Excerpt from The Star of Algiers

Dark and spreading, a veil obscures the face of the sky, a grim mask covering the sun’s eyes. Algiers’s finery is a blotted out. Bilious swollen clouds, ochre drizzle, earthquake weather.

The horizon’s blotted out too.

Cité Mer et Soleil, Djelloul’s car pulls up in front of Block C, Moussa gets out, yawning. He bangs the door, bangs it again, and they part with a wave. The chorus . . . two or three times?

Check it later, argued with the bass player over it.

Bet you it’s three times.

Pools of filth in front of the entrance. Moussa hitches up his trousers, hops nimbly between the puddles. Whoops...slips. Squelch. Splatters his beautiful, shiny 750-dinar shoes. Cursing, he takes out a little white handkerchief, spits on it, and wipes them clean.

The lobby of the apartment building is a war zone, letterboxes spewing their guts, walls and staircases crumbling. Kids, kids, and more kids.

A child of three, barefoot and naked to the waist, is splashing around in the murky water, his face tattooed with mud. He’s playing with a dead bird, pulling out its feathers one by one.

Moussa looks away, steps over him, and makes for the staircase, dog-tired. Swarms of snot-nosed brats cluster in the stairwells.

The building’s waking up, sullen faces, dry coughs, some to their sorrow, others keeping close to the walls. Schoolkids, workers, or young layabouts by decree of the Almighty,

In the street, cars refuse to start. Go on, put it in second, we’ll push . . . one, two, three, puuush . . . arms abound, thousands of strong sleepy arms. Push, push . . . is it the spark plugs? The battery? I know someone in Bouzaréah, might get you a battery if you’re lucky.

A powerful stink of perfume corrupts the stale morning air. Hey, it’s Wahiba, the Méziani girl. Divine ass . . . Hi, hi . . . secretary in a travel agency, I think.

Wonder what’s going down at home?

It’s Wednesday, so Saliha, Kahina, and Mohand must have left for work, Nacéra and Ouardia for college. The old man’ll be devouring the politics section of the paper, railing against the government as usual.

Ma taking pills for her sciatica, her blood pressure, and her diabetes, Grandma already rolling the couscous, Z’hor doing the washing, the housework. Her girls, Maya and Fella, four and five, playing on the balcony. Sahnoun, unemployed idiot, autistic for years, will still be sleeping. And Slimane, unemployed Islamist, he’s bound to be at the mosque with the bearded brigade.

Entrance 9, staircase F, 5th floor, the landing, apartment 35. Wiped out, Moussa fumbles for his key and softly opens the door, dreading the reception he’ll get.

Splitting headache. What a night!

All in all, the gig went well, well organized, well paid at any rate, 20,000 dinars in total, 8,000 for yours truly. That’s only right: I’m the star. It’s no joke, singing for over five hours with just one short break. Typical wedding repertoire: a bit of traditional Algiers for starters, to relax them, then you go straight for the gut, the pièce de résistance, a modern Kabyle song, chef’s specialty. There was even a journalist from Algérie Actualité, big mustache . . . arranged to meet . . . an interview maybe?


Has to be said, I gave it my all, everyone danced till first light. The violinist went a bit off-key, but it was OK. Then we partied with the band at the Terminus until dawn, thirty-six coffees, sandwiches. The usual early morning customers, musicians, cabaret dancers. Then, around 7 a.m., back home with Djelloul, our band driver.

I make a point of coming home in the early hours. It’s better like that, you can crash out instantly, don’t see so much.

Fourteen people in three rooms.

As I open the door, a quick peek, Fella rushes up and gives me a big hug, I slip her a 10-dinar coin, tiptoe along the corridor, and dive into the boys’ bedroom.

Sahnoun’s still sleeping, Slimane’s already out and about. Fumbling, Moussa undresses then flops onto his mattress on the floor and sinks into sleep.

From The Star of Algiers by Aziz Chouaki. English language translation copyright 2005 by Ros Schwartz and Lulu Norman. All rights reserved.