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  Riri gave him a playful shove. “What this little twerp doesn’t say is that he already had his dessert. This one was yours, Nanna.”

  I held Yves’ eyes, broke the cake in two, and gave one piece to Riri, the other to Mireille. Yves yelped, “Et moi?”

  “Didn’t you already ‘help’ yourself?”

  He shrugged and opened his mouth to reply, but a light knock on the door silenced him.

  Pépé Honninger walked in. His neck and shoulders did a couple of stretch-and-rolls at the sight of the mob gathered in the room. “What are you all doing here?” A chuckle belying his stern words, he laid a hand on Yves’ head, pointed his face toward the door, and gave him a tap on the derrière. “It’s time for bed.” He wordlessly showed both Riri and Mireille the door. “You, too.”

  Mireille made a long face and left with the tray, holding the empty bowl and plate.

  Pépé stared at Zizou, still seated on the floor. “Don’t you have to brush your teeth?”

  She stood, stomped to the door and stuck out her tongue at his back.

  Pépé stretched his neck right and left, then drew a chocolate bar from his pocket. He put it on the bed and left before I could thank him.

  I knew the chocolate came from his armoire. The unexpected gift moved me because he dug into his treasure chest only on special occasions, mostly for the young ones.

  I had just slipped the chocolate bar under my pillow when Maman came in with a bowl of soup and buttered bread.

  As much as I needed to make it up to her, I couldn’t eat any more. “Thanks, Ma, but I’m not hungry.”

  Her eyes roamed from the bedspread to the floor at my feet. Breadcrumbs.

  She ignored the signs of the clandestine meals and beamed. “Did you have a good time at your first party, ma fille?”

  “Oui, Ma.” I burned to tell her about Angelo, but didn’t want to create new worries for her. “I’m sorry Pa is mad at you. It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry, Ma.”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and sighed. “Don’t worry, ma grande, this too shall pass.”

  Later on in the dark, Zizou asked, “Nanna, you’re awake?”

  “I can’t sleep. What is it?”

  She chuckled. “Papa’s the only one who didn’t sneak in to give you food. What d’you think he’ll bring?”

  I frowned into the darkness. “He’s going to bring … hmm … Zlabeiyas … Makrouds—with lots of honey—hmm … Beignets salés … et sucrés.” Zizou added to the list of mouth-watering Arab sweets, “Caca de pigeon …..” The mattress bounced as she shifted position. “Will you give me some of your Caca de pigeon, Nanna?”

  “I don’t know. Have you been a good girl, listened to Papa, and stayed home?”

  The bed double-bounced. “Yeah. Alors, tell me—how did it go? Did you meet a gorgeous boy? Who’s he? Do I know him?”

  I gave her the short version of what happened at Susanne’s, knowing full well she’d pester me for days to squeeze more details out of me. And she was right on track. “So, why are you annoyed with Angelo? It’s not his fault if a jerk winked at him.”

  “I think he bet he’d be first to go out with me. I think they all think he’s won.”

  Zizou challenged me. “So what?”

  “I’m not a stupid trophy.”

  “I’ve news for you, my girl. Boys bet against each other all the time. In sports. Who’ll grow the first beard. Who spits the farthest. Girls, everything. So, let it go.” She took a deep breath as inspiration struck her. “Do you like him?”

  “Well. He’s not very tall but he has a nice smile and his eyes give me the shivers.”

  She cackled. “So, la princess de glace will be thawed, after all.” She faked a quivering voice. “Wait until she gets kissed.”

  I turned my back on her. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Go to sleep, idiote.”

  Long after Zizou had fallen asleep, I furtively unwrapped Pépé’s chocolate and let one small bite after another coat the inside of my mouth.

  For days Papa gave me the silent treatment, dismissing my presence, even when I was in his direct line of vision, compelling me to be as quiet as a sparrow in the hush of a pending storm. I would have much preferred a slap in the face or his belt. Insults, even, rather than this endless, nauseating silence that made me feel like I didn’t exist.

  That summer, as time went by, my father and I learned to interact one cautious step at a time, like two strangers discovering each other’s quirks and learning to live with them.

  When he was home and my chores were done, I withdrew to my room, read or sewed or leaned on my balcony’s railing.

  Watching the world go by was like turning the familiar pages of a majestic book, bustling with Algeria’s colors, sounds, and smells. It filled me with the exhilarating joy of belonging and gave me strength.

  One familiar scene I watched from my balcony that summer of hostilities with my father was the Boussadia.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Riri, 1959.

  Le Boussadia

  In times of drought, the Boussadia appeared out of the dust at the top of the road. An impalpable ghost growing into a colossal ebony-skinned creature, he boogied down the road.

  A flock of squealing Arab kids trailed him while the beat of his drum called for the desperately needed rain.

  His helper followed, a flour sac over his shoulder, collecting kessra—the flat, unleavened Arab bread—and small coins from children sent by their mothers or from women, faces averted, slipping alms from behind partly open doors.

  Shards of mirror speckled the towering fur hat, which emphasized his stature and lent him the appearance of a mystical force that delighted and terrorized the children.

  They formed a respectful ring around him while he paused at door stoops. I held my breath as he closed his eyes, rose to the balls of his feet, and gyrated on bent knees, picking up speed with the increasing beat of his crooked stick against the drum’s hide.

  The paler soles of his feet slapped the hot macadam in a frenzied whirl that rattled the bells at his ankles and caused the animal pelts at his belt to lift away from his body like a furry tutu while the chips of mirror on his hat scattered blinding sparks of sunlight like a revolving ballroom orb. The delighted children hopped to the throb of his drumbeat, clapped their hands, and shrieked—their fun contagious to Riri and Yves, who clapped and hopped on our side of the fence.

  Boussadia’s body blurred like a whirling djinn raising a sand funnel, then he abruptly stilled and, flashing a set of strong teeth as dazzling as the white of his rolling eyes, he lunged at the kids with a roar. They screeched and burst into flight like sparrows at the sound of gunshots.

  One day, after the frightened children scattered, the goliath took a step forward and lifted up a child who had tripped in his rush to flee. Terrorized out of his mind, the snot-drooling kid squealed, “Ahbouiya-bouiyia, bouiyia …” and scampered like a mouse on hot coals the instant the man released him.

  With a last roar, Boussadia swaggered down the road and around the bend, towing along the haunting echo of his drum.

  The young children dispersed while their older brothers began a game of sticks.

  They placed a short piece of wood on the road and hit it with the end of their sticks, causing it to flip in the air where they hit it again into the distance.

  Clearing the road to let the sporadic car or military vehicle pass, they then resumed their game with gusto. They rushed, elbowed, and shoved each other, yelled warnings and laughed in the midsummer scents of stirred dust, cow dung, and eucalypti.

  My brothers looked on, yearning, I knew, to join the game, but they were strictly forbidden to step out on the road. I called, “Are you ready to have your goûter?” and left the perron for the kitchen.

  Yves joined me right away, Riri lingered at the fence.

  In the kitchen, I cut thick slices off a large baguette. I rubbed their crusts with a garlic clove then split each s
lice open, dribbling olive oil on the doughy part and sprinkling it with salt—my preferred summer snack.

  Yves made a face at my garlic-smothered bread. “Nanna, can you make me bread with du lait Nestlé, instead?”

  I retrieved a can of Nestlé’s condensed milk from the pantry, punched two holes in the top, and trickled the gooey syrup on his bread.

  “One for Riri, too, Nanna, please?”

  “Is that what he wants?”

  “That’s what he wants.”

  Yves carried both snacks to the perron outside the front door and called, “Riri, come get your goûter.”

  I started to return the can of milk to the pantry, but the temptation was too great. I tilted my head back and let the sweet syrup fill my mouth. Mmmm. The only way to enjoy condensed milk—sticks to the taste buds.

  I licked my lips and joined the boys, bringing my snack with me.

  Face and hands sticky with milk, Riri mused, “If we practice sticks, maybe the kids in the street will let us play with them?”

  I sat between the two boys. “I don’t think so.”

  Riri turned his sky-blues on me. “Why not?”

  “First, because you are not old enough. Second, because you might lose an eye from that flying piece of wood—”

  “I’m nine. How old do I have to be?”

  I plucked a number at random. “Twelve. And you know you’re not allowed to set foot in the street.” I frowned, trying to look fierce. “Remember what happened last time you disobeyed the rules?”

  * * *

  The year before, the family had waited around the lunch table for Riri to arrive home from school. Time went by, but no Riri. Clearly upset, Maman served lunch. Pépé Honninger shrugged his shoulders and stretched his neck this way and that. Zizou and I hitched eyebrows at each other, guessing Riri would get the what-for as soon as he came in. Mireille stared at her plate. Yves stuffed himself.

  Papa conjectured, “This little bastard doit jouer aux billes and forgot the time.” But a doubt seized him. Maybe his son wasn’t playing marbles. He turned white as candle wax. “Son of a bitch. They kidnapped him.”

  Maman moaned. “NON! Non, non, non. Don’t say that, chéri. Please don’t even think it.”

  Pépé’s tics disappeared and he turned to Yves. “Did your brother say anything about going somewhere after school?”

  Yves kept on chewing his food and shrugged.

  Pépé’s voice strengthened, “Did he say he was going to be with a friend?”

  Yves swallowed. “He didn’t say anything like that.”

  Papa zeroed in on him like a snake on a field mouse. “If ‘nothing like that,’ what else did he say?”

  The seriousness of the situation seemed to sink in. Yves’ eyes grew bigger and glistened with tears. He dropped his fork on his plate. “I swear, Papa, I don’t know anything.”

  Papa stood, almost losing his balance. “I think they took him. To get at me.”

  It wouldn’t be the first time the family of a police officer had become a terrorist target. A payback for arresting their acolytes.

  Papa lurched out of the kitchen. “I’ll go look for him.” He glanced over his shoulder. “The rest of you stay home. No school this afternoon.”

  Maman ran after him. “I am coming with you.”

  Pépé left the table. “I’ll go to La Guinguette and get a search party together.”

  Stories of horrible tortures inflicted on hostages flooded my mind. Mireille cried. Zizou locked herself in the bathroom. I stalked from room to room in anguish, pinching myself to make the hurt in my chest go away. Not my Riri, please, God, not my Riri. Then I paused. Yves sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, hugging his legs, forehead propped on his knees. He sobbed with the abandon of a six-year-old. I forced him up. “Viens, mon petit. Let’s sit and wait on the stairs. Don’t worry. Papa will bring him back.”

  And he did.

  Yves and I rose from the stoop and warned our sisters, “Riri’s back.”

  The car had not yet come to a full stop before he flew out the door like a sparrow before a hawk.

  Papa stepped out of the car and paused to light a cigarette. He struck a match. It broke. He struck a second one. It, too, broke. The third one flared. With shaking hands, he brought it to his face and muttered around the cigarette, “That little shit. That son of a bitch. I’m going to kill him.”

  Maman rounded the car. Some color had returned to her face. “Calm down, chéri, please. Let us thank God he is all right.”

  Deaf to her plea, Papa walked up the fifteen steps to the front door—deliberately—like Burt Lancaster at the O.K. Corral. His face was still pale, but had lost its waxen hue.

  I was so grateful Riri was back in one piece that I didn’t care if he got the whipping of his life.

  He received a few wallops of the faithful belt without a flinch. Way to go, little man. But when Papa dragged him to the bedroom and handcuffed him at the foot of the bed, he cried out, “Non, Papa, s’il te plaît, don’t do that.”

  “How many times have I told you to come directly home from school? Do you understand: maison-école, école-maison? Just as I’ve told you to stay in the yard and not step across the road?” He turned and glared at the rest of us. “Just as I warned all of you not to walk close to doorways where someone might hide and grab you.” His raw voice broke and he stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him, fuming, “Little fuck.”

  He glared at Maman, standing with the four of us in the corridor. “Your bastards will be the death of me.” And left for La Guinguette.

  Maman cooled Riri’s face with a wet towel and brought him lunch. He ate sitting on the floor, one hand manacled to the foot of the bed. Zizou and I lounged on top of the blanket. Mireille and Yves sat on the floor. Mireille asked, “Where did you go?”

  “I was coming home for lunch and when I passed the road that goes up on the right, I got the idea to follow it.”

  Zizou asked, “How far did you go?”

  “Not too far, because I saw a bunch of Arab kids qui jouaient au foot. I asked if I could play and they said oui.” He lifted a shoulder. “And I forgot the time.”

  So, while we all worried he might be dying in a horrible way, Riri was playing soccer—I couldn’t blame Papa for being so angry. “But what made you decide to go up that road?” I asked.

  His blue eyes, clear as an angel’s in a stained-glass window, widened as if stating the obvious. “I wanted to see where it went!”

  * * *

  That’s MY Riri, I had thought. I still wanted to kiss him for his answer but asked with what was meant to be an angry frown, “Remember what happened last time you disobeyed the rules?”

  He nodded.

  I bit on my bread. In spite of the sweet aftertaste of condensed milk, I savored the mixed fragrances of olive oil and garlic. Hmm, could do with a lot more garlic. I rose to get more and said, “Lucky you spent only a couple of hours tied to the foot of the bed. I would have kept you there for a week.”

  His impish smile angered me. “Wipe this smirk off your face. Do you think you’d have been smiling if the fellagha had taken you and hacked you into small pieces?”

  No longer hungry, I stomped away before he could answer.

  Night fret

  A few evenings later, while the rest of the household slept, Zizou and I sat in bed, sharing pages of Le Maghrébien. The French doors to the balcony stood open. Through the slats of the closed shutters, a breeze tinted with the sweetness of acacia carried in the dreamy song of crickets. Suddenly, gunshots shattered the peaceful night. I started and looked at Zizou. Her pupils were dilated, reflecting my own dread. A bullet clanged against the balcony’s ironwork. The room went dark and the shots stopped.

  A tap, tap, tap sound broke the eerie silence. I felt around for Zizou’s arm and whispered, “What’s that noise?”

  She shoved my hand back. “It’s the newspaper, you idiote.”

  “What do you mea—?” />
  The sensation and sound of my knee beating a tattoo against the newspaper cut short my question. Panicked by the bullet’s clank against our balcony, I’d dived under the sheets, dragging the newspaper with me.

  I fished it out and dropped it to the floor. My heartbeat filled the darkened room. “Do you think a bullet cut the electric line?”

  “What’s wrong with you?” she snapped. “Don’t you remember? You jumped out of bed and turned off the light. You flew across the room like a ballerina doing entrechats. Are you stupid or what?”

  “I did that?” Wow.

  “Just shut up and keep down, Nanna.”

  New volleys of gunshots rang in the street. Papa hollered above the racket, “Everyone, on the floor. Head down. Crawl away from the windows.”

  Zizou clambered over me and dropped to the floor. I rolled off the bed and crashed on top of her. “Aïe,” she cried. “Can’t you watch where you’re going?” She shoved me off. “I got your knee right in my guts.”

  “Shut up,” I said. “Get to the wall.”

  While we scurried across the floor, the door creaked open. In the near darkness, the corridor’s nightlight outlined Papa’s crawling shape and glinted off his handgun. “Are you all right?” His raspy voice resounded as if from the inside of a crypt.

  “Oui, Papa,” we said in unison.

  “Keep your heads down and follow me.”

  We joined the rest of the family sprawled on the kitchen floor. In spite of the warm air, I shivered—my skimpy nightgown a poor barrier against the cold tile.

  The gunfire stopped. Creaks and scraping from our rusty yard gate filled the ominous silence. Boots stomped along our garden path, followed by orders in French, “Kneel. Hands on your heads.” Heavy steps tramped up our stairs. Loud knocks shook the front door. “French army. Open up.”

  Papa walked in a crouch to Pépé Honninger’s bedroom for a furtive peek at the perron to ascertain the callers were who they claimed to be.

  Then he returned to the kitchen and shoved his gun at Maman. “Hide this.”