It’s summer in the global south (which is winter in the global north), and for the month of January Literatur.Review is bringing them all together, publishing previously untranslated or unpublished stories from the north and south of our world.

Inès Abbassi is a Tunisian poet, writer and translator. She has written the novels Ashkal (2016) and Menzel Bourguiba, for which she received the Komar Prize in 2018. She has published short stories (Hashasha) and travel literature (Shahrazad's Korean Tales). She was awarded the Kredif Prize for Tunisian Women Writers for her poetry collections Asrar al-Reih (2004) and Archive of the Blind (2007).

I see them every morning in the same place. The boys I used to play football with on the city's streets and beaches have become men. I can divide them into two categories: those who have stayed and those who left. It's easy to tell them apart: those who stayed have haircuts reminiscent of characters in Italian Mafia films, while those who left cut their hair like the marines in American movies.

People call them the leavers, the exiles, the immigrants, the westernised. They return from Europe in the summer to show off their European cars and wives. Once their backs are turned, they're called "ghabara", and accused of having become slaves to the magic dust that takes them away and elevates them in a matter of months, turning them into drug addicts or, at best, middlemen, dust sellers. Those who have remained - comrades from the adventures and back alleys of childhood - look at their childhood friends with envy. They think they're smarter and luckier for having gone to Europe to build a future for themselves and their children. In their presence, they show compassion and compare them to migratory birds, but behind their backs they grumble, resentfully:
"Greedy, mercenary people in search of easy wealth and an effortless meal. "

Every time one of the seasonal workers struts by like a peacock, unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt to show off a thick twenty-four-carat gold chain, the others mutter:
"Drug dealers, mercenaries, ghabara menyika. "

There's always someone who'll be shouting in a fit of genuine, or often feigned, anger, early in the morning or late at night, just to interrupt the provocative gait of a peacock:
"So... are you a ghabbar or did you marry an old Italian woman to brag about her money to us?"
The peacock's wings droop, but they don't break. The colours of its feathers fade under the impact of the words, before it gathers itself and fights back. A torrent of insults erupts, hands are raised and chairs in cafés and bars fly. Fights break out for a variety of reasons: a lost card game, someone refusing to pay for "qaada" drinks, or a refusal to share a pack of cigarettes. Tensions rise when the immigrants return in early or late summer, just before setting off again by plane or boat for their European nests. They swear never to return to a country they consider backward, to friends they describe as jealous:
"The cold of Europe is warmer and more forgiving than the people of this country. What has happened to this world? Why have people changed? Why has life become like this? To obtain a simple administrative document, I spent the summer hearing a single sentence: "Come back tomorrow". If I hadn't slipped a fifty-dinar bill across the table with my file, I would have spent my holidays stuck in administrative offices. I'll never come back to this country. In a few years, I'll apply for citizenship. I'll get the red passport and I'll be in the clear."

But expatriates always return, having learned their lesson, laden with gifts for those who have chosen to stay. A carton or two of Marlboro cigarettes - each carton containing ten packs - hastily purchased in the duty free shops or on the plane, are then distributed to acquaintances in bars and cafés. Close friends receive more precious gifts: a bottle of pastis, a bottle of Bordeaux, vodka or whisky, a bottle of luxury perfume, Nivea anti-wrinkle eye creams (the kind Ronaldo would use to preserve his youth), Gillette razors, or fake shirts from Italian brands Armani and Gucci, their labels, sewn onto the lining, discreetly stating: "Made in China".

I am Kamel, one of those who left and one of those who returned. I travelled to study, then came back. I came back to stay and work with my degree. I returned alone, having achieved some of my former dreams. I didn't come back with a woman on my arm, nor did I consider becoming "undocumented" to stay in Europe. I came back simply because it was clear to me from the start that my success is only valuable in my own country.

In the mornings, I see those who have stayed, gathered on a sidewalk on Rue de l'Indépendance, clustered around a high table in the café "Venise", their knowing glances suggesting that they are plotting something as crazy as the things we used to get up to. As teenagers, we would hatch plans to lift girls' dresses and skirts as they left high school, or to spend our evenings drinking on the beach. We'd rent a car, load it up with ice-cold cans of Celtia, then fight over who got to drive. We'd all learned to drive, one way or another. Some had learned in the car repair shops where they worked for pocket money, others had been taught by their fathers on dusty farm roads outside town, to save money on driving lessons. The decision was often simple: it was usually the last to get his driving license who took the wheel.
Bizerte was home to our dreams and our games. It was the paradise of our adolescence: the sea, the sand, the legs of blonde tourists, and the ample breasts of the older but seductive German women. We didn't care about age! We only looked at the faces of our prey at the last second! Their age and wrinkles didn't matter, as long as their bodies could absorb our lust or pave our way to Europe. Nothing else mattered as long as our young bodies were alive.

I remember the first car we rented together. We were three inseparable friends, with Karim an occasional fourth, a friend passing through. Later, we became four, then Fakhri made it five. Fakhri dreamed of emigrating, and he clung like an octopus to an old Hungarian woman, gazing at her with hooded eyes to convince her of his love. He married her, she opened the doors of Europe to him, and off he went, like a seagull chick masking its featherless wings with shrill squawks.            
I grew up, just like everyone around me. The boys and teenagers of yesterday have become husbands and fathers, dropping their children off at kindergartens or the private schools that have sprung up like mushrooms around the city. We, the "European girl hunters", who spent our summers wandering the beaches of Bizerte, Sousse and Hammamet, or the bars and nightclubs, have changed. We've forgotten what we used to be. But I doubt any of us have forgotten the memorable Corniche incident: none of us cared to look at it back then, and if we mentioned it in conversation, it was with envy. That day, we spotted a woman - probably a tourist from an Eastern European country - and circled her like moths drawn to a flame. Lying on her stomach sunbathing, she was wearing only the bottoms of a blue bikini. Standing there, we were mesmerised.

The scene was unreal, much more so than a banned film we'd watched in secret. The woman suddenly stood up and ran, for no apparent reason. Our eyes were fixed on the nakedness of her firm breasts, our attention caught for several seconds by her pointed nipples. Stunned, Badis dribbled; Nawfal elbowed him and he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. The woman rushed over to her companion - lover, husband, whatever - and kissed him passionately, in front of the stunned gaze of the holidaymakers. I turned to my friends and sighed:
"Are we in Europe?"

Every morning, I see the old pals from my youth, whether they're still around or just passing through. After dropping off their children, they gather around a table for a hurried coffee before dispersing. They all have wives and a child or two. These women were once classmates, friends of their sisters, or "sensible" daughters of neighbours, or even wives chosen by their mothers. Most have an apartment above the family home, or, at worst, a room in it. Today, they've become heads of households, having mastered their impulses and extravagances.

They've stopped harassing girls and worrying mothers with their nocturnal escapades and sartorial whims. The petty thefts of their youth are a distant memory, before surveillance cameras were installed everywhere. Today, we're all swimming like salmon upstream, against the tide of youth. I wonder where the past disappears and where time takes us.

The famous hunting night remains etched in my memory. That evening, fishermen, workers from the port and industrial zone, and the unemployed went out together to hunt down wild boar, which had dared to invade the streets of Bizerte after coming down from the Nadhour hills. Fishermen brought their nets, farmers their shovels, and those with hunting licenses their rifles. The unemployed, meanwhile, brought their deferred dreams, their boredom and their need for distraction.

In the past, locals thought wild boars wandered suitably far from the streets of their city. They imagined they lived in the forests of Tabarka, Mount Chaambi, or those of Menzel Abdel Rahman and Menzel Bourguiba. At worst, they imagined them hidden, invisible, somewhere in the tangled tree-covered dunes at the end of the Corniche, between La Grotte and Nadhour. So they were surprised to learn that wild boars had invaded the streets of Bizerte.

None of them had ever seen a boar, or even a boarlet. In the days leading up to the night of the hunt, they imagined enormous boars, their huge bodies covered in a thick pelt of grey bristles. They imagined their bright white tusks glistening in the dark, and slimy saliva dripping from their snouts, carrying deadly diseases. They speculated about swine flu, showing off their scant knowledge. They visualised powerful stampedes and fatal blows inflicted by the sharp, pointed horns which adorned their heads .

Those who claimed to have seen the boars said that they attacked the plastic dustbins outside the houses, overturning them and wolfing down everything they contained. The story grew out of all proportion, and the residents eventually accused the boars of knocking over even the huge metal skips placed by the municipality at every intersection.

The discussions went on and on, until they finally made up their minds, seriously invoking the verses of the Koran forbidding the consumption of "halouf" (pork) and debating the legitimacy of hunting these animals. An imam in his fifties ruled that their hunt should be permitted, since it was intended to purify their city. Thus, they made their decision and agreed to gather and hunt wild boar on the night of July 25, the anniversary of the proclamation of the Tunisian Republic.

On the night of July 25, which was a Friday, a gunshot rang out in Bizerte. Everyone thought the shot was aimed at wild boar. Someone shouted excitedly: "The boar has arrived!" From a distance, they threw fishing nets at the furious animals, who fled towards the Nadhour forest. Only one animal remained, surrounded like prey by a group of boys ready to throw their spears for the first time. They faced the terrified animal: a lone, isolated boar, trapped in a dead-end street.

They threw their nets at him, but instead of tightening their grip, they backed off in fear. The panic-stricken animal began to run in all directions, knocking down the nets, except for a small one that remained clinging to his head, preventing him from seeing a way out and increasing his panic. He let out a growl that terrified them and sent them fleeing. Only one man remained motionless, the bravest of the group. He bent down, picked up a stone and threw it at the animal. Encouraged by his gesture, the others did likewise. The boar was stoned to death.

The next day, this same animal was credited with extraordinary deeds. It was said that he had ferociously ripped the nets apart, that men had been chased right to their doors, and that his eyes glowed with a terrifying red light. The story was quickly forgotten, and the boar's carcass remained where it had fallen, for it is impure, and a Muslim does not touch impurity. It was left to bake under the hot July sun. Despite the stench that pervaded the air and the flies buzzing around the corpse, despite the incessant pleas of the former judge's widow, Bahija - a beautiful, elegant woman in her seventies, looking as if she had stepped straight out of a black-and-white film - the corpse stayed put, enveloped in a cloud of flies.

Bahija kept calling the municipality, which referred her to the environmental police office, which referred her back to the municipality again. Each administration declared that the removal of a wild boar carcass did not fall within its remit. The judge's widow kept calling, citing all the information she'd found on Google about the dangers of leaving an animal carcass to rot, and the cholera epidemic threat it posed. But nothing happened. It was only when she herself led a protest outside the municipality, leaning on a cane and waving the national flag, that the authorities finally sent a truck to rid the locals of the bloated boar carcass.

On the night of the boar hunt, time stood still for a moment. In the shadows, a murderer crept into a house. No one noticed the stealthy figure slipping in. Taking advantage of the mass hunting frenzy, someone settled an old score. A hand reached up in the darkness and brought down a heavy stone on the head of a man in the courtyard of his house. The cry was muffled by the confusion and tumult caused by the boar's struggles, which sent the terrified crowd reeling back. The body collapsed on the concrete tiles of the courtyard. The man's face crashed into the splinters of a cold water bottle that had fallen from his hand, while his body, released, tasted one last time the rough texture of life and time.

Extract from the short story collection The Night of the Boar Hunt, published by Oxygen Press, 2024.