He loved me, but I am not your grandmother. Somewhere in my painful heart, I am happy that you are alive, and listening to me with respect. I don’t know how you found me, things go so fast these days with this internet, this is magical. I cannot tell you who is really this man on the picture you brought, your grandfather, I can only tell you how I passionately loved him, and how I suffered from it.
The first time I saw him, walking with his father Itshak in the mellah open market, I was wearing this beautiful green velvet dress. You have to know that for women in Morocco, wearing such a dress was seen by many, especially other women, as provocative. They said this was not how a good family girl should behave. I envy you for living in Europe in the 21st century. What if we had met here, now? I cannot rewrite history… I feel the sense of liberty I cherished since I was your age pushed happiness away from me, and from him.’
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
It was the wooden armchair of my grandfather that made me experience liberty for the first time. In my childhood, the year really began when I received his blessing, while he was sitting on it. New Year was the day of glory, of my grandfather, and of the armchair.
The rest of the year, during the long holidays family reunions, the young cousins who had left the table before chicken was served, announcing the end of the hours-long, several-course meal, looked at the empty armchair with fear and respect. One day, I was a young girl, I jumped and sat on it, smiling around with pride. Immediately, the noise of the forks stopped, the adults raised their eyebrows. We all discreetly looked at my grandfather. He did not say anything, made no movement. My mother promptly stood up and took me off. Fortunately, I was not beaten. She sat me close to her, which was at his side. When the fruits plate arrived, without a word, he picked an orange, peeled it, and offered a segment to me and to each of his grandchildren.
When the events happened after the War, my grandfather gathered his sons and grandsons around him. We girls could only play at a distance. The wood of the armchair was covered with traditional embroidered patterns. The discussion was very lively. They spoke Arabic, the only language my grandfather knew. He slowly stroked the armchair, as if, while doing so, he could finally believe in the centuries-old dream of going back to the old country, of which he spoke so much but where he had never been. I wanted to be part of it. I joined the circle. My older brother David frowned at me. Before he could lean toward me and ask me to respectfully go back to my place, my grandfather discretely raised his right hand, indicating to him and to all the others that he accepted me in the wooden armchair circle.
My French schoolmate Aurélie once visited. ‘This armchair, it’s your family’s totem!’ she exclaimed with amusement. I was shocked by her lack of respect for authority. A few weeks later, we stopped seeing each other.
We grew up, the cycle of the holidays and family reunions seemed immutable. My grandfather and his armchair seemed to be there forever, like our family.
When we had to suddenly leave the country, we took with us the bare minimum, and what could be transported. We had to abandon the armchair and, along with it, the pride of my grandfather and my first memories of liberty. The once shining armchair was left alone. There was no place for pride in the new country for which we were leaving.
The rest of the year, during the long holidays family reunions, the young cousins who had left the table before chicken was served, announcing the end of the hours-long, several-course meal, looked at the empty armchair with fear and respect. One day, I was a young girl, I jumped and sat on it, smiling around with pride. Immediately, the noise of the forks stopped, the adults raised their eyebrows. We all discreetly looked at my grandfather. He did not say anything, made no movement. My mother promptly stood up and took me off. Fortunately, I was not beaten. She sat me close to her, which was at his side. When the fruits plate arrived, without a word, he picked an orange, peeled it, and offered a segment to me and to each of his grandchildren.
When the events happened after the War, my grandfather gathered his sons and grandsons around him. We girls could only play at a distance. The wood of the armchair was covered with traditional embroidered patterns. The discussion was very lively. They spoke Arabic, the only language my grandfather knew. He slowly stroked the armchair, as if, while doing so, he could finally believe in the centuries-old dream of going back to the old country, of which he spoke so much but where he had never been. I wanted to be part of it. I joined the circle. My older brother David frowned at me. Before he could lean toward me and ask me to respectfully go back to my place, my grandfather discretely raised his right hand, indicating to him and to all the others that he accepted me in the wooden armchair circle.
My French schoolmate Aurélie once visited. ‘This armchair, it’s your family’s totem!’ she exclaimed with amusement. I was shocked by her lack of respect for authority. A few weeks later, we stopped seeing each other.
We grew up, the cycle of the holidays and family reunions seemed immutable. My grandfather and his armchair seemed to be there forever, like our family.
When we had to suddenly leave the country, we took with us the bare minimum, and what could be transported. We had to abandon the armchair and, along with it, the pride of my grandfather and my first memories of liberty. The once shining armchair was left alone. There was no place for pride in the new country for which we were leaving.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
Michael slowly walks through the wild beach’s high grass of the small Brittany island where he, Deborah and their four children are spending their Spring break. It is nearly twilight, and he is looking for his eldest son, David, to pick him up for dinner. It is not always easy for him to speak with David, who has closed himself to his parents and spends most of his time at home listening to rap music and chatting with his friends on social media. David is 12 and, in a few weeks, it will be his bar mitsvah. ‘I would like to a have discussion with him, from man to man,’ Michael is thinking while walking in the sand. This is a reason why he accepted the idea of Deborah to finally take some days off in this unusual setting for them, far from the South where Deborah’s family lives, and from Paris where his family is located.
He can see him some meters away, quietly sitting in the sand, looking at the sea, wearing his favorite washed out jeans, his Air Jordan sneakers, and his black hoodie. He seems peaceful. As he approaches, Michael notices that David’s traits are not as closed and hard as they usually are when they speak together, or try to, and David angrily releases some bitter words.
‘Hey David!’ Michael says, standing. He speaks with a low voice not to disturb the neighbors, as a habit, although they are alone on this beach.
David turns his head toward his father. ‘How come he is here?’ he thinks. ‘He is usually so busy with work.’
‘Hey,’ he replies. There is something unusual, and he finds it rather pleasant, but he does not want to show it. Before his father appeared, he was closing his eyes, listening to the music of the ocean, clearing his mind from all the troubles that cross his mind. He does not know why, but he expects something special to happen during this Spring break, as if the change in setting and his upcoming bar mitsvah would entail some deeper changes in his relationships with the family.
‘So, you are playing the poet?’ Michael says cheerfully.
David is disappointed. His father definitely does not understand him, so far away from the deep movements of his soul. He does not want to enter into an argument though, and give him another chance.
‘I was just looking at the sea,’ he says, with a neutral tone.
Michael realizes that he may be missing an opportunity to have a real exchange with his son. The sarcastic humor he uses with his colleagues did not work. Now is the moment. He continues:
‘Well, that’s nice. Not really our style, but…’
‘I like it here,’ David interrupts.
‘Yes, it is nice.’ Michael sits close to his son. He hates having sand on his suit, and the classic shoes he is wearing are not made to be used on a beach, but he makes a huge effort and behaves as if he had the appropriate outfit. He takes a deep breath.
‘You know, your bar mitsvah is only in a few weeks now,’ Michael starts.
‘I am pretty aware of it, I guess,’ David ironically responds. He immediately regrets. His heart started to beat more quickly. He has been waiting for a real talk with his father for so long, especially regarding his bar mitsvah for which he has been working so much, for several months. He knows all the prayers by heart and learned to read Hebrew with no vowel, as he will have to read on the parchment on his bar mitsvah day. He has even studied his parashat, thanks to videos on Youtube, and started to write a speech by himself, unlike most of his cousins who only repeated a note written by an uncle.
‘I think I will be ready,’ he says, intentionally appearing to call for support. He wants to invite Michael back in the conversation and show he accepts his place as a father, to reassure him.
‘Yes, I am sure you will be. You have worked a lot,’ Michael says. ‘I wanted to tell you…’
Looking fixedly at the sea, David slightly stiffens, sweats a little, his heartbeat accelerates. ‘Now is finally the time,’ he thinks.
‘You know, a lot of people have gone through it. Now is your turn,’ says Michael.
Silence.
The sound of the waves, and of the wind in the high grass.
David is disappointed. This is so flat, so empty, so nothing. ‘Maybe something will come now, let’s wait,’ he thinks. He does not say anything, goes on looking at the sea, waiting to receive his next words.
Michael is stuck. He cannot say anything else. He realizes his words were said by millions of fathers to their children, on millions of occasions. He feels ashamed, he would like to say something else, more meaningful, deeper. Better. But no word comes. No emotion, no idea, not even a joke, to share. Nothing.
He is paralyzed.
Some seconds, which feel like painful hours to both of them pass, silently.
‘Let’s go, your mother is waiting for us,’ Michael says, trying to adopt a neutral tone to hide his discomfort and shame, and thinking that pretending everything is normal would make his son believe it.
‘OK,’ concludes David. Once again, he is disappointed. ‘He has nothing to tell me. No more expectations, ever,’ he tells himself, while starting to walk fast to make the silent and uncomfortable walk with his father as short as possible.
He can see him some meters away, quietly sitting in the sand, looking at the sea, wearing his favorite washed out jeans, his Air Jordan sneakers, and his black hoodie. He seems peaceful. As he approaches, Michael notices that David’s traits are not as closed and hard as they usually are when they speak together, or try to, and David angrily releases some bitter words.
‘Hey David!’ Michael says, standing. He speaks with a low voice not to disturb the neighbors, as a habit, although they are alone on this beach.
David turns his head toward his father. ‘How come he is here?’ he thinks. ‘He is usually so busy with work.’
‘Hey,’ he replies. There is something unusual, and he finds it rather pleasant, but he does not want to show it. Before his father appeared, he was closing his eyes, listening to the music of the ocean, clearing his mind from all the troubles that cross his mind. He does not know why, but he expects something special to happen during this Spring break, as if the change in setting and his upcoming bar mitsvah would entail some deeper changes in his relationships with the family.
‘So, you are playing the poet?’ Michael says cheerfully.
David is disappointed. His father definitely does not understand him, so far away from the deep movements of his soul. He does not want to enter into an argument though, and give him another chance.
‘I was just looking at the sea,’ he says, with a neutral tone.
Michael realizes that he may be missing an opportunity to have a real exchange with his son. The sarcastic humor he uses with his colleagues did not work. Now is the moment. He continues:
‘Well, that’s nice. Not really our style, but…’
‘I like it here,’ David interrupts.
‘Yes, it is nice.’ Michael sits close to his son. He hates having sand on his suit, and the classic shoes he is wearing are not made to be used on a beach, but he makes a huge effort and behaves as if he had the appropriate outfit. He takes a deep breath.
‘You know, your bar mitsvah is only in a few weeks now,’ Michael starts.
‘I am pretty aware of it, I guess,’ David ironically responds. He immediately regrets. His heart started to beat more quickly. He has been waiting for a real talk with his father for so long, especially regarding his bar mitsvah for which he has been working so much, for several months. He knows all the prayers by heart and learned to read Hebrew with no vowel, as he will have to read on the parchment on his bar mitsvah day. He has even studied his parashat, thanks to videos on Youtube, and started to write a speech by himself, unlike most of his cousins who only repeated a note written by an uncle.
‘I think I will be ready,’ he says, intentionally appearing to call for support. He wants to invite Michael back in the conversation and show he accepts his place as a father, to reassure him.
‘Yes, I am sure you will be. You have worked a lot,’ Michael says. ‘I wanted to tell you…’
Looking fixedly at the sea, David slightly stiffens, sweats a little, his heartbeat accelerates. ‘Now is finally the time,’ he thinks.
‘You know, a lot of people have gone through it. Now is your turn,’ says Michael.
Silence.
The sound of the waves, and of the wind in the high grass.
David is disappointed. This is so flat, so empty, so nothing. ‘Maybe something will come now, let’s wait,’ he thinks. He does not say anything, goes on looking at the sea, waiting to receive his next words.
Michael is stuck. He cannot say anything else. He realizes his words were said by millions of fathers to their children, on millions of occasions. He feels ashamed, he would like to say something else, more meaningful, deeper. Better. But no word comes. No emotion, no idea, not even a joke, to share. Nothing.
He is paralyzed.
Some seconds, which feel like painful hours to both of them pass, silently.
‘Let’s go, your mother is waiting for us,’ Michael says, trying to adopt a neutral tone to hide his discomfort and shame, and thinking that pretending everything is normal would make his son believe it.
‘OK,’ concludes David. Once again, he is disappointed. ‘He has nothing to tell me. No more expectations, ever,’ he tells himself, while starting to walk fast to make the silent and uncomfortable walk with his father as short as possible.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
‘The second time Abraham walked through the market, he was alone, and I as well. I made sure he saw me: I came close to him and suddenly let down my packets full of fresh oranges, prickly pears, tomatoes, cucumbers, celery, and mint – they had such a taste at the time! Not like the products you can find in the markets here. He immediately crouched down to take them back. I followed his movement. I came closer to his tanned skin. I liked his woody scent, like a body fragrance burnt by the heavy midday sun. When he looked up at me, I felt a thunder inside. Later, he told me he felt the same. He stood up, smiled at me, and left.
The following week, I wore the dress. We met at the market, on the same day, at the same time, like a secret and unnamed rendez-vous. I could see him coming from far. I did not pretend I was not looking for him. ‘I am Abraham,’ he told me with a smile when we neared each other in the orange salesmen alley. ‘I am Rina,’ I answered, with a strange warmth coming from inside my body. We briefly spoke, so it could appear as a usual discussion between acquaintances. In fact, we agreed to have tea, the following week, outside the mellah. This was unusual, adventurous. I loved it.
I needed a reason to be allowed to go out of the family house that evening. I pretended to visit my friend Malka, who lived on the other side of the mellah. Abraham was very seductive. I could not resist smiling at him, listening to the stories he joyously told, and sharing my thoughts and feelings openly as I had never done before with a man. We walked in the narrow dark streets, the two of us. He kissed me. He put me against an ocher clay wall, his hands slipping all over my dress. He led me to the family shop. There, for the first time, we made love. Of course, it was a little painful, but it was as if I discovered a new continent.’
The following week, I wore the dress. We met at the market, on the same day, at the same time, like a secret and unnamed rendez-vous. I could see him coming from far. I did not pretend I was not looking for him. ‘I am Abraham,’ he told me with a smile when we neared each other in the orange salesmen alley. ‘I am Rina,’ I answered, with a strange warmth coming from inside my body. We briefly spoke, so it could appear as a usual discussion between acquaintances. In fact, we agreed to have tea, the following week, outside the mellah. This was unusual, adventurous. I loved it.
I needed a reason to be allowed to go out of the family house that evening. I pretended to visit my friend Malka, who lived on the other side of the mellah. Abraham was very seductive. I could not resist smiling at him, listening to the stories he joyously told, and sharing my thoughts and feelings openly as I had never done before with a man. We walked in the narrow dark streets, the two of us. He kissed me. He put me against an ocher clay wall, his hands slipping all over my dress. He led me to the family shop. There, for the first time, we made love. Of course, it was a little painful, but it was as if I discovered a new continent.’
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
You look at her dark eyes, Abraham, like a Friday night candle in the agitated evening, a peaceful oasis in these noisy streets, her smile full of tender complicity, her clothes as simple as elegant, the tone of her voice like a sensual invitation, her copper skin as soft as pure silk, her loose hair free like her mind, her skimming your face with tenderness, your hands hesitantly coming closer, your arm around her slim waist, your heart beating loud in your chest, and you kiss her. And you love her.
You lead her to your father’s shop, holding her hand with strength as if you are avoiding losing her although you have not possessed her yet, you have other places where to go but you choose this one, you don’t know why but you obey a force within you, stronger than you, you want to do it there, you want to love and be loved there, you want to be free there, so you make love with her there, in the back shop, among the colorful fabric shops where you spend your days working, not seen, obeying, you exult, and you are loved, and you are free, but you know you should not have.
You lead her to your father’s shop, holding her hand with strength as if you are avoiding losing her although you have not possessed her yet, you have other places where to go but you choose this one, you don’t know why but you obey a force within you, stronger than you, you want to do it there, you want to love and be loved there, you want to be free there, so you make love with her there, in the back shop, among the colorful fabric shops where you spend your days working, not seen, obeying, you exult, and you are loved, and you are free, but you know you should not have.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
‘A few weeks after this special night together, Abraham and I decided to speak with our families. We convinced them, and got married a few months later. I felt lucky to get a husband who knew and loved me.
Getting married to a man meant entering a whole new world, although we all lived no more than a few streets away the ones from the others. You had to learn all the names and the other first names of all the family members – we all had French first names that we used for the official documents on the top of our real first names by which we called each other. For example, my father’s name was Mardoche, but it was written ‘Michel’ on his papers, one of my aunts was Simha, but ‘Sylvie’ on her papers… The families were large, always comprising several tens of cousins. You had to avoid mistakes and know not only the names, but also the stories among them, often full of passion and silence. What would two people who dislike each other say if you had them sit the one next to the other when you received them? As in in-law, a woman was always regarded as an ‘outsider’, who had to constantly prove she deserved the man to whom she was given, and his family. You had to spend all the holidays with them, to receive them, to cook for them, to try to be loved, or at least appreciated, by them. This frame of mind made the families usually decide with whom their children would get married. That meant accepting a never-ending list of obligations, which I found suffocating. But, since it was a condition to make my life with Abraham, I was completely ready to abandon part of my freedom.
I went to my family, I told them I loved him and I wanted to marry him. Of course, I never told them about our nightly meetings in the shop. I made the announcement, or my request, at a family dinner. I had bet my grandfather would support me. I waited for the chicken to be served, before the fruits and the prayers that followed the meal, and I stood up and spoke. As I had hoped, my grandfather supported me. In Morocco, at the time, out of respect, you never opposed nor questioned the decisions of your elders. My parents accepted the wedding. I will never know what would have happened if my grandfather had not been there, but I want to believe that they would have still given their approval.
I must confess I feared his family a lot. They had a good reputation, but would they accept me? I knew some of his nine brothers and sisters who went to the same French school as me, but what about his parents? His mother was said to be nice but not so easy to deal with, and his father inspired respect, but also fear. It was said that, when people were about to cross his path in the streets, they changed sidewalks to avoid meeting his penetrating gaze which captured each and every of their moral flaws, and which loaded their shoulders with bad consciousness. How to stand in front of this man without feeling guilty of some of my actions, or even simply of some of my thoughts and feelings?
On the traditional day of the official presentations, I went to Abraham’s parents’ house with my father and my mother. We had bought a beautiful bouquet of red and white peonies coming directly from the surrounding mountains. When opening the door, his mother exclaimed ‘Oh, no! You should not have, this is too much! You must come here with empty hands. Well, thank you, but, really, next time, nothing, or I get angry!’ This was the usual polite way to accept the duly expected gift. Just close to the entrance, a huge vase, too large for our bouquet, welcomed it. My mother and I exchanged a quick glance. The message was subtle but clear: we had committed a mistake, and repairing it would require time and efforts. The six of us sat on comfortable chairs around a low traditional craftsman's wooden table in their living room. When their helper Fatima came to propose small pastillas, my father and I respectfully took one each and thanked her. It was just at the very moment when I ate the first bite that his father stood up and went to the bathroom to wash his hands, as the tradition requires it before starting a meal. This bite was both tasty and sour. I did not know what to do. I could not stop chewing it, that would have been rude, but I could not eat it either, that would have been a lack of respect. My father was stuck, like a statute. When Itshak came back a few moments later, I could not look at him in the eyes anymore, out of shame. Abraham continued smiling as if this had no importance, but we all knew it had.
That confirmed my feeling: I needed time to build one of these silent alliances women used to establish to help each other deal with the expectations of the men and of the families.
Abraham’s sisters had started to help me navigate through these unknown waters. On the first shabbat evening for which I was invited at their family’s, I joined the girls to prepare the table, and to take plates on and off to the kitchen, when the boys kept sitting. This was the habit, back then.
I wanted to show that I shared the values of the family. After we finished the prayers on the wine and the bread, it was the moment to bring the salads. I nearly jumped to the kitchen, and was the first one to catch two salads – shakshuka and grilled eggplants. As I walked in the corridor, Leah, Abraham’s oldest sister, open her eyes, stopped me, and took the salads from my hands.
‘These have to be served after the first one,’ she briefly said in a low voice. ‘This is the tradition here. The first one has to be grilled hot peppers in argan oil, the favorite of my father.’
‘Give it to her, and take hers!’ Leah told her younger sister, who was walking fast in the corridor with the hot grilled pepper salad. ‘I was running to arrive first!’ she said, and gave me the plate. ‘Go first, now!’ I realized it was a privilege. As I walked through the door to enter the dining room, I saw the sharp eyes of Itshak on me and on the peppers.
Would I be able to build these alliances? Would I have the necessary time to understand the dynamics of this family and to find my way through them? Our wedding gave me some clues about the challenges ahead of me.’
Getting married to a man meant entering a whole new world, although we all lived no more than a few streets away the ones from the others. You had to learn all the names and the other first names of all the family members – we all had French first names that we used for the official documents on the top of our real first names by which we called each other. For example, my father’s name was Mardoche, but it was written ‘Michel’ on his papers, one of my aunts was Simha, but ‘Sylvie’ on her papers… The families were large, always comprising several tens of cousins. You had to avoid mistakes and know not only the names, but also the stories among them, often full of passion and silence. What would two people who dislike each other say if you had them sit the one next to the other when you received them? As in in-law, a woman was always regarded as an ‘outsider’, who had to constantly prove she deserved the man to whom she was given, and his family. You had to spend all the holidays with them, to receive them, to cook for them, to try to be loved, or at least appreciated, by them. This frame of mind made the families usually decide with whom their children would get married. That meant accepting a never-ending list of obligations, which I found suffocating. But, since it was a condition to make my life with Abraham, I was completely ready to abandon part of my freedom.
I went to my family, I told them I loved him and I wanted to marry him. Of course, I never told them about our nightly meetings in the shop. I made the announcement, or my request, at a family dinner. I had bet my grandfather would support me. I waited for the chicken to be served, before the fruits and the prayers that followed the meal, and I stood up and spoke. As I had hoped, my grandfather supported me. In Morocco, at the time, out of respect, you never opposed nor questioned the decisions of your elders. My parents accepted the wedding. I will never know what would have happened if my grandfather had not been there, but I want to believe that they would have still given their approval.
I must confess I feared his family a lot. They had a good reputation, but would they accept me? I knew some of his nine brothers and sisters who went to the same French school as me, but what about his parents? His mother was said to be nice but not so easy to deal with, and his father inspired respect, but also fear. It was said that, when people were about to cross his path in the streets, they changed sidewalks to avoid meeting his penetrating gaze which captured each and every of their moral flaws, and which loaded their shoulders with bad consciousness. How to stand in front of this man without feeling guilty of some of my actions, or even simply of some of my thoughts and feelings?
On the traditional day of the official presentations, I went to Abraham’s parents’ house with my father and my mother. We had bought a beautiful bouquet of red and white peonies coming directly from the surrounding mountains. When opening the door, his mother exclaimed ‘Oh, no! You should not have, this is too much! You must come here with empty hands. Well, thank you, but, really, next time, nothing, or I get angry!’ This was the usual polite way to accept the duly expected gift. Just close to the entrance, a huge vase, too large for our bouquet, welcomed it. My mother and I exchanged a quick glance. The message was subtle but clear: we had committed a mistake, and repairing it would require time and efforts. The six of us sat on comfortable chairs around a low traditional craftsman's wooden table in their living room. When their helper Fatima came to propose small pastillas, my father and I respectfully took one each and thanked her. It was just at the very moment when I ate the first bite that his father stood up and went to the bathroom to wash his hands, as the tradition requires it before starting a meal. This bite was both tasty and sour. I did not know what to do. I could not stop chewing it, that would have been rude, but I could not eat it either, that would have been a lack of respect. My father was stuck, like a statute. When Itshak came back a few moments later, I could not look at him in the eyes anymore, out of shame. Abraham continued smiling as if this had no importance, but we all knew it had.
That confirmed my feeling: I needed time to build one of these silent alliances women used to establish to help each other deal with the expectations of the men and of the families.
Abraham’s sisters had started to help me navigate through these unknown waters. On the first shabbat evening for which I was invited at their family’s, I joined the girls to prepare the table, and to take plates on and off to the kitchen, when the boys kept sitting. This was the habit, back then.
I wanted to show that I shared the values of the family. After we finished the prayers on the wine and the bread, it was the moment to bring the salads. I nearly jumped to the kitchen, and was the first one to catch two salads – shakshuka and grilled eggplants. As I walked in the corridor, Leah, Abraham’s oldest sister, open her eyes, stopped me, and took the salads from my hands.
‘These have to be served after the first one,’ she briefly said in a low voice. ‘This is the tradition here. The first one has to be grilled hot peppers in argan oil, the favorite of my father.’
‘Give it to her, and take hers!’ Leah told her younger sister, who was walking fast in the corridor with the hot grilled pepper salad. ‘I was running to arrive first!’ she said, and gave me the plate. ‘Go first, now!’ I realized it was a privilege. As I walked through the door to enter the dining room, I saw the sharp eyes of Itshak on me and on the peppers.
Would I be able to build these alliances? Would I have the necessary time to understand the dynamics of this family and to find my way through them? Our wedding gave me some clues about the challenges ahead of me.’
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
Michael is worried that his old grandfather Abraham will not be welcomed with due respect today, on his wedding day. He anxiously looks at his new electronic watch, a gift from his future wife Deborah. ‘What is she doing? She cannot be late today…’
Of course, they have organized their schedule as they always do, very meticulously, with security time buffers. And Deborah is not late, but he expects her to arrive a little ahead of time, as she usually does, especially since they agreed they would jointly welcome Abraham. Despite his weak health, he managed to make the effort to honor them with his presence for their union, even if today is only the civil ceremony at the city hall.
‘Maybe they are a little stuck in the traffic,’ Raphael, his witness, says, feeling the nervousness of his old friend.
‘I know,’ says Michael, relieved by the presence of Raphael, who is able to feel his emotions without him having to express them.
‘She’s always so organized, don’t worry, she will not miss her wedding, if only for organizational concerns,’ Raphael mischievously adds.
Michael slightly relaxes. It’s true, he thinks, she never makes mistakes. She will be here to welcome his grandfather when he arrives with his young cousin’s car, in fifteen minutes. Since they met, he has always been impressed by the sense of duty of his fiancée: never late, always behaving the correct way with his friends, his colleagues and his family. Organized, for sure. Reliable, without any doubt. She is used to welcoming them in their apartment with hearty meals, using traditional recipes she got from his mother and hers, to which she adds a little modern personal note. Her family being in the South of the country, she is the one insisting that they spend the Friday evenings with his family instead of enjoying a casual dinner together or going to a bar with friends. When his lack of confidence surfaces on the occasion of difficult pieces of news regarding his business projects or a remark by his boss, she is always present to listen to him, and to find a good old movie to watch together, cuddling on the couch. He admires how she conducts a successful career in a business law office close to their apartment, on the top of all of these obligations.
When he introduced her to his parents, she got adopted by the family in the fastest way, after the expected usual reluctance toward any ‘outsider.’ ‘It’s wonderful, she’s so much like us, she could be a girl from the family!’ one older cousin once told him. Indeed, their families come from two towns only a few tens of kilometers apart and they share similar traditions. She appeared to be the one with whom he has to be.
Michael has a quick look at his watch. In two minutes, she will be late on her five minutes early to welcome his grandfather… That would be a lack of respect.
‘Here is the princess!’ joyfully shouts Raphael, opening his arms in the direction of the luxury car the bride and the groom have rented for their wedding day.
The car precautiously parks on the spots in front of the city hall, leaving just enough space for another one to do so, if the driver maneuvers correctly.
‘Hello my husband!’ says Deborah in a smile when getting out of the car in her elegant and discreet crème wedding dress.
‘Hello my wife,’ answers Michael while offering his left arm for her to lean on while walking.
She has just finished a call with her witness and other close friends who have come from the south especially for the wedding, to help them find their way through the subway and the traffic jam. She knows how disorienting the grey and hectic Paris can be for those coming from the sunny and relaxed south. When she arrived here some years ago to find a good job and, she admits, a good husband, she was lost. She had no family around, apart from a distant cousin in a suburb more than an hour away by subway. She delved into the missions she was given in the prestigious lawyer office she managed to enter. ‘First, build a strong professional situation,’ she told herself. ‘Then, when you are stabilized, look for friends and a boyfriend.’ In the cold winter of the city, just a few months after leaving her parents,’ she downloaded all the dating apps that existed. ‘Why not try?’ she told her mother during one of their daily talks. The latter agreed under one condition: ‘bring us someone who is one of us.’ She hated the phrase, but in fact agreed with its content. Of course, she wanted to build something solid, in line with the values of the family. Get married, then have children. She could not afford to only follow her heart although, if she had children, they would be ‘ones of us’ following the traditional rules. She was inspired by the example of her parents, who still constituted a harmonious couple after more than thirty-five years of marriage. Far from the promises of modern-day love, with its fluidity and the central place desire occupies, she looked for a rational partnership. She had nothing against passion, but its uncontrollable nature worried her a lot.
Despite her very packed business schedule, she managed to attend conferences, mainly related to how traditions can help navigate the modern world. Little by little, she made friends with a small group of women in their early thirties like her. Soon, she became their keystone, inviting them at her place, organizing the birthday parties and taking the time to give a call, late in the evening after her intense business day, when she felt one of them was going through a difficult time.
Meeting Michael had been a relief. She had a busy but stable professional situation, a group of friends, along with the ones from her southern childhood. She was ready for the next step of her plan. But would it work? ‘Step by step,’ her mother told her. ‘Don’t worry, you will find if he’s the one who’s meant for you.’
She felt nothing special at first. She had gone for a few drinks in loud and fancy places with men she had met on the application before. They were not bad people, but rather dull. She did not want to be very picky, but she was not ready to sacrifice her energy and time for a boring relationship. ‘A partnership, yes, but with some nice and lively flavor.’ ‘Hey! Have you heard about the new Ethiopian restaurant in the West? Want to try?’ Michael wrote to her. She had never eaten Ethiopian, why not. He was the cousin of one of her new friends, who had given him her phone number. Patiently, she got to know him, his doubts, his humor, his world made of cousins, old friends from his scientific studies and colleagues from his consulting company, his dreams and his values, his kindness and his rules. Slowly, that grew into her. Smoothly, that became obvious. ‘I feel it’s him,’ she recalls telling her mother, with tenderness in her voice, one day.
‘Is your grandfather well on his way?’ Deborah asks Michael, obviously caring, although she has a million other things on her mind at this very moment. Michael feels appeased by the respect she pays to his grandfather, and by her attention to his family. He is relieved, he smiles. She is definitely the one with whom he has to be.
Of course, they have organized their schedule as they always do, very meticulously, with security time buffers. And Deborah is not late, but he expects her to arrive a little ahead of time, as she usually does, especially since they agreed they would jointly welcome Abraham. Despite his weak health, he managed to make the effort to honor them with his presence for their union, even if today is only the civil ceremony at the city hall.
‘Maybe they are a little stuck in the traffic,’ Raphael, his witness, says, feeling the nervousness of his old friend.
‘I know,’ says Michael, relieved by the presence of Raphael, who is able to feel his emotions without him having to express them.
‘She’s always so organized, don’t worry, she will not miss her wedding, if only for organizational concerns,’ Raphael mischievously adds.
Michael slightly relaxes. It’s true, he thinks, she never makes mistakes. She will be here to welcome his grandfather when he arrives with his young cousin’s car, in fifteen minutes. Since they met, he has always been impressed by the sense of duty of his fiancée: never late, always behaving the correct way with his friends, his colleagues and his family. Organized, for sure. Reliable, without any doubt. She is used to welcoming them in their apartment with hearty meals, using traditional recipes she got from his mother and hers, to which she adds a little modern personal note. Her family being in the South of the country, she is the one insisting that they spend the Friday evenings with his family instead of enjoying a casual dinner together or going to a bar with friends. When his lack of confidence surfaces on the occasion of difficult pieces of news regarding his business projects or a remark by his boss, she is always present to listen to him, and to find a good old movie to watch together, cuddling on the couch. He admires how she conducts a successful career in a business law office close to their apartment, on the top of all of these obligations.
When he introduced her to his parents, she got adopted by the family in the fastest way, after the expected usual reluctance toward any ‘outsider.’ ‘It’s wonderful, she’s so much like us, she could be a girl from the family!’ one older cousin once told him. Indeed, their families come from two towns only a few tens of kilometers apart and they share similar traditions. She appeared to be the one with whom he has to be.
Michael has a quick look at his watch. In two minutes, she will be late on her five minutes early to welcome his grandfather… That would be a lack of respect.
‘Here is the princess!’ joyfully shouts Raphael, opening his arms in the direction of the luxury car the bride and the groom have rented for their wedding day.
The car precautiously parks on the spots in front of the city hall, leaving just enough space for another one to do so, if the driver maneuvers correctly.
‘Hello my husband!’ says Deborah in a smile when getting out of the car in her elegant and discreet crème wedding dress.
‘Hello my wife,’ answers Michael while offering his left arm for her to lean on while walking.
She has just finished a call with her witness and other close friends who have come from the south especially for the wedding, to help them find their way through the subway and the traffic jam. She knows how disorienting the grey and hectic Paris can be for those coming from the sunny and relaxed south. When she arrived here some years ago to find a good job and, she admits, a good husband, she was lost. She had no family around, apart from a distant cousin in a suburb more than an hour away by subway. She delved into the missions she was given in the prestigious lawyer office she managed to enter. ‘First, build a strong professional situation,’ she told herself. ‘Then, when you are stabilized, look for friends and a boyfriend.’ In the cold winter of the city, just a few months after leaving her parents,’ she downloaded all the dating apps that existed. ‘Why not try?’ she told her mother during one of their daily talks. The latter agreed under one condition: ‘bring us someone who is one of us.’ She hated the phrase, but in fact agreed with its content. Of course, she wanted to build something solid, in line with the values of the family. Get married, then have children. She could not afford to only follow her heart although, if she had children, they would be ‘ones of us’ following the traditional rules. She was inspired by the example of her parents, who still constituted a harmonious couple after more than thirty-five years of marriage. Far from the promises of modern-day love, with its fluidity and the central place desire occupies, she looked for a rational partnership. She had nothing against passion, but its uncontrollable nature worried her a lot.
Despite her very packed business schedule, she managed to attend conferences, mainly related to how traditions can help navigate the modern world. Little by little, she made friends with a small group of women in their early thirties like her. Soon, she became their keystone, inviting them at her place, organizing the birthday parties and taking the time to give a call, late in the evening after her intense business day, when she felt one of them was going through a difficult time.
Meeting Michael had been a relief. She had a busy but stable professional situation, a group of friends, along with the ones from her southern childhood. She was ready for the next step of her plan. But would it work? ‘Step by step,’ her mother told her. ‘Don’t worry, you will find if he’s the one who’s meant for you.’
She felt nothing special at first. She had gone for a few drinks in loud and fancy places with men she had met on the application before. They were not bad people, but rather dull. She did not want to be very picky, but she was not ready to sacrifice her energy and time for a boring relationship. ‘A partnership, yes, but with some nice and lively flavor.’ ‘Hey! Have you heard about the new Ethiopian restaurant in the West? Want to try?’ Michael wrote to her. She had never eaten Ethiopian, why not. He was the cousin of one of her new friends, who had given him her phone number. Patiently, she got to know him, his doubts, his humor, his world made of cousins, old friends from his scientific studies and colleagues from his consulting company, his dreams and his values, his kindness and his rules. Slowly, that grew into her. Smoothly, that became obvious. ‘I feel it’s him,’ she recalls telling her mother, with tenderness in her voice, one day.
‘Is your grandfather well on his way?’ Deborah asks Michael, obviously caring, although she has a million other things on her mind at this very moment. Michael feels appeased by the respect she pays to his grandfather, and by her attention to his family. He is relieved, he smiles. She is definitely the one with whom he has to be.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
‘My wedding with Abraham was a strange day. I had to wait in a small room, with the women, until the men arrived for the traditional family procession that initiated the religious ceremony. Although I had managed to obtain to wear a dress with bare arms, the heat due to the sun shining through the glass windows made me sweat. I hoped the men would arrive quickly…
The atmosphere was joyful in this room. All the women from both our families were sitting together on the red, green and yellow velvet couches of the old synagogue. We ate in small copper plates the traditional home-made pastries every aunt had prepared for several weeks especially for this moment: orange blossom-flavored gazelle horns, caramelized almonds, dry fruits stuffed with marzipan, peanut-grinded montecaos… The young girls ran in and out in their beautiful new dresses, some of which were already stained after a first round of games. The aunts told family memories with loud voices, provoking smiles and laughs from those who discovered them as well as from those who knew them for decades. I could notice, however, in a corner, Abraham’s oldest aunt nodding her head when his mother slipped her a few words in her ear when looking at a direction that I felt was toward me.
Finally, after a wait that seemed to me like hours, we could go out to start the ceremony. When my mother-in-law opened the door for me to walk to the central hall from where the procession would start, the first face I met was Abraham’s father, Itshak. Like in a reflex, he turned his eyes away and his body imperceptibly stiffened. It took only a fraction of a second before he came and offered me the traditional greetings, but this instant would later come back to my mind.
Abraham walked to me, in his beautiful European dark suit, his face shining and his eyes sparking. He kissed me. That was not what was supposed to take place, before the wedding.
‘Hello my love,’ he whispered to me in a smile. ‘Hello my love,’ I answered, relieved and feeling my desire increasing as when we were in our shop, just the two of us. Despite the warmth of this beautiful moment, I shivered. I turned my head on the left and I caught his mother’s eyes, wide open.’
The atmosphere was joyful in this room. All the women from both our families were sitting together on the red, green and yellow velvet couches of the old synagogue. We ate in small copper plates the traditional home-made pastries every aunt had prepared for several weeks especially for this moment: orange blossom-flavored gazelle horns, caramelized almonds, dry fruits stuffed with marzipan, peanut-grinded montecaos… The young girls ran in and out in their beautiful new dresses, some of which were already stained after a first round of games. The aunts told family memories with loud voices, provoking smiles and laughs from those who discovered them as well as from those who knew them for decades. I could notice, however, in a corner, Abraham’s oldest aunt nodding her head when his mother slipped her a few words in her ear when looking at a direction that I felt was toward me.
Finally, after a wait that seemed to me like hours, we could go out to start the ceremony. When my mother-in-law opened the door for me to walk to the central hall from where the procession would start, the first face I met was Abraham’s father, Itshak. Like in a reflex, he turned his eyes away and his body imperceptibly stiffened. It took only a fraction of a second before he came and offered me the traditional greetings, but this instant would later come back to my mind.
Abraham walked to me, in his beautiful European dark suit, his face shining and his eyes sparking. He kissed me. That was not what was supposed to take place, before the wedding.
‘Hello my love,’ he whispered to me in a smile. ‘Hello my love,’ I answered, relieved and feeling my desire increasing as when we were in our shop, just the two of us. Despite the warmth of this beautiful moment, I shivered. I turned my head on the left and I caught his mother’s eyes, wide open.’
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
‘But you love her or not?’ Raphael insists. Michael and he are having a glass of Côtes du Rhône on the small white round tables at the sunny terrace of their favorite café. During several decades, this is where famous intellectuals used to meet, in front of the old church surrounded by cobblestone streets and low buildings dating from the middle age.
‘That’s not the question, and you know it!’ Michael grumbles. He is angry at his friend for pushing him about this, once again.
‘But what is the question then?’
‘I don’t know how to tell…’ Michael fists are clenched, below the table, and his jaw gets tighter. He takes a quick sip, without sucking air with it to make the wine tastier as he usually does.
‘You tell me she’s brilliant. You speak about the European social movie production company she has created in such a way that you make even me be interested in watching these movies! You love discovering other cultures, and she’s traveled in more countries than you. You share sensitivities, values, visions of the world. You laugh together. Last but not least, you have great sex… What else do you need?’ Raphael nearly shouts at Michael. Seeing his old friend refusing another opportunity for happiness within easy reach drives him crazy, and sad. Since they met during their engineering studies fifteen years ago, he has witnessed this pattern over and over again: Michael running away from great women at the very moment when they are ready to embark on a relationship with him.
‘Excuse me gentlemen, I am about to finish my shift, would there be anything else that I could bring to you?’ the waiter asks, with an Arabic accent.
‘No, thank you, we’re fine,’ Michael quickly answers. The waiter respectfully bends and leaves them.
‘I don’t know, Raphael. I just feel this is not for me. As if there were an invisible wall that prevents me from having access to this. I know it may sound crazy, but this is how I feel. I like her, or I love her, yes, if you really want to use this word, but I feel I should not be with her.’
‘It seems to me that you think you should not be with her because you love her. What are you afraid of, for god’s sake?’
‘I don’t know…’ Michael whispers thoughtfully, the eyes in the distance.
The memory of his first meeting with Neata comes to his mind. It was in an underground music bar, in the center of Budapest, two years ago. He had followed his colleagues to relax after a long and difficult meeting with their Hungarian client. The project they were working on seemed to be at stake after they presented the intermediary results regarding the digital transformation of his tires factories, which he found unsatisfactory. A typical Roma band was playing. He loved this music, which he had discovered a few years ago thanks to a friend, during his studies. The voice of the singer typically mixed lament and intense life strength. The cello sounded silky and warm. The accordion brought nostalgia and enthusiasm. ‘Tell me what you want, I’m going to order at the bar,’ he proposed to his colleagues, once they had sat at a table with the band in sight. He walked a few meters through the young and joyful crowd and reached the bar. It was an apparition. He instinctively turned his head to the right, like attracted by a charismatic force. She was there, shining. Black hair, black clothes, dark eyes and tanned skin. She smiled at him nearly immediately and very naturally, as if they had known each other for a long time. He smiled back, he did not know why. She came to his side.
‘Hello,’ she said in English. ‘Are you enjoying the folkloric touristic band?’ she asked with a little smile and a provocative spark in the eyes.
‘Well, you know, for us, ignorant Western Europeans, this is very exotic.’ He entered her game with a sweet pleasure. After this heavy day, that was a relief.
‘Oh yes, you seem so naive,’ she smiled with complicity. ‘That’s too bad, there are so many true and beautiful places around here…’
‘I am with my colleagues, tonight,’ he answered to her untold invitation.
‘I saw that, and I don’t want to disturb,’ she said in a fake submissive way. ‘I live here.’
‘I go back on the day after tomorrow. Maybe…’
‘Maybe,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll see if I can be available. I am very busy, you know.’
They looked at each other in a short silence full of desire, breathing deeply. He handed her his phone. Without a word, she wrote her number. They met on the following evening, after he had left his colleagues. They walked, they spoke, they kissed, he opened himself to her as he had never done before. She made him discover new worlds, very far from his family and groups of friends and colleagues: movies production, social action, poor ethnic communities, new sounds, new books, new feelings. He traveled to her place on several weekends. They spoke everyday. He felt himself falling, letting things go, maybe for the first time in his life. And he liked it. After some months, he had to face it, despite the distance: they were a couple, and a happy one.
Although Neata never asked him, he felt a pressure to introduce her to his family. And he could not. She would never be accepted, he thought. ‘They will not want me to be with her.’ Imperceptibly, his behavior changed. His calls shortened. He came less to visit her, because of projects on which he had to work on week-ends. She felt it and, although she had been reluctant to leave her mother close to whom she lived, she proposed to take a flight and meet him at his place. ‘Let me see,’ he said. ‘Of course, I would love to, dear,’ he forced himself to say. He loved her, she obviously loved him, he felt trapped. An unidentified force seemed to interfere to dealign his feelings and his intentions.
‘There is also this other woman,’ Michael resumes with a strong voice, waking up from his daydream, like in an attempt to test his friend’s reaction.
‘The friend of your cousin?’
‘Yes, Deborah.’
‘Well, I really don’t care who you are with, believe me, I have even never met your lover…’
‘She is not my lover!’
‘Well, the woman whom you love, if you prefer?’ Raphael says with sarcasm.
‘Whatever.’
‘I don’t know your lover, and I don’t know Deborah, but what I know is that you don’t speak of the latter as passionately as you speak of the former, and by far!’
‘My cousins like her a lot,’ Michael says, with a tone that he is himself surprised to hear as extremely neutral. His fists slowly open, but his chest, his shoulders and his head slightly bend, like under the effect of an invisible but irresistible weight.
‘That’s not the question, and you know it!’ Michael grumbles. He is angry at his friend for pushing him about this, once again.
‘But what is the question then?’
‘I don’t know how to tell…’ Michael fists are clenched, below the table, and his jaw gets tighter. He takes a quick sip, without sucking air with it to make the wine tastier as he usually does.
‘You tell me she’s brilliant. You speak about the European social movie production company she has created in such a way that you make even me be interested in watching these movies! You love discovering other cultures, and she’s traveled in more countries than you. You share sensitivities, values, visions of the world. You laugh together. Last but not least, you have great sex… What else do you need?’ Raphael nearly shouts at Michael. Seeing his old friend refusing another opportunity for happiness within easy reach drives him crazy, and sad. Since they met during their engineering studies fifteen years ago, he has witnessed this pattern over and over again: Michael running away from great women at the very moment when they are ready to embark on a relationship with him.
‘Excuse me gentlemen, I am about to finish my shift, would there be anything else that I could bring to you?’ the waiter asks, with an Arabic accent.
‘No, thank you, we’re fine,’ Michael quickly answers. The waiter respectfully bends and leaves them.
‘I don’t know, Raphael. I just feel this is not for me. As if there were an invisible wall that prevents me from having access to this. I know it may sound crazy, but this is how I feel. I like her, or I love her, yes, if you really want to use this word, but I feel I should not be with her.’
‘It seems to me that you think you should not be with her because you love her. What are you afraid of, for god’s sake?’
‘I don’t know…’ Michael whispers thoughtfully, the eyes in the distance.
The memory of his first meeting with Neata comes to his mind. It was in an underground music bar, in the center of Budapest, two years ago. He had followed his colleagues to relax after a long and difficult meeting with their Hungarian client. The project they were working on seemed to be at stake after they presented the intermediary results regarding the digital transformation of his tires factories, which he found unsatisfactory. A typical Roma band was playing. He loved this music, which he had discovered a few years ago thanks to a friend, during his studies. The voice of the singer typically mixed lament and intense life strength. The cello sounded silky and warm. The accordion brought nostalgia and enthusiasm. ‘Tell me what you want, I’m going to order at the bar,’ he proposed to his colleagues, once they had sat at a table with the band in sight. He walked a few meters through the young and joyful crowd and reached the bar. It was an apparition. He instinctively turned his head to the right, like attracted by a charismatic force. She was there, shining. Black hair, black clothes, dark eyes and tanned skin. She smiled at him nearly immediately and very naturally, as if they had known each other for a long time. He smiled back, he did not know why. She came to his side.
‘Hello,’ she said in English. ‘Are you enjoying the folkloric touristic band?’ she asked with a little smile and a provocative spark in the eyes.
‘Well, you know, for us, ignorant Western Europeans, this is very exotic.’ He entered her game with a sweet pleasure. After this heavy day, that was a relief.
‘Oh yes, you seem so naive,’ she smiled with complicity. ‘That’s too bad, there are so many true and beautiful places around here…’
‘I am with my colleagues, tonight,’ he answered to her untold invitation.
‘I saw that, and I don’t want to disturb,’ she said in a fake submissive way. ‘I live here.’
‘I go back on the day after tomorrow. Maybe…’
‘Maybe,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll see if I can be available. I am very busy, you know.’
They looked at each other in a short silence full of desire, breathing deeply. He handed her his phone. Without a word, she wrote her number. They met on the following evening, after he had left his colleagues. They walked, they spoke, they kissed, he opened himself to her as he had never done before. She made him discover new worlds, very far from his family and groups of friends and colleagues: movies production, social action, poor ethnic communities, new sounds, new books, new feelings. He traveled to her place on several weekends. They spoke everyday. He felt himself falling, letting things go, maybe for the first time in his life. And he liked it. After some months, he had to face it, despite the distance: they were a couple, and a happy one.
Although Neata never asked him, he felt a pressure to introduce her to his family. And he could not. She would never be accepted, he thought. ‘They will not want me to be with her.’ Imperceptibly, his behavior changed. His calls shortened. He came less to visit her, because of projects on which he had to work on week-ends. She felt it and, although she had been reluctant to leave her mother close to whom she lived, she proposed to take a flight and meet him at his place. ‘Let me see,’ he said. ‘Of course, I would love to, dear,’ he forced himself to say. He loved her, she obviously loved him, he felt trapped. An unidentified force seemed to interfere to dealign his feelings and his intentions.
‘There is also this other woman,’ Michael resumes with a strong voice, waking up from his daydream, like in an attempt to test his friend’s reaction.
‘The friend of your cousin?’
‘Yes, Deborah.’
‘Well, I really don’t care who you are with, believe me, I have even never met your lover…’
‘She is not my lover!’
‘Well, the woman whom you love, if you prefer?’ Raphael says with sarcasm.
‘Whatever.’
‘I don’t know your lover, and I don’t know Deborah, but what I know is that you don’t speak of the latter as passionately as you speak of the former, and by far!’
‘My cousins like her a lot,’ Michael says, with a tone that he is himself surprised to hear as extremely neutral. His fists slowly open, but his chest, his shoulders and his head slightly bend, like under the effect of an invisible but irresistible weight.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
Abraham goes out of the shop to pick the fabric rolls from their usual delivery boy, Mohamed, at the center of the sunny ‘stork square.’ His eyes are dazzled as he enters the small dark shop, he waits a few seconds before putting the rolls on the shelves.
‘Merci,’ says Itshak, quietly. ‘Let’s have lunch when your mother arrives.’ Abraham is a little surprised. His mother rarely comes to the shop, and they hardly ever have lunch together, the three of them. She usually spends her day in the house, cleaning the ever-present ocher dust with her helpers since early morning, preparing lunch for all her seven children who are not married yet and still live in the family house, before going to the market with women of the family and preparing the dinner in the afternoon. Abraham nods his head. With his father, one usually does not ask questions about his decisions, even less contests them. All the members of the community know it. They often come and speak to Abraham and his older brother when they want to convey a message to Itshak, a respected and influential public figure whose wisdom is appreciated, to try and make him change his mind. Most of the time, to no avail.
‘B’slama!’ smiles his mother when entering the shop through the small back door. ‘You are not too hungry, my son?’ she asks while coming closer to Abraham and taking plates out of her wicker bag. She turns her eyes toward Itshak and makes a little nod from a distance, respectfully.
‘Lemon chicken, your favorite tagine,’ she tells Abraham. He is happy about this, but definitely, something is strange. Why such a special meal, such a special setting?
The three of them sit in the back shop, the place of Abraham, around a small round wooden table. It’s dark, but the sun is so heavy at that time of the day that the slim ray of light coming from outside through the door ajar is enough for them to clearly see each other. His mother lively speaks of his brothers and sisters, and of what has happened to their neighbors: part of their terrace cracked, so they need to rebuild it. His father keeps silent, as usual. Abraham waits. Half an hour passes in this strange atmosphere, as if something is going to happen, but nothing happens.
‘Abraham,’ says Itshak, ‘there is something your mother and I wanted to speak with you about.’
‘Itshak, maybe we can do it later? Both of you need to work this afternoon…’ his mother immediately reacts. Itshak sternly looks at her. She stops. Abraham does not understand, but expects the worst.
‘There are problems with your family-in-law.’
Abraham shivers. The moment is suspended. He is suddenly paralyzed, breathless.
‘What do you mean?’ he finally asks, after a long silence.
‘They lacked respect to me, to us. There are things one should do. Things they said. That cannot be accepted.’
‘Itshak, please, with due respect, I am sure we can do something! Let’s take some time. Not now!’ his mother nearly shouts, obviously emotional.
Itshak violently bang the table. ‘I made my decision and we will not speak about that again!’ he slowly says. Abraham is knocked down. He does not believe what he is living.
‘You will divorce Rina.’
‘What?’ says Abraham, too astonished to shout.
‘I have decided. The family has decided.’
‘I will never do that!’ Abraham looks at his father in the eyes, defiantly.
‘You will.’
‘Never, you hear me, never!’ Abraham stands and points his finger at his father. He knows the condemnations of his father cannot be changed.
‘Oh, my god! Please, calm down!’ his mother begs in a plaintive voice, her hand over her mouth, the eyes wide open.
‘Never!’ Abraham yells at both of them while jumping out of the shop through the back door. Outside, his eyes dazzled by the overwhelming sunlight, he runs around aimlessly, like a chicken that just had its head cut off.
‘Merci,’ says Itshak, quietly. ‘Let’s have lunch when your mother arrives.’ Abraham is a little surprised. His mother rarely comes to the shop, and they hardly ever have lunch together, the three of them. She usually spends her day in the house, cleaning the ever-present ocher dust with her helpers since early morning, preparing lunch for all her seven children who are not married yet and still live in the family house, before going to the market with women of the family and preparing the dinner in the afternoon. Abraham nods his head. With his father, one usually does not ask questions about his decisions, even less contests them. All the members of the community know it. They often come and speak to Abraham and his older brother when they want to convey a message to Itshak, a respected and influential public figure whose wisdom is appreciated, to try and make him change his mind. Most of the time, to no avail.
‘B’slama!’ smiles his mother when entering the shop through the small back door. ‘You are not too hungry, my son?’ she asks while coming closer to Abraham and taking plates out of her wicker bag. She turns her eyes toward Itshak and makes a little nod from a distance, respectfully.
‘Lemon chicken, your favorite tagine,’ she tells Abraham. He is happy about this, but definitely, something is strange. Why such a special meal, such a special setting?
The three of them sit in the back shop, the place of Abraham, around a small round wooden table. It’s dark, but the sun is so heavy at that time of the day that the slim ray of light coming from outside through the door ajar is enough for them to clearly see each other. His mother lively speaks of his brothers and sisters, and of what has happened to their neighbors: part of their terrace cracked, so they need to rebuild it. His father keeps silent, as usual. Abraham waits. Half an hour passes in this strange atmosphere, as if something is going to happen, but nothing happens.
‘Abraham,’ says Itshak, ‘there is something your mother and I wanted to speak with you about.’
‘Itshak, maybe we can do it later? Both of you need to work this afternoon…’ his mother immediately reacts. Itshak sternly looks at her. She stops. Abraham does not understand, but expects the worst.
‘There are problems with your family-in-law.’
Abraham shivers. The moment is suspended. He is suddenly paralyzed, breathless.
‘What do you mean?’ he finally asks, after a long silence.
‘They lacked respect to me, to us. There are things one should do. Things they said. That cannot be accepted.’
‘Itshak, please, with due respect, I am sure we can do something! Let’s take some time. Not now!’ his mother nearly shouts, obviously emotional.
Itshak violently bang the table. ‘I made my decision and we will not speak about that again!’ he slowly says. Abraham is knocked down. He does not believe what he is living.
‘You will divorce Rina.’
‘What?’ says Abraham, too astonished to shout.
‘I have decided. The family has decided.’
‘I will never do that!’ Abraham looks at his father in the eyes, defiantly.
‘You will.’
‘Never, you hear me, never!’ Abraham stands and points his finger at his father. He knows the condemnations of his father cannot be changed.
‘Oh, my god! Please, calm down!’ his mother begs in a plaintive voice, her hand over her mouth, the eyes wide open.
‘Never!’ Abraham yells at both of them while jumping out of the shop through the back door. Outside, his eyes dazzled by the overwhelming sunlight, he runs around aimlessly, like a chicken that just had its head cut off.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
A few months after the euphoria of the wedding day, I started to feel something was wrong with Abraham, and I did not know what. One day, he came back from the shop much earlier than usual, in the middle of the afternoon. He seemed exhausted. When I asked him what had happened, he told me he had to discharge numerous fabric rolls that day, which made him tired. In the following weeks, he sometimes came back home before the usual time, sat on the brown leather sofa, looking far away, like through a sandstorm. When I asked him to tell me what was wrong, he told me there was nothing, he was sorry, but they were just going through an intense period at the shop.
But I felt his passion was obstructed, he was internally conflicted. When he took me in his arms, I felt that, from time to time, his usual vigor released, like yielding to a powerful force. During our discussions, usually long and passionate, he became irritable on a few occasions, before apologizing and blaming the exhausting work at the shop those days.
A few other behaviors, from his mother notably, surprised me a little, but I decided not to pay so much attention. Wasn’t I learning about this family, its codes and its habits?
On a Friday night, after another discussion in which Abraham became irritated, we went to his parents’, with his brothers and sisters. I was very careful to help and clear the table with the girls and the women, when the boys and the men kept sitting around the table. I was proudly wearing my beautiful green velvet dress, a little more colorful than the more conventional dresses of the other women. Each time I brought empty plates back to the kitchen, his mother briefly looked at it in a strange way, as if she were disturbed. Each time I came back from the kitchen to bring plates full of food to the dinner table, his father slightly looked away. That reminded me of the wedding day. Not pleasant, for sure, but what to understand from this?
Week after week, I notice that Abraham’s physical posture imperceptibly changed. An invisible weight seemed to have appeared on his shoulders.
One day, he came home and, while I was sitting on the sofa, he stood at a short distance in front of me, between the door and me and with a face as motionless as stone, abruptly told me: ‘We have to get divorced. My family requires it. They don’t get along with yours.’
I was totally stunned. I asked: ‘What do you mean, Abraham? What is this craziness?’
‘I am sorry Rina. I tried to fight against it, but I can’t. I have to. We have to.’
‘Do you love me? Because I love you Abraham, and I don’t care about what families think.’
‘This is a decision by my father, Rina.’ I knew what it meant. I sweated, and heard my heart beat loudly in my chest. Nobody opposed his father, who never changed his mind.
‘Come here, in my arms. This is just a crisis, it will pass,’ I said, opening my arms to welcome him.’
‘I have to leave you, Rina.’ He was still standing, he had not moved since he had released these hurtful words.
‘But you can’t do that, suddenly, from one day to another! Yesterday was so intense. I gave myself to you entirely, like each time since this night together, when you took off my green velvet dress in your father’s shop. Do you remember, Abraham?’
‘Rina, there is no choice,’ his eyes were looking down.
‘Of course there is!’ I shouted. I was shaking. ‘You don’t have to obey him! Is there anything that you are not telling me? We can discuss about everything, you know, my darling.’ I stood up, stretching out my arms to him.
‘I have to. You know it. This is how it is.’ He was crying.
‘Don’t cry, Avi habibi, viens, viens, we don’t care about all of that, come, let’s be happy and that’s it. Come here, put your head on my shoulders…’ He took my hands in his, then suddenly stiffened.
‘Sorry Rina, I should not have. I have to go.’ I recognized this hard and closed look on his face. I recognized this harshness. These were not his, these were his father’s.
‘Are you going to go like this, and throw me away like an old pair of socks? I love you, Abraham!’
‘I have to.’
He turned back, opened the door and left the house. I was standing, my arms open, tears along my cheeks, petrified.
He left the house like a dark spectrum walking after seeing the angel of death, his face expressionless as stone. A few weeks later, he had left me. I was devastated. I felt that, deep inside, he was devastated too. We got divorced – at the time, women had nothing to say in Morocco. A year later, I was told he got remarried, with a woman chosen by the family. This is your grandmother.
But I felt his passion was obstructed, he was internally conflicted. When he took me in his arms, I felt that, from time to time, his usual vigor released, like yielding to a powerful force. During our discussions, usually long and passionate, he became irritable on a few occasions, before apologizing and blaming the exhausting work at the shop those days.
A few other behaviors, from his mother notably, surprised me a little, but I decided not to pay so much attention. Wasn’t I learning about this family, its codes and its habits?
On a Friday night, after another discussion in which Abraham became irritated, we went to his parents’, with his brothers and sisters. I was very careful to help and clear the table with the girls and the women, when the boys and the men kept sitting around the table. I was proudly wearing my beautiful green velvet dress, a little more colorful than the more conventional dresses of the other women. Each time I brought empty plates back to the kitchen, his mother briefly looked at it in a strange way, as if she were disturbed. Each time I came back from the kitchen to bring plates full of food to the dinner table, his father slightly looked away. That reminded me of the wedding day. Not pleasant, for sure, but what to understand from this?
Week after week, I notice that Abraham’s physical posture imperceptibly changed. An invisible weight seemed to have appeared on his shoulders.
One day, he came home and, while I was sitting on the sofa, he stood at a short distance in front of me, between the door and me and with a face as motionless as stone, abruptly told me: ‘We have to get divorced. My family requires it. They don’t get along with yours.’
I was totally stunned. I asked: ‘What do you mean, Abraham? What is this craziness?’
‘I am sorry Rina. I tried to fight against it, but I can’t. I have to. We have to.’
‘Do you love me? Because I love you Abraham, and I don’t care about what families think.’
‘This is a decision by my father, Rina.’ I knew what it meant. I sweated, and heard my heart beat loudly in my chest. Nobody opposed his father, who never changed his mind.
‘Come here, in my arms. This is just a crisis, it will pass,’ I said, opening my arms to welcome him.’
‘I have to leave you, Rina.’ He was still standing, he had not moved since he had released these hurtful words.
‘But you can’t do that, suddenly, from one day to another! Yesterday was so intense. I gave myself to you entirely, like each time since this night together, when you took off my green velvet dress in your father’s shop. Do you remember, Abraham?’
‘Rina, there is no choice,’ his eyes were looking down.
‘Of course there is!’ I shouted. I was shaking. ‘You don’t have to obey him! Is there anything that you are not telling me? We can discuss about everything, you know, my darling.’ I stood up, stretching out my arms to him.
‘I have to. You know it. This is how it is.’ He was crying.
‘Don’t cry, Avi habibi, viens, viens, we don’t care about all of that, come, let’s be happy and that’s it. Come here, put your head on my shoulders…’ He took my hands in his, then suddenly stiffened.
‘Sorry Rina, I should not have. I have to go.’ I recognized this hard and closed look on his face. I recognized this harshness. These were not his, these were his father’s.
‘Are you going to go like this, and throw me away like an old pair of socks? I love you, Abraham!’
‘I have to.’
He turned back, opened the door and left the house. I was standing, my arms open, tears along my cheeks, petrified.
He left the house like a dark spectrum walking after seeing the angel of death, his face expressionless as stone. A few weeks later, he had left me. I was devastated. I felt that, deep inside, he was devastated too. We got divorced – at the time, women had nothing to say in Morocco. A year later, I was told he got remarried, with a woman chosen by the family. This is your grandmother.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
You are standing still, as if you have just been hit by the thunder, in the small line of the only official picture studio of the mellah, your eyes far away in the distance, like empty of life, your dark hair toward the back, your dark beard cut short, wearing, like mourning clothes, your dark and light scarf around your neck and your dark coat to protect you against the cold wind coming down to the town from the mountains, waiting inside the quiet and messy tiny room where pictures and papers have invaded the space, protected against the noisy and crowded cold streets where the ocher dust sticks to the fabrics for weeks, and you dream to be finally relieved, you see yourself leaving the préfecture with a passport in your hands. You need this picture.
You want to go, you have to go, you suffer deep inside since you left Rina, you dream of fleeing to the world even if you fear your family will oppose it, you want to go where there is no Arab, no Jew, no French. And no family. Where this picture that you found by chance was taken, in this modern country with these tall and strange glass buildings, with these big colorful cars and lively large avenues, you have tears in your eyes, you lost your love, you left your love, you condemned your love and that of generations after you and you know, deep inside, that you will not go.
You want to go, you have to go, you suffer deep inside since you left Rina, you dream of fleeing to the world even if you fear your family will oppose it, you want to go where there is no Arab, no Jew, no French. And no family. Where this picture that you found by chance was taken, in this modern country with these tall and strange glass buildings, with these big colorful cars and lively large avenues, you have tears in your eyes, you lost your love, you left your love, you condemned your love and that of generations after you and you know, deep inside, that you will not go.
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
‘Here is the story of my suffering. Had I not gone through this hardship, you would not be living today. I told it to you as an act of love, maybe my ultimate one.
I have never worn again my beautiful green velvet dress since these days. Here is to you, young women, but also to you, young men. This is a dress of love, of desire, of life. I hope that, for your generation, in this place, this would not mean anymore pain and suffering.’
I have never worn again my beautiful green velvet dress since these days. Here is to you, young women, but also to you, young men. This is a dress of love, of desire, of life. I hope that, for your generation, in this place, this would not mean anymore pain and suffering.’
The child of Moroccan immigrants to France, an immigrant to the US himself, Benjamin Abtan dedicates his life to advancing social justice. His fiction work explores the intersection of systems of domination and human freedom, with a special place for underrepresented female voices, and was previously featured in The Massachusetts Review.
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