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only found out later that day, after I had trawled the neighbourhood and finally flushed out one of his friends – another candidate for suicide – at a secret, mystical meeting. There was a crowd of them, a veritable congregation, drunk on their own tears, dreaming aloud, telling each other how the great wide world was waiting for them with flowers, and how fleeing this country would deal a fatal blow to the reign of the dictator. Long story short, they were all touched by the same fever. They gathered round me like a big sister ennobled by great sorrow and informed me that Sofiane had gone the way of the harragas – the ‘path-burners’. I was familiar with the expression, this was how everyone in the country referred to those who burned their bridges, who fled the country on makeshift rafts and destroyed their papers when caught. But this was the first time I had heard the word from the lips of a true zealot, and it sent a chill down my spine. He said it nonchalantly; to him, ‘burning a path’ was something only they knew how to do. I was lumbered with ‘honour’ and they with the responsibility of covering Sofiane’s still-warm tracks. What can you say about such morons? I stared at them the way you might at a lost prophet and shook their dust from my sandals. I would happily have denounced them to the police but for the fact that the police – who constantly interrogated them, frisked them, manipulated them, spat in their faces – were at the root of their delirium. On the road the harragas take there is no turning back, every fall leads to another, one harder and more painful, until the final, fatal plunge. We’ve all witnessed it: satellite TV beams back the pictures of corpses lying broken on the rocks, or tossed by the waves, frozen or suffocated in the cargo hold of a boat, a plane, in the back of a refrigerated van. As though we did not already have enough, the harragas have invented new ways of dying. Even those who succeeded in making the crossing lost their souls in the terrible kingdom of the undocumented immigrant. What kind of life is it, to be forever condemned to a clandestine existence?
    And what kind of life is it that I am leading, entombed here in my ancient house?
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    I spent a whole month going round in circles, I shed every tear in my body. I scarcely looked up: Maman, my little brother is lost; Papa, my little brother is lost . . . I was racked with guilt at the thought of having let them down. I slept in Sofiane’s room so I would feel better.
    Then one night he phoned. From Oran. From that godforsaken hole where nothing – not the language, nor the religion, not even the taste of the bread – is the same as it is in Algiers.
    â€˜Where in Oran?’
    â€˜At a friend’s place.’
    â€˜Who are you trying to kid? Your friends are here, in their own homes or in conclave electing a new pope.’
    â€˜Don’t worry about it.’
    â€˜This has gone far enough, come home.’
    â€˜Later.’
    â€˜When?’
    â€˜I dunno.’
    â€˜Give me your address so I can send you some money.’
    â€˜I ain’t got no address.’
    â€˜This friend of yours, is he homeless?’
    â€˜. . .’
    â€˜Hello? Hello? Helloooo ?’
    The little shit had already picked up an Oran accent, he said yeah for yes , he even clicked his tongue. Otherwise he was just the same: impulsive, mule-headed, thick as two short planks . . . and sweet as an angel when it suited him. He never phoned again. Was it something I said? Maybe, but it doesn’t matter; they’re all the same: stupid, easily offended, quick to pick a fight. Even now the question haunts me. It’s hard to be the sister of a man who’s still a boy. How many men realise that?
    Suddenly, the house seemed terrifying. The emptiness swelled, the silence became oppressive. I had no answers, I had no more questions.