Alabaster

Part 1 - Moshe

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With a loud sigh, Moshe lowered himself wearily onto one of the armchairs formally arranged against the lobby walls to accommodate the guests bringing congratulations. In the adjacent bedroom, his wife, Blanche, was whimpering softly.  The labour had been long and difficult. Two women shuffled in and out, heads down, avoiding the eyes of the family members, all sitting around and waiting to hear the good news. Moshe - known to those who had dealings with him as the Miser - could hardly bring himself to look at Guenouna, the ageless, distant relative who had acted as midwife to the family for as long as anyone could remember. Once again, she had been called upon. Delivering babies was what she did best. Gruff and bossy, she had responded without delay. She occasionally put her head through the door to ask for some more hot water or a fresh towel. In awe, Moshe was praying silently: “Please, God, not again, not another one…”

 For sure, the news could only be good. God would not be so unjust as to inflict a fifth daughter on him, another non productive offspring to bring up in these difficult times, when business was so hard, with competitors at his heels. Who would help him? Who would take over the running of the business he had appropriated at a ludicrously low price - out of the goodness of his heart, mind you - from his older brother who had to abandon it for health reasons? This time, he was certain, God would give him a boy, a strong, well built son, the pride and joy of his father, who would take over later on and give him a well deserved rest in his old age. Guenouna dismissed the visitors with a quick, impatient wave of her hand and sat next to him, blank faced. Cantankerous and ill mannered, with a sudden shrug of his bent shoulders, he spurted out, looking straight in front of him:

“No need to tell me. Your face says it all.  My clever wife has not yet seen fit to make an honorable man of me.” She bent over him, apologetically, and whispered something in his ear. The reaction was immediate and explosive: “Want to see her? Why should I want to see her? My good wife has already given me plenty of opportunities to look at new born girls. I know only too well what they look like…”

There was an uneasy shuffle amongst those present. One woman, a niece, got up, straightened her skirt stuck to her strong thighs and buttocks by the heat of the day, smoothed her hair, retrieved her handbag from under the chair and made her way, all hips, to the door. She didn’t need to hear any more and could not wait to let the others at home know about the misfortune. Think of it, another girl! She left, without a word, hardly hiding a smirk of triumph. “Serves him right, the old vulture!”

One by one, the visitors were leaving. Moshe grumbled vague words of thanks or apologies – it was hard to tell – to each one and slumped back in a heap into his chair. The room was airless and stuffy. His small round glasses, held together with black electrical tape – he could never bring himself to face the expense of new frames - kept on sliding off his nose. He kept pushing them back up, again and again, lost in his thoughts, oblivious of the old woman sitting next to him. Anyway, what else was there to say?

“Moshe”, Old Guenouna ventured, “you’ve got to go in. Blanche may need you. She’s very distressed… She refuses to look at the child… Go and see for yourself…” Moshe unfolded himself out of his chair and went in. The room had been tidied up by now. It was bright and cooler and he started to breathe more freely. It was a disappointment; there were no two ways about it. But that was God’s will. His Blanche was not so bad, all things considered. She was a proud mother and good wife, hard working, content with little and she never complained. She could do marvels with what he allowed her for housekeeping. There will be yet another dowry to find… So what? God will provide…

 He hardly glanced at the tiny cot and bent over his wife. Her waxy face rested sideways on the pillow like a mask. She kept her eyes closed.” I won’t wake her”, he decided, secretly relieved not to have to speak to her. The baby, loosely wrapped, lay in a cot. Moshe peered into it, both reluctant and interested at first, then bewildered, at the sight of the fist-sized rosy face surmounted by an abundant tuft of brilliant white hair. All his girls had been born with plenty of hair, of various shades and textures, but this was different, and he felt his throat tighten. He bent over once more to examine his daughter. The complexion was milky, of a sickly hue, unusually pink, even for a new born child. He took a sharp step back, turned towards his wife, but her eyes were still closed. He bent over the cot again hesitantly, and peered, incredulous, at the small bundle. His glasses slipped down onto the floor. He didn’t bother to pick them up and rushed out of the room. Guenouna grabbed him by the arm and pushed him back firmly onto his chair, making gentle, soothing sounds, on and on... Moshe closed his eyes, dropped his head on her scant breasts and began to cry, with odd, restrained sobs, his mouth distorted and wide open, his thin body shaking and his lips convulsed in a grimace of shame and despair.

Weeks passed, but Blanche did not recover from the confinement. She remained languid and uninterested, refused to wash or get dressed and would deliberately turn her head away from her daughter. When her milk dried up, she appeared unconcerned. Soon, she plainly refused to attend to the baby’s needs, and a wet nurse had to be found. Minah, a young, sturdy Algerian woman, with a young child of her own, was engaged to live in for a while. Her insolent good health, ready smile and hospitable bosom proclaimed that, “when there’s enough for one, there’s enough for two.” It was decided that, for the time being and for practical reasons, Minah and Jeannette, as they named the child, would stay at Moshe’s mother, at least until Blanche felt better and claimed her back.

Part 2: Brioche and chocolate

Attempts to reunite mother and daughter proved unsuccessful and it was clear that Blanche’s mental state was not going to improve without help. Her indifference to her child turned into open aversion. Moshe took his wife to the Hospital Mustapha, in Algiers, where she was examined by eminent specialists from France. They diagnosed a severe case of neurasthenia, aggravated by the birth of her albino daughter. There was very little they could do. It was thought that with time she would heal and return to her usual self. Nature was the best doctor.

 The family decided that it would be safer for the child to stay permanently with her grandmother. By then, Minah, no longer needed as a wet nurse, was talking of returning home. But she had become part of the family and Moshe wouldn’t let her go. He offered her a position as housekeeper. She could also help with the cooking. There was room in the flat to accommodate all of them. Minah’s husband, a poorly paid farm labourer, took a job in Moshe’s warehouse as a delivery man. Moshe’s mother found herself at the head of the most unlikely composite family. She grew attached to them all and treated them as her own, but the apple of her eye was Jeannette, her little song bird, her azziza, her darling.

Every afternoon, on returning from school, Jeannette would climb onto an old embossed leather chair, a relic, in an antique Spanish style, of dark wood with convoluted legs. It was her favourite perch to settle down to her gouter - her mid afternoon snack - of brioche and four squares of chocolate. She was joined by her best friend and frere de lait, Mahmet, whose mother’s rich milk had fed them both, with effortless generosity and joyfulness.

Heads close together, they were as different in looks and temperaments as could be, brioche and chocolate, light and shade. They squabbled endlessly and whispered behind their cupped hands all through their meal, sharing jokes, delighting in age-old stories about Djeha, the loveable simpleton of  Algerian folklore:

-“Djeha, Djeha, show me your ear!”

-“Here it is”, and Djeha would stretch his arm over his head in an effort to reach the ear on the other side.

-Djeha, Djeha, what would happen if both your ears got cut off??

-I couldn’t hear, of course!

“No, silly, you couldn’t see, ‘cause your fez would fall over your eyes!

They squabbled with passion and would grow bored when apart. Jeannette was the more daring of the two, the more imaginative. Mahmet loved her and she bullied him in return. Docile and submissive, he followed her around blindly, a dark, constant shadow, devoted and loyal. They were inseparable.

Moshe was very satisfied with the arrangement. It enabled him to carry on with his business, a firm of glazed earthenware and kitchen utensils, which took him away from his family on frequent occasions. As well as his large, dusty warehouse, he owned the school building next to it, from which he drew an additional income. The small primary school was a Catholic one, run by elderly nuns. As a matter of convenience, the Jewish girl and the Moslem boy both attended, walking there and back hand in hand. Once the initial curiosity wore off, staff and pupils ignored Jeannette’s abnormality, the strangeness of her complexion and the permanent screwing up of her reddish eyes. She was a most endearing child, affectionate and vivacious. She loved singing, dancing and acting in complicated sagas of her own invention.

 One day, she announced to the family that there would be a performance at home of the martyrdom of Saint Catherine, killed by her cruel father, the King, who had surprised her at prayer. Of course, Jeannette was to be the Princess. As the King, Mahmet rendered to perfection the pagan’s inhumanity, rolling his eyes and lifting high his hatchet above the pale and tender neck of the unfortunate victim. The chorus, made up of school friends invited for the occasion, told of the abominable crime with heartfelt conviction and pathos. The family audience, who had never heard this Christian tale, applauded meekly. Minah’s husband remained silent, arms folded across his chest, bemused and slightly worried at such display of religious fervor. The sacrificial gloom was soon dispelled when his wife appeared, beaming, with a tray of a honeyed cakes and mint tea.

Thursday was the best day of the week, as there was no school. Their pranks were mainly aimed at Dolores, an old Spanish neighbour, whether they chose to pull her door bell and run, or drop a water bomb in front of her from the balcony. On one occasion, they were nearly caught, but managed to scarper, bent over with laughter, down the staircase that led to a maze of corridors and cellars.

“Come back, you little rascals. I know who you are, both of you. So you  won’t come in then? What a shame! I have just baked some mantecaos… Pity you don’t want any…” 

The children halted, looked at each other sheepishly and as one, turned round. How could they resist Dolores’ mantecaos, a mixture of flour, butter – a lot of butter, sugar – a lot of sugar – rolled into small balls and sprinkled with cinnamon, which melted on your tongue like a dream?

Jeannette also enjoyed helping in her father’s shop. The customers, mainly women looking for cooking pots, got to know her and liked her liveliness and sunny nature. She would climb the step ladder and fetch the required article, sure footed and confident. Mahmet was automatically enrolled as her assistant, the second in command. If some breakages happened, he did not mind taking the blame, as long as he could be part of whatever she was doing. He knew his place.

One afternoon, Jeannette enquired on her return from school:

“Minah, what are these bags doing in the entrance hall? Are we going somewhere?” 

Minah averted her eyes and busied herself with tying a bag securely as she answered: “This is our luggage, my sweet. It is time for us to leave, you see. We have to move back to Le Village Negre, the Arab district, so that Mahmet can attend a madrassah and learn to read the Koran. He is already very much behind in his schooling. We will stay for a while with my husband’s mother, until we find a place of our own…”

The day of their departure arrived. Minah held Jeannette’s face between her hennaed hands, kissed her gently, and smiled her wide, generous smile.

“There’s no need to be sad. You can come and visit us as often as you wish, you know that! You are like a sister to Mahmet…”

Standing on the pavement, Jeannette watched them go, laden with packages. Mahmet, lifted by the momentous occasion, twirled his bundle around his head like a trophy. He turned a couple of times and waved at her excitedly. He was going to attend a real school and become a real man and a good Moslem. There was no time to waste.

Part 3 - Reinette l’Oranaise

Jeannette was idling on the balcony. She was bored. It was late afternoon and the day had been hot. There was a warm smell of tar coming up from the street below. She wore a straw hat and dark glasses, and had dropped the hem of her dresses to mid-calf, as decency dictated. She had grown tall enough to see clearly over the balustrade and no longer needed to use the convoluted wrought iron curves as the rungs of a ladder. She stretched her bare arms out and rested them on the top rail. The metal, still hot, made her wince but she kept them pressed against it, just to test how long she could stand the pain. She soon grew tired of the game and wished she had something to do.

From the small Arab cafe across the street came the sound of a woman singing. Jeannette caught some intermittent guitar chords and the syncopated beat of a drum. The song was in Arabic and she could not make clear sense of the words at first, but the voice was deep, full of pathos and longing, yet firm and strong.

“Grandma, who is that singing in the café?”

“Ah! That’s Sultana Daoud, but they call her Reinette l’Oranaise. She is Oran’s darling, the town’s pride and joy. She is rehearsing for the show later on. When you are grown up, I’ll take you there to listen to her.”

“That will be ages and I want to go now. She’s got such a beautiful voice. And I do like the sound of the guitar and the drum. Let me go now, Grandma!”

“There is no point in insisting, Jeannette. They won’t let you in anyway. I have heard that she is very well guarded. She is blind and she has a big entourage. You may try if you want, but don’t say that I haven’t warned you! By the way, she wouldn’t like to hear you talk about her “guitar”. She is very particular about her music. She uses a very ancient instrument. It’s called an oud. What you call a drum is a derbouka. It is very old too and …”

But Jeannette was no longer listening. She ran downstairs out onto the pavement, gave a quick glimpse left and right before crossing the street, busy at this time of day, and stopped in front of the café, breathless with anticipation. Felix, the owner, was already at work, his starched apron tightly secured around his rotund body.

“Have you come for your grandma’s lemonade, my sweet? I’ll fetch it for you from the ice box. I’ll be with you in a minute. I know your grandma likes it very cold. And you can tell her that today I have made it myself with extra lemon and extra sugar, just as she likes it”.

“Can I stay for a bit, Monsieur Felix? I won’t make any noise, promise. Just for a short while. I just want to listen to Reinette singing. I couldn’t hear her properly…”

Jeannette’s plea was cut short by Felix rushing back inside the cafe. When he came out again, looking apoplectic, he was dragging a dreamy eyed young man by the scruff of the neck. He plucked the cigarette out of the man’s lips and threw it away.

“We’ll have none of that in my cafe, is that clear, ya chitan?” he muttered, clutching the man’s collar to bring his face close to his. “I may be getting on a bit, but I can still smell that muck you are using. Where do you think you are? This is a respectable establishment, not one of your boui-boui in the Village Negre. Can’t you see there are children around? Archoumarlek…archoumarlek…Shame on you!”

Having said that, there was nothing else he could do but let Jeannette in. Still fuming, he led her briskly to an inside room, holding her affectionately by the shoulder. He had known her from birth. “Be a good girl and sit over there. I’ll bring you a glass of lemonade. And make it last!”

The smoky room was very simply furnished with tables and chairs. Most seats were already occupied by customers noisily sipping syrupy mint tea or gritty coffee out of plain glasses. Jeannette ignored the walls decorated with posters of popular entertainers and story tellers. She walked decisively to the end of the room, sat down on a stool against the wall, and waited in awe for the arrival of the band. Felix welcomed the musicians and led Reinette to her seat on the platform. With a brief side glance at Jeannette, he whispered a few words in the singer’s ear.

“Give her a seat close to me,” was Reinette’s response .“She is special. She has the finger of God on her.”

When Jeannette’s grandmother, surprised by her long absence, walked into the smoky room, she found her sitting at the foot of the singer, oblivious of anybody else. She called her gently, not wanting to break the charm:

“Azziza, darling, it is time to go home. You have been here for over two hours. Thank Reinette and Felix for being so kind to let you stay…”

Back home, Jeannette remained pensive for a long time. As if talking to herself, she asked: 

“Grandma, how did she become a singer? Where did she learn music? Could she always sing like that?

“Felix told me that she became blind at a very young age. Her mother wanted her to learn an occupation, one which would make her happy and other people too. She found a good music teacher for her. He thought she had talent and taught her all she knows. In her misfortune, she was lucky to meet someone to take her on. God is merciful!”

Jeannette went to bed, her head full of dreams. Would she, too, be lucky and become a success? Could she, one day, be in demand too and make others happy?

She hummed hesitantly one of Reinette’s songs, a ballad of lost love and regrets, and had to admit to herself: she had a long, long way to go!

Part 4 – A head for business

The main road out of the Vieux Port, leading to Oran Town Centre, was open and straight, a furrow on a treeless landscape. Outside cafés, small groups of men were lingering under a whitish sky, as stifling as a heavy blanket. Not a breath of air, no shade, only the old tramway, the grimy Canari, rattling its way slowly up and down the street.

Jeannette arrived at the tram-stop, weighted down with a bulging shopping bag. First to appear above the road surface was the black trapeze of the pantograph rods connected to the electrified overhead lines. Reluctantly, the bulk of the lazy tram emerged out of the shimmering distance. With a sigh of relief, Jeannette put her luggage down and signaled wearily to the driver. As the vehicle stopped, a shower of sparks flew from the undercarriage, and Jeannette cautiously stepped back.

“Come up in, ya ghazalla,” the Arab driver summoned her with a laugh, “let me take your bag.” Jeannette responded to the familiar greeting with a smile. How could she object to being called a gazelle?

She was by now a buxom strawberry blonde, who kept her hair a honey hue, thanks to regular vigorous applications of strong black coffee dabbed all over her scalp and hair with tightly padded cotton wool. The operation had to be repeated every week, and as long as the weather stayed dry, the effect was very acceptable. Although only in her mid-thirties, she had aged prematurely and her pallid skin was lined and flabby, like crepe paper. What she lacked in looks, she made up in spirit and an unflagging good humour. No family reunion, no gathering of friends, no celebration would be complete without her. Much of her time was taken with visiting her five sisters - the last one, Lili, a pretty ginger haired woman, had been born two years after her - and she seldom needed to cater for herself. She conducted a freelance business, selling to family and friends anything and everything, from household cleaning products to lingerie fine and costume jewelry.

Jeannette settled contentedly on the hard wooden seat. She was looking forward to her visit to Suzanne, her eldest sister, a first class cook, very house proud, energetic and conventional.  She would, of course, have to put up with Leon, her brother-in-law, a Clark Gable look alike – or so he thought - all Brylcreem and arched eyebrow.

Jeannette started to gather her things. Before alighting, she exchanged a brief quip with the driver. “Who would want a limousine, when you can travel in your boneshaker?” The driver, who wouldn’t have exchanged his job for anything in the world, chuckled loudly and let her out. When in front of her sister’s house, she tilted her head right back, pursed her lips and gave a long whistle, modulated and shrill. A window opened on the third floor. Suzanne appeared and waved. She went back in, reappeared a few minutes later with a rope and threw one end over the balcony rail. The bundle was promptly secured and hauled up. Jeannette’s eyes followed it as it swung gracefully until Suzanne grabbed the rope and steadied it. “Got it, you can come up now.”

Leon joined his wife on the balcony. He shouted down: “Hi, Sis! How would you like me to pull you up too?” He laughed the way he did when addressing women, a deep and smutty guffaw, meant to embarrass rather than hurt.

“What a show off!” she muttered, shrugging her shoulders. “Even his name sounds like the cry of a peacock: Leon…Leon…!” She rearranged her hair and adjusted the opening of her blouse - Suzanne was a stickler for respectability - and started to climb the stairs. Resting her hand on the smooth mahogany banister, she wondered when the lift - out of order again, locked in its Art Deco cage - would be repaired. Suzanne opened the door. A  warm smile spread across her face, lighting up every dimple of her full cheeks, every line around her small dark eyes. Even her rather wide nose flattened and joined in the welcome.

“Come in… You must rest awhile before eating. Would you like some sirop de menthe? Take your shoes off and put your feet up. I’ll get you a drink. You shouldn’t carry such heavy loads! There was no hurry…I could have waited!”

Jeannette wouldn’t rest until she had opened her bag and displayed her wares. She removed the chenille cover from the table and started to unpack: out came a tightly folded, rubberized table cloth, an enamel soap dish, some kitchen scissors, two stiff tea towels and a leather shammy. She then pulled out a couple of boxes of candles, a bundle of assorted wooden spoons and a very complicated cork screw.

“Go and tell your he-man that I haven’t forgotten his razor blades. I haven’t got any cosmetics for you this week, though. I thought you would find these more useful. Everything is at wholesale prices. You can pay me whenever it suits you”.

“I am glad you’ve still got Dad’s contacts,” Suzanne commented. “How’s business?”

“Could be better, but I’m building up a number of good customers for all sorts of things. I can get you pretty much anything you want. I’ve diversified now. How are you for leather gloves? Do you need any nylons?”

 Week in, week out, the scene would be repeated at some friend’s or relative’s, and always she would be given an order. The family was large and kept her in regular employment - of a sort.

One week, however, Jeannette arrived empty handed, but in the company of a middle aged man, of modest mien, retiring and silent. For nearly a year, David, a commercial traveller, had been her lodger in the large apartment she had inherited from her grandmother. She introduced him as her fiancé, and confided to my mother, her closest cousin and friend: 

“He is ever so romantic, and not one bit shy, when you get to know him… You may find it hard to believe, but what a poet! Guess what he said to me…” She could hardly bring herself to go on. “He told me,” she whispered shyly, “he told me … that my whole body was like alabaster! Isn’t that wonderful?”

Her ugly, crimpled face was beaming and she looked transfigured, almost beautiful: “We are going to get married soon. He is such a good, sensitive man.”

In the old synagogue of La Rue des Juifs, Jeannette became Madame David Serero, whiter than her white dress. Her family and friends all joined in the celebration, and applauded at the outcome of her unpromising start in life.

Happy people, it is said, have no stories to tell - les gens heureux n’ont pas d’histoire. For several years, the couple led an uneventful life. Then Jeannette fell terminally ill. It seemed to those who loved her, to those who knew of her abnormality, that every passing year had been a bonus. They shared a vague, unspoken belief that she would die young, and no one was surprised.

Some months after her death, Jeannette’s sisters had the painful job of sorting out her belongings. Her husband gave them the key of the flat and left discreetly. In her room, kept untouched, they unlocked the enormous oak wardrobe, a monumental piece of furniture which she had inherited along with the flat. Cavernous drawers were pulled open and revealed neat piles of brand new clothes, some still wrapped in cellophane, showing their price tags and their provenance: Galeries Lafayette, Magasins Darmon, or in the case of a canteen of expensive silver cutlery, Argenterie Cristofle. There were collections of glass ornaments, still in their boxes, stylish lingerie fine piled up to the top of the shelf, items of costume jewelry tucked away in the corners. A cardboard box, marked “miscellaneous”, fell off the top shelf and spilt its content onto the floor. “Look!” exclaimed Lili. “Look, my vermeil mocha spoons! I have been looking for them all over the place! I know they’re mine. Some of the gilt had rubbed off in one of them. I nearly accused my cleaning lady of stealing them…”

Stiff faced, Fernande was examining a delicate ancient bracelet, a present from her mother, which she had given up as lost some years back during an outing at the Planteurs, a nearby location for the traditional picnic on Easter Monday.

They looked at each other in silent consternation. What else would they   unearth from this Ali Baba’s cave?

Suzanne was the first to recover: “Let’s not speak ill of the dead. Let’s not mention anything to anyone about this, ever. We must swear to it…”

They left the flat, lost in thoughts. To think that Jeannette, their azziza, their sweet darling, their little song bird…

“A thieving magpie, more like…” Lili muttered.

“Lili, you promised!” Suzanne reminded her sternly.