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faïza guène
had a bulging wallet. There
were so many notes sticking
out of it, I thought she was
a millionaire. She bought me
my first game console and
paid for me to go on trips to
the cinema from time to time.
While forging a brilliant
university career, she was a
waitress at a stylish brassiere
in the centre of town, called
La Cour des Miracles.
One Saturday, she took me
there after I’d promised not to
say anything to our parents.
She didn’t want them finding
out, because she still felt
guilty about it back then. For
my father, who wasn’t short
on fixed ideas, a waitress was
a prostitute with a tray in her
hand and an apron round
her waist. I kept the secret,
out of loyalty of course, but
also because I was dreaming
about her getting me that
pair of Adidas Stan Smiths for
starting my new school.
Dounia had a new group
of girlfriends who were
customers at the brasserie.
They drank white wine and
left lipstick smears on the rims
of their glasses. I remember
them laughing while exhaling
their cigarette smoke, which
seemed to fill every nook
and cranny of the room. They
wore short skirts and one of
them kept asking another
one: “D’you think he’ll call me
back? Hey? D’you think he’ll
call me back?”
A group of twenty year-old
Julie Guérins had helped my
sister to reveal her inner
‘Christine’.
I bet mum wouldn’t like these
girls
, I remember thinking to
myself, as I watched them.
And then, on my way back