A FATHER'S PRIDE

Abdul

‘Bravo Terencio! You are a natural’, I bellow as we sprint from a train in the centre of Nice, with the wallet of a disorientated tourist. I am teaching my younger brother how to master the skilful art of pick pocketing. My brother and I live in the outskirts of Nice with our Papa; ‘la banlieue1’ as it is called is full of our kind, North African immigrants. Our family are in the Moroccan tower block, the
area is really rather ghetto like, plagued by unemployment and drugs. We are originally from a tiny village in the north east of Morocco, you see, and Papa decided to move here a few months ago after Mama died, French education is one of the best we heard back home.

‘Look, Abdul, look!’, Papa is shouting excitedly, he is holding a crumpled, rather tired looking newspaper which he must have found on the streets. Papa’s hair is greying and his clothes are fading. The article is about the prestigious ‘Grand Ecole – France’s elite universities’. It describes how everybody who is anybody has been to these universities, and how they produce the majority of France’s highest ranking Politicians, Scientists and Civil Servants.

Although Papa was an academic back home in Morocco, he cannot find a job here; hence he is focusing his ambition on our futures. My heart plummets. I receive good marks at school, always have, nevertheless there is no chance I can get into these renowned universities as Papa can’t afford the preparatory lessons. Sighing, I leave the room for another day at school, like any son, I would do anything to make Papa proud.

‘Papa, Papa’ I yell after school that day, ‘I got a job, in the harbour cleaning sailing boats!’. After two

months and only managing to fund our basic lifestyle through rapidly receding savings and pick pocketing, this is an immense relief.

Jean
As the wind gushes by propelling the boat, I can feel the freshness of the wind beating against my face. Sailing is simply the most amazing sensation, I feel like I am sailing a powerful ship across the Atlantic. When, in fact I am in a topper in the Mediterranean Sea, off Nice. Nevertheless, for me my little, insignificant boat is the pearl of the ocean.

That night at dinner, with my family in Cannes, Father begins to boast to his smug, rich friends how I am soon on my way to the Grand Ecole in Lyon. The Grand Ecole he indeed went to. Within their rather snobby social circle, graduating from a Grand Ecole leaves a tattoo on their subconscious mind, a lasting stain of superiority. Earning a much sought after place would mean intense lessons lasting for two years for me to even stand a chance of getting in. I had always got by at school but never really excelled and now my father thinks that being accepted by the competitive Grand Ecole would be ‘pas de problème2’. I smile politely unwilling for his smug friends to witness Father and I having an argument.

One early morning I go to the port to sail when a rather skinny black boy called Abdul, I recognise from working in the port, approaches me offering me a croissant. I accept gleefully.

I become good friends with the skinny black boy, he is always there working and so am I sailing. I start my preparatory lessons for the Grand Ecole, however in actual fact I go sailing instead of attending sometimes. I hate these lessons, they are nicknamed the ‘royal way’ as they really are the only way to get in, yet they are so tough and every week we have oral examinations. I loathe them. I love sailing. It is my escape, my paradise, my vacuum of thought. Although, father thinks differently, ‘Sailing is no career, just a hobby’, he would constantly bark.

Abdul (the skinny black boy) and I joined the same football team and we are both pretty good. Well, maybe as he is so slight, he is better. Yesterday, I was tackled to the ground, the trainer screamed relentlessly, ‘How can you let these things happen to you without a battle!?’

The following days, I think about this comment. Abdul comes into my sailing boat for a ride and as the boat glides peacefully across the glistening water, the trainer’s words ring in my head. I knew how much Abdul wanted to take the preparatory lessons I was taking. I knew my chances of getting into the Grand Ecole were incredibly limited. I knew that I preferred to sail and ‘fight that battle’.

And so I offer the classes to him, Father would never know. By the time he finds out I will have had enough time to train for the annual sailing competition in Lake Annecy. I will make him proud that way. I hope.

I can tell Abdul is clever and sharp. His intelligence is refreshing. He is not from France and knows more about the French Revolution than me and my friends. As we sail across the sea, it is he who recognises the names of the different kinds of fish. It is he who patiently explains to me the tides.

Yet it is I who understands the wind. It is I who has the power over the sailing boat.

Abdul

I don’t believe it; do I accept the preparatory classes? I can pick pocket from strangers but can I really accept this kind giving from a friend?

I think about it a lot. I think hard and I even think about what my mother would do if she was in my position; I wish I could have asked her. She was so wise about these things. I can’t ask Terencio, my brother, I am older and he is the one who asks me for advice. I know how much it would mean to my Papa if I passed the exam to get into the Grand Ecole. Like any son, I want to make my Papa proud. Life in the ghetto of Nice is hard at times and I have even considered dealing some drugs for extra cash. I don’t want to go down that line. There is a lingering sense of hopelessness there which can be seen in the faces of the stray dogs milling around. This is like a lifeline, an opportunity to alter the road map of my life.

I take it. I attend the classes. I study hard for long hours. And after two years, I pass the exam. When I tell Papa, he simply breaks into a smile as bright as the midday Moroccan sun, an increasingly rare, deep, intoxicating smile which shows off his laughter wrinkles and exposes his age. He places his hand warmly on my shoulder and he just says ‘I knew you could’.

1 La banlieue are the suburbs.

2 No problem.