Welcome to Paradise E-Book

Mahi Binebine

• Herausgeber: Eland Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 198

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Welcome to Paradise opens a window into the hearts and minds of a small group of African would-be emigrants, waiting on the beach in Morocco for a boat that will take them to a new life in Europe. As we shelter with them in the darkness, we hear of the cruelty, misfortune and grinding poverty which has compelled them here, to pit themselves against the dangers of the sea and the coastguards who patrol it. Tense, dramatic and deeply compassionate, Welcome to Paradise is a striking tale of human desperation and of the media-fuelled fantasies of Western life that rarely fulfil their promise yet hold a fatal allure.

Leseprobe

i

Welcome to Paradise

MAHI BINEBINE

Translated by Lulu Norman

ii

For Agustin and Bâ titi, who must be laughing now…

Contents

Title PageDedication1234567891011121314151617About the AuthorAbout the PublisherCopyright

7

1

Back in the village, the old people were always telling us about the sea and each time in a different way. Some said it was as vast as the sky, a sky of water foaming across infinite, impenetrable forests, where ghosts and ferocious monsters lived. Others declared that it stretched further than all the rivers, lakes, ponds and streams on earth put together. As for the wise old boys in the square, who spoke as one, they swore that God was keeping that water back for Judgment Day, when it would wash the earth clean of sinners.

The night was dark and there was a faint mist. Hidden behind a rock, we could hear the wind and the waves. Morad had told us the sea was calm at this time of year and we’d believed him. We’d believe anything if it meant we could get away – as far as possible and for good.

A black shadow hovered near the boat. It was the trafficker. We didn’t know his name, we just called him ‘Sir’ or ‘Boss’, with fearful deference, the way you might a teacher brandishing a cane, a bent policeman with cruel eyes, a wizard casting spells, 8or anyone that holds your future in their hands. From time to time, strange growls emerged from beneath his hood.

I wasn’t sure if it was the fear or the cold that was making my cousin Reda shiver. Both, maybe. We were all cold and afraid, but Reda seemed to have it worst. His face looked strained and pale, he was hugging his Adidas bag to his chest and his teeth were chattering. Non-stop. He’d barely lit a cigarette when the shadow swooped, grabbed it and stuck it in his mouth. Reda didn’t even flinch, he just kept shivering and his teeth kept chattering. Near me, Nuara was nursing her baby. I couldn’t work out how old she was from her round, slightly puffy face. Crowned with tightly plaited hair, her head was rocking to the rhythm of a silent lullaby. A breast hung slackly from her blouse. I stared at it, my eyes fixed on the nipple in the tiny mouth. The baby, whose crying we dreaded, was kneading it in his little fists. The trafficker had been unequivocal: ‘Any noise, one slip-up and this’ll be a living hell for all of us.’ But good God, what hell could that be? Was there a deeper, blacker pit than the one poverty had sunk us in?

Apart from us four, there was Kacem Judi, an Algerian from Blida who’d been a teacher in the days when his country was at peace, Pafadnam and Yarcé, two Malians, visible only by the whites of their eyes and Yussef, who said he was from Marrakech but whose strong accent sounded Berber to me, 9probably from the Middle Atlas. Our little group seemed calm enough. Pafadnam, who was so big he was like a giant, was on his third attempt. Why did he have to tell us that? Only the night before, in the café, Morad, the trafficker’s partner, had assured us that crossing the Strait of Gibraltar only took a few hours. ‘It’s not a trip to the moon,’ he’d joked.

I’d laughed, but Reda had not. He had a terrible stomach ache which made him get up from the table every quarter of an hour, coming back as pale as he’d left. Morad, whose cocky little build, carefully groomed appearance and sick sense of humour reminded us of the Spanish in Tangier, had warned us: ‘If that idiot keeps on getting the shits, we’re ditching him!’ At this, my cousin had almost fainted and things took a turn for the worse. He emitted a pestilential stink; everyone was backing away from the table. Everyone except me, of course. It was suffocating in the café. The Moroccan national orchestra was cranking out a patriotic tune on the radio and the blue ceiling was veiled by kif and tobacco smoke. Reda didn’t dare move. He stayed put, clenching his buttocks, hands clamped to arms of the plastic chair. Tentative at first, the grumbling from nearby tables grew nastier as the stink spread, finally alerting the waiter who ran up, baring his teeth, like a wild animal whose territory’s been soiled. Instantly sniffing out the situation, he began to yell at the top of his voice. I stood up and 10stuck out my chest, ready to put a stop to his insults, but seeing I only came up to his shoulder, I toned it down:

‘This young man is ill, sir!’

‘I’m not his mother, you scumbag!’ he cursed, grabbing Reda by the collar of his shirt. Attempting to step between them, I took a knock to the chin that left me stunned for a moment, so I gave up and followed them outside. An abrupt silence had fallen over the terrace; all eyes converged on us. The waiter, whose shrill voice sounded ridiculous from such a hulking frame, shoved Reda ahead of him, hurling abuse. A trickle of urine went after him. Someone sniggered, then someone else and the whole terrace erupted into laughter. Reda did not react. He was far away, letting himself be put out like the rubbish. Egged on by the customers’ jeers, the waiter’s gallantry culminated in a vicious kick that sent my cousin sprawling into the gutter.

I didn’t like seeing Reda like that. I’ve never been able to bear it. When we were kids, back in the village, everyone, even the puniest boy in our gang, would beat him up. At the slightest quarrel, he’d seize up with fear. He’d hunch over himself, shielding his face with his arms and wait for me to come to the rescue. It’s often cost me, but I’ve always been there to defend him, because Reda is my blood. So, in front of this terrace full of layabouts, shoeshine boys, kids renting 11out newspapers, small-time thugs, crooked officials and other complete nobodies, I bent down and picked up my blood. I didn’t even bother to insult that barbarian rabble, though my throat seethed with curses the like of which Heaven had rarely heard. If they’d caught even a glimmer of the hate and scorn that shone in my eyes, they’d have stopped laughing and pointing. Because a man from the South, humiliated as I was, is an unpredictable man, capable of anything.

Staggering slightly, Reda leaned his full weight on me, his arm round my shoulder, his head lolling forward. We walked away slowly, in silence. I’d have liked to tell him the terrible ways I’d wreak my revenge. That creep’s got it coming, I’ll have him, you’ll see… I’ve got plans for him… an ambush… at night… down some dark alley. He won’t see a thing. Lucky I held onto my flick-knife; little brother was dying to get his hands on it! I almost gave it him before we left. The little monkey had woken at dawn and was standing there, by the dusty lorry that was taking Reda and me north. He looked at me, all teary-eyed, not asking for anything, but I knew how desperate he was for that knife… See, I was right not to give in. You should always keep your flick-knife on you. I’ll make that bastard bleed; he’s big, but I’ll take him by surprise; I’ll slash his face, give him an almighty scar to remember me by… This is a son of Tassaout you’re dealing with here, you better believe it. 12

So I went on plotting bloody revenge, but Reda was oblivious. He walked beside me, arms dangling, his bag slung across his chest. We made for the public fountain – a cleanup job was urgent now. No offence to him, but my cousin stank like rotting meat. The grilled sardines we’d forced down at midday near the port had definitely had something to do with it; the ridiculous price should have tipped me off. Still, I pretended I couldn’t smell a thing. The setting sun cast a peachy glow over the walls, shops, animals and people as we walked, and the fountain wasn’t far off now. Some snot-nosed kids were playing round it. This wasn’t a reassuring sight; I knew what that scabby mob could do if they caught Reda having a quiet wash in the middle of the street. I knew exactly how ferocious they could be. When I was a kid, God forgive me, a beggar coming to wash at the public fountain was pure heaven for us. We’d lie in wait like cats for the exact moment his arse was in the air and then pounce and subject him to all the miseries known to man. We’d steal his bundle or his skull-cap or we’d tug at his hood, making him fall over backwards. That was the funniest sight on earth, seeing him drenched to the skin, trousers round his knees, unable to give chase, frothing with rage, ranting and swearing. It had us in hysterics. We’d roll on the ground, heaving with laughter. We’d clap our hands, shouting victory to the skies. But right now, in 13this putrid, muggy dusk, with my pitiful cousin in his pitiful state, laughing was the last thing on my mind.

We sat down by the fountain, not saying a word, not even looking at each other and, huddled together like two lost beggars, waited patiently for night to fall.

14

2

‘What are those lights over there?’ asked Reda.

A gust of wind sprayed us with damp sand, making everyone shudder.

‘That’s Spain, isn’t it? Isn’t that Spain?’

Nobody was in the mood to chat.

‘Morad did say that on clear nights you could see…’

‘Shut it!’ growled the trafficker.

‘If paradise were that close, son,’ the Algerian murmured, ‘I’d have swum there by now.’

We all smiled.

Reda felt emboldened: ‘So what are those lights then?’

‘They’re lightships,’ said the Algerian, like a veteran of all things illegal.

Reda stared, wide-eyed.

‘A lightship is a floating beacon, son, which gives sailors important bearings. But that makes it dangerous.’

‘Dangerous?’

‘Sometimes deadly. The coastguard’s often lurking nearby. 15Those bastards’ll sometimes imitate the lightships by turning their searchlights right up at the sky; novice smugglers get drawn in like moths.’

Reda’s teeth started chattering again. His complexion turned green, making me dread another explosion from the gut area.

The sea spray and sand kept up their attack, whipping our faces at regular intervals. The rock that shielded us wasn’t very high. We should have picked a different one.

Leaning back against the boat which lay upturned on the sand, wearing an incongruous three-piece suit, the Algerian explained in reassuring tones that an experienced smuggler would never fall for such childish traps. Judging by his getup and his composure, he thought our gracious saviour was a proper seadog. Look how he’s scanning the sky; you can tell he knows the language of the stars. Believe you me, he’s a past master at reading the night. Oh, you must be an artist to do this job, children, a real artist!

Having made several attempts to cross, Kacem Judi knew what he was talking about. And he’d have made it, too, if it weren’t for the rotten luck that clung to him, if, like most of his countrymen, he wasn’t cursed by the gods – he, Kacem Judi, survivor of the butchery at Blida. Because bad luck is like lice: once it takes hold somewhere, it’s very difficult to uproot. Not 16that that had altered his longing to leave; he’d always come through his countless adventures unscathed. And this time, he could feel it in his bones, this was going to be the one…

Just when we were least expecting it because he seemed to be asleep, the baby started to bawl. And how.

Back in the village, we have a house made of mud and spit, with two rooms (grass mats, sheepskins and cushions), a stable that shelters one scrawny cow, two goats, an old she-ass and a small yard, mostly taken up by a large well with cob coping. Doors are rough woollen blankets woven by my mother. I’m the eldest of eight brothers and sisters; in other words, no stranger to screaming kids. But this little maniac’s crying was something else: strong and shrill like a siren, impressive for this tiny wisp of a thing. The shadow moved suddenly and growled again. Reda’s teeth, which had only just calmed down, started up again. Nuara struggled to comfort her boy with exaggerated rocking movements, humming a tune that made the little mite cry more instead of quieting him.

The pressure mounted: on tenterhooks, we waited for the trafficker’s verdict. It was about to be pronounced and from such a thorny individual it was bound to be harsh. But he was taking his time, while the bawling grew louder. I was keeping an eye on Reda, whose courage could have failed him at any moment that night. Kacem Judi was cleaning his nails with a 17Swiss army knife, just like the one I’d been given by a tourist I’d shown around for a few days. Salvation eventually came from Yarcé, the Malian, who up until then hadn’t uttered a word.

He was a timid, unassuming little fellow; we’d almost forgotten he was there, so shrouded was he in darkness and silence, a shadow amongst the night’s shadows.

‘Just put him under the boat and be done with it!’ he muttered, as naturally as could be. At first the suggestion seemed absurd, cruel, but on second thoughts it wasn’t so unreasonable. Yussef even backed him up, saying that under the boat the baby would be out of the cold and damp that were chilling us to the bone. The argument landed, we weighed the pros and cons and still hesitated. But when the trafficker turned sternly to Nuara, we all agreed the plan was valid, sensible and in the end, the only possible option.

At first the young woman shook her head; she hugged her child to her and tried again to give him the breast. Then, slowly getting to her feet, she fixed her pleading eyes on ours, which were lowered but unyielding, and then, without a word, she took to her heels and disappeared into the night. She didn’t run far, poor thing. We were a long way from the city, in a deserted, lifeless place with forbidding cliffs, gusting sand and just the melancholy wails of a few drunks and some nocturnal seagulls trailing an invisible trawler. The safest thing was to 18stay with us, Nuara knew that. Which was why she came back a little later, looking sheepish, her head bowed, heralded by the shrieking of her offspring.

‘I’m not leaving my baby alone under there,’ she said in a strangled voice. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll go in with him.’

She knelt down, her trembling hands gripping her baby so tightly he might have suffocated.

‘Now there’s a wise decision!’ Yussef exclaimed.

Our anxious glances all rested on the trafficker, who acted like he hadn’t noticed a thing. He was wearing an enormous green oilskin with the hood over his head like a cowl, which made him look like a sea ghost. His approval, when it came, brought intense relief. A chorus of sighs greeted the outcome and again we praised Yarcé’s brilliant suggestion. But he’d already shrunk back into himself and was miles away.

Four of us got into position to lift the boat, which weighed a tonne. Mother and child slipped underneath and lay down on a snarl of ropes and we lowered the hull again, taking care not to crush them. The effect was instantaneous and unexpected: the baby abruptly fell silent and Nuara stopped her sniffling. Flashing silver teeth, the trafficker turned to the Malian and nodded. Though we were all jealous, we did the same. It was the first time our glorious saviour had shown a trace of human warmth and we were inordinately grateful 19for the small gesture, as if he’d granted us some great boon. Yussef went so far as to hold out his hand, which the trafficker declined; after all, courtesy had its limits.

What had happened under the boat? Kacem Judi, who had a detailed explanation for just about everything, declared that mother and child had simply gone out like a light and sunk into a deep sleep, as any of us would have done. I had a different take on it, although the Algerian wasn’t exactly wrong; we were all so exhausted that we could have gone straight to sleep in the roughest conditions. And yet for me this upturned boat on the sand prompted strange thoughts, images without beginning or end, a parade of fantasies I couldn’t get out of my head. Yes, that boat covering human souls made me think of an enormous coffin, a bottomless box open to the shades below. I saw Earth pregnant with a mother nursing her child, life and death joined in the same lonely silence. I felt the sand breathe and the night conspire. Mother and baby were warm and dry, their hearts at peace, curled up together in the dark pit of this empty belly, where the roar of the sea sounded, as in a shell. Were they still alive? Had they tasted the first fruits of that bliss my grandfather used to talk of, that ineffable peace on the banks of everlasting night? Whatever the truth of it, for hours on end and until the first barking of the dogs, no one heard them so much as twitch.

20

3

It was after ten. We were in the same place, numb with fear and cold, drenched through, worn out physically as much as mentally. The day had been long, the evening longer still. The waves pounded relentlessly against the reefs and breakwaters; I could feel them crashing in my veins. Reda had dozed off on my shoulder with his mouth open, his jaw slack. The wind was dropping, which had prompted Pafadnam to take out his meal of barley-bread, black olives and fried fish. It smelled good. Kacem Judi had produced a tomato salad, some meatballs and a navel orange, Yarcé a sandwich. As for Yussef, Reda and me, we’d naively imagined we’d be dining out in Spain, no less. ‘A feast of tapas in the heart of Algeciras, washed down with sangria! That’s the way to celebrate your new life!’ Those were Morad’s words; he hadn’t spared the superlatives when it came to the food abroad, the infinite variety of dishes we’d encounter: fruit that melted in the mouth, unheard-of in Moorish lands, every type of vegetable, no matter the season, and unbelievably tender, succulent cuts of meat. 21

Morad knew what he was talking about because he’d lived in Paris for ten years. Ten long, happy years. Paris the beautiful! Paris the mysterious! Paris that to our Bedouin ears sounded like the promise of paradise! Morad had been deported three times, so that in Tangier at Café France – general HQ for any would-be immigrant – he’d been awarded the noble title of European Deportee. A richly deserved nickname we were all obliged to use, otherwise he’d lose his temper.

‘Morad the European deportee!’ he’d shout. ‘Yes, sir, say it loud and savour every syllable! Deported three times, from France and from Europe!’

Morad was as attached to the title’s cachet as he was to the little mother-of-pearl hash pipe that we all coveted. He’d demand this proud moniker loud and clear as his due, like the one bestowed on pilgrims back from Mecca. We were fascinated by all his different stories, his fabulous escapades and his amorous exploits. He could count on bringing a hush to the table whenever he talked about France – especially Paris and that swanky restaurant on rue Mazarine where he’d worked for many years: ‘Chez Albert, Portuguese specialities’ the neon sign proclaimed. The kitchen gave on to a small backyard where his ‘bachelor pad’ was tucked away, on the ground floor. A charming little studio flat – or studette as they elegantly term it in the capital – with every mod con: 22comfy little bed, red pine wardrobe, colour TV, electric stove on top of the fridge, earthenware basin and a shower with a zip-up plastic curtain. And all that in the space of six metres – incredible. Two metres by three, do I hear any advance on that? But what does it matter? It was there, within those walls covered in flowery paper, under that cracked ceiling with its bare bulb, by that little half-blocked basement window, yes, that was where Morad’s most cherished memories resided.

Memories that were as illicit as he was – he, Momo, Chez Albert’s little fuzzhead. At first, he’d be doing eleven hours a day washing up in a smoke-filled kitchen that reeked of cod, a never-ending round of plates, glasses and cutlery. Morad never complained; on the contrary, he was always up to the task, his eagerness equalled only by his resounding laughter and his playful spirit, and always ready to offer a helping hand to Garcia, the obese vegetable-peeler whose fingers swelled up in the damp. Then he’d be sweeping up over here, wiping down over there. Occasionally he’d peek through the service hatch at the merry, booming dining room where, spluttering with giggles or overcome by fits of melancholy, drunk on vinho verde, men and women of every stripe were bent on living life to the full.

Morad used to tell himself that one day, perhaps, it would be his turn to serve on the restaurant floor – like Benoit, that idiot Frenchman who grumbled all night long, totally oblivious to his 23privilege. They were simple pleasures, true, but real ones: seeing the customers up close, smiling at them, speaking to them as an equal, recommending dishes that he, Momo, Chez Albert’s little fuzzhead, knew down to the very last herb. Then, if he’d had the chance to chat, he could have told them about Morocco, which he knew like the back of his hand, from the Sahara to Tetouan, imperial cities and all. He could still remember the odd bits of history he used to spout for the tourists, from the days he’d passed himself off as a guide in Marrakech. Yes, one day, perhaps…

Garcia was an Andalusian from Almería – a cousin, then. He’d been working at the restaurant since it opened, ten years before Momo’s arrival, which probably explained the hundred kilos of fat that covered his bones, that he had more and more trouble heaving from one chair to another. Despite his yellow teeth and premature balding, Garcia wasn’t bad-looking; his features, though swamped by bloated cheeks, retained a certain grace. His neck was almost non-existent; sunk into his shoulders, it unfurled in a triple chin, which gave him the unhurried self-importance of a turkey. Momo patted him on the head every time he passed by. Which drove Garcia mad. The moment he began mumbling curses in Spanish the whole kitchen would burst out laughing. He’d let rip, stuttering a string of filthy insults before dissolving into laughter himself. Oh, he was a lovely man, Garcia Gomez; everyone liked him. 24