The Happy Marriage

The day Boualem told me he was going to send me to live with strangers, I was frightened and yet relieved. He dropped me off in front of a house where the gate opened by itself. There was a sign that read: “Vicious dog.” I advanced slowly, carrying all my belongings inside a plastic bag. I saw a lady who seemed to find it difficult to walk come toward me. “Come here, little one,” she said, “I’m going to show you your room.” At first, I didn’t understand what I would have to do there; those people were very nice to me and bought me some new clothes (yes, that was the first time anyone had ever bought me any clothes, my mother would usually dress me in hand-me-downs), and they gave me plenty to eat and let me sit at the table with them. I didn’t know how to behave, I found using a fork and knife difficult, so I ate with my fingers, which shocked them. I had to learn to cut my meat and bring it to my mouth gracefully with a fork. They told me about distant countries and the travels they’d been on. They said they were happy to be my new parents. I didn’t understand everything they said, but Zanouba, their maid, translated them for me. I cried and I tore up my new blue dress. They bought me some more dresses and enrolled me in a private school that didn’t have many pupils. They would drop me off there in their car and give me a snack they’d wrapped in a piece of very shiny white paper. I didn’t say a single word at school. I made grimaces and gesticulated, pricked my ears wide and learned French. I remembered everything, I had a great memory. In the evening, I would tell them what I’d learned that day. I got words and things mixed up. Whenever I missed my parents a lot, I would go to Zanouba and cuddle up to her. She would whisper kind, reassuring words and console me. I was lucky, she told me. Yes, lucky to be torn away from my parents and siblings. I never missed the bled, but I couldn’t forget my grandmother. My difficulties at school made things more difficult. The French couple hired a young man to tutor me. He was handsome. I think I fell in love with him. He was a high school student. I didn’t dare look him in the eye. I must admit that he helped me a lot. He taught me how to read and write. My life changed completely from that moment on. One day, I bled all over my panties. I was ashamed. Fortunately, Zanouba explained it all to me and cleaned me up. I was in love then, and so I started paying attention to what I wore. I wanted to draw the young man’s attention. But by the time the summer arrived, he left and I never saw him again.

I saw my parents twice over the course of three years. They came to bring me my share of oil and honey that my cousins had distributed amongst the villagers.

One day, my new parents told me that they had to return to France. We went to the bled. I felt weird, as though I were a stranger in that village that was devoid of water. There were children covered in flies playing with a dead cat. They had snotty noses and nobody was looking after them. My father came out to meet me, and I thought he was going to kiss me like my foreigner parents did, but instead I was the one who had to kiss the back of his large hand that smelled like dry earth. Without looking me in the eye, he told me: “We’ll see one another again someday, my daughter.” Then he spoke to me about a trip and papers that had to be signed. I saw bundles of banknotes being exchanged between the French couple and my father. I suddenly understood what had happened. My father had sold me! It was dreadful! I started to cry. The lady consoled me. She told me that my father would always be my father. They hadn’t been able to adopt me, so they’d needed a letter from my father so that I could leave with them. That’s how I got my first passport. It was green. The man from the wilaya told me in a menacing tone: “Be careful, this is valuable, if you lose it we won’t give you another one, and you’ll spend the rest of your life without a passport and you won’t be able to go anywhere.” When I was about to leave the office, the same man grabbed me and whispered in my ear: “You’re lucky that these Frenchmen are looking after you, so make sure you don’t embarrass us. Don’t forget that this little green booklet means you are representing Morocco!” But he was wrong, I wasn’t representing anyone, not even my mother, who’d stood motionless while she watched me leave. Maybe she cried too. I shut my eyes and decided I would never think about that unhappy village ever again.