Our Riches by Kaouther Adimi

Author:Kaouther Adimi
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780811228169
Publisher: New Directions
Published: 2020-03-30T20:52:52+00:00

4

Ryad is sweating on his mattress, breathing unevenly. It’s early in the morning. A feeling of panic overcomes him. The silence of the store weighs heavily, and Claire seems very far away. He sits up, one hand raking his hair, the other fumbling for the switch of the bedside lamp. With the light on, he can see the mezzanine more clearly. He looks around, disturbed by the thought of discovering something unfamiliar. He puts on his sneakers, hurries down the steep stairs, stumbles, recovers his balance, and flings the door wide open, hoping to lose himself in the noise of the city. He is met straightaway by a cold gust of wind and a bucketful of dirty water thrown by the neighbor upstairs, who is mopping her balcony. She bursts out laughing and disappears inside before Ryad can protest.

Beside the door, a woman with a horsey face is sitting on a three-legged wooden stool. She has laid out bottles of fake perfume on a small red carpet. Only the finest brands: Dior, Saint Laurent, Chanel, Hermès . . . She greets Ryad cheerfully, pointing at her merchandise:

“Perfume for men. The best in the city, you won’t find another range like this. Take one, I’ll give you a discount: three hundred dinars, reduced from three fifty. A special deal for a neighbor.”

“Er . . . No thanks.”

“Go on, get one for your princess, then.”

“I don’t have a princess.”

“A handsome boy like you? How is that possible?”

“. . .”

“Ah! So get one for your prince.”

“No, it’s not that, I just don’t need any perfume.”

“Yes you do, you smell bad. Here, I’ll give you a little squirt for free. Come on, come here. It’s hard for me to get up because of my sciatica.”

“No, really, I just wanted to step out for . . .”

“Come on, come here, don’t be shy.”

Ffsscchhtt, ffsscchhtt. Citrus on his neck, hair, and torso. On the opposite sidewalk, Abdallah is smiling, propped on his stick. Ryad goes over and asks:

“Shall we get a coffee?”

“Yes.”

“You do smell bad, you know.”

“I know, I know . . .”

The old man leads him through a labyrinth of streets. In spite of his age and his stick, he walks quickly. The storekeepers greet him as he goes by, with a gesture, a Saha, or a Bonjour.

They come to a plain little café. Three portraits of ex-presidents hang on the wall: Ahmed Ben Bella, Houari Boumediene, and Mohamed Boudiaf. The radio is on, but turned down very low: a quiet buzz. The light is harsh and white. You can see into the kitchen at the back, where women with headscarves are calmly at work, yawning. One, young and pretty, in a tight blouse, squeezes her breasts in front of another, who nods in approval.

A man with a trouble-ravaged face is sitting at the counter, crying quietly. Beside him is a woman with a guitar, who plays a few notes and quietly hums. She greets Abdallah with a little nod.

Ryad and Abdallah sit down at a table with a blue Formica top.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.