The Country of Others by Leïla Slimani

Author:Leïla Slimani [Slimani, Leïla]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780571361649
Google: DLIbEAAAQBAJ
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2021-08-02T16:00:00+00:00

When Amine found out about his father-in-law’s death, he said: ‘You know I really liked him’, and he wasn’t lying. He had felt an instant friendship for the open-hearted, joyful man who had welcomed him into his family without prejudice or condescension. Amine and Mathilde had married in the church of the Alsace village where Georges had been born. Nobody in Meknes knew about this and Amine had made his wife promise to keep it secret. ‘It’s a serious crime. They wouldn’t understand.’ Nobody had seen the photographs taken after the ceremony. The photographer had asked Mathilde to stand two steps down from her husband so that their heads were at the same height. ‘It’ll look a bit silly if you don’t,’ he’d explained. When it came to organising the party, Georges had given his daughter everything she wanted. Sometimes he would slip some cash into her hand, a secret they’d kept from Irène, who was easily upset by pointless spending. Georges had understood that it was necessary to have fun, to feel beautiful. He hadn’t judged his daughter for her frivolity.

Never in his life had Amine seen men as drunk as they were that night. Georges didn’t walk, he swayed; he clung to women’s shoulders, danced to mask his inebriation. Around midnight he wrapped his son-in-law in a loving headlock. Georges didn’t know his own strength and Amine worried that he might be killed, that Georges might break his neck through an excess of affection. He dragged Amine to the back of the overheated hall, where a few couples were dancing under the garlands of paper lanterns. They sat at the bar and Georges ordered two beers, ignoring Amine’s frantic gestures of refusal. He already felt too drunk, and he’d had to run outside a few minutes before this to vomit behind the barn. Georges made him drink to see how well he could take his alcohol. He made him drink so he would talk. He made him drink because it was the only way he knew to deepen a friendship, to create a bond of trust. Like children who nick their wrists with a knife and seal an oath with blood, Georges wanted to drown his affection for his son-in-law in endless pints of beer. Amine kept retching and burping. He looked around for Mathilde, but she seemed to have disappeared. Georges grabbed him by the shoulders and drew him into a drunk conversation. In his strong Alsatian accent he slurred: ‘God knows I have nothing against Africans and nothing against your race’s beliefs. Actually, to be honest, I don’t know shit about Africa.’ The men around them, brain cells deadened by alcohol, wet mouths hanging open, sniggered at this. The name of that continent continued to echo inside their skulls, summoning daydreams of bare-breasted women, men in loincloths, endless rows of farms surrounded by tropical vegetation. They heard ‘Africa’ and imagined a place where they might be masters of the world if only they could survive the foul air and the epidemics.

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