A Riffians Tune (24 page)

I looked at Nabil and noticed that he was tall, older than me, but one year below me in school. Mounir arrived next and was surprised to find me laying my bedding out. He was also older than me, but short and lumbering. I felt uneasy with Nabil and later, he made life miserable for me. Both Nabil and Mounir refused to share the cooking, which made the room cramped and smelly.

Coming back from school, I found Nabil with a very young boy, naked, in his corner. I chased the boy out of the room, but he was starving and Nabil had paid him, so I found him in the room again the next day. I felt the room was dirty.

I asked to change my accommodation and reported Nabil's abuse to the caretaker, who didn't care, was rude and graphic in his reply. ‘I can't put a lock on a boy's ass or castrate the abuser!' he said.

I was very lucky to get a spot in another house, Dial House. With two boys, I shared yet another exceptionally narrow, long room with a partition halfway up the wall, allowing only a façade of privacy. I began to run out of money and prepared myself to go home, as there was no job I could do; my only other choice was depravity.

I couldn't contain my joy when I was told in class that I had a boarding space in the new dormitory. I spent the night packing my books and left my blanket and sheepskins behind for unlucky Mahamad, who was not accepted as a boarder based on his marks and only lasted two more months before giving up and going home.

From Boujloud, I took a taxi. The driver dropped me at the amazing French wooden door, ornate in a Middle-Age style, with a forbidding and constantly manned barrier. A smaller side door was craftily inserted within the massive entrance. The moment my foot crossed the threshold, I heard a shout. ‘Hey! Where are you going?' demanded a huge, burly man rushing to ward me off. ‘Do you have any papers?' he asked.

Pulling my papers out of my jacket pocket, I showed him my ID.

He didn't look at them. He was illiterate and with his index finger, pointed to the bursar's office, which was at the very end of the school and at the top of several flights of steps. The school, a complex, was new and whitewashed. Outside the bursary door, a thin black man, looking bored to tears, was squatting on a small chair behind a tiny table and waiting for orders.

‘Get in!' he motioned to me. The room was large, its walls were painted white and it looked chic. Spontaneously, I crossed to a young man who looked extremely pleased with himself, and yet not entirely at ease. Facing him, a girl was pounding on a typewriter sounding like a drum roll. The young man jeered at me with contempt, ticked my name on his roll and threw my school ID back at me. While scribbling, he flirted with the fashionable young typist, who looked like a whore. They spoke French and gestured to each other to express what their words failed to convey. I understood nothing of what was passing in front of me. French, like Greek and Latin, was for the intelligent, Arabic for the slow and awkward, and I was counted as one of them. To check there was no name-swapping, he passed me to a second man in authority in an even bigger room. The man was obese and his left ear was twisted as small as a pea. He wrote my name on his final checklist and shouted, ‘Pavilion Eleven! Take any empty bed. The bedding will be provided later.'

On my way to Pavilion Eleven, strolling between the buildings, I felt as if I had moved from the Middle Ages to modern life. The school had been a French army barracks, entirely secured by a high mud wall. Massive classrooms had been built in parallel buildings. On the other side of the campus were several dormitory pavilions, behind which was a huge refectory with accommodation for the kitchen staff. At the very back, far from it all, on a sloping hill overlooking the campus, two luxurious houses were built, one for the bursar and one for the rector. The school and the houses were worlds apart.

While I was finding my bearings, looking like an intruder, I met a moustached sixth-year prefect who pointed the way to Pavilion Eleven. Coming face-to-face with the pavilion, I spotted Bozaid coming out, using crutches. I was happy and excited to see him. At first, I thought he might have injured himself, but getting closer, realised he had no leg and had the trouser leg folded up and pinned.

‘What happened?' I asked.

Leaning on one of his crutches, Bozaid stopped and wiped his eyes. Watching in shock, I stood frozen beside him.

‘During the summer, I joined the Algerian Liberation Army,' he explained. ‘We infiltrated a complicated protected zone beyond Oujda and Saidia. We cut through the electrified barbed wire, which created a massive spark, drawing French fire. Waiting until the guns were silent, we moved deeper into French-Algerian territory. Unfortunately, several metres away from the wire, the French army had laid land mines. We combed the land slowly, but somehow, I stepped on a mine and my leg was torn to pieces. The mission was aborted. I was pulled back and rushed to the hospital. No bones were left to stand on, so they amputated my leg above the knee. I woke up with no leg.'

Frozen in horror, I listened to his story until the prefect jostled us to move inside for dinner. The refectory was impressive, long and wide, with large glass windows covering two-thirds of the walls. Tables were designed to accommodate six chairs, all made with wood and steel, military style. Four boys were already around the table finishing their soup. It wasn't easy for Bozaid to sit. He was still learning how to use his crutches, as well as how to live with one leg missing. The shock and sadness crossed my body like a muscle spasm each time I watched Bozaid struggle. He had been as strong as a lion and as agile as a squirrel, but now needed help to sit down.

It was reassuring, somehow, for me to sit at the same table with someone I already knew. Controlled smiles and low voices were the tempo of the table. The moment dinner was over, each prefect took his charges to the assigned revision class. Bozaid was given an exceptional privilege, a key to the dormitory. I followed him, and inch by inch we reached the dormitory pavilion, which looked like a large, long hangar with twenty-four bunk beds inside, most of them occupied. Some were tidy, and some just barely. At the far end, there was one empty bed on the lower bunk, beside the window. I sat on it and threw my belongings on the floor beside it. Puffing on a cigarette, Bozaid was at the other end, near a window, on the lower bunk.

‘New arrival!' shouted a man, papers flying in his hands, who burst into the dormitory. A second man behind him carried blankets and sheets. I showed my ID and after much ticking of paper, I received two sheets, two blankets and a round, long pillow, property for which I became fully responsible. Beside my bed stood a tall steel locker allocated to me, but buying a padlock was my duty.

It passed in a blink of an eye. If I awakened and found myself behind goats and sheep, I would be convinced I had dreamed a fantasy I wished were true.

While I was trying to make my bed, cuddling my sheets and blankets, Bozaid was babbling like a burst pipe. His smoke clouded the room, and he raised his voice each time he thought I had missed one of his words. He felt the need to talk.

‘Be aware,' he shouted, with an ironic tone in his voice. ‘The light goes off at ten o'clock. The queue for the toilets is very long. You might pee in your trousers.'

He hadn't lied. Twenty students burst into the dormitory. Books, bags and jotters were chaotically thrown on beds; lockers were slammed in anger and frustration. There was no listener, and yet everyone talked. Like a stampede, a massive rush to the bathroom began. Two single sinks, not enough to keep up with the sudden flood of thirsty boys, lined the wall. I heard verbal skirmishes, saw shoving, and those were the norm of the night.

Toilets were where most vicious fights erupted. Bullies often tried to eject other boys from the showers or push them from the sinks. Bullies were not fighters, but cowards; they never stood up to a real fight, but they bullied. Often, they picked the wrong victims. Boys with quiet demeanour often turned out to be fierce and nasty fighters.

At lightning speed, we were all in bed and quiet; the light turned off. A thin beam of light pierced the window and darted in and around the darkness, giving me a fright. I sat up in bed and peered around, but no one else was bothered. It was the prefect's final check to make sure no light was on, to save energy. This was my first night ever sleeping on a mattress or in a bed, and I found it amazingly comfortable.

Up early, I was the first in the shower room. There was no competition, no queue and no hot water either, but I ventured into the shower. The icy water, hitting my neck and head, took my breath away.

Dormitories shut their doors at seven in the morning. Like a herd, we rushed to the refectory door a few metres away.

Breakfast was cold: French baguettes, butter, jam and coffee. At the table, Bozaid was mute, cold like a stone. He brought with him a small transistor radio that he was fiddling with, but was not allowed to listen to; waves of frustration crashed on his face.

From the refectory, we shuffled down to the new, modern buildings, all bungalow-shaped and sun-facing. I expected to be in the same class, but boarding school brought a different selection of boys, and of all those I knew I found only Faissal. Happy to see him, I asked, ‘Where is your seat?'

‘At the very front,' he pointed.

‘Who is beside you?' I asked.

‘You,' he said with a twisted smile. ‘No one wants to sit beside me.' I took the seat beside him and dropped my bag on the desk.

Looking around the class, I found myself mingling with the sons of successful traders, judges and teachers. Milodi, Jalil and Gabran were not the only bigheaded boys in my class. Shami, the shortest boy, with thick, black eyebrows, constantly brought the local tabloid to class. He was highly motivated and fanatically dogmatic. He loved to invent city gossip involving sex, thievery, scandal or incest. I hated his enthusiasm for dirty stories, and he disliked my criticism, but we sat in the same class and learned the same lessons.

I enjoyed every class except Professor Sculli's religion class. I was naïve, and he nearly ended my education. Short, stout, blond, balding and blind, he taught enthusiastically and used his bellicose voice to subdue the hyperactive and fascinate the lazy. His voice rang out whenever he heard a squeak of a chair or table. He never sat down; he swung from right to left until the end of the lesson. From time to time, he checked with his left hand that he hadn't stepped too far astray from his desk. I was unlucky that morning, and he was in a bad mood.

On the subject of Mecca, I asked, ‘If it is a matter of congress, could it be held in the United States of America?'

He leaped off the riser and lurched in my direction. ‘Where is he? Where is he?' he yelled.

He reached me, threw my jotter on the floor, pulled me by my ear and pushed me. ‘This is your last day!' he growled.

I never believed a professor would act like that and hate America that much. I was terrified, and Faissal started to giggle, but the class was shocked and lapsed into complete silence, as expulsion meant the end of schooling. Five minutes later, I was handed to the rector like a criminal. I protested vigorously, but the rector gave me no ear. With both his hands, he pushed me in the chest until I stumbled backward. I was out of the office and out of the class, ostracised into the walled garden of the school. I couldn't believe what had happened to me.

At lunchtime, when the refectory opened, everybody in my class and dormitory knew that I had been expelled. I went to the refectory, but felt like an intruder.
Where will I spend the night?
I worried.

The afternoon came, and classes started at two o'clock. I didn't know what to do.
Should I go to class?
That might make things worse. It might look like defiance
, I thought. I headed to the office, but the rector wasn't there, so I waited. At four o'clock, the rector rushed into his office, blindly ignoring me standing outside.

On the same afternoon, Faissal told me later, Professor Zakiri, young and newly qualified, brought the class' homework, corrected and graded. ‘Jusef!' he called, ‘number one in class. Come forward and read your essay aloud.'

‘He's been expelled,' the boys chorused. He read my essay to the class himself.

While I was standing at the rector's office door, Professor Zakiri entered and disappeared into the rector's office. Fifteen minutes later, I was called in.

‘Join your class tomorrow morning, but you are expelled from boarding for two weeks. Go and clear out your belongings from the dormitory,' said the rector.

‘I have nowhere to go,' I said.

‘Go and search,' he replied.

I went back to the dormitory, packed up my belongings and found myself on the street in front of the school with nowhere to go. With no bedding, I headed to the
funduq
where I had lived with Moussa, Samir and Kamil, hoping to find a room for two weeks, but it had been engulfed by fire. Wandering up the street, dragging my bag, I happened upon another
funduq
that had a spare room on the first floor.

Two weeks were filled with sleepless nights, the groans of the endless stream of whores and their patrons, abundant cockroaches, and most difficult of all, a diet of bread and water.

Emaciated, I returned to the dormitory. Traumatised, I rarely ventured out of the school the rest of the year. Boys were free to relax in the town on Friday afternoons, but I hid myself in the reading room and read my books. On rare occasions, Bozaid and I went to a café in Boujloud. We sat, read newspapers, discussed politics and watched men, women, children, donkeys and sometimes mules passing by.

I remember the last time we went to the café, Bozaid was depressed. He disappeared before the first sprouts of spring, and those I asked had no news of him.

Frozen in class but not in time, I awakened one day to find it was already June. The school year had reached its end. The weather was hot and the exam schedule was brought to every class. I couldn't expect to be boarded the following year if I were to fail my exams.