Haci's dreams (excerpt from the book)

This text is one of several dozen chapters in the book " Histoires à dormir dehors ". For more information on this bestseller, see the link below.

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An old man standing in front of his worn-out house beckons me to stop. As it seems nice to me, I slow down and set foot on the side of the road. The man approaches slowly and approaches me speaking Turkish, which I obviously do not understand. I ask him if he speaks English. "No English", he replies before suggesting a third language. "French?"

Right in the middle of rural Turkey, I am in front of a 70-year-old worker by the name of Haci who invites me to his home in French. Very rough French, but still. The opportunity is too good, I lean my bike on his house and go down a few steps to follow him to his workshop.

With a lot of patience and gestures on both sides, I finally learned more about Haci. He tells me that he lived in France for seven years in the 1970s, after moving there in his early twenties in an attempt to find a better job. It was there, with his work colleagues, that he learned French. First in a plastics factory, then to make glasses. I can't believe he can still find his words almost 40 years after he stopped practicing the language.

But then he finds life in France more complicated than expected. Integrating is not easy and the cost of living is high considering the money he manages to earn. He therefore returned to Turkey with the hope of starting a family. Today he repairs tractors and farm equipment in the dark workshop we are in, in the basement of his house.

Suddenly, Haci notices the time. He cuts off our discussion in the middle of a sentence and rolls out an oil-stained carpet on the garage floor. He completely stops paying attention to me and begins to pray on his knees on his mat, his head facing south towards Mecca. Standing a few feet away from him, I don't quite know what to do in the meantime. I remain still and silent during these few minutes of prayer.

We then sit down at his desk, in a corner of the workshop, to resume the conversation. I ask my host, inspired by my own trip, if he himself has a dream, something he would like to accomplish. He only answers me with one word: "Finished." I try to understand if he means that he is too old to dream or if he has already achieved his ambitions. I add: "And before?"

He clarifies his thoughts: "Before, a lot of work, my boys." I already know he had two sons who must now be in their late XNUMXs. I imagine that between the time spent struggling to earn money and looking after his family, he didn't have much time to devote to his personal dreams.

For a few seconds, he looks at me in silence with his soft eyes surrounded by wrinkles, as if he wonders if he should keep talking. I encourage him with a smile. He then opens a drawer in his desk and takes out a sheet of paper. He writes the word asker there. I consult the dictionary on my phone: the Turkish word is translated as "soldier". I nod at him to let him know that I understand. He continues his explanation.

"My boy ... gone asker ... here no," Haci told me, nodding negatively, his mouth a little tight. Then he slowly lays his head aside in his palm, as if he were sleeping, and he adds "death". Her son lost his life in the Turkish army.

On the same paper, he wrote me a number: 1999. As if his life had ended that year, at the same time as that of his son. He pronounces the year in French: "Ninety-nine", emphasizing each syllable. Then, with his mouth, he imitates the sound of a gust of wind while clapping his hands together. He adds two words which now clearly answer my question: "Hayal [dream], finished."

Haci gets up from his chair and takes a few steps in his workshop. The conversation is over.

No doubt to change the mood, the mechanic then invites me to take a tour of his land. He shows me his small vegetable garden cultivated on his sandy soil and some old rusty trailers that he is repairing. He inquires about my desire to stay for supper. I accept with joy.

After asking me kindly to swap my shorts for pants before meeting his wife, we go upstairs, over the workshop. Along the stairs, the walls are yellowed, dirty and cracked. We talk a bit in the living room, adorned with old furniture and pictures of his sons. With emotion, he places one of them in my hands. I see, amazed, that the young man in military uniform looks like me.

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We then move on to the dining room, frankly modest with its two couches leaning against the walls. A round, low table is rolled from another room and placed on the carpet in the center. Haci motioned for me to sit on the floor next to the table and did the same. His wife is in the kitchen and goes back and forth to bring the many dishes to our table one by one. Since I am a foreigner of the opposite sex, she will not eat with us, as is sometimes the case in more religious Muslim families.

Ramadan obliges, we wait for the sunset before starting the food in front of us. Eyes on the clock, Haci stops speaking at 20:15 p.m. and begins to eat at lightning speed. I didn't even finish my soup as he slipped on his dessert.

Haci gently reproaches me for the fact that in Canada we do not respect Ramadan. "Canada always eat," he blurted out, his mouth full.

Satisfied, my host then invites me to stay at bed, but this time I decline his invitation. I think I had enough emotions for a day. I leave while there are still some lights in the sky.

That night, lying in my tent, I can't help but think sadly about what Haci shared with me about his son, his grief, and his difficulty in continuing to dream. I tell myself that if he no longer dreams for himself, he will have at least today been part of mine and will have made him more beautiful.