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  One evening, an Arab spectator sitting in the front row became so absorbed in the story that, to warn the good guy of the villain’s creeping approach, he yelled and threw his shoe at the rogue. The screen heaved at the impact like a sail in a sudden squall, turning the spellbinding moment of suspense into comedy.

  With La Guinguette entertainment straining our budget, Papa decided to take advantage of the screen’s propitious location—its reverse side looked right smack at our stairs across an empty lot, allowing us to watch movies in homely comfort and à l’oeil.

  While we watched our “free-of-charge” movies, Pépé chuckled, “Look at all these left-handed people.” Yves opened his eyes wide in disbelief. “Alors, if so many people can use their left hand, why can’t I?” Following a moment of amused silence and a few tics, Pépé teased, “And look at the cars; they’re all driving on the wrong side of the street.”

  Watching movies from the reverse side of the screen didn’t pose a problem until Monsieur Cavalier played a Swedish film in the original version and, read in reverse, the French subtitles became moot. Had it been an action movie, instead of mostly dialogue, we would’ve been able to follow the plot. But with this film, Wild Strawberries—a psychological drama by Ingmar Bergman—we quickly lost interest and one by one went to bed.

  “Well,” Zizou said. “At least we had our ice cream.”

  Sadly, with the increase of terrorist activities, people stopped going to La Guinguette cinema and Monsieur Cavalier folded the giant screen like a routed army folds its flag.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Flies

  That same summer, 1957

  During the summer of my thirteenth year, life went on—same as the previous one and the one before—leading us to search for entertainment whenever and wherever we could.

  Weekdays, Maman worked downtown, leaving my sisters and me in charge of the house chores. Each day, before preparing lunch, Zizou and I washed and dried the previous evening’s dishes and cleaned the floor. We found it faster to throw buckets of water laced with chlorine across the tiles and sweep it to the perron—the front door landing—and down the stairs. Once the floors dried, we closed the shutters and, in the penumbra, waged war on the perennial flies that, I could swear, spawned out of thin air.

  We sprayed Fly-Tox throughout the house to eradicate invading insects. Later, heedless of the insecticide’s acrid smell, we counted the flies lying on top of the bright kitchen table oilcloth.

  One day, Zizou observed, “There are more today than yesterday.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but the day before we had a real hecatomb.”

  “What is that … etacome?”

  “He-ca-tomb—means something like: lots and lots of dead bodies.”

  “Even for flies?”

  “Why not?”

  The flies lay flat on their backs, slender legs knitted in frozen

  ultimate prayers. Bodies so weightless, the slightest puff of air blown through pursed lips propelled them aloft like black snow flurries battered by crosswinds.

  Most interesting were the few still left alive. Frenetic legs batting the air, frenzied wings buzzing against the gay oilcloth, they struggled in tight circles to right themselves. I thought of old men with lumbago striving to get up from their benches, reaching for canes that weren’t there.

  To help an insect turn its world right side up, I delicately picked it up by a single iridescent wing. Sadly, it refused to assist in its rescue. It batted its legs and free wing until the one I held detached from its body and remained stuck between my fingernails. The fly fell on its back again, traced taut circles using the lone remaining wing as a pivot point, and simply died.

  I’m not sure why I felt guilty about killing the flies. After all, I’d seen them drink from sick eyes and runny noses, frolic among dead things, explore animal and human dung then alight on my marmalade. And there were so many of them—zillions. They drove me nuts.

  Just the same, I felt sad that they had to die.

  “Feeling sorry for dead flies?” Zizou was incredulous.

  “It’s not about dead flies. It’s about killing them.”

  “Yeah. People are dying horribly every day and you worry about killing flies ….” Her eyes glistened with tears. “What’s wrong with you?”

  At supper that night, Riri asked, “Papa, Nanna says she feels sorry for dead flies. Like it’s wrong to kill them or something. Is it true?”

  Papa studied me as if I were a fly drowning in his wine or, even worse, an unknown species from outer space. He shook his head. “What books have you been reading?”

  “Just … books ….”

  “Books on Ahimsa?”

  My face must have shown my puzzlement.

  “That’s the Hindu practice of non-violence and respect for life. Its original tenet is, do not injure, do not hurt.”

  “Non …. I haven’t read about that.”

  Zizou asked, “What does that have to do with killing flies?”

  Papa explained, “Hindus believe that all beings, and that includes plants and animals, are imbued with divinity. Because of that, all manifestations of life must be respected.”

  “I never read about that, Pa.”

  “Where, then, did you get that crazy notion of feeling sorry for dead flies?”

  “I don’t know, Pa. It’s just that when things or people die, it makes me very sad.”

  Papa lit a cigarette, appraising me. As he inhaled, the set of his features and the expression in his green eyes seemed to say, “I understand how you feel, ma fille.” Instead, words sharp as bee stings shot through the exhaled smoke, “You better keep a straight head on your shoulders, asshole, or you’ll never make it in this world—”

  At that moment Pépé Honninger entered the kitchen, unshaven, smelling of fish and sea salt. Papa’s focus shifted from me to him. “What’s wrong with you, Pierre? Are you looking for the fellagha to cut your throat?”

  As long as I could remember, Pépé had always fished with his friend, Oscar, spending days on end at solitary beaches in Philippeville or Bône. Les Événements hadn’t changed his rituals, which infuriated Pa and worried Ma.

  Pépé’s shoulders rolled in frustration. “I like to fish. I will not allow these murderers of women and children to control the way I lead my life.”

  I was so proud of him, I wanted to throw my arms around his neck and kiss him. But it was not our family’s habit to hug and we only kissed our adults to say hello, good-bye, good morning and good night. Never to show affection. In addition, no matter how thrilling Pépé’s heroic statement, kissing him on impulse would have led Papa to conclude that I preferred Pépé over him. That I was betraying him.

  I often thought Pépé must be tired of sharing his house with our shmala—the crowding, the noise, and the ongoing antagonism between himself and Pa. I could see how fishing would be a good excuse to get away. Before Les Événements, I too looked forward to escaping to summer camp. To getting away from the crowds.

  Maman turned from her cooking, lid in hand. “Papa, Riri is right. You might be killed or, worse, abducted. Then you tell the fellagha you won’t allow them to slice you into bloody pieces.” She banged the lid onto the pot. “And one of these days, you’ll catch pneumonia”—she shook her head—“sleeping on damp sand!”

  Undaunted by Maman’s reproaches, Pépé kept up his jaunts to the beach with Oscar. Once in a while, to placate my mother, he fished closer to the house, at la Rivière des Chiens. Since the start of the événements, fewer people hung around isolated spots and the Dogs’ River’s population of grenouilles and anguilles—frogs and eels—had exploded.

  The very sight of anguilles made my taste buds salivate like a dog’s when it ogles a marrow bone. Pépé hung the slippery eels by the gills, slit the black moiré skin from head to tail, and peeled it off inside out—like a glove—to reveal the firm, pink flesh. Once gutted, the eels were sliced into chunks, rolled into flour, and browned in olive o
il till nearly cooked. After throwing in fresh parsley, minced garlic, and a cup of wine vinegar, Pépé covered the pan for the meat to simmer then served it with mashed potatoes or fried polenta. Miam, miam! There never was enough of it.

  Les Grenouilles

  Though eels may have been the most mouthwatering of Pépé’s dishes, his most spectacular one began that same summer with a bagful of live grenouilles. Hopping-mad, the frogs kicked at the inside of the canvas with even more gusto than Riri had exhibited while growing inside Ma’s belly.

  Zizou, the children, and I followed Pépé and his bag to the alley at the far side of our house. A thick hedge of dark green rosemary concealed the alley from the road below. I flinched when Pépé dropped the bag at the foot of the verbena shrub. My concern for the batrachians’ welfare rose like mercury under the Sahara sun when Pépé snatched a frog from the bag he shoved into Riri’s hands. “Here, hold the bag closed until I’m ready for the next one.”

  Six-year-old Riri gripped the canvas’ opening so tight his knuckles blanched. Pépé wrapped his hand around the frog’s back legs, and we all inched closer for a better view as he brained the animal with the flat of the small axe, the one normally used to split kindling wood. Whack! We leapt backward.

  Holding the upper body of the now dead creature, Pépé laid the still wriggling lower limbs on a woodblock and whacked them off at the waist. The boys gawked, I gulped, and Mireille’s face turned white as Riri’s knuckles. Zizou-of-the-batting-eyelashes stared, stone-faced.

  We all stared, entranced, as one grenouille after another suffered the same fate—upper body thrown into the trash, severed wriggling legs into a bucket.

  Puffed up with his duty as bag-holder, Riri warded off Yves, who insisted on grabbing frogs out of the bag and handing them to Pépé. I thought of my dead flies, their fate weighing little against this … this … animal version of the 1572 Sainte Barthélemy massacre in France.

  The sweet verbena no longer perfumed the air. Not even the rosemary’s bitter scent could mask the stench of river water, wet mud, and viscera. A sour tang swamped my tongue—a sign that I might soon add to the alley’s slimy mess.

  The last grenouille, a pretty one, brilliant green and bright-eyed, slipped from Pépé’s grip. It hopped, erratic like a brainless spring, shifting course at sharp angles, the squatting boys in hot pursuit. Pépé chuckled.

  Mireille cried, “Leave it alone!”

  I echoed, “Just let it go!”

  Zizou directed. “Over there, Riri. Vite, Yves, catch it. Oh, no, you missed again.”

  The frantic creature leaped blindly over the rosemary and landed on the road below. Zizou and I rushed to the hedge and looked over it. Eyes barely grazing the top, Mireille bounced up and down like a dribbling basketball. Yves jumped on both feet like he was riding a pogo stick, “What’s happening? I can’t see!” Riri dropped to his knees and, ignoring Pépé’s warning, tore a hole into the rosemary.

  Down below, the frog bounded aimlessly then stopped in the middle of the road—flanks throbbing, eyes winking—unaware of the truck barreling its way. Riri shook the rosemary, releasing its strong scent. “Move, move.”

  Zizou clapped her hands. “Go, stupid. Go.”

  Mireille dropped into a crouch next to Riri. By the time Yves joined them at the viewing hole, one tire was closing in on the green beauty. Encouragement burst in varied pitches: “Run.” “Jump.” “Get away.” “Move.” “Go … GO.”

  The creature remained stock-still. The exhortations dropped to an abrupt silence filled only by the truck’s rattle. In a trance, I watched the wheel roll over the creature. Heard the pop of exploding skin. The squish of entrails. The crushing of bones.

  My siblings’ sudden ovation drowned out my heartbeat and yanked me back to the scene. I focused on the macadam. No exploded skin. No squished entrails. No crushed bones. Not even the live frog. I blinked. “Where is it?”

  With a triumphant smile, Zizou pointed across the street, at the foot of the neighbor’s wall. “Over there. See it?”

  I squinted against the sun’s glare. The frog hunkered in the wall’s shade—flanks still throbbing, eyes still winking. I sighed, happy that my vision of the squished grenouille was only that—a mental picture.

  After hosing down the alley, Pépé showed us how to skin frog legs—pulling the skin down like a pair of long johns, same as rabbit fur.

  We followed him in solemn procession up the stairs and into the kitchen, where he prepared Cuisses de Grenouilles à la Provençale—frog legs sautéed in olive oil with garlic, parsley, thyme, and tomatoes. It was served with Potatoes in the Oven à la Elise—Maman’s own recipe—and a side of braised endives.

  The blood and gore should have curtailed my appetite, but the pretty grenouille’s escape had taken the edge off my remorse. “Ooh là là. Was this good, or what?” the boys licked their fingers and Zizou asked. “Can I have more?”

  Apparently, eating legs of butchered frogs didn’t repulse her as much as Pépé’s Lapin Chasseur after he broke her rabbits’ necks. I couldn’t resist giving her a poke. “Yaa, Zizou, don’t you think frog meat tastes like rabbit?”

  She set down the dainty bone she sucked on. “How would I know if I don’t eat rabbit?”

  Riri beat the rung of his chair with the heel of his shoe and grinned. “Yeah. It tastes just like fishy rabbit.”

  Yves stuffed his face. Mireille sighed dreamily. “I’m so glad the little grenouille got away.”

  Zizou said, “Me too.” She picked another meaty leg. “It was too small anyway.”

  Zizou’s appreciation of big frogs came into focus weeks later when we discovered the father of all batrachians. It had sought refuge from the summer drought in the shade of the water meter niche. There it huddled under the leaky pipe like a starving puppy at its mother’s tit. We crouched down and had a look.

  Zizou wondered, “You think it’s dead?”

  “It looks like it’s breathing.”

  Zizou rose to her feet, left, and came back with a twig. She poked the animal and it squeezed even farther behind the pipe. “It’s alive and lots bigger than Pépé’s frogs.”

  “Of course it’s bigger. It’s a toad.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Can’t you see it’s fatter than Pépé’s frogs?”

  “It looks more chubby.”

  “Chubbier. The biggest toad can be as big as twenty inches and the females even bigger than that.” I indicated the tightly folded legs. “You can’t really see them, but they are shorter than frog legs, too.” I grabbed the twig and touched it to the bumps above the protruding eyes. “Et là, you have the parotid glands.”

  Her brows shot up. “What do they do?”

  “HA.” I let her hang on a little, for effect, then blasted, “POISON glands.”

  “You mean toads bite?”

  “Non. Toads don’t have teeth like frogs do but ….” For once I had her undivided, perhaps respectful, attention. I stretched the moment. “They have”—I waved the twig like a magic wand and traced a couple of the brown bumps on the skin—“WARTS.”

  Her eyes dilated. I pushed my advantage. “They also have poison glands, but the poison is not as concentrated as in the parotid glands.”

  Her eyelashes batted. “How d’you know all that?”

  “Science class,” I preened, satisfied I had demonstrated my thirteen-year-old superior knowledge.

  “Oui, but d’you think these legs are good to eat?”

  My intellectual King Kong breast-thumping blown to smithereens, I spat, “Idiot, I just told you toads are poisonous. The glands’ fluid is toxic if you swallow it.”

  She flicked her hand in the air. “Baah.” Then she stood, took the stairs two at a time, and returned at a gallop, with Maman’s big scissors.

  I felt them cut into my guts. “What are you going to do?”

  “These legs may be shorter, but they’re lots fatter than those frog legs of Pépé’s.”<
br />
  “Zizou—”

  She knelt, reached into the niche, and pried the bunched creature from its sanctuary; held it by one back leg while the other pushed frantically toward freedom. She adjusted her grip and placed the scissor blades on each side of the toad’s thigh, at the hip joint, just like when Maman carves a chicken.

  “Stop that.”

  “I’ll get you, little suck—” The frenzied frog released a stream of urine that hit Zizou smack in her yakking mouth. She let go of the leg and scissors.

  “Spit, Zizou. Spit.”

  She spat. “Don’t swallow. Spit.” In a panic, I picked up the end of the garden hose and turned on the water. “Open your mouth and don’t swallow.” I flushed the inside of her mouth. “Don’t swallow, you hear? Swish and spit.” I shoved the hose into her hand, ran upstairs, two steps at a time. “Swish and spit, ma Zize.” I dashed into the house, to the kitchen cupboard, back down, and gave Zizou the lump of sugar I had fetched. “Here rub your tongue with this.”

  She stared at me, cow-like.

  I grabbed the sugar “Allez, tires la langue.”

  She stuck her tongue out. I held it the best I could and rubbed it with the sugar, but her tongue recoiled into her mouth like a slimy snail into its shell. “Push it out, I told you,” I screamed, hysterical.

  Words rolled down her drooling tongue, “Eet heult.”

  “Spit! You have no idea how poisonous this can be. First you’ll get HUGE warts and then YOU’LL DIE. Spit.”

  A none-too-sweet statement followed her last syrupy spit. “T’es pas folle?”

  “Non, I’m not crazy. You better thank me for my fast thinking. I saved your ….” A horrible doubt assailed me. “You didn’t swallow while I ran upstairs, did you?”

  She shook her head. The water hose was still running, capital sin in these parched times. I turned it off. Zizou flicked her tongue in and out to cool it off. I pointed at it. “You may still get pimples on there, you know.”