Read Online The Last Friend by Tahar Ben Jelloun - Free Book Online Page B

slight as he was, attacked Alain with a few tentative punches. Alain pushed him to the ground with one blow. Ali bled from his nose. I motioned to the racist French boy that it was time for a real fight. The students gathered in a circle while Ali was taken to the infirmary. Alain was much stronger than I was; I had blood everywhere. Sam pulled us apart. He could see I was going to be massacred.
    All three of us were suspended for three days. The principal used the incident as an excuse to lecture the entire student body about events in Algeria. He sounded reasonable, presenting the issue objectively. Some students inferred that he seemed to be against Algeria remaining French. Two months later, he was called back to France. We never saw him again. Alain didn't wait to be drafted. He had already enlisted, and was serving in the Aures Mountains, where the fighting was particularly grim.
    We were in twelfth grade. Before Alain left, he made up with Ali and me. We kissed each other on the cheek. While we were waiting for the results of our baccalaureate examination results, the son of the French consul told us that Alain was dead. We were distressed. Ali and I wanted to do something, go see his family, take flowers to his girlfriend, but we ended up doing nothing. Someone quoted Paul Nizan: "We were twenty years old, and no one can tell me this is the best time of your life." We heard Sam say with a little laugh that he was not interested in politics. At that moment, I decided it was time to get involved.

3
    My uncle hamza was very French, in an old school kind of way. He spoke the language of Descartes perfectly, quoted the classics, and was an impeccable dresser. At the same time, he had an excellent knowledge of classical Arabic. He said he was a nationalist. I didn't know he was also a Communist. He explained that there were many positive aspects of Marxist doctrine, some of which could be applied in Morocco, to help the country out of its underdevelopment, to fight against the worst social inequities and the corruption of the government. He was convincing, opening my eyes to a new way of thinking. I talked to Ali about these ideas, who met them with more reserve.
    I spent my first year at school in political meetings and demonstrations. This worried my father, who decided I should continue my medical studies in France. He had an animated discussion with my uncle, whom he accused of distracting me from my studies, of being an atheist, and of espousing ideas imported from Moscow. Hamza responded calmly, but my father remained angry. Having used up his arguments, my father insulted Hamza by calling him a
zoufri
,
because he was still a bachelor. Hamza seized the opportunity to explain the origin of this word. "Zoufri" comes from "worker." It was too bad that the petit bourgeoisie associated this with debauchery and vice, he said.
    Ali was hoping for a scholarship to study in Canada. He was in charge of the Rabat film club, and sometimes I helped him. Ali made the posters advertising the films, and I put them up. I enjoyed his film-club meetings. He spoke intelligently and eloquently about films, their political role, and their importance in twentieth-century history. I admired him, and discovered a different person, not shy at all, confident and at ease before an audience. He had a particular passion for films directed by Satyajit Ray, an Indian he considered an artist with an international appeal. Ali thought that Ray's films also expressed Moroccan concerns and our desire for justice. Once he even went as far as to say that Ray was a Moroccan filmmaker, with unusual talent. Introducing
Pather
Panchali,
Ali quoted a phrase he had read about the film in a magazine: "They can pressure poor people, but they can't take away their talent." Ali argued that the exoticism of this Indian universe was a mirror distorted by geography but one that invited us to see our own exoticism: that is, our problems. Well-informed about all aspects