Children of the New World

6. Hassiba

6 HASSIBA ... Twice a day the Micheline, the railcar that was the pride of the town when it was first put into service a few years before, comes in from the capital. It arrives in the afternoon, at one o’clock and then at seven, and instead of stopping at the station, which is too far from the center, it goes right to the place d’armes—so that the patrons on the terraces of the surrounding cafés can watch departures and scrutinize newcomers. It’s fodder for their conversation. Khaled, whose reputation as a lawyer has only increased among the local population for the past ten years, arrives at one o’clock. When he gets off the train and reaches the square, he glances at its palm tree and in painful wonderment sees again the little town where he spent his secondary-school years. Since then he has been back only on rare occasions. He immediately takes note of the fact that Suzanne is not among the people waiting; she has followed his advice. He’ll pay her a visit after he has interviewed his client at the prison. As he crosses the square he smiles at finding it unchanged, still as it was when, as an adolescent, he used to spend his Sundays wandering around, penniless and friendless, to kill his only free afternoon in the week. He runs into a young man and is quietly amused to see the boy’s resemblance to the shadowy figure that this place has awakened in him. “Bachir!” he says as the other shakes his hand a little 117 ... 6 stiffly. “It must be at least three months since I last saw you in Algiers. Why aren’t you coming by anymore? How is Si Abderahmane ? And what about your studies? Not yet on vacation?” His mind elsewhere, Bachir answers; the encounter displeases him. “Stop by my father’s place, he’ll be delighted to see you. You can spend the night at our house. I’ll let him know.” Bachir thinks, while spouting the expected formulas of politeness , “Of course it’s to be expected that my father, the petit bourgeois whose bakery is gradually making him richer, would have boundless admiration for the great lawyer from the big city, apparently a simple shepherd’s son who’s done well. That’s the model he’d like me to emulate!” His resentment toward his father is growing. “No, really, no, but please apologize to your father for me. I have urgent business here!” Khaled bids him good-bye, noticing Bachir’s vague look (“Was I that sad or shy at seventeen?”). He watches him go toward the Micheline with long strides and then stop. Khaled turns away. It’s very hot. Intuitively reverting to provincial habits, he feels reluctant to enter the European cafés, but notices an ice cream shop he hadn’t seen before, heads there, and goes in. He looks at his watch; he has half an hour before he must go to the prison. Having stopped a few yards away, Youssef had seen Khaled crossing the square; he observes the man’s tall, thin frame, his slightly stooped shoulders, the short hair, the glasses. He knows him, he’s sure he knows him. While he continues to examine the travelers leaving the train and dispersing, Youssef suddenly remembers: he had just seen the man who had defended him at his trial more than ten years ago. “A fine lawyer,” he thinks. “In his profession one has to have a lot of courage right now.” The image of himself as a seventeen-year-old returns, obstinately professing his nationalist faith in open court and against his defender’s advice, not yet understanding that he was dealing not merely with individual judges but with a whole system. “Such naïveté,” he thinks. In spite of his blunder and “on account of his young age,” he CHILDREN OF THE NEW WORLD 118 had been sentenced to twenty years, twenty years of deprivation of his civil rights, twenty years of “loss of citizenship.” Then, some twenty months later, he had benefited from the amnesty granted to a certain segment of the “1945 political prisoners,” 8 May 1945 . . . Youssef walks along the square, taking care he’ll be recognized (his signals are the newspaper under his arm and a beret on his head). He is aware of the...