You Changed My Life (26 page)

I never talked about my past with Monsieur Pozzo. He tried, delicately, to get me to talk about it, but I'd launch into a joke. What he rightly heard was me refusing any kind of introspection, and he let it go. He was giving me chances without my knowing.

“Go back home and see your family.”

“Get back in touch with the people who fed you.”

“Go visit your native country.”

And the most recent:

“Accept this proposal to write a book. It's an opportunity to take stock of your situation. It's worth it, you'll see!”

He knew what he was talking about. Before his accident, he had raced forward at two hundred miles an hour without ever looking back. Then from one day to the next, he was paralyzed, subjected to eighteen months of physical rehabilitation in a specialized center, surrounded by men and women just as unhappy as he was—and sometimes younger—and he took stock. He discovered who he really was deep down and learned to observe the Other—with a capital letter, as he says—he had not taken the time to see until then.

In my silence and in my jokes, Philippe Pozzo saw my refusal to slow down. He kept on encouraging me.

It took circumstances beyond my control to make me listen to his advice.

For starters, I went home to see my family. I visited my country.

I know the king in Morocco. I'm talking about Abdel Moula I,
king of turkeys. We're pretty close; we've helped each other out before. We met under strange circumstances in the streets of Paris. Life in his native country suits him much better.

Abdel Moula made me a golden offer. “You should get into chicken! There's still room here in the poultry game.”

He was ready to share his territory with me. I couldn't accept. All feathered animals were the same to me, and I didn't see myself being number two. Number one or nothing. Up until then, I'd mostly been nothing at all—that had to change. I also didn't see myself taking the place of a friend who'd welcomed me so generously. I simply didn't see myself in Morocco, by the way: I was convinced that if the amusement park project in Saïdia didn't work out, it would be due in large part to my origins. Algerians and Moroccans don't like each other very much. Algerians think the Moroccans consider themselves the princes of North Africa, full of their culture and riches. The
Moroccans think the Algerians are cowardly, lazy, rough. The Moroccan administration found every possible obstacle to stop me from marrying Amal. I had to bring her to France on a tourist visa to pull her out of her country's claws. Morocco wanted to keep Amal, but they didn't want me.

It quickly dawned on me that everything would be easier in Algeria and at least there, I wasn't betraying anyone. Abdel Moula offered to train me in poultry farming. From building construction to the choice of feed, he taught me everything. Monsieur Pozzo played the role of the banker. A very special banker who never counts. And I went to my native country to find a place to settle down.

It had been over thirty years since I set foot in Algeria. I'd forgotten all about its colors, its odors, and its sounds. But this wasn't some big “rediscovery.” I had the impression of never having known the place. It was an introduction more than a reintroduction, and I was going there reluctantly.

Ever pragmatic, I stayed faithful to my creed: take advantage. I told myself that in France, everything had already been done, that the administrative formalities were very complicated, that banks didn't lend money (and definitely not to young Arabs with criminal records), that employer contributions were hefty even for start-ups . . .
Take advantage, Abdel, take advantage. You still have an Algerian passport, your country that you don't know is opening its arms, it's exempting you from contributions, income taxes, sales tax, and import costs for fifteen years.

Take advantage . . . my creed, which Monsieur Pozzo called “the Abdelian philosophy.” I still think “philosophy” is a great word . . .

I crisscross the country for weeks—from east to west, north to south. I stop everywhere, in each city. I research the established activities, the local population, the standards of living, the unemployment rate. I explore the countryside, the state of the roads leading to the fields, the factories, and the farms. I study the competition. I don't go to Algiers. I don't look up the address written on the back of the envelopes that, as a child, I see sitting on the radiator in the entry. I have a good reason not to go into the capital: you don't set up a poultry farm in a big city! You need space so the birds can flap their wings and air around them so that the nasty odors can evaporate. Finally, I find the ideal spot—in Djelfa, three hundred thousand inhabitants, the last big city before the desert. I take a few more steps back to stay away from any homes, and plant my flag. Well . . . I try.

To buy a plot of Algerian soil, you first have to prove that you're truly a native. Furnish a birth certificate: I can't get a hold of my father's family birth record. Provide an address: I don't have a permanent address. Provide an identity card: for that, you must furnish a birth certificate . . . I go back to France, refusing to admit defeat, but I'm in a dark mood. Monsieur Pozzo questions me and understands the problem right away.

“Abdel, there's no shame in asking for what's yours from the one who brought you into this world.”

He's right. There's no shame. No embarrassment. No joy. No enthusiasm. No impatience. No fear. There's nothing, no feeling. I feel nothing but indifference at the thought of being face-to-face with a man I haven't seen in over thirty years. My son Abdel Malek crawls up on my lap; he isn't walking yet.

I tell him, “I'm going to see grandfather. What do you think about that?”

Amal gently corrects me. “Grandfather lives next door to us. It's Belkacem . . .”

I had a hard time, despite my indifference . . . In Algiers, I met up with a friend from Beaugrenelle who was visiting family and I got him to get one of my brothers to come to a café without telling him I was there. Abdel Moumène, my younger brother by three years, was still a baby the last time I saw him. When he gets there, he immediately knows who he is dealing with. Aside from an inch or two and a few pounds, we could be twins.

“Abdel Yamine, it's really you! Wow! You're here? What are you doing here? And you come often? Wow! Come with me, I'm taking you to see our parents, they're going to be happy to see you.”

I said no. Not this time. I have things to do. Another time, maybe.

“Don't tell them that you saw me.”

I'm back one week later. I set up another meeting with Abdel Moumène at the café. He seems like a really nice guy.

“Listen, come home with me! What are you afraid of?”

Afraid of? Nothing! I almost popped him one.

I remembered the house. Everything came back to me when I walked in. My memory had played quite a trick on me. It bombarded me with images from the time of my birth up to my departure for France, when I was four. Where had all these memories gone for all those years downstairs at the projects, at Fleury-Mérogis, in Monsieur Pozzo's palaces? Where had they been hidden? In which corner of Abdel Yamine's bird brain—Abdel Yamine the rogue, the pickpocket, the thief . . . the auxiliary?

The image of an immense garden came back to me. It was a little concrete patio. The silhouette of a majestic medlar tree came back to me. The tree had no more fruit. The sensation of vastness came back to me. The living room could barely hold all of us.

We sat around a table. There was coffee, black and thick like tar, undrinkable. There was the father, the mother, the oldest sister, two other girls, Abdel Moumène, and me. Abdel Ghany was the only one missing (he lives in Paris with his wife and their children; he's happy). We looked at each other a lot without talking very much. Just a few words. No blame, acknowledgment.

“You didn't write to us very much.”

To avoid saying nothing at all.

“You didn't call us very often.”

An expression!

“How is your wife?”

I found they knew everything about my life from Belkacem and Amina.

“We saw you on the television, in the movie with the handicapped man.”

The handicapped man. Monsieur Pozzo. He was far away . . .

I told them that I was looking for a piece of land in the south to start a poultry farm. That maybe—it wasn't definite yet, but maybe—I was going to settle down there. Not very far. I gave them a little information about my plans but didn't go into the details. They listened to me without responding; they didn't give their opinion, or ask for anything more. While I was talking to them, questions popped into my head, one after the other, and I didn't understand why they weren't asking them: Why now? Why so late? And what do you want from us? What do you expect?

Nothing.

They must have known, that's why they weren't saying anything.