Belkacem Meghzouchene Sophia in the White City SOPHIA IN THE WHITE CITY -Novel- BELKACEM MEGHZOUCHENE 1 Belkacem Meghzouchene Sophia in the White City CHAPTER 1 The Philips 160’s alarm clock on the night table went off at six a.m. Ramice reached lazily, eyes and lips gummy, to the mobile phone’s Oriental ring tone to cut it short. The warmth of his single-bed had always been spoiled by his accustomed time of awakening since he had hired this three-roomed-plus-kitchen apartment in a nine-storey building. He shifted from the right- side position of sleep to the back one, pillowing his two hands, staring at the dimly lit chalky ceiling. He realized how little he had slept. The last night’s final touches to the October week- four issue of his recently launched Hebdo-Sciences made him burn the midnight candle and he had thus turned in five hours ago. Ramice finally resolved to jump out of bed. He switched on the light, and then went out of the bedchamber with his green slippers to ease himself. By six-thirty he had washed himself, combed his black short hair, put on his classic pants and dark- cyan shirt and brown leather shoes. He made himself white 2 Belkacem Meghzouchene Sophia in the White City coffee and sipped it with yesterday’s crescent roll he would buy from Votre Boulangerie, located down the opposite building. The stillness of this apartment began to bother him as the days went by. It had been six months since he had moved in. At first, he had apprehension to live in this eastern suburb of Algiers. Rumors had it that outskirts of Algiers were formidable sanctuaries of burglars, drug-dealers, unscrupulous goons, rapists, and the likes; a far cry from people leading a life of Riley in the highly-policed, luxurious residences of the heights of Algiers. After the washing-up, Ramice headed back to the sleeping- room to tidy up his bed so meticulously that it reminded him of the military service’s eighteen months he had gone through, when discipline implied such ritual things. A good reflex, he thought. He pushed the two pale blue curtains of the living-room’s wide window apart to let feeble light seeping into from the outside. Cacophony of building up noises started to break the silence of post-dawn; as per usual, kids on the verge of joining schools and grown-ups their work nests. It was Sunday, a day of work in Algeria. Thursday and Friday stand for the country’s week-end, as a matter of fact. From Saturday through to Wednesday, Algerians who work should, in theory, clock in at eight a.m. and clock off at sixteen for some or seventeen for the others. Ramice got used to abiding by this range of hours and days of work even though he worked for his own business: an editor-in- chief of French-language weekly science on-line magazine, Hebdo-Sciences. Besides, Ramice had been running a cybercafé, established part by the sweat of his brow and part following a bank credit allotted in the realms of state’s financial aids chipped in to unemployed, newly graduated youth. But the hard truth was that one must have gone through the teeth and fangs of awful bureaucratic meanders to make things struck. Connections mattered too much. A vitality in Algeria. And Ramice was not an exception to eke out his own living. Damn it. 3 Belkacem Meghzouchene Sophia in the White City He gazed at his wrist-watch.: seven-twenty; time to go out for work. He donned his leather black jacket, tucked in the brown book bag all his stuff: diskettes, CDs, printouts, wallet, mobile phone, agenda, and copies of previous Hebdo-Sciences issues. A last glance at the wall-hooked rectangular mirror recalled him of his two-day beard. Not a worrisome aspect for Ramice. He picked up the keys, put out the light, checked city gas was closed, and then came from his fourth-floor apartment down out of the building. The stairway was sombre, for pinhead adaptors, lamps and switches, had been disembowelled and purloined by, without any doubt, loots of this same building. Damn it. As to the elevator, its outcome dated back as far as the Big Bang era. Algerians would rather sweat by taking the stairs than appreciating modern convenience. A chill waft of air hit Ramice’s face. He zipped his jacket. Along the way to the makeshift bus stop, he greeted the few people he had so far made acquaintance with; mainly residents of the same building as his. Fish bootleggers had already squatted the sidewalks, along with ambulatory sellers of vegetables and spices. And, of course, vendors of bananas. There were times, when this yellow- skinned fruit was as far away from Algerians as exoplanets were. All of sudden, at the turn of the twenty-first century, ships of bananas sailed into Algiers Port. And bananas’ peels had ever since been pervading every inch of territory! Sarcastically speaking, the more Algerians ate bananas, the more slippery their paths would to be! Ramice, after waiting five minutes, felt relieved when he saw the Isuzu bus pulling in by the dozens of impatient, moody passengers. They all got in, stacked like sardines in the aisle, because the twenty-two seats had all been occupied. The bus conductor, a lanky man of thirty, fought his way to get paid by the passengers aboard. 4 Belkacem Meghzouchene Sophia in the White City The bus inched toward the terminus, due to the morning snarl- up before eight; anyway, everybody got accustomed to these tortures of days of work. Ramice pushed back to the rear door as he would go down in the next bus spot: Cinq-Maisons. The bus pulled up, the engine all roaring, people went out, and others in. Then the bus drove off for another struggle of traffic jam. A trail of emitted smoke blurred the cars behind. Ramice, bag held by his right hand, wormed himself onto the core of Cinq-Maisons, where his business was set up in the ground floor of a six-storey building. He arrived at eight-fifteen, as usual. “Good morning, sir,” said Nabil, who had opened the cybercafé before his boss showed up. Actually, the 25-year-old Nabil lived just in the neighborhoods of Cinq-Maisons: Tamares. “Have you connected the PCs to Internet?” Ramice asked. “Not yet, sir. It’ll be operating within a few minutes.” The woman in charge of Desktop Publishing (DTP) and his three aides must have been caught in traffic jam, Ramice thought. He seated himself by his two-computer, glossy desk. Ramice powered the two PCs. Meanwhile, he emptied his bag on the already crammed desk: a pail of pens; a pile of national newspapers in Arabic and French; some issues of Scientific American, Science & Vie, Science, Nature, La Recherche, Jeune Afrique, to name a few; letterheads; a 2006 calendar; an ink eraser, a date marker and a stamp pad. Ramice was flipping through the pages of Nature as the other four members crowded in his office. The four exchanged handshakes with Ramice. “Sit down, please,” Ramice said, all smiling. Ramice’s bureau was separated from the room that contained the twenty Internet-fed PCs with a thin wall of glass. From where he was, he could see the customers coming in and out. 5 Belkacem Meghzouchene Sophia in the White City Nabil, a tall man with short brown hair, had been ascribed the task of holding this side business of Ramice since he had launched his science journal, aiming at generalizing the cutting- edge scientific breakthroughs and developments to the rank and the file. “Nasreen,” Ramice addressing her as she was charged of DTP and web-design of the e-magazine, “you’ll have a lot of work today to make sure this week’s web issue come out at the latest by tomorrow. ” “I know that. All the articles Samir, Adel and Linda handed me out in diskettes have undergone DTP. It remains to treat your week’s editorial, and the latest news all of you could have assembled,” head-scarfed Nasreen responded. Stacking his forearms on the desk, Ramice said, “As for the editorial in question, I finished it off the last night.” “I’ll process it, then,” Nasreen said. “And you, Samir?” Ramice asked. “All’s right for the ARCHEOLOGY & ANTHROPOLOGY section. Latest news have been edited and they’re in the DTP stage,” Samir pointed out. Adel was caressing his thin black moustache, as Ramice spoke to him. “The PHYSICS & ASTRONOMY & CHEMISTRY topics,” Adel explained, “were updated yesterday, and Nasreen fulfilled the linked DTP as well.” Ramice seemed satisfied with the work done by his collaborators to a high degree. Linda, also, told Ramice that the LIFE SCIENCES & MEDICINE section was ready to be published on-line. Nasreen was tickled pink this morning, Ramice noticed. Perhaps, one man had asked for her hand in marriage, ending therefore her 27-year single-hood, he conjectured. 6 Belkacem Meghzouchene Sophia in the White City “Well, I’m glad that everybody did perfect work to move forward our fledgling magazine,” Ramice ended his morning’s meeting as saying. ************************************************** Nasreen chose an Internet-connected computer and plunged into her assigned piece of work pertaining to the DTP that she now got used to handling for this fourth issue of Hebdo-Sciences. The white-complexioned visage of Nasreen lively translated her not-to-be-ignored high spirits she had displayed this morning, diametrical to the frame of mind she had been dragging since 10 November 2002’s Bab al-Wad floods that bereaved her father at the age of 51.