Ninette of Sin Street
by Vitalis Danon
I
Morning, Mr. Director, Sir. Well, here I am, itâs me, Ninette. Which one, you ask?
I guess there are quite a few of us in this town, arenât there!
Well, since you asked, Iâm the Ninette who lives over that way, as you walk up toward the city walls, and you land right in the middle of the . . . well, you know . . . the âladiesâ quarter,â Sin Street, with all due respect.
A room in town? Heavens no, I could never afford that, not in this life, anyway. Moneyâs what you need for that. And with the chump change I earn working for the richâthirty, forty, all right letâs say fifty centimes in good timesâI can just about keep bread on the table for my little boy. So, you see, I canât be too choosy. I take what lodgings I can get, a little hole in the wall over by the . . . âladies,â who arenât worse than anyone else, mind you, since they do help us through bad times. A small room to clean here, a little laundry there, some errands, I can always earn a few coins off them, too.
Trouble is, my little boy here isnât so little anymore and is starting to figure things out. You see, all day long, we get Senegalese infantrymen, Algerian cavalrymen, Arabs, Bedouins, Maltese, Jews, Greeks, or Sicilians, who come and go, look over the merchandise before picking one out to take into a back room and have a go.
Everyone said: take your son to the Jewish school! So here I am. Youâll take him, of course, wonât you? They wouldnât have him anywhere else since he doesnât have the papers, you see. You know, birth certificates, that sort of thing. Where do you think I can get them? The kidâs got no father: I was dumped as soon as I confessed there was a little one on the way. No offense meant, Sir, but itâs the honest truth. No sense hiding it, everybody knows. So, you understand the tricky situation Iâm in at present. But I do know that heâs mine, isnât that right, my little Israel? Look at him, will you? All nice and clean. So youâll take him, right? You canât go and turn me out like the others have, can you? Youâll sign him up, right? Whatâs that bit of paper everyoneâs asking for anyway? Something that important, wouldnât the Creator have tacked that on when he made us?
My sonâs name, you ask? I just said it, didnât I? Israel. Israel what? How am I supposed to know? Youâre cleverer than me: what do you call a kid whoâs missing a father?
As for me, Iâm Ninette, the one and only. You havenât heard of me, really? Well, how can that be? Maybe itâs because youâre not from these parts. Or you look the other way when your nasty little charges are pelting me with stones when school lets out. Youâve never seen the way they corner me, then grope and pinch until Iâm black and blue? Just for laughs, they say, just for jollies. Come on, I know what men are all about. Pigs, the lot of them, save one or two. They get all excited seeing me on my back like that, arms and legs flailing. Very sorry, Sir, I donât mean to annoy you. Oh, come on, do a girl a favor and take my son in. Donât go and send him away for something so silly. Sign him up and teach him how to put ink on paper. Make a man of him: he doesnât have to be a geniusâIâm not that ambitiousâbut a man whoâll get me out of this mess Iâm in.
Look at me, Iâm only twenty-six, but Iâve been working for the last fifteen of those years, doing this and that. And underpaid, and scolded, and beaten, oh yes, kicked in the behind; and fed in the kitchen where the lady of the house has me eat along with her cats!
Who wouldnât be this spiteful and hateful, when year in and year out, day and night, youâre doing nothing but washing, scrubbing, rinsing, polishing, ironing, mending, cooking special little dishes for Madameâsheâs got a delicate stomach, poor thingâand for Monsieur, who stuffs himself . . . ?
All right, all right, Iâll hold my tongue. Thatâs what happens when I get angry. Theyâre right to slap me around. They have to beat some sense into me somehow, donât they? Iâm like fresh octopus: the harder you hit them, the tenderer they get.
So, itâs done then, youâll sign him up, my son. And Iâll be off, happier than when I came, thatâs for sure. And Iâll be thinking to myself on the way: Ninette, old girl, youâre a foolâalways been one, in factâthat much is clear. But that doesnât mean your son has to be one. Youâll wear yourself out for years to put your son through school, to dress and feed him. And if that means taking hard-earned bread out of your own mouth, then so be it. Youâll be doing it for him. And youâll show the world that Ninette can do things right when she sets her mind to it.
Ah, my son! When heâs all grown up and earning a living, there wonât be a mother on earth prouder than me. Weâll stroll arm-in-arm around the bandstand, when the fine ladies strut by in their feathered hats with their la-di-da airs, with their busts and bustles all rustling in silk. And my son will pat me on the hand and say: donât worry, Mama, Iâm rich, letâs go to the shops and buy whatever we want.
So off weâll go window-shopping, and pick out a few things, though he says nothing there is good enough for me, dear boy.
And fine bed linens, and gowns, and draperies, weâll buy them all by the dozen, by the bolt. And jewelry for me, pearls and diamonds. And a thousand francs, and then another thousand he puts into my purse, saying: here Mama, take this and give it out to the poor. And when itâs all gone, thereâll always be more, donât forget.
Thatâs what my sonâs going to be, thatâs what heâll be saying some day.
Oh, but donât look at me now, with my torn skirt, my faded scarf, my bare feet in secondhand slippers from the robba vecchia!*1 Moneyâs round; it rolls. One day to you, another day to me, and on it goes. What makes you think it wouldnât make a stop at my door one day and brighten up my life a bit? Donât you think old Ninette has earned herself a little attention from the Almighty? Hasnât she? Never hurt anyone in my life, have I, not even a fly, folks will tell you as much. Always wanted good, never evil. Itâs just that the good wanted nothing to do with me, so it was evil that came along instead.
So there he is, Sir. Iâm putting him in your hands, my little one.
Heâs the apple of my eye, he is. Heâs not a bad boy, youâll see. Heâs just too scared, thatâs all. Heâs been beaten about so much by me and everyone else that he raises an elbow for cover as soon as anyone comes close. And he shakes, good Lord how he shakes! After giving him a good walloping, Iâm always on my knees begging for forgiveness, hugging and kissing him and crying my eyes out. I roll on the ground like a kitten to let him stomp all over me.
Thatâs my boy, my little man, the love of my heart. But heâs the enemy, too, living proof of my shame and the wickedness of some man.
Youâve the patience of Job, to hear me out like this. Send me away! Come on, send me away already! Weâll be here all night, otherwise, all year even, until the end of the world . . .
Iâm a chatterbox, donât mind me. Once I open my mouth, thereâs no shutting me up!
So good day to you, Sir. Iâm back to my pots and pans now. Have to keep living, whether your heartâs full of cares and woe, or singing like a bird.
Get a move on, Ninette. Keep on going till you get to the other side, where thereâs no more shame or grief, no more birth certificates or bastards, or anything. Weâre all the same, my lovely ladies, all a feast for worms, with a clump of earth for a pillow and a nice-sized stone on the belly. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, itâs just like I say, like what the rabbi reads at the synagogue. You havenât heard him? You might go have a listen some day. My oh my, what youâll learn about whatâs waiting for you over there! Itâll make you think twice before messing around, since weâre all going to end up kif-kif,*2 big and small, nasty and kindhearted, the do-nothings and the have-nothings, even the fellow tooling around in his automobile. Thatâs a consolation, old girl, and not the least.
See you next time, Sir, alive and well. If itâs all right with you, Ninette will be stopping by from time to time after class, to see how the little one is doing.
And especially, if you please Sir, donât ask me any questions, all right? There have been such unspeakable things in my life! I donât really care so much, Iâm just plain old me. I donât hold anything back. But you, Sir, I wonder how you can listen to an unwed mother who lives on Sin Street?
II
Morning to you, Sir. Itâs me again, Ninette.
Itâs been some months, hasnât it? How are you doing, first of all?
Thank you for my son, too. Youâre really spoiling him, with a slate, colored crayons, the whole deal, eh?
Me? Same as always. Have to get by with what youâve got, right? I laugh, I cry, I pout, I moan and groan about everyone and everything, and then I just get on with it.
Donât you laugh at me, now! Sometimes I say to myself: Ninette, I say, if I were the Almightyâjust supposing, right?âor something like that, I would send some huge disaster to the world. And then, weâd start all over.
But it seems, according to the rabbi, that he already tried that once, and it didnât work out so well. A shame, isnât it? So now, to keep us waiting, theyâre promising us a Messiah.
Do you believe in the Messiah, you Sir?
Saturdayâs my day off, so I take my little son by the hand and weâre off to the synagogue to hear the rabbi. Heâs this fellow from Djerba with a big moustache that takes up half his face, and a black beard so long itâs endless.*3 But he knows his stuff, no question about it, and heâs a good speaker. He says the Almighty is watching over everything and everybody (me included! though youâd never know).
So, later on, much later on, in I donât know how many years, I wonât be doing laundry anymore; no more of this backbreaking work for me, running around from dawn to dusk for a crust of bread and a couple raw onions for my sonny and me.
He puts it like this: the more problems we have down in this world, the better things will be later, up there in the other. Take me, for example: wretch that I am, dumped by my sonâs father, Iâll be sitting on a golden throne up there, in a house full of carpets, carpets on every floor. And in the streets, flowers everywhere and greenery, instead of all that stinking filth.
No more need to go to the public fountain and fight over whose turn it is, water will spring up from the ground and flow as pure as diamonds.
Thatâs what the rabbi from Djerba says.
You should see this rabbiâs clienteleâbeggars, old folks, the paralyzed, the drunk, the blindâand how they stare wide-eyed when he says those things! Theyâre so spellbound, in fact, that they fall asleep and snore through the rest of the service, poor devils.
I feel lulled too, at first. But then I realize: this flea-bitten cleric is also filling my mind with notions as intoxicating as the fig boukhaâ 4 of his homeland!
I come to my senses, filled with rage: enough! Enough lies! Itâs a sin to lead poor folks on like that. Your tales are taller than your beard is long! If itâs true, what youâre saying, and I mean Godâs truth, then give me just a little bit of it right now. Waiting around like this, mouth open, I canât take it anymore, Iâm at the end of my rope.
Take yesterday, for instance. I did a huge load of laundry for Stitra Perez. That evening, she puts a few miserable coins in my hand. They work us to the bone, and then they wonder why the Messiah isnât coming . . .
From there, I went to the butcherâs shop.
Messaoud the butcher, what a despicable person! He looks down on you like heâs second cousin to the bey or something. Heâs got meanness oozing from every pore of that yellow face of his.
âSo Ninette,â he says, âwhatâll it be for you today? A leg of lamb or a pound of chops? Shall I remove some of the fat for you?â
His steely gaze lights up and his moustache curls like a catâs, trying not to laugh.
And I think to myself: go ahead, make fun all you want. Ninette may be standing in front of you, but Ninette isnât here. Her mind is somewhere else; sheâs not listening. Sheâs trying to figure out how sheâs going to pay for food and rent with the pittance sheâs just received.
You give a franc to the landlord, and you are already poorer by half. Then you get some pasta for five centimes, two more for tomato sauce, with the rest going to the butcher. Weâll see what you can get from him. A bone, thatâs all. And even then, if thereâs a little marrow in it, wouldnât that be nice?
But, as if it wasnât enough that Iâm a hardship case, he makes things worse by suggesting cuts that I couldnât afford if I saved a yearâs wages!
Another one who quickly paid for all the harm he did.
Starved us, he did, sold us bones instead o...