Saturn Her novel appears on almost all the longlists for the literary prizes this fall. The novelist and psychoanalyst Sarah Chiche tells her tragic story and that of her family, which once plunged her into a deep depression. Like a film, she captures snapshots from her father's childhood: the 1950s, Algiers, her father Harry, growing up with his older brother Armand, and his wealthy parents Louise and Joseph. The men in the family are hospital doctors. The Jewish family were not among the French colonists, but had lived in Algeria since their expulsion from Spain in the 15th century. A lavish life until the Algerian War, then exile in France, perpetrators and victims of the past.
Louise, ses sœurs, sa mère, Joseph, son chauffeur Algérien, et plusieurs infirmières se tiennent serrés les uns contre les other sur le pont d'un ferry, au milieu d'une cohue humaine. Le port, ses quais, ses môles, ses jetées, ses bassins, défile. An avenue s'enfuit à perte de vue. The minaret of the Mosquée de la Pêcherie and the coupoles rose de Notre-Dame d'Afrique scintillent a dernière fois. Primeurs, cireurs, marchand de journaux, pêcheurs, enfants et marins ne sont plus que des fourmis. Bougie, Djidjelli et collo, des confettis. Quelques barques fleetnt encore autour du paquebot comme des mouches. Puis plus rien. Tache blanche, qui se floute, s'estompe, puis s'efface. La ville s'evanouit. La terre s'évapore. Quelqu'un hurle. A woman who has a fair share of malaise. Joseph se precipite. Je suis médecin, laissez-moi passer. Debout sur le pont avant, appuyée sur la rambarde, Louise fixe la Méditerranée vide de toutes ces épaves fantômes qui la hunteront cinquante ans plus tard – car ainsi voguons-nous disloqués dans la tempête des années, otages de la mer sombre où The exile of us n'efface jamais celui des other, coupables and victims du passé.
Sarah Chiche, Saturne
Louise, her sisters, her mother, Joseph, their Algerian driver, and several nurses stand close together on the deck of a ferry amidst a crowd. The harbor glides by with its quays, jetties, piers, docks, and basins. An avenue stretches as far as the eye can see. The minaret of the Fishermen's Mosque and the pink domes of Notre-Dame d'Afrique sparkle one last time. Greengrocers, shoeshine boys, newsagents, fishermen, children, and sailors are nothing but ants. Candle, djidjelli, and kollo, confetti. Some boats still flit around the ferry like flies. Then nothing. A white patch that blurs, fades, then disappears. The city vanishes. The earth evaporates. Someone screams. A woman has just fainted. Joseph rushes to her side. "I'm a doctor, let me through." Standing on the foredeck, leaning against the railing, Louise gazes out at the Mediterranean, empty of all the ghostly wrecks that will haunt her fifty years later – for so we sail, torn apart in the storm of the years, hostages of the dark sea, where the exile of one never erases that of another, perpetrators and victims of the past.
This article is written in German and can be found at https://rentree.de. Automatic translations into English and French are available. English, French.
