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faïza guène
Six years went by like that.
Dounia passed with flying
colours and fulfilled her
ambition of becoming a
lawyer. Despite the tense
atmosphere at home, my
mother wanted to bring us
together over a special meal.
Food, always.
Her way of celebrating her
daughter’s success. Deep
down she was proud, even if
she told Dounia, who had just
announced that a few days
earlier she’d been called to
the bar in Nice: “I don’t see
what all the fuss is about,
when at your age you’re still
not married…!”
The tagine of chicken with
olives had gone cold. Dounia
was hopping mad and decided
not to show up. My mother
was on the verge of having
one of her turns, her blood
pressure had shot up to
seventeen over six, while the
Hombre went out into the
garden and started nervously
pulling out the long grass by
the path.
It was too much for my
mother. Apart from a bit
of tactlessness, she didn’t
understand what she’d done
to deserve this.
“I’ve done everything to
make my children happy!
Her problem is that she’d
like to have been born into a
different family! She’s always
been jealous of other people!
She wishes she was a French
girl! That’s the truth of it!”
Mina, who had been close to
Dounia in childhood, barely
spoke to her any more. She
was increasingly bitter about
the sister she considered as
the root of all our troubles.
This was particularly the case
on one day in September 2001,