Namouss stared wide-eyed at the scene before him, rejoicing as each bill went into his father’s hand. Come the following Friday, he thought to himself, I will be able to ask him for a hefty tatriba (allowance).
THE SEKKATINE GREW more and more animated. The public auction had begun. The first items under the hammer were lbadis (small woolen carpets) handmade by the maâllmate, who entrusted their wares to hawkers like Ammour or Raïss, who went – carpets under their arms – from shop to shop to collect orders. The artisans paid close attention to the labels on each carpet; those made by Chérifa, the Berber woman Fdila, or Merqtani’s daughters were prized above all the others. They had even come up with a secret code to indicate the quality of the wares. Namouss eventually managed to decipher it, too. He knew that those marked chorba were of a poor quality while the opposite was true for those marked jrih.
After the woolen carpets, the secondhand saddles, stirrups, and moukhala guns made the rounds. It got to the point that items completely unrelated to saddlery were peddled: samovars, copperware, engraved daggers . . . But eventually business slowed down and the souk would recover a little tranquillity. The shopkeepers did their paperwork and the craftsmen went back to work, albeit less energetically than before. The local café was flooded with orders, people asking Krimou, the owner, for coffees or mint teas, which were served in chebri glasses. Out came the nuts or the snuffboxes and everyone gave themselves over to pleasure. This was also the time when passing visitors were welcomed and gossip was exchanged: weddings, divorces, deaths, houses that had gone on the market, inflation, new products, and – naturally – the arm wrestling between nationalists and the colonial authorities. People made hushed references to Allal al-Fassi, Belhassan Ouazzani,7 Abdel el-Krim Khattabi,8 the sultan (may God grant him victory), and the corrupt caids who blighted the countryside. They weighed up the relative strengths of the Americans and the Russians (the two leading powers) and their support for Egypt, and prayed to God to take pity on Muslims as a whole and deliver them from evil.
Namouss hung on every word, scraping bits of knowledge together. Matters to do with other countries simply went over his head and he put these down to the natural order of things. History had yet to knock at the door of his consciousness. He waited impatiently for these serious discussions to come to a fortuitous end. If only Abdeslam Laïrini would suddenly show up with a suitcase in each hand! The man in question was a dedicated traveler originally from the north of the country, specifically from the town of Larache. Once a month he would go back and forth between Fez and the Spanish Zone, where he made a number of surprising purchases: soap bars in the shape of fruit (lemons, pears, bananas), Italian shoes, scarves and silk shirts, pajamas, bottles of Rêve d’Or and Tabu perfume, chocolate, tubes of toothpaste, toothbrushes, and – something that disconcerted Namouss – Spanish gargoulettes of unusual shapes and decoration. As soon as Abdeslam Laïrini entered the souk, many conversations came to an abrupt end. Everyone ran over to touch the merchandise, which for the most part sold out in a matter of minutes. For reasons unknown to Namouss, Driss rarely bought anything, so Namouss had to content himself with feasting his eyes. He was all ears too, since Abdeslam spoke with the singsong accent typical of the north. It was like hearing another language for Namouss, who had begun to develop a taste for new languages at school.
Yet there were days when nothing unexpected happened. The conversations dragged on. Becoming aware of how bored his son was, Driss would set him free.
“Go home,” he ordered him.
THE COMMAND JOLTED Namouss up from his extended reverie. He looked around to make sure Driss wasn’t anywhere in sight. A few shops had already opened. It was time to move on.
Where should he go now? It was barely noon, and he had to hold out until sundown. There was no choice but to continue on his peregrination. He left the Sekkatine souk, took a left, passed the Nejjarine fountain, and went down the alleyway that led to the rue des Pavés. Once there, he stopped in front of a shop that like the others was closed, though not for the same reason. In fact, the shop had been closed as long as anyone could remember and was shrouded in an aura of mystery. It was called the Prophet’s Shop, and it was said that God’s Beloved had once passed through there. The footprints he’d left behind were still etched in the ground. Namouss had often tried to peep inside the shop through a crack to see what went on in there but had never been able to make out anything in the pitch-dark. But today, distressed as he was, he was hoping for a miracle. He leaned against the door and looked through the crack. His need to be rescued was akin to a breath of air coming from inside the shop. He was moved by it. “Oh emissary of God,” he surprised himself murmuring, “get me out of this bad patch.” At that moment, he felt himself being shoved and violently crushed against the door. Grasping for something with which to catch his balance, his hand gripped the tail of an animal that had come out of nowhere. He realized that he’d come upon a heavily burdened donkey that had slipped on the cobblestones and had almost fallen on top of him. Luckily the donkey driver was there. Using his cudgel, the driver beat the animal until it got back on its feet, freeing Namouss, who was frightened rather than hurt. The driver, a little groggy, continued on his way.
Namouss needed some fresh air, and it was only natural he should think of the Jnan Sbil gardens. Namouss had a long walk ahead of him in order to get there, including a good uphill stretch: the rue des Pavés, then the Talaa Seghira, right up to Bab Boujeloud. “All the better,” he said to himself, “that will take up a few hours until it’s time for the Maghrib.” This new perspective invigorated him. He decided to stop loafing around and walk the distance to the gardens in a single go. Yet his overall vitality, though considerable, was now beginning to flag, standing in the way of his plan. At this time of day, thirst and hunger were making themselves painfully felt. Smokers and snuff-takers lose their patience when deprived of their vice. Their grouchiness becomes unbearable. They start to split hairs, fly off the handle at the slightest provocation, and vent their spleen. Altercations would break out here and there, which the idle followed with avid interest, idlers whose chief concern was to while away the hours until the breaking of the fast, an approach Namouss was already familiar with. Any distraction – in the strongest sense of the word – was welcome. There were two categories of idlers. First came the jokers, who loved adding fuel to the fire and who generally stood to the side so as to make a clean getaway if one of their jibes backfired and stirred a bruiser’s ire.
“Whose sebsi is this on the ground?”
“Whose snuffbox is this?”
“Light up and take a good drag.”
“The Maghrib is still far-far-far away and the maid is a piddling little child!”
The second category was made up of good souls who tended to break up fights and – thanks to copious quotations from the Qur’an – tried to bring the combatants back to reason. Although these mediators really did help keep the peace, this too was a means of whiling away the hours until the fast could be broken.
It was therefore curious to note the sudden interest a great number people took in being precise during this month when patience was celebrated as a virtue. From the time the sun passed its zenith, the questions people asked all circled the same pot.
“What time is it?”
“What time will Maghrib be today?”
“How long until the Maghrib?”
And, as if these weren’t enough, others who were even more anxious, would ask, “Are you sure your watch is working properly?”
Namouss had a hard time moving through that feverish crowd. He took care not to bump into anyone to avoid attracting the wrath of those mramden – as those “Ramadan sufferers” were called. He finally arrived at Bab Boujeloud. The way was clear.
THE JNAN SBIL gardens were a true haven of peace. The main avenue was lined with bushy Seville orange trees and flanked by two rows of basins where jets of water shot up and down, like dancers repeating an endless ballet c
horeographed by some invisible force. Namouss left the avenue behind and took a left. He crossed through a small forest of bamboo trees growing in the shadow of pines and giant palms. Here and there were some frail-looking datura sagging under the weight of their foul-smelling, bell-shaped flowers. A burbling brook could be heard, and at the end of the path, the garden’s majestic waterwheel came into view. It was turning slowly, as if stroking the surface of the water. Namouss sat on a bench and gave himself over to its movements, which soothed his heart. Lulled by the water’s swish, he wound up falling asleep. His dreams, alas, did not bring him any comfort, as they had little in common with the peace of his surroundings. An enormous weight pressed down on his chest while a series of images whirled through his head at breathtaking speed. Once again this nightmare.
This had happened a year ago. The episode had taken place in Aïn Allou, the road where the Small Springs were located. Unlike other times, he hadn’t gone there to see Chiki Laqraâ shower her invisible rival and assorted stone-hearted miscreants with insults. He had wound up there purely by accident. All around him were seditious murmurs. The crowd that had gathered in this back alley blocked the traffic. Men, children, and even young girls were chanting slogans.
“Down with colonialism!”
“Long live independence!”
Then something unimaginable happened: A young, unveiled girl was hoisted high above the crowd by two fellow protesters. Sweeping all objections aside, the girl launched into a song, which the crowd quickly echoed:
I have made a gift of my soul
To Morocco, my homeland
And he who tramples its rights
Will be made to taste death . . .
The crowd grew larger and larger, and the excitement had reached its apogee when gunshots broke out from the top of the road.
“The goumiers! The goumiers!” someone shouted.
Panic ensued. Wave upon wave of protesters flooded the square, collapsing one after the other into a heap of bodies, crashing down like a house of cards. Trapped in a bottleneck, gesticulating wildly. Namouss felt the ground beneath his feet give away. The wave had overwhelmed him, swallowed him up, blowing him like a feather right into the thick of things. He reacted instinctively and did his best to neither move nor scream so he could concentrate on breathing. Keeping his mouth open, he tried to catch some air, but his lungs were being increasingly squashed and his heart started skipping beats. The thought that he might die crossed his mind, but strangely, this did not bother him much. Rather, he thought about how Ghita would throw a fit as soon as she heard the news – or about how Driss would be spared from having to give him his weekly allowance. But the more suffocating the situation got, the less he thought about these things. He was no longer able to breathe, and his throat only emitted a hoarse rattle. In a final burst of lucidity, he realized he was being pressed against a woman’s inert body, and that the woman was jamming her hand into his face. Without knowing why, he took the woman’s hand and, using all his remaining energy, bit down on it. He smelled blood. His or the woman’s? He couldn’t tell. The surrounding darkness gave way to a cold, white haze that worked its way into his brain and put him to sleep. All around him, the screaming and wailing began to fade away.
That was when he felt the hold over him loosen. Someone was dragging him away. He opened one eye, first seeing a policeman’s helmet, then a face and lips ordering: “Get the hell out of here!”
Freed from the vise, he landed, made his way to all fours before getting back on his feet as best he could – at which point his savior gave him a kick in the backside before he scuttled off.
“DO YOU WANT a drink?”
The boy yanking Namouss away from his agitated dreams was very small, in fact only knee-high to a grasshopper, and had hanging over his shoulder . . . a gargoulette! With his free hand, he held out a cup, insisting: “Do you want a drink?”
Waking up in a daze, Namouss looked at this apparition. Having just left a nightmare behind, here he was staring at his doppelgänger. Would his suffering never come to an end? What evil jinni was forcing him to remember that story, especially on a day like this, when everything was going wrong? Recovering a little, Namouss grabbed the cup and emptied it in a single gulp. The child was amused by such great thirst.
“Did you fast today?”
Wary, Namouss answered his question with another: “What about you? Did you fast?”
“No,” the child retorted. “I’m younger than you.”
“I am the youngest in my family,” Namouss added. “I won’t be starting to fast anytime soon.”
The conversation went on like this.
“I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”
“What about parents?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Where do you live?”
“In New Fez.”
“In whose house?”
“Houses that belong to people. I work and give them money.”
“Did they find you here in the garden?”
“No, they said they got me in the countryside, but they’re lying.”
“Who gave you the gargoulette?”
“I bought it with my money.”
“Do you sell water everywhere?”
“I sell it here during Ramadan, otherwise in the mellah.”
“So why are you here now?”
“I worked enough today. I came here to rest. The water that’s left over I give away fabor.”
“Who drinks your water?”
“Kids, and women who are having their time of the month.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“When they bleed.”
“From where?”
“From where you came out.”
“Why?”
“That’s just the way it is. And so they have the right to eat and drink as they like.”
“Ah, so that’s why my big sister eats from time to time.”
“You’re a real kanbou. You don’t know anything at all.”
“Yes, I do. I learn a lot at school.”
“I learn more from the streets.”
“Like what?”
“Tricks. Also, I know how to defend myself.”
“So do I.”
“Yeah, yeah. You wouldn’t stand a chance against me.”
“Don’t push it. I wouldn’t hit you anyway because you’re younger than me.”
“Feel my muscles.”
“It’s true, they’re hard as steel.”
“You’ve run away from home, haven’t you?”
“How do you know?”
“You did something bad, I can tell just by looking at you.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
IT WAS TIME for the evening prayer. Maghrib wasn’t far off. Namouss decided to go home, reluctantly leaving his companion behind. The initial hostility had disappeared completely. The thought that he might never see the boy again even made Namouss sad. He turned around to look at him one last time. The water seller was perched on the bench with his gargoulette close beside him, his naked, dusty little feet dangling in the air. Framing him from behind, the waterwheel was spinning away. With a last look at this somewhat disquieting image, Namouss headed toward the exit.
12
RETURN TO THE house. His apprehension is intact, and the state he finds his mother in is certainly not going to release his tension. At first, Ghita seems to be ignoring his presence. It then becomes clear she is just midstream in one of her memorable tirades, using the patio as her stage. Namouss, used to these performances, pricks up his ears, waiting to see what will come next. But what he hears astonishes him.
“Our religion sure is a fine thing! You have to spend all day chained up like a dog. Our throats parched and our bowels gurgling. Neither rest during the day nor sleep at night. And who – who’s left gathering the grievances? Ghita, that’s who, the servant of young and old – the orphan girl with no one
to look after her. If only I had somewhere to go, I swear to God I wouldn’t stay here a moment longer. What is it that our ancestors used to say? ‘When your country humiliates you, leave it.’ It’s true, the world is vast. I can live anywhere, even in a nouala or a tent. I’m strong enough to look after myself. After all, bread and water will suit me just fine. I don’t need gold or caftans. I don’t need a man, or children, anything that will make my head ache. Head, oh head of mine, you’re going to explode. My head, my head, my head . . .”
On that note, she made an about-face and, finally noticing Namouss’s presence, she began to scold him.
“You’re just getting home now, you sinful son! Where have you been all day? Who have you been gallivanting with? Everyone was worried to death. Your father almost hired a street hawker to go around the city shouting your name.”
Namouss was seriously starting to panic, but then Ghita abruptly changed her tone.
“Come here! Now tell me first of all: You haven’t eaten a thing since yesterday, have you?”
“No,” Namouss hastened to answer, her question filling him with hope.
“Wili, wili!” Ghita exclaimed, suddenly moved to pity. The boy was dying of hunger and there was no one there to rescue him. “Come here, my poor little one, come here. You can start by tasting that damn harira to tell me if it’s salty enough. I never know how much salt to put in. That dates from the time when your father and I were newlyweds and lived at your uncle’s house. Well, would you believe that when it was my turn to cook, your aunt – may God punish her! – would wait until my back was turned to throw a handful of salt into the pot. When the tagine was served it was almost inedible. All of that just to sow discord between your father and me. I was still a little girl, but one day I woke up at dawn, packed my things, and gave your father a choice: Either he would find us a house of our own, or we would go pay a visit to the qadi –”
“Let me taste the harira,” Namouss implored, his stomach howling like a wolf.
The Bottom of the Jar Page 10