Namouss tried to wrap his head around it. Mikou was a man, and yet he wasn’t a man. Maybe he was a child that had grown up too quickly. And what about him – who never stopped mulling things over – was an adult trapped inside a child’s body?
WITH THESE QUESTIONS planted firmly in his mind, Namouss began making his rounds. On the right-hand side at the bottom of the street, in a place called Small Springs, there was a row of fine-leathers craftsmen, where he knew he would be able to observe another character in action. Unlike Mikou, whose renown did not extend beyond the neighborhood, this particular character, a woman, was known throughout the whole city. Her nickname Chiki Laqraâ (the bald spook) suited her well. Her skin was a shade whiter than most, while her head was almost completely bald, save for a few henna-colored tufts protruding from her forehead. This, coupled with the fact that she wore a simple dress and went about unveiled, meant she had everything she needed to draw attention to herself. It was during the afternoon, at rush hour, that she began to work. She would go from neighborhood to neighborhood, stopping in places where she was guaranteed to harangue the maximum number of people. Small Springs was one of her favorite haunts.
Her ranting had already begun by the time Namouss arrived. Hands on hips, head thrown back, eyes bulging, she was cursing and threatening an invisible enemy, sometimes even directing her booming voice at nearby shopkeepers and bystanders. The filthy language she used and her tone was not too dissimilar from Ghita’s litanies. Yet Chiki Laqraâ was clearly going much further. Moreover, while there was a coherent thread running through Ghita’s ideas, Chiki was instead a devotee of the art of the non sequitur. Whenever the subject of sex arose, she accompanied her words with gestures, whereas those sorts of words only came out of Ghita’s mouth inadvertently. How many times had Namouss overheard his mother shout “. . . allocks!”5 whenever she blurted out something inappropriate.
Chiki was shouting herself hoarse in front of her dumbfounded audience.
“Who does that son of a bitch take me for? I am a woman, and the daughter of an honorable woman. My head is bare and I have nothing to hide. Let him come near me and I’ll show him which hole the fish piss out of. She’s got her eyes on him, that man. There ya go! I hope she gets hold of him and drags him down into the dankest depths of the planet. What good can come of man? He claims to act according to the laws of reason while his mind is actually governed by his balls. You’re keeping quiet, eh, you riffraff! I’m just something else for you to watch. Very well then, I’ll show you the henna on my hands. Look here” – lifting the hem of her dress and rocking her pelvis forward – “feast your eyes on that, and may you go blind! But you’re already blind to everything except the shine of gold. You eat what rightfully belongs to the orphans. You prize worthless coins above the lives of these innocents. Oh your hearts are made of stone! And that’s all you’ll be taking with you into the afterlife. In the meanwhile, try and stop me from speaking my mind, I dare you. Have me locked up in the Sidi Frej asylum. I don’t know who is the craziest one among us. The maddest one is she who has been cursed by her parents. That twat of a mother of mine, she thinks she’s got one over on me. She doesn’t know who Chiki is. Those who don’t know Chiki better watch out! Her curse is deadly. I am the black hen that will hound you until the day of Resurrection.”
Despite her threats and harsh accusations, some kind souls would slip a small coin into Chiki’s hand, who, suddenly appeased, would smile and respond to their generosity.
“They are nothing but sons of bitches. Bless you my children.”
Then she would leave the place, followed by a swarm of children.
Slightly stunned by her speech, Namouss decided to join the crowd. He took a left and headed toward Nejjarine Square, where another spectacle lay in store for him. The man who presided over this ceremony was also there and had chosen a good spot. Nejjarine Square was the intersection of three particularly busy souks: that of the carpenters, which gave its name to the square; that of the saddlers, where Driss had his shop; and finally that of the potters. Not to mention the fountain in the middle of the square, where nearby residents came to fetch their water.
They called him Bou Tsabihate (rosary man), and he was certainly covered in rosaries. He wore many around his neck, which dangled down his large chest. Others were strung around his arms, which he always kept outstretched before beginning to preach his sermon. He was magnificent. Slender, with a strong constitution. A thick beard framing the entirety of his face. His head covered by a yellow turban, impeccably fitted.
Namouss had heard contradictory reports about the man. Some took him for a madman of God, or in other words, a saint. Others suspected him of being a proponent of a religious sect in cahoots with the colonial authorities. That he had chosen to preach in Nejjarine Square where there was a police station lent authority to the second theory. Could everything he was shouting so vehemently be genuine considering there was an abundance of attentive ears waiting to catch him out?
Namouss didn’t know what to think. As it happens, he became indifferent to all this reasoning when Bou Tsabihate raised his voice and launched into his homily, making even all the unbelievers fall silent.
“Come back to God, oh slaves of God! Don’t allow yourselves to be corrupted by this fleeting world. It’s just another one of Satan’s tricks, since he loves nothing better than pissing in your ear and diverting you from the path of righteousness. Faith and prayer are the only remedy. But what is that I see? The mosques empty when it’s time to fill your stomachs. You are still snoring when the muezzin calls you to your duty. And what about orphans, what do you do for them? And what do you spare for beggars save crumbs and bones? And what about the hajj, how many among you hoarders of gold and silver have carried it out? Oh black sheep, you have been led astray, crossed into the land of the Pharaohs. Your children pay you in kind by forsaking all notions of decency and obedience. I say to you, the end of the world draws near. The goblins will soon come. They will come out of the basin in Moulay Idriss. Mules will conceive and give birth. The deluge will drown you. You will pay dearly for your sins when you stand naked before your Lord. Eternal hell will be your punishment. Come back to God, oh slaves of God!”
Unlike Chiki Laqraâ, Bou Tsabihate never begged for alms. Once his sermon was finished, he would vanish into the unknown, while the people who had gathered to listen would also disperse, with grave looks on their faces. The nearby craftsmen went back to work, with equally grave expressions.
Namouss, on the other hand, continued on his quest. He ran through the saddlers’ souk so that Driss wouldn’t see him. His destination, the horm, the sanctuary of Moulay Idriss.
LEANING ON THE guardrail that cordoned off the horm, as always, is Bidouss, the one-legged beggar. Despite his wooden leg, the man stands up to his full height. Like Uncle Touissa, he is wearing a black overcoat. While other beggars look miserable and try to outdo one another with their catchy laments, Bidouss remains sober and composed. His only request, which he delivers in a monotone, is astonishing, to say the least: “One hundred reals for God!” One hundreds reals, and nothing less, quite a sum! Such a claim astonishes Namouss. At the same time, he is deeply impressed. If Bidouss is asking for so much, it must mean that he’s worth it. Hence the respect he inspires. Besides, his reason for being there is that he’s on a quest. He could wait for hours on end – this did not happen every day – for a believer to pull out a large note and hand it over to our man, who would then pack up and leave, disappearing into the crowd only to return the next day.
Roaming around the horm, despite the throngs of people – or rather because of them – was a complicated pleasure for Namouss. There was a group of women there, some jostling for position, while others clustered around little boutiques to buy decorative candles, sandalwood, or orange blossom water, butternut bark, and kohl. Among the female population, there were also young girls, and thanks to the layout of the premises, one could meet their eye, unlike when they rushed
through the neighborhood at such a pace that one could barely get a glimpse of them. But to actually speak to them? Hchouma (shame) – that was simply impossible. Curiously enough, however, moving around in this holy place often forced people to press up against one another, even though, out of politeness, everyone tried to slip past with the least possible contact. This did not prevent a certain amount of confusion, which was exacerbated by the stifling atmosphere and the fragrances the perfume-sellers burned in order to better intoxicate their customers.
Namouss was aware of these things. But this awareness did not extend to the torments of the flesh. What distracted him for the moment was his mischievous sense of humor. Alas, he would not be able to give free rein to it. While he was in the company of his neighborhood buddies, Namouss was able to become bolder and take part in a cruel game whose victims were exclusively female. The game consisted of taking advantage of the rush of people and the feverish touting of wares to attach the ends of two or three women’s djellabas together with a safety pin. The more adept ones would use a needle and thread and actually stitch them together. They would then follow their victims right up to the exit of the horm. When the women would attempt to go their separate ways, they would become aware of the problem, the nasty trick would be exposed, and hilarity would ensue. Curses would rain down on the children’s heads, and they would scatter like a flock of sparrows.
Namouss would then do the best he could to reach Bab Loufa, which would allow him access to the central basin of the mosque. This was where the children would rendezvous since their presence wasn’t tolerated in the prayer rooms. In order to lend weight to their supposedly pious intentions, they would pretend to perform their ablutions, a ritual that, thanks to the heat and resultant need to freshen up, quickly – and chaotically – devolved into a case of the sprayer getting sprayed. This would signal the entrance of a dreaded character, whose purpose for being there was to ensure the tranquillity of the worshippers and that the place was treated with respect. The children knew him by the name of the instrument he carried with him to keep the peace: Bou Souita, Father Whip – a boundless whip. A quince handle with a long, long leather lash attached to one end, which allowed him to strike the fugitives even in the farthest reaches of the square, dealing out blows in a most democratic fashion. Once the delinquents had been beaten and had dispersed, Bou Souita was free to attend to his other tasks, at which point the rabble-rousers would regroup, this time in a slightly more organized way. Lookouts would be designated in case Bou Souita should return unexpectedly. And the games would start over.
At this point in his peregrination, Namouss inexplicably felt a different sort of need. He therefore joined up with a few of the kids there and performed his ablutions with actual dedication. He wasn’t sure he was proceeding through the steps of the ritual in an orderly fashion, but he didn’t really care since, as Driss was found of saying, at least his heart was in the right place. He would then leave the group behind and head toward the room where the city’s patron saint was resting. His head held high, he took a few measured steps and assumed an inspired composure. If he was to be admitted into the holiest of holies, his face must show his heart was in the right place. And it worked. He went in and approached the grille surrounding the mausoleum. His heart was racing. Was it fear? Fear of what? Or was it that he was the only child in the midst of so many patriarchs, people who usually commanded respect but who were now kneeling submissively in front of the grille, murmuring prayers or expressing their weaknesses and their hopes for help in their time of need? He didn’t know. His legs buckled and he found himself on his knees. He reflected on what he would say. He didn’t feel particularly unhappy and had nothing to ask for. The only thing that came to mind was the beginning of the new school year. He really wanted to do well at school. He wanted to succeed. The words issued without a hitch. He formulated his vow, kissed the grille, drew back, and sat down cross-legged. He thought he had won the right to be there and to leisurely observe everything that was going on around him. The people there, either seated or reclining in Roman style, would abandon themselves to their reveries, indifferent to the passing of time. This despite the fact that the walls were decorated with large clocks whose swaying pendulums produced a subdued cacophony, even though all the faces showed the same time. Namouss was stunned by the array of timekeeping instruments juxtaposed with the people present who, having found refuge in the saint’s mausoleum, had wholly detached themselves from earthly concerns. He too had abandoned himself to a reverie. He grew wings once again. He rose up and up through the sky until he was blinded by a dazzling light. He forced his eyes open, because he knew the Face would appear before him. A moment later, he saw Him on His throne. A stern-looking old man with a magnificent beard, who held out His hand. Namouss kissed it and immediately an incredible feeling of strength flowed through him. But a voice brought his euphoria to an end.
“Have you performed your ablutions properly?”
Namouss fell from great heights since this question planted the seed of doubt in his soul. He came to the moment Bou Souita’s shadow fell across the room. Panicking, Namouss took off and went to warn his friends, who as it turns out hadn’t waited for him.
He found them conferring among themselves by the doors of the mosque. One of them had reported seeing Aâssala not far from there, beside the Qarawiyyin. The group decided to go and meet her.
Aâssala, the cat lady, virtual mute, vagabond. Namouss had a soft spot for her, despite his fervent denials. Fact was that she was tied to a story that had tormented him for a long time, something that began when he was very little. Who had inflicted this trauma on him, had it been Ghita or had it been Zhor, his sister? He couldn’t remember. It had all started when someone had alleged with the utmost seriousness that Namouss was in reality an orphan. That he had been found armed with a jug in the Jnan Sbil gardens selling water to passing strollers. The family had taken pity on him and brought him home. For Namouss, the whole story had transformed into a tragedy. He avoided getting into trouble, since each time he was caught out, the same old threat would resurface: If he ever did it again, they would give him his jug back and leave him in the garden so he could take up his old trade. Where did they keep the damned jug? Namouss had looked for it all over the house in vain. Even when happiness reigned in the family the doubt had never left him, despite the family trying its best to reassure him by saying the whole story had just been one big joke. But on less joyous occasions, the family would take their gag even further. Since he was a foundling, when it would later become time for him to marry, no one would want him. One day, while he was telling the children not to pester Aâssala, the cat lady, meskina, the poor thing, someone yelled, “Here’s an idea! Why don’t you marry her?”
It had taken Namouss some time to recover from this episode. Even now, doubts would take hold of him and his eyes would fill with tears, which he would be unable to hide. But nothing had changed his feelings in regard to Aâssala. He was still secretly very fond of her, and whenever he was out with his friends, he did his best to ensure no harm would come to her.
The group left the horm of the Moulay Idriss complex and headed toward the Qarawiyyin. A gathering crowd signaled Aâssala’s presence. Namouss squeezed through to the front row. There was his “betrothed.” A swarthy-skinned woman with pinhead eyes and wild, unkempt black hair. Even though she was dressed in old rags, she wore at least one ring on each of her fingers. She was holding a pretty kitten in her arms. Another was perched on her shoulder. She was surrounded by a few scrawnier-looking cats. Aâssala was not making a speech. Muttering between her teeth, she was addressing the cats rather than the curious people around her. Yet at the slightest threat, she would raise her voice into a croaky howl, forcing the bystanders to take a step back. Occasionally a child would launch a sneak attack and tug at her sleeve. At which point the child would be beset by the pack of cats, ready to defend their mistress. Thus warned, the children wouldn’t dare confront her head-on. Th
ey would content themselves with hurling jibes at her. Keeping at a distance, some coward would then throw a stone at her before running away.
Namouss was there, watching the scene with a mixture of pity and admiration. He didn’t want anything bad to happen to her. At the same time, he envied the relationship she enjoyed with her cats, who seemed entirely devoted to her. He would have loved to have a kitten of his own at home, to take care of it. A strict rule stood in his way. There were lines he simply couldn’t cross when it came to his family. These ranged from raising pigeons to distilling orange blossom water – all the way up to preserved lemons and olives. Even the slightest transgression would incur a beating. Ghita proved intractable on this point. Having a cat was therefore out of the question – akin to inviting a jinni into the home. Didn’t cats have seven souls?
Namouss was well aware that while Aâssala enjoyed this privilege, his own wish would remain unfulfilled. At least Aâssala was free to have the companions she wanted and go wherever she liked with them. Having reached this stage in his reasoning, he stopped and felt anxious. If he was drawn to freedom and a life of vagrancy, this must mean there was some truth in those stories that had so tormented him in the past. For the first time, he took courage: after all, it was possible for an orphan to have an altogether different life, perhaps even a better one. Why worry so much about it? He was consequently on his way to alleviating the troubles that had dogged him all these years.
And, as if canceling out these first awakenings of a desire for freedom, he surprised himself by saying, “I must get back. It’s getting late.”
11
IT IS THE month of Ramadan, when the mornings are long and spent in total seclusion. There’s no point in going outdoors. The Medina is deserted. One has to be careful not to make any noise in the house so as to let those who were fasting sleep as much as they wanted. Even Driss, who was not usually temperamental, would get nasty whenever he was disturbed from his rest.
The Bottom of the Jar Page 8