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suddenly, the shadow turned and vanished. What the . . . ? Are my eyes playing tricks? Did Bluebeard just turn his back on me contemptuously? Damn it, what the devil has any of this got to do with him?
     
    At the Hôpital Parnet, I glared at my male co-workers as though each one harboured murderous thoughts. I looked again. But, no, they bore the usual scars, nothing more. God, they’re vile, and they dress like a symposium of scarecrows. I don’t like the way they puff out their chests, the way they cut a swathe through the air before them. I’d hear their delusional prating: ‘Hum, hum, we’re the friends of the Sultan, get out of our way.’ They come and they go with the same couldn’t-give-a-shit attitude that has not only destroyed this country but, by the miracle of globalisation, fobbed off any responsibility on others. They talk in loud, bellowing voices, leaving the rest of the populace half-deaf. Whether singing or whistling, moaning or snivelling, whether bickering, backslapping or brown-nosing, they do it with the same gusto; there’s never anything new or different. Their lives are pitted with a thousand and one crimes, routine mistakes, petty slip-ups, but they don’t care. I can’t help thinking that they smile too much. Can there be a reason – any reason – to rejoice in failure? Can there be any excuse – however slim – to justify why they strut about like peacocks when their work is only half done and that badly? I wonder what true crimes they have committed to have such an air of inane innocence.
    Shame is a funny thing. The world seems to whirl endlessly, it makes me dizzy. I’m ashamed that other people are not as ashamed of their flaws as I am of mine. On their supercilious faces their faults stick out so much you could forget they had a nose. Maybe I should see a shrink and talk to him about it.
    I can tell it’s going to be a long day. I’ll visit the children’s ward, kids understand comedy, to them it’s not a synonym for hypocrisy.
    My head is spinning, I’m sweating; worse still I have the terrible feeling of something wriggling in my belly. Could I be pregnant? By what? By whom? The Holy Spirit? An extraterrestrial? A film noir is running through my head, I feel like I’m about to kill somebody.
    I’m tense and overwrought.
    Where can the little vixen have got to? She hasn’t the first idea what she’s letting herself in for. Algiers will sweep her up in its madness. This crumbling city is pitiless, constantly reviling and condemning girls, and every day the outcry grows a little louder. The first passing taxi will whisk her away to some seedy den of iniquity. The way the old rattletraps prowl the streets makes you sick. ‘Get in or I’ll run you over!’ She’s a child, a stranger, a tourist, she has no idea, she’s too trusting. What does a girl from Oran know about the pitfalls of Algiers? In Oran, they take their misery and turn it into mournful melodies they call Raï, here in Algiers we play double or quits. That way Chérifa struts about, that hair of hers, that smile like a precocious nymph, that perfume, that ridiculous scarf – are these the signs of a good Muslim? Damn it, you don’t go around playing the starlet during a religious epidemic!
     
    I spent the day pretending to work, tormenting myself, fearing the worst – which is usually the most likely. I just hope I didn’t accidentally poison some child on my ward, they’re so distracted they’ll swallow anything you give them. I was beside myself, in my mind I was running through the streets of Algiers, trying to imagine where I would go if I was wearing the sort of grotesque Chérifa favours. It was useless thinking about the places that marked my childhood, they’re all ancient history. What attractions are there left? The area around La Grande Poste, with its feverish crowds and its cosy tearooms, is a trap for any girl. Then there’s Maqam Echahid – the Martyrs’ Memorial – with its