I am walking on Avenue du Parc, in Mile End, in Montreal. This walk is not ordinary. It’s probably the last one, before a long time, on this dented sidewalk used so often where stalls of colorful fruits and vegetables follow one another. My head is elsewhere: towards the pink sky of Montreal’s August, towards the string of smells of Moroccan souks. Another beautiful day of 2011 is coming tomorrow.
Yes, tomorrow… I will take the plane to go to Morocco. I signed a two-year contract in an international school in Casablanca. I don’t know anything about this city. I imagine it with its smells, its light and its sounds. I’m not there yet or quite here… I walk, lost in my thoughts. Suddenly, my foot in my new sandal gets caught in a crack in the sidewalk. I’m in the air and I know the landing will be rough. As in a slow-motion sequence shot, I see the inevitable coming. Bang! My face crushed on the cement.
It’s done. There are lots of people around me. The first thought that comes to mind is: “People are nice, they care about me. My case is undoubtedly serious. » An employee of the fruit store rushes to bring me water to quench my thirst and to clean the blood running down my face. I hear: “Poor thing. » Am I on the verge of death? I get asked lots of questions. We call an ambulance. I have all my mind. Do I have all my teeth?
I arrive at the hospital. I thought that my arrival, with great fanfare, by ambulance, would have speeded up the emergency triage process. No. I swapped my crippled stretcher for an ordinary hospital chair. I wonder if I will be able to take the plane tomorrow morning, which is in a few hours. Finally, I am named. I run.
The x-rays show no broken nose or anything that could have caused severe head injuries. I have all my teeth. Everything is fine, except this swelling which disfigures my face. A nasty face, really. “The essential is invisible to the eyes,” I repeat to myself. It is with this new face that I will enter Morocco.
At Pierre-Elliot-Trudeau airport, I passed through customs without any problem. Same thing in Morocco. Not even an awkward or caring comment. A woman in her late forties with a swollen face. Nothing special.
The first thing you notice when you arrive in a new country is the smells. Each country, like each person, has its own smells. Indescribable, but perceptible. There is also the light which is different. It can dazzle us as it can extinguish us. And the noise. In Casablanca, the noise gets in our way. Horns, language, emotions, life…
In front of the Twin Center towers, in Casablanca, in the central district of Maârif, I try to cross the street. Moroccan drivers have no use for traffic lights. Neither do pedestrians. People are jostling, but seem to know where to go. My survival instinct pushes me to follow in the footsteps of a woman dressed in a djellaba with a swaying, calm gait. I follow her like a frightened duckling. She feels something lurking around her.
She turns to me, smiling: “Did he hit you? » she said, in a good-natured tone, like when we recognize someone who shares the same hobby as us. I don’t answer. I look at her, pleading, my face still purple and bruised. She takes my hand and makes her way, while turning her head from one side to the other, accustomed to this urban and sound chaos. I let myself be guided, dazed. “I have some ointment for you.” It’ll go away, right away. Look, he hit me last week. Everything is gone. Do you see something ? Everything is gone. I can give you some ointment, if you want. In a few days, insha Allah, you won’t see anything anymore. I swear. On the head of my mother ! »
It’s crazy how universal female solidarity is…