Trafika Europe 6 - Arabesque

faïza guène

her astonishment: it ’s the dramatist in her. “Do you think I had children to make myself some new friends? Tfffou! That’s not being a mother. It ’s being frightened.” “What I’m trying to say is, Julie’s mum’s modern. She works in an office and she drives a car.” “Are you talking about Julie’s mother or Julie’s father, eh? Do you think I’d follow the example of a woman who buys cigarettes for her daughter? A woman who kills her daughter? And who borrows her trousers?” “Why wouldn’t she? They’re the same size…” “Fine, so I’m fat. Where’s the problem? I’m not a model. Let me tell you, when we were refugees in Morocco during

the war, we used to dream at night of eating meat. We experienced real hunger. Now, thanks to God, I’m well covered.” “Julie’s mum never asks her to cook or do the washing up. You’d think it was the only thing that mattered in life.” “Your sister, Mina, loves helping me in the kitchen, but you–” “Here we go again! You can’t help comparing us…” “And what about when you get married? Eh? You want me sending you to your husband’s house when you haven’t learnt anything?” “Who cares? I’ll never get married, anyway.” A butcher’s knife plunged into her gut would have had less effect on my mother. The stand-of fs became


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