Kiffe Kiffe Tomorrow

A HARVEST ORIGINAL HARCOURT, INC.
Orlando Austin
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© Hachette Littératures 2004
English translation © Sarah Adams 2006

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This is a translation of
Kiffe kiffe demain,
first published by Hachette Littératures in 2004.

This translation is an edited version of Sarah Adams's translation,
published by Chatto & Windus in the United Kingdom.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Guène, Faïza.
[Kiffe kiffe demain. English]
Kiffe kiffe tomorrow/Faïza Guène.
p. cm.
"A Harvest Original."
I. Title.
PQ3989.3.G84K5413 2006
843'.92—dc22 2005030456
ISBN
-13: 978-0-15-603048-9
ISBN
-10: 0-15-603048-9

Text set in Fournier
Designed by Kaelin Chappell Broaddus

Printed in the United States of America
First edition

K J I H G F E D C B A

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and events
are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

For my mother and my father

bled
: (1) a village; (2) a godforsaken place, the middle of nowhere, a wasteland; (3) a hole or dump; (4) (North African) countryside, the interior /
Maghreb
: North Africa /
mektoub
: lit. "it is written," destiny /
inshallah
: lit. "if Allah wills," god willing /
hchouma
: shame, disgrace, indecency /
kif-kif
: same old, same old; it's all the same /
kiffer
: to be really crazy about something

It's Monday and
, like every Monday, I went over to Madame Burlaud's. Mme Burlaud is old, she's ugly, and she stinks like RID antilice shampoo. She's harmless, but sometimes she worries me. Today she took a whole bunch of weird pictures out of her bottom drawer. They were these huge blobs that looked like dried vomit. She asked me what they made me think about. When I told her she stared at me with her eyes all bugged out, shaking her head like those little toy dogs in the backs of cars.

It was school that sent me up to see her. The teachers, in between strikes for once, figured I'd better see somebody because I seemed shut down or closed off
or something ... Maybe they're right. I don't give a shit. I go. It's covered by welfare.

I guess I've been like this since my dad left. He went a way long way away, back to Morocco to marry another woman, who must be younger and more fertile than my mom. After me, Mom couldn't have any more children. But it wasn't like she didn't try. She tried for a really long time. When I think of all the girls who get pregnant their first time, not even on purpose ... Dad, he wanted a son. For his pride, his reputation, the family honor, and I'm sure lots of other stupid reasons. But he only got one kid and it was a girl. Me. You could say I didn't exactly meet customer specifications. Trouble is, it's not like at the supermarket: There's no customer-satisfaction guarantee. So one day the Beard must have realized there was no point trying anymore with my mom and he took off. Just like that, no warning. All I remember is that I was watching an episode from the fourth season of
The X-Files
that I'd rented from the video store on the corner. The door banged shut. From the window, I saw a gray taxi pulling away. That's all. It's been over six months. That peasant woman he married is probably pregnant by now. And I know exactly how it will all go down: Seven days after the birth they'll hold the baptism ceremony and invite the whole village. A band of old sheiks carting their camel-hide drums will come over just for the big event. It's going to cost him a real fortune—all his pension from the Renault factory. And then they'll slit the throat of a giant sheep to give the baby its first name. It'll be Mohammed. Ten to one.

When Mme Burlaud asks me if I miss my dad, I say "no," but she doesn't believe me. She's pretty smart like that, for a chick. Whatever, it's no big deal, my mom's here. Well, she's here physically. Because in her head, she's somewhere else. Somewhere even farther away than my father.

Ramadan started
a little over a week ago. I made Mom sign a form saying why I wouldn't be eating in the cafeteria. When I gave it to the principal, he asked if I was trying to put one over on him. His name is Monsieur Loiseau. He's fat, he's stupid, he smokes a pipe, and when he opens his mouth it reeks of cheap wine. At the end of the day, his big sister picks him up out front of school in a red hatchback. So when he wants to play the big boss, he's got a real credibility problem.

Anyway, M. Loiseau asked me if I was taking him for a ride because he thought I'd forged my mom's name on the paper. He's an idiot. If I'd wanted to fake
a signature, I'd have made it look like a real one. On this thing Mom just made a kind of squiggly line. She's not used to holding a pen. The jerk didn't even think about that, didn't even ask himself why her signature might be weird. He's one of those people who think illiteracy is like AIDS. It only exists in Africa.

Not very long ago Mom started working. She cleans rooms at the Formula 1 Motel in Bagnolet while she's waiting to find something else, soon I hope. Sometimes, when she gets home late at night, she cries. She says it's from feeling so tired. She struggles even harder during Ramadan, because when it's time to break the fast, around 5:30
P.M.
, she's still at work. So if she wants to eat, she has to hide some dates in her smock. She even sewed an inside pocket so she can be sly about it, because if her boss saw her he'd be totally pissed.

Everyone calls her "Fatma" at the Formula 1. They shout at her all the time, and they keep a close watch on her to make sure she doesn't steal anything from the rooms.

Of course, Mom's name isn't Fatma, it's Yasmina. It must really give Monsieur Winner a charge to call all the Arabs "Fatma," all the blacks "Mamadou," and all the Chinese "Ping-Pong." Pretty freaking lame.

M. Winner is Mom's supervisor. He's from Alsace. Sometimes I wish he'd waste away at the bottom of a deep, dark basement, getting eaten alive by rats. When I say that, Mom gives me shit. She says it's not good to wish death on anybody, not even your worst enemy. One day he insulted her and when she got home she cried like crazy. Last time I saw someone crying like that was when Myriam peed her pants in skiing class. That bastard Winner thought Mom was disrespecting him because, with her accent, she pronounced his name "Weener."

Since the old man split
we've had a whole parade of social workers coming to the apartment. Can't remember the new one's name, but it's something like Dubois or Dupont or Dupré, a name that tells you she's from somewhere, from a real family line or something. I think she's stupid, and she smiles all the time for no good reason. Even when it's clearly not the right time. It's like the crazy woman feels the need to be happy for other people because they aren't happy for themselves. Once, she asked if I wanted us to be friends. Like a little brat I told her I didn't see that happening. But I guess I messed up, because the look my mother gave me cut me in half. She was probably
scared social services would cut off our benefits if I didn't make nice with their stupid social worker.

Before Mme DuThingamajig, it was a man ... Yeah, she took over from this guy who looked like Laurent Cabrol, the one who hosted
Heroes' Night
on TF1 on Friday nights. Shame it's not on anymore. Now Laurent Cabrol's in the bottom right-hand corner of
TV Mag,
page 30, wearing a yellow and black striped rugby shirt, advertising central heating. Anyway, this social worker was his spitting image. Total opposite of Mme DuWhatsit. He never cracked a joke, he never smiled, and he dressed like Professor Calculus in
The Adventures of Tintin.
Once, he told my mom that in ten years on this job, this was the first time he'd seen "people like you with only one child." He was thinking "Arabs," but he didn't say so. Coming to our place was like an exotic experience for him. He kept giving weird looks to all the knick-knacks around the house, the ones my mom brought over from Morocco after she got married. And since we wear
babouches
at home, he'd take off his shoes when he walked in, trying to do the right thing. Except he had alien feet. His second toe was at least ten times longer than his big toe. It looked like he was giving us
the finger through his socks. And then there was the stench. The whole time he played the sweet, compassionate type, but it was all a front. He didn't give a shit about us. Besides, he quit. Seems he moved to the countryside. Remade himself into a cheese-maker, for all I know. He drives around the little villages of dear old la belle France in his sky blue van on Sunday mornings after Mass, selling rye bread, old-fashioned Roquefort cheese, and
saucisson sec.

Even if I think Mme DuSomethingorother's a fool too, at least she does a better job of playing social worker to the local poor. She really makes out like she gives a damn about our lives. Sometimes, you'd almost believe her. She fires questions at me in this high-pitched voice. The other day she wanted to know the last book I'd read. I just shrugged so she'd think the answer was "nothing." But, really, I've just finished this thing called
The Sand Child
by Tahar Ben Jelloun. It tells all about a little girl who was raised as a boy because she was the eighth daughter in the family and her father wanted a son. Back when the book is set, there wasn't any ultrasound or contraception. It was no refunds, no exchanges.

***

What a shitty destiny. Fate is all trial and misery and you can't do anything about it. Basically no matter what you do you'll always get screwed over. My mom says my dad walked out on us because it was written that way. Around here, we call it
mektoub.
It's like a film script and we're the actors. Trouble is, our scriptwriter's got no talent. And he's never heard of happily ever after.

My mom always dreamed
France was like in those black-and-white films from the sixties. The ones where the handsome actor's always telling his woman so many pretty lies, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Back in Morocco, my mom and her cousin Bouchra found a way to pick up French channels with this antenna they rigged up from a stainless-steel couscous maker. So when she and my dad arrived in Livry-Gargan, just north of Paris, in February 1984, she thought they must have taken the wrong boat and ended up in the wrong country. She told me that when she walked into this tiny two-room apartment the first thing she did was throw up. I'm not sure if it was seasickness or a sixth sense warning her about her future in this
bled.

The last time we went back to Morocco, I was wild-eyed and dazed. I remember these old, tattooed women coming over and sitting next to Mom at the weddings and baptisms and circumcision ceremonies.

"You know, Yasmina, your girl is getting to be a woman, you have to think about finding her a boy from a good family. Do you know Rachid? That young man who's a welder..."

Stupid old bags. I know exactly who they're talking about. Everyone calls him "Mule-head Rachid." Even the six-year-olds make fun of him to his face. Not to mention he's missing four teeth, he can't read at all, he's cross-eyed, and he stinks like piss. Over there, it's enough that you have even the smallest little bumps for breasts, you know to shut up when you're told to, you know how to bake decent bread, and bam, you're all ready for marriage. Anyway, I don't think we're ever going back to Morocco. We can't afford it for one thing, and my mom says it would be too humiliating. People would point at her and whisper. She thinks what happened is all her
fault. To me there are only two guilty parties in this story: my dad and fate.

We worry about the future but there's no point. For all we know we might not even have one. You could die in ten days, or tomorrow, or suddenly, right over there, right now. It's the kind of thing that doesn't exactly make an appointment. There's no advance notice, no final warning. Not like when your electricity bill payment is overdue. That's how it was for Monsieur Rodriguez, my neighbor from the eleventh floor, the one who fought in the war for real. He died not long ago. Sure, OK, he was old, but, still, no one expected it.

Sometimes I think about death. I even dream about it. One night I was at my own funeral. Hardly anyone there. Just my mom; Mme Burlaud; Carla, the Portuguese lady who cleans the elevators in our tower; Leonardo DiCaprio from
Titanic;
and my friend Sarah, who moved to that suburb Trappes, south of Paris, when I was twelve. My dad wasn't there. He must have been busy with his peasant woman who
was pregnant with his Momo-to-be, while I was, well, dead. It's disgusting. I'll bet you his son's going to be stupid, even slower than Rachid the welder. I hope he'll limp, have problems with his eyesight, and when he hits puberty he'll suffer from the worst possible acne. He won't be able to get ahold of any Clearasil for his zits in their crappy, middle-of-nowhere
bled.
Except maybe on the black market, if he knows how to work the system. Whichever way you look at it, he'll turn out to be a loser. In this family, being a stupid bastard is passed down from father to son. At sixteen, he'll be selling potatoes and turnips at the market. And on his trip home every day, riding his black mule, he'll tell himself: "I am one glamorous guy."