You Changed My Life (2 page)

I'd never known a man that rich. He came from a long line of aristocrats and had done well on top of that: multiple college degrees and the presidency of Pommery champagnes. I used him. He changed my life but I didn't change his, not very
much, anyway. The film made the truth prettier to make you believe in a better world.

I might as well say it straight off—I'm not really like the character from the movie. I'm short, an Arab, and not particularly endearing. I've done a lot of bad things in my life and I'm not looking for any excuses to justify them. I can talk about them today thanks to the statute of limitations. I have nothing in common with the real untouchables, those Indians condemned to a life of misery . . . If I belong to any caste, it's the Uncon-trollables, and I am their uncontested leader. It's my true nature, independent, rebellious to any discipline, established order or morals. I'm not looking for excuses, and I'm not bragging, either. A person can change. I'm living proof . . .

The other day, I was walking on the Pont Neuf—it was just about the same kind of day as it had been back when I had that chase with the cops. An annoying, icy drizzle trickled down my balding scalp and a cold wind blew into my jacket. I thought it was magnificent—this bridge in two sections linking the Ile de la Cité to the Right and Left Banks of Paris. I was impressed by its dimensions, its width—almost one hundred feet—and its luxurious sidewalks with circular overhangs on the Seine to let pedestrians stop and admire the panorama . . . at no risk. What an idea! I leaned over the edge. The river ran through Paris like a galloping horse, its color like a stormy sky, and looked like it would swallow everything up. As a kid, I didn't realize that even an expert swimmer would have trouble making it out. I also didn't realize that exactly ten years
before I was born, the French had tossed dozens of Algerians into these waters. And they did it knowing full well how dangerous the river was.

I looked at the stone ledge where I had hidden from the cops and shuddered at my former audacity. I thought that, now, I'd never dare climb over the edge. I thought above all that now, I had no reason to hide or to run.

I don't remember the town in Algeria where I was born. I have
forgotten everything about its odors, colors, and sounds. I only know that when I got to Paris in 1975, at the age of four, I didn't feel homesick.

My parents told me, “This is your uncle Belkacem. This is your aunt Amina. You are their son now. You stay here.”

The kitchen of their tiny two-bedroom smelled like couscous and spices, like it did at home. We were just a little more crowded, especially since my brother—one year older than me—also came with the package. The oldest of the children, a girl, had stayed back home. A girl is too useful to give up. She would help our mother take care of the two other children born after me. That way, there'd be three Sellou kids in Algeria, and that was enough.

A new life and the first news flash: Maman is no longer Maman. You can't call her that. Don't even think about it anymore. Now Amina is Maman. She's so happy to suddenly have
two sons because she had long worried that their marriage produced no children. She caresses our hair, pulls us onto her lap, kisses our fingertips, and promises us we'll never want for love. Except that we don't even know what love is. We'd always been sheltered, fed, cared for, and held on nights when we were sick, sure, but no big deal—it was just natural. I decide that it'll be the same way here.

Second news flash: Algeria no longer exists. We live in Paris now, on boulevard Saint-Michel, in the heart of the French capital and, yes, just like back home, we can go and play. Apparently it's a little chillier downstairs. What's that smell? Does the sun beat down on the paving stones like it does on the asphalt in my hometown? Do the cars honk with as much enthusiasm? I go to find out, with my brother tagging along. I only notice one thing in the pitifully small park at the Abbaye de Cluny: the other children don't talk like we do. My brother, the oaf, stays glued to me like he's afraid of them. My uncle, the new father, reassures us in our native language. We'll learn French soon enough at school. Our school bags are ready.

“You're getting up early tomorrow, kids. But that doesn't mean you have to go to bed when the hens do. At home, the hens never go to bed!”

“At home, Uncle? But where is home? In Algeria? In Algeria the hens don't go to bed, right, Uncle?”

“Well, they don't go to bed as early as they do in France.”

“What are we now, Uncle? Where is our home?”

“You're chicks from Algeria on a French farm!”

Third news flash: from now on, we'll grow up in a country and learn the local language, but we're still, and will continue to be, what we have been since our first breath. All of this
is a little complicated for kids, and I've already closed myself off to any intellectual effort. My brother puts his head in his hands and huddles more closely behind me. Man he's annoying . . . as for me, I don't know what French school is like, but I quickly adopt the motto that I'll use for years to come: we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

I was far from imagining, then, what kind of ruckus I was going to cause in the barnyard. I didn't have bad intentions. There was no kid more innocent than me. Put simply, if I hadn't been Muslim, I would've had a halo.

It was 1975. The cars driving up and down the boulevard Saint-Michel were called Renault Alpine, Peugeot 304, Citroën 2CV “Deux Cheveaux,” Peugeot Talbot. The R12s were already old-fashioned and, if I'd had to choose, I would have preferred the 4L, which at least wasn't pretentious. A kid could cross the street unaccompanied without a cop automatically taking him into custody. The city, the outdoors, freedom weren't considered dangerous. Of course we'd run into a drunk from time to time, but we assumed he'd chosen to live that way and so we left him alone. Nobody felt the slightest bit guilty. Even the less fortunate didn't hesitate to toss him a few coins.

In the living room of our apartment, which doubled as my parents' bedroom since we arrived, my brother and I took up all the space, two princes in bell-bottoms and high-collared shirts. On the black-and-white TV screen, a little puny bald guy shook with anger because he couldn't catch Fantômas. In another show, he danced on the rue des Rosiers dressed up as a rabbi. I had absolutely no idea what a rabbi was or what the irony of his situation was, but I still loved the show. The two adults watched their new children laughing in loud spurts. That
made them much happier than Louis de Funès's gags and funny faces did. Back in that same time, Jean-Paul Belmondo was running across rooftops in a white suit. He thought he was “
Le magnifique
”—I thought he was nuts. I much preferred Sean Connery in his gray turtleneck. At least his hair never got messed up—he'd pull amazing gadgets from his pockets that got him out of every sticky situation and with exemplary discretion. James Bond was true class. Spread out on the Oriental couch, I savored each and every moment without worrying about the next one and never thinking about the past. Life was as easy as 1-2-3.

In Paris, as in Algiers, my name has stayed the same: Abdel Yamine. In Arabic, the root
abd
means “to revere” and
el
means “the.” Revere the Yamine. I nibbled on dates, and Amina picked up the pits.

Giving children to a brother or sister who doesn't have any
was—and still is—common practice in African cultures, whether they're black or North African. In those families, you're born to a father and mother, of course, but you easily become the child of the entire family, and the family is big. When you decide to give away a son or daughter, you don't really ask yourself whether or not they'll suffer. For the child and adult alike, changing parents is supposed to be something that is simple, natural. There's nothing to discuss, no reason to whine. African people cut the umbilical cord earlier than Europeans do. As soon as we learn to walk, we dive into the unknown and go see what's happening elsewhere. We don't waste time hiding in our mothers' skirts. And if she says so, we adopt another kid.

There must have been two or three undershirts included in the package, but the instructions on how to educate us weren't included. How do you raise kids, talk to them? What
do you let them do and what do you forbid them to do? Belkacem and Amina had no idea. So they tried to imitate other Parisian families. What did those people do on a Sunday afternoon back in the seventies, just like they do today? They go walking in the Tuileries gardens. So at the age of five, I walked across the Pont des Arts to hang on to the sides of a murky fountain. A few carp struggled miserably in that two-foot deep swamp—I'd see them come to the surface, open their mouths to suck in some air, and then go right back in for another trip around their bathtub. We rented a little wooden sailboat that I pushed toward the center with a pole. Carried by the current, and provided the wind was blowing in the right direction, the boat could reach the other side of the fountain in just ten seconds. I took off in the direction of the estimated destination, maneuvered the ship's bow, and launched the sailboat again with gusto. From time to time, I looked up and marveled. A gigantic stone arch towered over the garden entrance.

“What is that thing, papa?”

“Uh . . . a very old door.”

A door that served no purpose since there was no wall or anything on either side of it. Beyond the garden, I could see enormous buildings.

“Papa, what is that?”

“The Louvre, son.”

The Louvre . . . that's as much information as I got. I figured you obviously had to be very rich to live in a house so vast and beautiful with such large windows and statues hanging from its façade. The garden was as big as all the stadiums in Africa put together. Scattered throughout the alleys and on the lawns were tens of petrified men staring at us from on top of
their pedestals. They all wore coats and had long, curly hair. I wondered how long they'd been there. Then I went back to my business. With no wind, my boat might get stuck in the middle of the fountain. So I had to convince the other sailors to assemble and launch a fleet so as to create a current and free my vessel. Sometimes Belkacem ended up rolling up his pant legs.

When the weather was really nice, Amina made a picnic and we went to eat on the lawn of the Champs-de-Mars. In the afternoon, the parents laid on blankets. The kids quickly formed groups and started a game of ball. I didn't have enough vocabulary at first and so went unnoticed. I was very nice and well behaved. No different, in appearances, from the little French kids in velvet shorts and suspenders. In the evening, just like them, we went home completely worn out. But no one refused to let my brother and me watch the celebrated Sunday night movie. Westerns kept us awake more easily than the others, but we didn't make it to the end very often. Belkacem carried us to our bed one after the other. For love and devotion, you don't need instructions.