Mohammed didn’t even have the time to turn the key in the lock before the door flew open and his son Rachid pulled him inside by the sleeve, pushing him towards the middle of the tiny living room.
- I have a surprise for you, it’ll make you happy!
- That I can see, chuckled his father, who was now standing in front of a large box with a vaguely familiar drawing on top.
- What is it?
- What! Don’t you understand, father? But you must have seen lots in your village. It’s a deep-dish antenna!
- And what makes you think a deep-dish antenna is something that can make me happy? his father teased him, smiling.
- The fact that you’ll be able to see the television of our country, what’s happening in the capital, in the region, the village, hear the sound of our language, and most of all take part in the prayer, father. So, was I wrong?
Mohammed became serious again and was quiet for a few seconds, before admitting:
- It would seem not, son; it would seem that you have really found your father what he needed.
Then he settled into the sofa while Rachid frenetically tore open the carton box with the help of a knife.
- I never watched t.v. in the village – Mohammed mused out loud – I never trusted the thing, but I have to admit that the idea of seeing the country again, of hearing people talk in our regional accent is something I really miss. Not that I don’t hear it often here, too, in the ‘square’, or in the markets; there are so many people arriving like us from the northern provinces, but it’s not the same, not at all the same...
With the help of a knife Rachid enthusiastically tore open the carton.
- Done! There’s our new antenna, father! Now all I have to do is connect all the wires to the television and the electric outlet, attach this bit outside the window, and in a few minutes it will all be working.
- You’re a good son, Rachid. Your mother and I have done a good job with you. I can’t say the same about your brother. Maybe because he watched a lot more t.v. than you – what do think, son?
- Father, can you pass me the screwdriver?
- What screwdriver, boy?
- The one you asked me for yesterday to put up Brahim’s stand at the Nation market.
- Oh, of course – I’d forgotten. You know, son, I think I left it at his place. I’m sorry.
- No problem, father. We’ll take a walk to Castorama and buy another one.
- I really feel bad. We can wait until Wednesday when the market’s on so you won’t have to spend more money for nothing. I can pray without television, you know.
- No, no. We’ll go in a few minutes.
The two of them sat down in front of the antenna that looked helpless there on the floor, like a huge dish with a knocker in the middle, filling the room with a metallic glint. Rachid was already imagining the moment when his father could finally less out of place in the metropolis that for months now had confined him to a corner like some sinister animal.
Far from his village, which by now all his brothers and cousins had left, far from the big, yellow sandstone-walled house, from the orderly life he’d lived before Hakima’s death.
Mohammed had had to give up and follow the son who for several years now had been living in France, providing for the family.
- It’s best for everyone – the young man had dared to say, immediately feeling sorry for his presumption.
He adored his father, his mildness, his calm when weighing the pros and cons in important decisions, always putting his children’s well-being first.
They’d had to cram themselves into a two-room flat of twenty-square meters. Rachid gave him the bedroom and slept in the living-room-kitchen. They shared a bathroom with the other tenants, outside at the end of the hallway, and especially at night it was terribly cold, but Mohammed had never complained and had already made friends with the person who lived across the hall and some of the other tenants.
- We’ll go in a few minutes, Rachid said again, with decision.
Mohammed put the jacket his son had given him over his caftan and covered his neck and head with a long scarf. Seeing him bundled up like that made Rachid feel like crying.
- Let’s go, father.
*
The two of them walked down Rue des Pyrénées under a persistent drizzle.
- Did I already tell you that this is the second longest street in Paris? It starts at Cours de Vincennes and ends up at Belleville, your favourite neighbourhood.
Mohammed liked walking. He was used to going on foot, pushing his handcart to nearby villages. Hakima would say in vain that it was too hot and he might get dehydrated and faint, and then he’d be properly fried – he would stretch out his arms almost as a sign of forbearance, open his eyes wide and let out a great peal of laughter.
- Hakima dear, you should have been in the movies, let me tell you, no one tells a tragic tale like you, or else you should have been a writer, we’d be rich by now, I’d have bought a camel and we’d have gone to Fez.
- It’s not that I like Belleville, it’s just that at least I can find the same things as in Marocco, I can buy shoes and clothes and the things I want to eat.
They walked silently down the street while Mohammed dried his face on a corner of his scarf.
Castorama fascinated him, too. Especially the do-it-yourself section. He liked making things. Even useless things like a model wood house or a foot-rest. He’d made one for Rachid and given it to him for his birthday, but though his son seemed really to like it when he’s received it, he always forgot it and when his father put it under his feet at table he thanked him awkwardly. Mohammed, in his heart, knew that it was just something that had no use except to help him while away the time a bit more quickly.
Going down the Rue des Pyrénées and then along the Cours de Vincennes, father and son walked side by side, each lost in his own thoughts, each secretly happy to be beside the other. At the entrance to the department store the two went in different directions, as was their habit by now. Mohammed spent a good half hour rifling through the tools to find something to build, while Rachid sat quietly at the café on the ground floor reading L’Equipe.
The young man saw his father appear after half an hour with a screwdriver in hand, muttering to himself and waving his arms.
- What’s the matter, father?
- What’s the matter? The matter is that it’s not possible to buy just one screwdriver. I went all around the section, like a crazy man: they only sell screwdriver sets. A set of twelve screwdrivers, a set of eight, one of six, one of three and one of two. I’d like to know where we’re going to wind up!
Rachid thought he hadn’t really understood, since he could see that his father had a single screwdriver in his hand, but he decided to let the matter drop - sometimes his father lost his head a bit and he didn’t like to point it out.
Grumbling and staring at a vague point in front of her eyes, the girl at the cash-desk repeated mechanically:
Good afternoon, what can I do for you?
Mohammed laid down the screwdriver, trying for the point the girl was staring at.
- Where did you find this screwdriver? It hasn’t got the bar-code, can’t you see?
- What code?
- The code, the code. The one we pass over the optic reader for the price. Without the code I can’t charge you, she said, looking at Rachid impatiently.
- Father, where did you get this screwdriver?
- Where they keep the screwdrivers, son. Where else? Didn’t I tell you they don’t sell single screwdrivers any more? There were two in the box. I opened it and took one out.
- I’m sorry but I can’t sell you a single screwdriver, you’ll have to take the other one as well.
- But I don’t want the other one – Mohammed raised his voice, but was immediately sorry and added, almost in a whisper – I don’t need it, is it possible that I can’t buy just this one?
- No, you can’t. So do you want it or not? There’s a queue behind you.
Rachid felt his stomach grow tight; seeing his father so confused made him look so small and defenseless.
- There’s no need for you to get heated up about this or to be so insolent – he said to the check-out clerk – I’ll go down and get the other one.
- But I don’t want the other one – Mohammed protested.
- I see – said the girl, and she turned around and gestured to a big guy at the entrance, who was watching the interior of the store.
- How dare you! – shouted Rachid, furious.
The man was striding towards them and at a signal from the girl he grabbed Mohammed by the arm and pulled him away.
Rachid threw himself against the man. In blind fury.
*
It was the middle of the night when Rachid and Mohammed got back home, after passing the rest of the day at the police station.
Mohammed sat down on the sofa and his son didn’t have the courage to send him into his bedroom. He settled down on the couch, too, and in a few minutes was asleep.
The alarm clock woke him out of a dream of battles raging against armies of screwdrivers and security guards. It was almost a relief to open his eyes.
The first thing he saw was the front door, and right in front of it a suitcase, his father’s.
He heard footsteps coming from the hallway and the door handle turning. His father came in, already dressed.
- Good morning, son.
Rachid started to speak, but something in his father’s attitude suggested that he should wait, hold off.
Mohammed sat down next to him on the sofa and put a hand on his knee. He started to stare at the deep-dish antenna on the floor in front of them. They stayed like that for a few minutes. Then Mohammed cleared his throat.
- I’m going home, my son.
And they went back to staring at the antenna while Rachid’s hand rested on his father’s, gripping it tightly.