Toubib Or Not To Be

  Odin n’était rien d’autre qu’un retraité isolé, ni femme ni enfants, seule une multitude de paperasse administrative rythmait ses journées, des mots croisés et une attente frustrante et quasi-existentielle du prochain match de football auquel il se dévouera sans trêve à analyser avec des théories farfelues liant politique et complots. Sa condition de retraité solitaire était plus qu’un simple stéréotype qu’il subissait, “retraité solitaire”, c’était là où résidait son identité, son essence. En effet, il s’agit d’Odin Arien, âgé de soixante huit ans, originaire et résident à Casablanca, retraité et célibataire, mutualiste. L’histoire de son sévice remonte à toute une vie. Toute une vie, Odin a bataillé pour être ce qu’il est aux yeux d’autrui; un Homme tout à fait banal, l’homme qu’on peut rencontrer dans la place Mohammed V, en train de nourrir le plus banal des pigeons. Pendant soixante huit ans, le plus anodin des hommes a bataillé pour s’inscrire dans ce cliché éternel du retraité

  WINTER Winter came early as if it sensed his loss. The bench where they once sat together, could only bear one now, it would never have space for another. At first, he couldn’t bear to take that road, tears would burn at the back of his throat, and the thought of shedding them where anyone else could see would send him running the other way. He was holding up, that’s what he told everyone, he was doing alright, he could make it for another week, he knew there was no point in mourning, not when everyone’s losses were graver than his, not when he was barely a ghost in their lives, he did not have the right to mourn, he agreed that he would allow himself to feel sad, it was, after all, a loss experienced, but he did not deserve to grieve.   He took a day off, then two, to clear off his mind, of course. He was not drowning in sorrow, he was mildly inconvenienced. He also found it hard to get to work, the bench was in the way. He knew he could take another road, but it felt like a