In spite of its mystery, the local Algerian opera, “L’Opera d’Alger,” holds the artistic views and expressions of many Algerians. From the Mediterranean to the lovely Saharan desert, except in the hot summer, of course.

Marcel Pelletier, a French reporter sent by a French magazine, to write a report on l’opera d’Alger and how well it is culturally preserved. A brief summary of its most fortune generating projects such as music compositions, ballets, and exclusive plays written by the people of Algeria.

On the other hand, Marcel had no interest in their music compositions. Nor their productions, which at the time included famous acts such as “The Martyrs”, an adored oratorio by the masses. But Marcel wasn’t interested in their narrative struggles.

Inside the press lounges, Alaric Fournier, an Algerian born Frenchman and the editor of the narratives that took place in L’Opera d’Alger. In its intriguing, beautiful burgundy walls and its Mediterranean design. The sunlight dissolved into a glowing mist as it filtered through the skylight. Alaric, seated right in front of the viciously enthusiastic Marcel.

He began with simple questions, to ease into what he liked to know, and to ask the questions of which the policy of his job required. After addressing them, “What about the archives of L’opera d’Alger?” He asked. Marcel wasn’t interested in the works that made it to the theater. In contrast, he sought to understand the rejected ones. There had to be multiple of them. “There are always opposing sides when more than one set of eyes are present.” He thought.

“From what I understand, you are the editor.” Inquired Marcel. 

“The editor? No. I am an editor, not the editor. The chief editor would be Gaspard.” Returned Alaric.

“But you’ve edited productions that didn’t quite make it to the big stage, correct?” “Well, of course, but I am not the final say so. That also would be Gaspard.”

Though Alaric describes himself merely as an editor, it was obvious that the man was humble. He was the brain of the opera house when an interview was about to take place. He articulated his words with a captivating tone; he was made for being a frontman.

“Alaric, what is it that you consider as not good enough, perhaps unworthy of publishing?” Marcel inquired.

The Mailmen

I stayed in Algeria around a week. As a writer, of course. Was it very rewarding? Well, who am I to say so? I had a few topics off the top of my head, such as women, the cultural and rural places in the countryside, and the Mexican-looking slums of The Casbah. I arrived in Algiers with a head full of ideas, but the spotlight here seemed to shine differently. Some people would say it defies physics. But there are stories here, perhaps too many of them.

Malik was a forty-year-old man who lived somewhere in Algiers. I never got the chance to ask. You may be wondering, what’s so interesting about a middle-aged man? But he wasn’t a regular cigarette in hand, frown-wearing man like it’s a piece of jewelry. They called him “The Mailmen,” which was such an inconvenient choice of names.

Around a year ago, before he acquired the name “The Mailmen,” Malik wasn’t the employee on which bosses and managers relied. However, nobody seemed to fire him. Some say that the manager of whatever mailing company (one that I couldn’t mention by name) he worked for was his late uncle, and that made things easier for Malik. But that privilege was soon to be eliminated. His uncle passed away and was to be replaced by a new young man. What luck to have, Mr. Mailmen!

Up to this point, Malik never understood what it’s like to struggle for a position such as this. He skipped a lot of hours and even entire days. Of course, it was all paid. He used to throw the paper so far away from the front porch that it couldn’t be seen. Thus, most of the residents didn’t even notice their papers. There were a few complaints, but his uncle used to respond with, “well, you know, it’s the wind; it moves things. It happens, especially with paper.” Not exactly those words, but that was what I had in my notes.

Despite that, things had changed now that a young manager sat on the leading chair. He was young, he was new, and most importantly, he was excited. The first meeting he hosted, which was to announce his position as their new leader, went well. The second one, however, he took off that warm and friendly smile on his face. The sparkle in his eyes faded like the sun in the evening, except there was no sunset. It was more like a quick solar eclipse. The first thing he announced was:

“I understand some of you have been working here for years. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was your second home. I’m sure there is a lot of love in this crowded building. The cleaners, the smiles on the receptionists’ faces, the reviews of which we’ve been getting. The amazing mailmen we have in the delivery department, which never seem to do their damn job! This place is a shithole! And I’ll take it, I’ll shape it, and I’ll make it better, and we all do, don’t we?”

A few people murmured. They were too clueless to give an answer.

“Well then, I want to see every man that lost his full head of hair to get lost with it!”

Their laughs at the supposed-to-be joke soon came to an end, when he started handing them out contracts of which they were obliged to sign. It was to make sure that none of the bald men take any sort of severance pay with them due to their over-the-counter poor performance. He then took the signed paper, which was all just a show. He had already fired them. The paper signing was nothing more than provocation, and there was no severance package policy. There hadn’t been since this place was built.

Malik, however, had a full set of hair. He was too much of a dimwit, so his follicles remained active in his stress-free head. He was lucky to maintain his position. But now, he had to put in the effort, and he did. Malik started working like a maniac. The idea of him losing his job didn’t suit him. He was almost sick, thinking about how others would see him after losing his job. He never admired the people surrounding him, such as neighbors or regulars, who walked the city streets, but he still felt afraid of having to walk the streets in shame, while everyone stared at him.

This time, Malik had a plan. He reflected, wandered, and searched within himself, which didn’t take him much time. Now, he had an idea! The only flaw he found in his performance was his lack of good aim, which is why there were complaints.

“They just didn’t see it,” he thought. Now the new mailman was ready to step up! The best mailman Algiers will ever bestow their eyes upon!

The young manager had ordered the workers in the old green and white uniform to go ahead and change into these fresh new blue and white ones. The manager felt like changing everything to the opposite of what it was, even if it simply was colors, a decision that was neither good nor bad to the workers. They all did as they were told. The mail delivery men had on a full light blue one. The new uniform was designed to be noticeable in public, so subscribers could recognize the workers quickly and catch a glimpse of their faces in case a complaint needed to be filed. The manager made sure to explain it. After hearing that, the mail delivery men widened their eyes in shock. Was it a ghost they saw? No, it was the terror of having to live up to what they signed up for.

Malik, however, took the manager’s idea as guidance. He turned it into a chance to prove himself. He pledged that he would now hand each paper to each subscriber assigned to him, so they could get a very close look. Maybe instead of filing complaints, they would give him a good review. What an idea, he thought to himself.

He put on the up-to-date uniform. A little too baggy, but it fit nonetheless. A plan in mind, he immediately began work, going around on his weary bike and handing out each paper.

The first few days were exciting. The residents of the assigned streets he was responsible for felt happy about his plan, and the smiles he received kept him motivated. It was around this time, when the people gave him a name, “The Mailmen,” which, to my understanding, was about the simultaneity of his work, how he managed to deliver such a number of papers around the same time, while cycling on an old bike. Hence, the nickname, insinuating that he was not only one mailman, but multiple of them.

A few days later, after receiving his new nickname, the townsfolk began to recognize him, a little wave, here and there, whenever he was cycling through the old neighborhoods. Some people thought he overworked himself. They thought he wasn’t the brightest, to be putting in this much work for such little pay. But the concept of performance and reward was unfamiliar to him. As long as there was a number in his check, all was well. He never spoke to any of the waving people. He went past them with a little smile, and that was about it. Until he got a wave from a certain somebody—someone who came out of an expensive car (expensive is the only word in my notes; Malik didn’t understand anything about cars, so I was unable to get the brand or the model). He stopped right beside the man with the expensive car and stared him in the eyes without speaking a word. His eyes were wide, but he wasn’t shocked. He had a look on his face of a curious dead man. The man with the expensive car saw those facial expressions before. He understood it.

“You’ve been delivering by hand, right? How exciting.” He chuckled, then tapped him on his shoulder and jumped back in his car, not leaving him any space or time to respond.

The following day, Malik went on with his work routine, delivering by hand. With around half of his daily work done, he approached a house and recognized the same expensive car coming out of its garage. He cycled as fast as he could to get to this man with the expensive car to hand him his paper, but the man kept on driving fast. Malik decided to follow him on a bike, while the man drove in a car; again, not very bright, but he kept following. An hour later, cycling through the narrow streets trying to find a shortcut, he lost him, then found him, then lost him again until he eventually gave up. He then realized how much time this decision cost him, a whole hour. He passed many houses he needed to deliver to and was noticed by many of them, around a dozen of unsatisfied customers. But his luck struck again. Only one complaint reached their email.

Malik, however, kept speaking of this man who waved at him. He told his co-workers about how much effort he was putting in. He mentioned he even spent an hour looking for a special customer. When asked how special, he told them about the expensive car. The other co- workers weren’t as dumb. They noticed that the morning hour was a crucial part of the daily routine of a mailman. They questioned the waiting time the others had to endure. It can’t be right, they thought. Soon they came to forget this topic since it wasn’t a problem of theirs, and whenever they remembered what Malik had done, they laughed at him.

“One complaint is as bad as a thousand, you know that, right?” Said the manager.

“I know, but I was late because I wanted to make sure I handed that man his paper before he thought I was late.”

“The man with the expensive car.” “Yes, that man,” said Malik.

“Well, from what I heard, a dozen didn’t get their morning papers, which means it disturbed their morning routine, which also means that it disturbed the magazine’s reputation. This impression of unreliability only reflects back at the magazine,” the manager faced Malik with an intimidating gloomy look.

“Tell me again, why is this man more important than the rest of our subscribers?”

“I don’t know. I guess I just saw him first, you know?” Malik was taken aback by such a question to which he could not generate a logical answer.

“You followed him for an hour. You were on a bike and did you say he was in an expensive car?”

“Yes! He was in an expensive car. It was fast. That’s why I couldn’t get to him.” The manager rested his head on his hands as he took a deep breath.

“Get out,” trying to speak as quietly as possible. Malik said nothing.

“Do you want me to drag you out?” The manager spoke in a disappointed tone, and Malik still said nothing.

“I’d rather not boot you out. Get out! Now!” The manager hit the table, the room rattled.

Malik walked out, lit a cigarette, and wore his frown like a piece of jewelry.

The final question

 After the reading, Marcel asked Alaric the reason behind the rejection of this piece. To which Alaric responded with, “Gaspard did not like it very much. He questioned if the events that took place in this piece had occurred in the real world, and if they did, they were perceived by the mind of an outsider.”