Tomorrow I'll Be Twenty (31 page)

‘Where have you put the key?'

‘Little Pepper's looking after it for me and…'

‘Who's Little Pepper?'

‘Someone who talks to people you can't see. We went looking for the key together because he'd lost it in the bin and…'

‘Someone who goes looking through bins is usually called a vagabond. Is this Little Pepper a bit mad, by any chance?'

‘Oh no, he's a philosopher, he has all these ideas other people can't have. That's what philosophers do.'

‘He's just mad, then, let's face it, like Athena and Mango.'

‘No, he's a philosopher!'

‘Let's both go and see him, and ask him to give the key back!'

‘I can't today…'

‘Why not?'

‘At lunchtime I have to go with Maman Martine to the Bloc 55
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, and after that I have to go home with my father, Maman Pauline's getting back from Brazzaville.'

At last a plane goes overhead, but it's way up in the sky. Usually it seems like the planes are passing just a few centimetres above the roofs of the houses in our
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, and the dogs start barking, and the little children go running into their mothers' arms.

I say to Lounès, ‘That's a strange plane, don't you think?'

‘Why?'

‘It's like the front bit's bent downwards, like it was going to fall on top of us.'

‘That's just because we're lying down.'

‘No, something bad's going to happen, I can feel it. It's strange that no planes have gone over since we've been lying here. And it looks like it's got to land really urgently somewhere.'

‘So where do you think it's going to land?'

‘In Egypt. The capital of Egypt is Cairo.'

The Shah of Iran has died. In Egypt.

Papa Roger is angry, you'd think it was someone in our family who'd died. Maman Pauline is still tired from her long trip and isn't listening, so my father turns to me and explains that the great man is going to be missed by the whole world. I already know everything he's saying. But since he's sad, because after all, the person who's died is someone he loved, he tells me once again about Egypt, Anouar el-Sadat and how he shared the Nobel Peace Prize with Menahem Begin, about Morocco, King Hassan II, Mexico, the Bahamas, Panama, etc. Each time he mentions one of these countries, I imagine a plane flying over our town and I think: The capital of Egypt is Cairo, the capital of Morocco is Rabat, the capital of Mexico is Mexico City, the capital of the Bahamas is Nassau, the capital of Panama is Panama City, etc.

‘The Shah had had cancer for many years,' Papa Roger says again. ‘He had lost his homeland, and when that happens to someone they get homeland cancer, and no doctor can treat that, except by helping the sick person live longer. When you lose your homeland you can't tell night from day, you're haunted by memories of what you've left behind, and if you're not in good health, your illness gets worse. And that's the kind of cancer that killed the Shah.'

While he's telling me all this, I see Arthur's face again, in my mind. I would like to go and tell him the bad news, but I
remember that I'm never allowed in my parents' bedroom when they're at home. Only if my father says: ‘Michel, go and fetch my wallet from the bedroom, I've left it on top of the books.' Or if my mother says: ‘Michel, go and fetch that pair of red shoes from under the bed. And bring the earrings I left on your father's books.' Then I can go into my parents' room. And when I do go, I stay for a long time, because I try and get a quick look at Arthur. Sometimes it's me that goes to fetch the radio cassette, and if I forget the cassette of the singer with the moustache, Papa Roger says: ‘Michel, the Georges Brassens cassette isn't in here, quick, go and get it.' I really like that, because I know I will see Arthur's beloved face, with his angelic smile, for the second time that evening. But one evening they don't send me into their room, I don't like it, I feel sad then, even when my father makes jokes about people he's met with Monsieur Mutombo in the local bars. My mother laughs at his jokes, but I don't, I don't get hysterics, like I do whenever I'm in Monsieur Mutombo's workshop and Longombé's mother turns up at the door asking her son for money. I sleep badly, and I can't stop thinking about Arthur. When I go to bed I tell My Sister Star and My Sister No-name everything. I don't feel the mosquitoes biting me, I don't even hear them because they bite my body, not my soul; my soul has already left the house, and gone to another world. Even if they do bite me, I've been vaccinated against malaria, I'm not going to die of that.

The Shah has been buried in Egypt, not in Iran. Once again, it's the Egyptians who've given him a decent burial, even though he wasn't their president. No other head of state, in the whole of the rest of the world, has had the courage to come and pay his last respects. And once again I wonder if Ayatollah Khomeyni
is perhaps the most powerful man on earth now, because all the other presidents are afraid of him.

Roger Guy Folly said that the president of the Americans, called Richard Nixon, went to the Shah's funeral, and criticised the other world presidents because they were too scared to turn up too. All that's just a smokescreen. Words thrown to the winds. Why wait till someone dies to say that kind of thing? He irritates me, that Richard Nixon. He should have helped the Shah ages ago. He should have been criticising the presidents back then, instead of making a song and dance now. When people intervene when it's too late, Uncle René says they're ‘calling the doctor after someone's died.' Richard Nixon's scolding isn't going to bring the late Shah happiness in the next world. I'm sure when he meets God personally he'll tell him the names of all the presidents who failed to face up to their responsibilities.

I've got heaps of presents now. It's as though I've caught up on everything I've never had, since I was born. If you saw them you'd think there must be lots of children living in our house, when in fact there aren't. Bags of marbles. Plastic soldiers with complicated weapons that run off batteries. French castles that are really difficult to put together. Ambulances with paramedics dressed in red and orange. Footballs, rugby balls, hand balls. A Superman, and lots of other things besides that I sometimes forget all about, then when I find them again I think: When did my mum and dad give me that?

There's hardly any room left to put it all. Some days my parents don't tell me they've brought me presents, they put them straight under my bed, and when I go and look for a football or a handball, to go and play with Lounès and some other boys from round here, I find them, and shout for joy, you'd think I'd just got my Primary School Certificate, which I haven't. If I find the key to my mother's belly, will they still go on giving me presents?

My favourite toy is, of course, the car like Sebastien's, which my parents bought me a few days ago. They said it wasn't easy to find because Christmas was ages ago. They looked in all the shops in town, and there was just one car like it left, at Printania.

On Sundays I go into our yard and press all the command buttons on my car. It turns left, it turns right, then does a U-turn,
it goes straight on then comes right back to my feet. Then I press the red button and it stops, and the engine goes off.

At first my parents wanted to buy two of these cars, but I said: ‘No, first wait till this one breaks down. Besides, if it does break down I'll call Sebastien, he'll know how to repair it, because he's had a car like this for ages.'

That made them laugh, but not me.

When I play with my car, Maman Pauline and Papa Roger sometimes stand behind me, like they want to be children again, and play with me. They get down on their hands and knees and watch my car go all the way to the end of our yard and then come back to my feet. They cheer and I'm very happy that my car interests them so much. On the other hand, I know they are too big, really, to be down on their knees, crawling about in the dust. Grown-ups only get down on their knees to pray. So I think that if my father and mother are getting down on their knees it's not because they want to play with me, it's not because they like my car, it's just because they want something from me. They want the key.

They can see I'm happy playing, so they ask me: ‘Do you like your car, Michel?'

I'm concentrating very hard because I don't want my car to bang into the mango tree or to go outside, where someone could steal it, so I just nod, and say nothing.

Then Papa Roger leans over to me: ‘Michel, you need to think about us too, now. You need to think about making us happy, because we love you, and we aren't your enemies. We'll never be your enemies. We've given you lots of presents already. Just think, none of the children in our
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, not in this town, even, have got the things you've got. Now you think about us, make us happy. Do you understand?'

I just act like I don't understand, and go on playing. Until Maman Pauline and Papa Roger tell me directly that I'm the cause of their misery, I'll act like I know nothing, and understand nothing, and am waiting for them to spell it out.

This Sunday Lounès and I have been playing with my car on the big football pitch in the Savon
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. We don't even feel the late afternoon heat. He came and whistled for me outside the house and said: ‘We need to run your car in properly, or it will never go very fast. Let's go to the football pitch in Savon, there's no match there this Sunday.'

The two of us are trying to see how fast my car can go and how many minutes, or hours it will run for. As soon as it sets off we start shouting as though it was a race between two cars when in fact there's only one. That's when I realise my parents were right to want to give me two cars. We could have had a real race between Lounès and me. I don't want to ask Sebastien to have a race with me, because then he'll know I've got the same toy as him and he'll be jealous of me.

The car's already done several runs out and back. Suddenly we hear a strange noise as though I'd pressed on the stop button.

I yell: ‘It's broken down! We'll have to take it to my cousin's!'

Then, remembering that I don't want Sebastien to see my car, I press the start button again and again to make sure it really has broken down. It won't move. Panicking, I pick it up and turn it over. Maybe it's because of the dust. So I blow on it.

‘Don't bother doing that, it's not broken, the batteries are dead,' says Lounès.

So I run over to the little bag I've brought with me, put
the car away, and get out the football: ‘It doesn't matter if the car doesn't work, let's play football. We'll play penalties, since there's only two of us, you go and stand in goal over there, and I'll go first.'

Lounès doesn't move. He just stands there in the middle of the pitch like a pillar, looking at me.

‘Why don't you go and stand in goal?' I ask.

‘I don't want to, Michel. Here we are, just playing around, while your mother's back there feeling miserable. That's not right, is it? You need to think about her now. You need to find that key…'

This really annoys me, though usually I never get annoyed with him, because I know that if we have a fight he'll win, with his muscles, and his height, and his advanced katas that he learns in Maître John's club.

I go back and put my ball away and pick up my bag to leave the football ground. He runs after me: ‘Wait, Michel. I just want Maman Pauline to stop being unhappy, that's all.'

We walk fast now, not speaking. We get to their house first.

‘You coming in to say hi to my parents?'

‘No. Another day.'

‘Come on, you'll be glad you did. Caroline's there…'

I don't answer, just hold out my hand. He takes it, holds it for a while, and then says: ‘Off you go then, and don't forget to change the batteries in your car, if that's what you really care about.'

These days my dreams take me far far away. I'm not just Michel these days, the little guy you see running round the
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, or walking about in a khaki shirt, blue shorts and a pair of plastic sandals. I wear polyester trousers, linen jackets, white cotton shirts with a bow tie. I wear a hat, too, like the child in that film
The Kid
that Lounès has told me about, doing his imitation of Charlie Chaplin. But I'm older than the boy who gets left in a car by his mother and goes to live with Charlie Chaplin till his mother comes back rich and takes him back and thanks the adoptive father. Yes, I'm a bit bigger than him, I'm the way I'd like to be when I'm twenty.

In my dreams I walk with my head held high, my shoulders back, people respect me, they greet me, they raise their hats when I walk by, and speak other languages, not just ours. I speak very correctly, you'd think I was born in whatever country I'm in, though it took me only seconds to get here, when in fact it would take a day, or maybe two, to get here by plane. Maybe I'm speaking Chinese because earlier in the day Lounès and I were talking about the Chinese who built the Congo-Malembé hospital in the Trois-Cents
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. Maybe I'm speaking Arabic because I heard Monsieur Mutombo talking about Algeria. Maybe I'm speaking some Indian language because Lounès told me about an Indian film where there was a prince and princess being mean to a poor peasant.

.....

Every night it's the same: before I close my eyes I think about far away countries. Once I'm asleep, I meet people who come from there and we get talking. They never ask where I'm from because in these dreams everyone is just the same, that's how come I can speak any language on earth, when in fact it takes years to learn them. I fall asleep smiling because I know I can touch the sun and the moon and the stars. Life seems easy. But when I wake up I feel sad because I can't speak a single word of any of the languages I knew really well in my dream. I've forgotten everything, everything's been wiped out. It all seems so far, far away.