Sirocco by Danielle A. Dahl

Author:Danielle A. Dahl [Dahl, Danielle A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: war of independence, 1954, 1962, french colonialism, french algeria
Publisher: Coffeetown Press
Published: 2014-03-05T04:30:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

One afternoon, after Pépé Vincent’s funeral, I drifted to the hallway where Maman sat, holding Mireille between her knees while tending to her earache. The wide-open front door overlooked the garden and street two floors below, where the sun oppressed all that grew and breathed. The cicadas worked hard to drown out the buzzing bees and crickets, while grasshoppers and other hopping, flying, and creeping things went on hushed errands.

Maman sat in a chair near the open door where sun and shade drew a razor-straight line across the corridor’s tiles. I rested one hand on the back of the chair and watched her count drops into Mireille’s ears. Poor Mimi’s ear infections stank to high heaven, making her the constant butt of the boys’ sing-song teasing: “Mi-miche is stin-king! Mi-miche is stin-king!”

“Stop wriggling like a worm, ma fille,” Ma said, losing patience with Mireille. Then, eyes and hands still focused on her task, she asked, “What is eating you, Nanna?”

“Nothing,” I said, surprised she knew something was bothering me.

She glanced up. “It cannot be ‘nothing.’ You have acted like a scared mouse for days.”

The sun poked slanted fingers of heat into the darkened house. Up to her knees, Maman’s legs looked bleached under the blinding sun, while the rest of her and Mireille faded into the shade.

“Really, it’s nothing, Ma.”

She stuffed cotton wads into Mireille’s ears. “Tell me anyway.”

A cooling breeze swept the freshly washed floors with the mixed fragrances of late summer—the heat-exuded scent of acacia, the tang of cow dung dropped earlier by a small herd on its way to pasture, and a whiff of Mireille’s sick ears.

“It’s just a stupid dream.”

Maman wrapped her arms loosely around Mireille. “Then tell me.”

The anguish that, since the dream, had haunted my days and kept me awake at night surged like water through a failing dam and spilled past my lips.

“In the dream, I was at the little roadside market—you know, Ma, the one at the end of the Sidi Rached Bridge on the way to Sidi Mabrouk from Constantine?”

Ma nodded. Mireille exclaimed, “I know it. That’s where they sell spices, and fruit, and vegetables.”

I nodded and, as I began to tell it, the dream sucked me in, forcing me to live it all over again.

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