Fin de journée. Décor crépusculaire. Beaucoup d’agitation. Comme chaque fin de journée, les employés de bureau rentraient chez eux, à la file, formant un mille-pieds d’hommes prostrés. Notre ami n’est pas concerné par cette agitation, par cette migration journalière des travailleurs. Mokhless, c’est son nom, n’a jamais travaillé de sa vie. Chômeur chronique, battal, il écume les cafés populaires depuis l’âge de dix-sept ans ; à force, il connaissait chaque garçon de café comme si c’était un proche ; il aurait même pu écrire un guide de tous les cafés de la région. Mais écrire n’était pas sa préoccupation. A vingt-neuf ans, Mokhless voyait déjà sa vie comme si elle avait passé, il se la figurait au passé décomposé, une sorte de temps où il n’y avait ni vécu, ni avenir, ni projet. Il vivait au jour le jour, avec une routine accablante, dans l’attente constante du rien ; hagard, marchant sans réel but, tournant en rond. Il ressemblait à une sorte de Sisyphe des temps modernes, sauf qu’au lieu de rouler sa pierre éternellement, Mokhless traînait sa carcasse d’un café l’autre. Certains jours, il éprouvait une vague rage, sans qu’il ne sût réellement contre qui, ni contre quoi. Mais par une acrobatie mentale pratique, la faute retombait inévitablement sur la chance. Ah ! La chance, cette amante capricieuse. Mokhless se plaisait quelques fois à rêver du jour où elle lui sourirait, où il pourrait reprendre sa revanche contre la société. Il s’agissait alors de grandes choses, de dépenses dispendieuses, de train de vie extravagant, de conquêtes romanesques… il se voyait déjà submerger sous un déluge de billet de banque, un véritable raz-de-marée de pièces de monnaie. Il s’imaginait que l’argent pouvait tout acheter. Ses rêveries duraient parfois des heures, mais presque toujours, il était réveillé par le garçon de café qui venait alors chercher sa monnaie, le prix du modeste café. C’était alors des grognements, des sous-entendus lâchés par le jeune homme, signifiant qu’il ne fallait jamais se mettre entre un homme et ses rêves de grandeur. Le garçon de café, habitué à voir des Mokhless tout au long de la journée, répondait par un sourire goguenard, avant de prendre sa monnaie et de disparaitre derrière son comptoir.
Mokhless savait que c’était le signal pour changer de café, qu’il était grillé dans celui-là. Alors, machinalement, il se levait, prenait ses cigarettes bon marché et s’en allait. Il ne ressemblait plus qu’à son ombre ; véritable zombie, vagabondant chaque nuit d’un café à l’autre, la mine ravagée par tant de veillées, de mauvais tabac et de café. D’habitude, il échouait contre un autre comptoir du quartier, un de ceux qui veillent, qui restent ouverts jusqu’à l’aube. Ce genre de lieu est intéressant de par sa faune, formée d’une curieuse clientèle, charriée là par les sombres et calmes rues de la cité. Mokhless, malgré qu’il soit un habitué des lieux, était un peu mal à l’aise dans ce décor. Pourtant, il y venait presque tous les soirs. C’était d’abord par nécessité, car il avait juré de ne plus passer une seule nuit dans le foyer familial, ne supportant plus les querelles perpétuelles avec son père ; ensuite, parce que le jeune homme trouvait cet attroupement humain intéressant à observer, cela le distrayait de ses soucis.
Il y avait toujours une table de joueurs, on la reconnaissait facilement car les insultes et les cris de rage y fusaient continuellement. En général, ils se plaçaient au plus près de la lumière, par prévention contre les tricheries, sans doute. Ensuite, il y avait la table des discrets, on les reconnaissait à leur air de méfiance, de suspicion, de coups d’œil furtifs jetés constamment par-dessus l’épaule ; leurs oreilles étaient constamment aux aguets, tels des suricates flairant le danger. On y causait soit politique, soit, le plus souvent, à propos de quelque plan louche de départ clandestin vers l’Europe. Quant aux autres tables, elles étaient occupées par des solitaires au regard vide, sorte de somnambules, hésitant entre rêves et cauchemars. Cette dernière catégorie faisait frissonner Mokhless. Dans certains moments de lucidité, il se disait qu’il ferait tout pour ne pas leur ressembler. C’est alors que la question du que faire se posait avec plus d’insistance. Il sentait qu’il était coincé, que rien ne pouvait le délivrer. Et dans ces moments, l’idée d’un éventuel sourire de la chance le désespérait. Il sentait qu’il lui faudrait se débrouiller seul, sans l’appui de la Providence, ni d’un quelconque coup de chance. Dans son agitation intérieure, Mokhless finissait toujours par poser son regard sur le groupe des discrets ; il lui semblait que dans leurs chuchotements méfiants, il y avait un mystère qui pouvait seul lui apporter une réponse à ses misères. Peu à peu, il se laisser bercer par ces chuchotements ; ceux-ci finissaient toujours par le transporter dans un songe de grand départ, de migration clandestine au nez des autorités. Le jeune homme n’avait alors qu’une idée vague de ce qu’était le voyage des sans-papiers, il n’en connaissait que quelques histoires, sorte de légendes urbaines de clandestins ayant réussi leur périple des mers. Alors, Mokhless ne pensait plus qu’à partir. Quitter à jamais sa terre natale. Mais pour aller où ? Peu importe ; loin d’ici. Il rêvait déjà d’un Ailleurs où il pourrait refaire sa vie, incognito. Il rêvait déjà de son départ, par une nuit de clair de lune, cheveux au vent, la main fièrement posée sur le gouvernail de l’embarcation clandestine, la mine enfin revivifiée par l’air du large. Clandestino, tel était son destin. Rejoindre l’Italie, première escale d’un long périple. Renaissance.
Mais avant, dans cette rêverie fiévreuse des mers et de grand départ, il se disait qu’il lui fallait accomplir un acte nécessaire à son salut, une sorte de rituel ou de cérémonie destinée à lui ouvrir les portes de l’Europe et de sa nouvelle vie. Il se voyait déjà sur la rive sud de la Méditerranée, paré au départ, mais voulant à tout prix marquer son passage d’un monde à l’autre par le feu, un feu purificateur. Il voyait déjà tous ses papiers brûlés par le brasier ; son extrait de naissance, son carnet familial, sa carte d’identité, consumés à tout jamais. Sa nationalité, son appartenance tant religieuse que culturelle, Mokhless ne les avaient vécues jusqu’ici que comme autant de carcans, sans cesse le tirant vers le néant. C’est alors que ses yeux s’illuminaient, comme éclairés par le brasier de ses pensées…
Mais en attendant, la lumière du jour pointe son nez, il était déjà l’heure de rentrer ; son père ayant dû quitter le domicile familial pour aller gagner son maigre pain, Mokhless se disait qu’il allait pouvoir dormir un peu, avant de recommencer et de reprendre le chemin du café.
Mansour Bouaziz, Août 2015
Western University
THE DECEPTIONS OF “SISYPHE AU CAFÉ”
Like the mythological figure from which it derives its title, “Sisyphe au café” tricks its readers. At first glance, this story seems to be all about the pointlessness of the day-to-day humdrum of modern life, and it is quite on-the-nose about it too. The main protagonist, Mokhless, is a classic nihilistic character. Eternally jobless—purposeless, aimless—he sleepwalks through his life, convinced that there is no future to be had for him. Despite his relatively young age of 29, he views his life as already finished—an outlook the story punningly refers to as passé décomposé: a slow, already foregone death.
But therein resides the deception: despite the obvious set-up, our titular Sisyphus is not actually a nihilist, because he has projects. He wants to have a future. More importantly, he is counting on Fate, on Providence—a concept nihilism actually abhors—to provide this future for him. The smokescreen of intertextuality provided by the story’s title hides a second layer of meaning that puts the very concept of futility in question. What Mokhless seems to be looking for—what this story seems to be really about—is a means to transcend from this life completely and utterly in order to attain a better state. Since he is unable or unwilling to act to achieve this transcendence, he resorts to daydreaming as an escape from the nothingness, he feels, lies ahead.
Mohkless’ tendency to daydream is a manifestation of this desire to transcend. Since, by “une acrobatie mentale pratique,” Mohkless blames the purposelessness of his life on pure luck, it is easy for him to envision how his luck could change any minute. By contrast, if he actually held himself responsible for the course of his own life, then daydreaming would not be as comfortable or easy, since that would mean having to face the fact that he has to change, to act, for his life to change for the better—something he seems unwilling to do. He frequents cafe after cafe because they provide him with the perfect inspiration for his daydreams. The whispers of the patrons bring with them mystery, and what is a mystery if not the hope of a solution, the hint of a future that may come to pass if only one can elucidate it? The answer to a mystery is able to transform one’s life, and transformation is exactly what Mohkless craves. Therefore, daydreaming is a way for him to satisfy his desire for transcendence without having to work to actually transcend his actual condition. In other words, daydreaming acts as a temporary placebo for an absent transcendence.
“Sisyphe au café”, despite what its choice of mythical allusion advertises, seems not to be a reflection on the pointlessness of life, but rather a criticism of those who allow their life to become pointless. The mythical Sisyphus rolled his stone up a hill as a punishment for his lies and trickery. An alternate interpretation would be that he had been condemned for his hubris, as he thought he could outwit even the Gods themselves. Mokhless’ sin is also a form of hubris, as he desires to transform into someone else, someone better, while also wanting to leave his mark on the world by doing so. He desires to transcend the boundaries of his life, but is also unwilling to do so unless it is in a grandiose way. It is hubris, too, in the sense that he is waiting for—maybe even expecting—Fate to intervene in his favour, instead of taking his future into his own hands. He seeks to be reborn in “purifying fire”—understood metaphorically, of course—yet he does not seem to be interested in making such fire. Rather, he seems content to be a transient between numerous cafes, to transform solely by catharsis through his daydreaming and to wait for the fire to start by itself. The pointlessness of his life, like Sisyphus’ task, is Mokhless’ punishment for his ‘sins.’
At this point, some readers will probably think that I am being too hard on Mokhless. In a way, I am. Because this tricky story hides a third layer of meaning in its narrative: that of transnationalism. Indeed, Mokhless’ desire for transcendence takes the form of a desire to immigrate to Europe. The story does not mention which specific country Mohkless is from, but from his mention of the Mediterranean as a starting point and of Italy as the first stop of his journey, readers can infer he is most likely from Tunisia, with Algeria and Libya also being possibilities. Mokhless therefore links his lack of future with that of his Middle-Eastern home country. He has no future because his country has no future—his nationality has so far only dragged him “vers le néant.” Only by crossing geographical borders and abandoning any ties to his homeland can he hope to find a purpose. Italy is mentioned as the first step not just in the interest of geographical realism, but also for its association with the Renaissance, a period were Europe tried to transcend its Medieval condition in a new, better, reborn civilization. The short story makes this symbolism clear and explicit: “Rejoindre l’Italie, première escale d’un long périple. Renaissance.” A possible interpretation of this short story, then, is that it is less a criticism of Mokhless’ refusal to act in order to rescue his life from pointlessness than a criticism of a country that let its youth wallow in futility, a country in which no future is possible.
However, this interpretation seems slightly erroneous to me. If the story was really a criticism of a particular country or society, then one would expect such a text to identify the object of its criticisms, rather than only alluding to a very vaguely described setting. I therefore think the complexity of the story is still best done justice when interpreted as criticism of Mokhless’ inability to find meaning to his life by himself and preference for waiting and wishing for Providence to provide meaning for him instead. Viewed through a transnational lens, Mokhless becomes a symbol for the immigrant plight, which is to be torn between the comfort and security of one’s homeland and the desire to become someone else in another land. “Sisyphe au café”, as I see it, is a story that questions the necessity of immigration to transcend one’s dissatisfaction with one’s life. The end of the story leaves the reader wondering if Mokhless’ migrant fantasy is made necessary by an actual lack of future in his homeland, if Mokhless himself is responsible for his own aimlessness, or if the apparent pointlessness of the protagonist’s life is not the result of both environmental and individual flaws. While the story, to me, seems to provide a definite opinion on these questions, it never provides answers, leaving it for the reader to formulate their own.
In closing, I want to point out how much Mokhless reminded me of the old waiter in Ernest Hemingway’s “A Clean Well-Lighted Place”, who also feared “a nothing that he knew too well” (299) and tried to escape it by frequenting cafes and similar establishments. In addition, both stories ends at the protagonist leaves a bar/cafe and walks back home to sleep as the sun comes up, endings so similar that the parallels may have been intended. Therefore, I like to think of “Sisyphe au café” as at least partially a counterpoint to—a response to or even a critique of—“A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.” While Hemingway’s waiter expresses a profound dislike of places that are open all night, Mokhless thrives in them. They serve as fuel for his daydreams instead of fuel for his fear of nothingness, as they did for the old waiter. Wherein Hemingway sets his story in Europe (Spain, to be precise) Europe acts as fantasy for Mokhless and some of his compatriots. Where the waiter is an old man, Mokhless is a young fellow, despite sharing the former’s pessimistic view of life. And where “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place” reads as a genuine criticism of the futility of life, “Sisyphe au café” puts this belief in futility to the test, questioning its accuracy and its pertinence, and whether or not it might be a self-imposed condition. In other words, if Hemingway’s story is about a character that comes to terms with the impossibility for him to transcend nothingness to achieve a better life, then the short story presented here is about a character whishing for such transcendence to happen, a transcendence he feels both impossible to attain yet at arm’s reach, if only Fate would give him a hand. Once you pierce all its deceptive layers of meaning, “Sisyphe au café” is, in my eyes, an indictment of those who have given up, those who have stopped trying to transcend their lot in life in favor of waiting for and getting angry at a transcendence that does not come.
Alexandre Desbiens-Brassard
Western University
WORK CITED
Hemingway, Ernest. “A Clean Well-Lighted Place” The Oxford Book of American Short Stories. Ed. Joyce Carol Oates. 1992. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1994. 296-300. Print.