about peed. She crossed her legs and grasped her belly with both hands.

  “What a dunce you are! Go all the way, that’s when a boy and a girl have sex for the first time.”

  I blushed crimson. The blood was throbbing in my head. Even the mention of the subject had a powerful effect on me. At that instant, I was struck dumb.

  Neila was still laughing at me, and I ended up bursting into laughter as well, to hide my ignorance and my embarrassment. Neila knew everything; I knew almost nothing. But today, as I held her in my arms, she felt weak, fragile, and about to collapse.

  “It’s okay, Neila. Calm down. Mounir is no liar. I saw him yesterday at school. He helped me climb over the wall to get away from the demonstrators who broke into our lycée. He’s a militant, it’s as simple as that!” I told her with fervour, my eyes gleaming like the eyes of a little girl blowing out the candles on her birthday cake.

  Neila gently disengaged herself. She was no longer crying. Her face went back to normal. A faint smile fluttered on her lips.

  “How do you know he’s a militant? And for who, what?”

  Her eyebrows knit as she awaited my response.

  “I know it, I can tell in my heart. He’s fighting for the poor. You’ll see, he’ll tell you. He wasn’t lying to you — he was just hiding his other face. Did you watch the news last night?”

  Neila nodded.

  “Did you see the pictures of the young men throwing stones? Many of them were wearing hoods. Do you remember?”

  A shadow passed over Neila’s face.

  “What are you getting at?”

  I hesitated for an instant, then spoke. “I think Mounir was one of them, or he knows some of them.”

  “You’ve got to be joking!”

  “It’s no joke. I’m your friend. Look me in the eyes. Mounir is not a bum or a parasite, like they keep saying on the radio and the television. Mounir is a mili-tant. Get it? Remember when we ran into him at the shopping centre, a year ago? He was carrying some books. Most of them were wrapped in newsprint. While you were talking with him I got a glimpse of the title of one of them through a tear in the paper. I’m certain it was Capital by Karl Marx.”

  Now it was Neila’s turn to be shocked. She hadn’t made the connections that I’d made only yesterday. Neila was still living in the stunted world of our parents. I had to rescue her. For the first time since we’d become friends, I felt more courageous than Neila, stronger, more motivated.

  “Who is this Karl what’s-his-name? And what does he have to do with what Mounir is doing? Eh? Enlighten me, if you please, smarty-pants.” She’d adopted a sarcastic attitude because she couldn’t believe that Mounir could act any differently than everyone else.

  “Neila, listen to me. This isn’t the time for snarky remarks. I know you’re confused, and so am I. Karl Marx is the father of communism. I suspect that Mounir’s involved in it. He’s fighting for the rights of the poor, and against the injustice of the system —”

  She wouldn’t allow me to go on. “When did you read all that stuff? You’re not going to tell me you’re a militant too, and I’m the only one who doesn’t know.”

  Her tears began to flow again. Like a gentle, persistent spring rain.

  “Come on Neila, what are you talking about? I’m not involved in anything. I’m just like you, trying to figure out which way to turn. I do read about communism, about socialism and other complicated subjects. I don’t really understand that much, but at least I know the theory. What do you think I’ve been doing all summer?”

  Neila was surprised. True enough, we’d spent most of the summer watching television together, going for long, aimless walks, picking jasmine blooms we’d make into garlands, or putting on the swimsuits we’d bought second-hand and sunbathing on the patio in my parents’ garden.

  “I read when my parents are taking their afternoon nap and I don’t have anything else to keep me busy. My father keeps a lot of old books he buys from the second-hand book dealers in the Rue Zarkoun hidden in his closet. There was one on communism. I read it, and that’s how I guessed that Mounir is one of those people.”

  She shook her head and looked away. Neila was still living in the past. From the kitchen, I could hear Najwa’s sniffling like stuttering laughter. How badly I wanted Neila to listen to me!

  EIGHT

  Tunis, December 4, 2010

  “Lila, are you sure everything is okay there? Here, they’re talking about it more and more on the news. It sounds serious, like the regime is on its last legs. Don’t you want to come back to Ottawa?”

  Mom’s voice was coming through, without echo or interruption. Loud and clear, it lodged in my eardrum. But I couldn’t understand why she was upset. Why was she so afraid, when she was the one who insisted I spend several months here? Funny, I didn’t feel like I had to leave in a hurry. Leave now, when I was beginning to make friends and get to know Uncle Mounir and Aunt Neila? The idea seemed ridiculous. Only two weeks ago, I would have jumped for joy at the thought of packing my bags and flying home. Not anymore.

  Today, I had to admit: something was keeping me here. An invisible magnet.

  “I’m doing fine, Mom. Sure, there are some riots in the country, but that’s in the small towns and villages. Here, in Tunis, everything’s quiet, everything seems normal. Hold on a second — here’s Aunt Neila. She wants to talk to you.”

  Aunt Neila came into the living room, still wearing her dressing gown. She smiled at me, and the sight of her face put me at ease. I gave her the handset and she winked at me by way of thanks. I sat on the sofa, resting my cheek in the palm of my hand. A bit discouraged, I listened to the conversation. Aunt Neila’s face was shining. I had the impression that her habitual sadness had almost vanished. Mom’s voice was magical; it worked miracles.

  “Nadia, my dear Nadia, how are you? How happy I am to hear that beautiful voice of yours! How is Alex? And your job? Lila told me you’re working for the Canadian government. Mabrouk, sweetie! I’m really proud of you!”

  Aunt Neila fell silent for a brief moment. Her eyes were focused on some distant point. The window, the balcony, the far-off summit of Mount Boukornine, maybe even the horizon. She was listening to my mother intently, fiddling with the sash of her dressing gown at the same time. I imagined a young teenager, fragile but full of optimism, defying rigid structures and traditions. Another Aunt Neila, an aunt turned twenty years old at the sound of my mother’s voice.

  “Nadia, don’t worry about Lila. She’s our daughter, and you know it. No, there are no demonstrations in Tunis. Not so far, at any rate. Not as far as I know.”

  Then her youthfulne
ss faded, as if a cloud had passed over her face. She became pensive. Her face turned forlorn, her eyes blank, her expression strained. Why? Her dainty mouth remained open. Her cheeks were drawn. She uttered a few incomprehensible words. Mother was still talking to her. Finally, she managed to answer.

  “Mounir? How is he doing? You know. Nadia, he’s not the same Mounir we knew back then. The old fire is gone. All those years in prison. I’m living in the shadow of the past.”

  I could feel my heart in my throat. I felt dizzy. Why was I sitting there, in the living room? I should have gotten up and gone to my room. I wanted to cover my ears to avoid hearing Aunt Neila talk about her husband. A sense of shame enveloped us. He’d been in prison? Why hadn’t Mom ever said anything? Not so much as a hint. Nothing. Why the silence?

  Aunt Neila glanced over at me. I avoided her gaze and pretended to be examining the books on the shelves next to the sofa. I couldn’t even read their titles. The letters were swirling in my head. I’d forgotten every bit of Arabic I had learned. My mind could only focus on one thing. Uncle Mounir in prison. What had happened? Neila continued to look at me with those sad eyes of hers. She wanted me to stay. I could tell. She didn’t want to hide a thing from me. Her wounded eyes bore into me, but I avoided them.

  “I promise you, Nadia. If anything happens, I’ll do all I can to find an airline ticket and send her back to you.” She hesitated for a few seconds. “That’s it — she’ll be on her way back to you, there in the cold. But for the time being, she’s just fine at our place, isn’t that so Lila?”

  I struggled to smile, pretending that everything was normal. But my head was spinning. “Sure I’m fine,” I muttered. “Tell her not to worry about me. I’m not a kid anymore!”

  Aunt Neila smiled. “Don’t worry, sweetie. Call me more often. You know, it does me a world of good to hear your voice. Bi slama ya aziziti, bye-bye, Nadia.”

  I imagined my mother’s voice carried by fibre-optic cables beneath the ocean, dissolving, and then, total silence.