The Curious Case of Dassoukine's Trousers. Fouad Laroui
would it be like, he asked himself, a world where everything was foreign?
What would it be like, he asked himself, walking slowly in the direction of his house, a world where everything was foreign?
What would it be like, he asked himself, walking slowly in the direction of his house, where his wife Anna was waiting for him, a world where everything was foreign?
What would it be like, he asked himself, walking slowly in the direction of his house, where his wife Anna was waiting for him—sweet, kind Anna—a world where everything was foreign?
What would it be like, he asked himself, walking slowly in the direction of his house, where his wife Anna was waiting for him—sweet, kind Anna, whom he had ended up marrying in order to settle down (isn’t that what it was called, in times past, in the world of Parisian courtesans?)—a world where everything was foreign?
What would it be like, he asked himself, walking slowly in the direction of his house, where his wife Anna was waiting for him—sweet, kind Anna, whom he had ended up marrying in order to settle down (isn’t that what it was called, in times past, in the world of Parisian courtesans?—Oh Maati, you and your French references…)—a world where everything was foreign?
What would it be like, he asked himself, walking slowly in the direction of his house, where his wife Anna was waiting for him—sweet, kind Anna, whom he had ended up marrying in order to settle down (isn’t that what it was called, in times past, in the world of Parisian courtesans?—Oh Maati, you and your French references…and sometimes she would add: You aren’t even French, you’re Moroccan.)—a world where everything was foreign?
What would it be like, he asked himself, walking slowly in the direction of his house, where his wife Anna was waiting for him—sweet, kind Anna, whom he had ended up marrying in order to settle down (isn’t that what it was called, in times past, in the world of Parisian courtesans?—Oh Maati, you and your French references…and sometimes she would add: You aren’t even French, you’re Moroccan. He had tried one day to explain to her that he was Moroccan by birth, in body, but “French in the head.”…She had laughed in his face, and even he wasn’t very convinced by his pro domo plea)—a world where everything was foreign?
What would it be like, he asked himself, walking slowly in the direction of his house, where his wife Anna was waiting for him—sweet, kind Anna, whom he had ended up marrying in order to settle down (isn’t that what it was called, in times past, in the world of Parisian courtesans?—Oh Maati, you and your French references…and sometimes she would add: “You aren’t even French, you’re Moroccan.” He had tried one day to explain to her that he was Moroccan by birth, in body, but “French in the head.”…She had laughed in his face, and even he wasn’t very convinced by his pro domo plea. But here, for God’s sake! Here, in Utrecht, wasn’t he ten times more of a foreigner than he would have been if he had moved to Nantes or Montpellier?)—a world where everything was foreign?
What would it be like, he asked himself, walking slowly in the direction of his house, where his wife Anna was waiting for him—sweet, kind Anna, whom he had ended up marrying in order to settle down (isn’t that what it was called, in times past, in the world of Parisian courtesans?—Oh Maati, you and your French references…and sometimes she would add: You aren’t even French, you’re Moroccan. He had tried one day to explain to her that he was Moroccan by birth, in body, but “French in the head.”…She had laughed in his face, and even he wasn’t very convinced by his pro domo plea. But here, for God’s sake! Here, in Utrecht, wasn’t he ten times more of a foreigner than he would have been if he had moved to Nantes or Montpellier? Over there, the trees would have had familiar names, the trees and the animals and the household items at the supermarket; over there he wouldn’t have needed to consult a dictionary to buy a mop)—a world where everything was foreign?
What would it be like, he asked himself, walking slowly in the direction of his house, where his wife Anna was waiting for him—sweet, kind Anna, whom he had ended up marrying in order to settle down (isn’t that what it was called, in times past, in the world of Parisian courtesans?—Oh Maati, you and your French references…and sometimes she would add: You aren’t even French, you’re Moroccan. He had tried one day to explain to her that he was Moroccan by birth, in body, but “French in the head.”…She had laughed in his face, and even he wasn’t very convinced by his pro domo plea. But here, for God’s sake! Here, in Utrecht, wasn’t he ten times more of a foreigner than he would have been if he had moved to Nantes or Montpellier? Over there, the trees would have had familiar names, the trees and the animals and the household items at the supermarket; over there, he wouldn’t have needed to consult a dictionary to buy a mop—a mop, goddamnit! It had come to this, he who had dreamed of “changing the world”—what was it again, that Marx quotation he had repeated with elation, with a sort of pride by anticipation—like a program, like a project…ah yes: “Philosophers have only interpreted the world; the point is to change it!” He added long ago, a bit of a pedant, but a winning pedant: “the eleventh thesis on Feuerbach,” yes, yes: “the point is to change it!”)—a world where everything was foreign?
What would it be like, he asked himself, walking slowly in the direction of his house, where his wife Anna was waiting for him—sweet, kind Anna, whom he had ended up marrying in order to settle down (isn’t that what it was called, in times past, in the world of Parisian courtesans?—Oh Maati, you and your French references…and sometimes she would add: You aren’t even French, you’re Moroccan. He had tried one day to explain to her that he was Moroccan by birth, in body, but “French in the head.”…She had laughed in his face, and even he wasn’t very convinced by his pro domo plea. But here, for God’s sake! Here, in Utrecht, wasn’t he ten times more of a foreigner than he would have been if he had moved to Nantes or Montpellier? Over there, the trees would have had familiar names, the trees and the animals and the household items at the supermarket; over there, he wouldn’t have needed to consult a dictionary to buy a mop—a mop, goddamnit! It had come to this, he who had dreamed of “changing the world”—what was it again, that Marx quotation he had repeated with elation, with a sort of pride by anticipation—like a program, like a project…ah yes: “Philosophers have only interpreted the world; the point is to change it!” He added long ago, a bit of a pedant, but a winning pedant: “the eleventh thesis on Feuerbach,” yes, yes: “the point is to change it!” But today? Life’s vicissitudes…Here he is, an immigrant in a world where he doesn’t know the codes, or only very vaguely, a world where each day he must discover the codes—a discreet nudge from Anna, the nudge in his side that night when he had enthusiastically plunged his spoon into the soup bowl, the night when her parents were visiting—hey, we have to wait for the short prayer giving thanks to God for the food on the table—wasn’t her father a pastor of the Reformed Church of the Netherlands?)—a world where everything was foreign?
What would it be like, he asked himself, walking slowly—more and more slowly, as if he wasn’t in any hurry to arrive—in the direction of his house, where his wife Anna was waiting for him—sweet, kind Anna—but sweet and kind because he never annoyed her, having decided once and for all that he would move to the Netherlands, that they had accepted him, and that it was out of the question, consequently, to import anything of his own customs, habits, behaviors from his native Morocco into this country where he was rebuilding his life, no: where he was continuing his life—Anna, whom he had ended up marrying in order to settle down (isn’t that what it was called, in times past, in the world of Parisian courtesans? (Doesn’t Proust use that expression somewhere?)—Oh Maati, you and your French references…and sometimes she would add: You aren’t even French, you’re Moroccan. (It wasn’t mean, just a bit teasing—Anna didn’t establish any hierarchy between Moroccans and the French—which stunned him, and for which he was extremely grateful to her.) He had tried one day to explain to her that he was Moroccan by birth, in body, but “French in the head.”…(Suddenly he remembered the title of the novel-essay by Günter