My brother has been there from the beginning. He is the second head of the family. He studied Political Science at theUniversity, read I don’t know how many books. He workedbecause of us, not for himself. He helped Mohamed andM’Barka build their house in Hay Salam. He gave me books,his books, gave me music, his music. And most of all, he took me to the movies: discovering films changed my life, my wayof seeing, and that’s because of him.

I have a big brother. He has a moustache, a fine black moustache that makes him look important, makes himhandsome.

I have a brother, and when I was little, we’d sometimes watch television together in his room. He would put me inbed with him so I wouldn’t be cold. Under the same blanket,we’d spend hours glued together. One to the other. I forgotthe images that paraded across the screen. In my heart, I stillhave that delightful sensation my little body felt when it camein contact with his, big and hard.

I knew his smell. I knew the skin on his face, on his ears, on his hands. I knew the small wrinkles around his eyes. Iknew the way he breathed. I knew his silence.

Abdelkébir didn’t speak. And when he did, he was like some prophet (a poet) who announces a new holy verse.Therefore I retained by memory and in my heart all thathe said.

In his absence, I’d enter his locked bedroom via the window and I’d stay there for hours, sitting, or else stretched outand in a state of suspension like that I’d see what the roomcontained. Books, books, books and records. The little bed:our bed. The big but somewhat low dresser. The stereo system.Dirty clothes kind of everywhere. I’d bathe in Abdelkébir’sstrong scent, that manly smell of his that I loved, that I’dwallow in, that I’d mix with my own and breathe in deeply.

Like a little dog, I needed my big brother to play with, to sleep up against and sometimes to lick.

He hid his underpants under his bookcase, the ones that had a particular odor and were stained white on the inside. Ittook me a while to figure it out. It was his sperm.

Oh, yes, I even knew my brother’s sperm. I touched it, studied it, sniffed it. One time, I almost even ate it. Thatsperm came from him. That sperm was him.

It seemed normal to me to feel that kind of desire for everything that had to do with Abdelkébir. And in my mind, it still seems normal. When it came to my brother, I didn’t denymyself anything. Everything was natural. Everything abouthim suited me, touched me inside with force and delicacy.