A variation of the same stunt consisted in making a hole in the middle of a coin and anchoring it into the ground with a nail. The chump would bend down to pick it up, but quickly realizing he was fighting a losing battle, would quit the field and walk away, shamefaced.
More often than not, Loudini was the mastermind behind these pranks. Even though Namouss didn’t always agree with him, he vaguely admired this outlaw who always had a vast store of adventurous and entertaining ideas. Loudini was also the orchestrator of less playful activities – for example, initiating the group into the world of commerce, the source of the city’s wealth. This consisted in minor business deals that could earn them a little pocket money. But Loudini took it all very seriously. Ever since Namouss had known him, Loudini had been a hustler. Every afternoon he could be found squatting outside the entrance of the El-Attarine souk. In front on him was a stool upon which he’d place a baking tray filled with chalaouane, a chickpea dish with a golden-brown crust that he prepared at home and then had cooked in the public ovens – a reasonably priced delicacy that got gobbled up by both adults and children alike. Armed with a knife, Loudini would cut a piece according to the customer’s wishes, half a slice or even a quarter. He pocketed the money in advance and, adopting a peremptory tone, would admonish the pushy customers and tell them to wait their turn and keep away from the work area. He would sell out in less than an hour, at which point he would pack up and leave.
Aside from this little business, where he monopolized both the production and supply chain, the budding capitalist also invested in another sector: the confectionery industry. For that, he had commissioned a tbila – a wooden display shelf with tapered legs, protected by an iron grille – from a carpenter in the Nejjarine souk. His stock, which he would renew once a week on average, was limited during the high season to two packets of chewing gum and about thirty or so sweets, all in different colors. The running of the shop was entrusted to Belhaj, a serious boy who inspired confidence. He received payment in kind for his work: the last rumpled pack of chewing gum and all the damaged sweets that hadn’t been sold throughout the week. Loudini would pocket all the income and move on to other investments.
The trade he managed to recruit the entire gang for was the manufacture of windmills. Loudini would supply the building materials – colored paper, pins, reeds – and supervise the cutting, folding, and assembly. Once the frafers were ready, he would test them out one by one and then tell each member of the group where they should sell them. At the end of the day, he would collect the proceeds, pocketing half and dividing the remaining half among the gang. He had come up with a cockamamie formula to justify the way he split the profits and explain why he should have the lion’s share, leaving his disgruntled business partners no option but to swallow the bitter pill: Suck an egg-egg and give me my share-share.
Why was Namouss mixed up in this? He was obviously not suited to business, neither when it came to selling chickpea pies, which required some knowledge of cooking, nor to running a candy shop, which required the gift of the gab and the patience of Job. As far as the making of frafers was concerned, the less said, the better. Even if he more or less got through the cutting stage, he always bungled the folding and assembly. How many times had Loudini scolded him and threatened to fire him because he’d wrecked some of the material or because all his work needed to be redone! When it came to splitting the profits, however, Loudini nonetheless allotted Namouss a share. At that point, Namouss received his honorable discharge. When he’d finished making the rounds in the part of the city he’d been assigned to, he’d only managed to sell two or three. But seeing how much effort this took on his part, it wasn’t long before he came up with a slightly bizarre idea. He hadn’t quite swallowed that whole “egg-egg, share-share” story. Why was Loudini entitled to such a large share? Fine, he provided the paper and all the rest. But then Namouss thought: I could simply buy the materials myself and find someone to help me assemble and sell them, so I could comfortably line my pockets too. This knee-jerk reaction to the logic of capitalism prompted him to come up with a plan whereby he would charge a slightly higher price for his windmills than Loudini did, which would allow him to pocket the difference. Alas, though the idea was instantly seductive, on further reflection Namouss abandoned it. The saying “Fez is a mirror” came to mind, and he realized that he would be found out. He tried to return to a more principled frame of mind, in truth motivated largely by the fear of being found out, resulting in disastrous consequences on his status in the gang.
No, no, he told himself – putting that idea definitively to rest. May God curse the religion of money.
THE SUMMER LINGERED on, and despite various activities, Namouss once again found himself in a languorous state. Something was missing and he couldn’t figure out what it was. School? Patience, that would start up again soon. Traveling? Of course, but he was realistic enough to know it wouldn’t happen anytime soon. His parents’ love? He had it, even if the outward signs of affection were few and far between, often indirect, and for the most part unexpected. Friends? He had the members of his gang, for what they were worth, who at least provided recourse when solitude weighed him down or when the atmosphere in the house became insufferable. What was it then? Maybe what he lacked was a kindred spirit in whom he might confide his big secret or, without even going that far, someone with whom he might share the crazy ideas that ran through his mind – the incomprehensible images that flashed past his eyes during his waking dreams, or the voices he heard, which came, as they say, from another world – or even talk with about the tingling that was electrifying his body, those sweet waves that flooded over him, the longing he felt for a hand, a truly tender hand, for someone whose scent and breath might mingle with his just before going to sleep. Having stirred all that up, nothing came of it. Having reached the limits of his imagination, he came down from the clouds and landed on the patio.
Ghita was there, seated on a little mattress, all dressed up, as if for a special occasion, with a saffron-yellow scarf wrapped around her head. She’d arranged all the sorry-looking scraps of makeup she owned on an embroidered handkerchief she’d spread out on the floor: a vial of kohl, a bit of souak (walnut bark), a terra-cotta saucer coated with a thin layer of rouge. She began the ritual by brushing her teeth very attentively with the bit of souak, stopping only once she’d reduced the bark to a few strings, which she then chewed before spitting them out. While her teeth had certainly become a lot whiter, her fingers were now black. Then came the actual makeup. She wet a tissue wrapped around her index finger with a bit of saliva and dipped it into the rouge. After quickly dabbing her cheeks three times with it, she spread it out evenly over the rest of her face. Then she went back to her cheeks, and by virtue of scrubbing away repeatedly at them, they attained a more natural color. Curiously, this modicum of discretion did not apply when it came to her lips, which she painted thickly, perhaps because they were thin and – in a burst of coquettishness – she wanted to emphasize what she considered one of the key features of beauty. She looked at herself in the mirror to ensure everything had gone according to plan and moved on to the next step, which she approached with caution. When it came to kohl, Ghita found herself swimming in a sea of contradictions. After becoming “blind to her hands,” as she was fond of saying, she would dry her tears and move on to her eyebrows. Once more, what little discretion she had flew out the window. Light and thin to start with, her eyebrows grew thicker and fuller until they hung above her eyes like bountiful crescents.
“Well, how do I look, you little jinni?” she asked Namouss, who’d followed the procedure from start to finish.
Not knowing how to answer her, he instead asked, “What’s all this for? Are you going out?”
“What’s it got to do with you? Don’t you know today is the day of Lalla Mira?”9
“Who is Lalla Mira? Some sort of ghoul like Aïcha Kandisha?”10
“May your lips go numb! I never want to hear you mention t
he name of that scrap of carrion again, otherwise she will come and eat you and pick her teeth clean with your bones. Lalla Mira is a real Muslim. She is the spirit that dwells within us and who watches over us. Oh Lalla Mira, taslim, I surrender to you. Here I am, just as you like, wearing your color on my head. Keep evil away from me and my children, and may the evil eye go blind before it manages to reach us. Taslim! Taslim!”
Failing to understand a single word of this gobbledygook, Namouss persevered: “So you’re going out?”
“Yes, I’m going out. So what?”
“I want to go with you.”
“Do as you wish. I need to ‘chill my jinn’ and so I’m going to a Gnaoua11 hadra.”12
Thinking it would be a party with lots of musicians, Namouss’s resolve to follow his mother strengthened.
UNLIKE DRISS, WHO ran rather than walked, Ghita was so slow it was as if she were walking on eggs. From behind, Namouss was grumbling about the lack of progress. Moreover, judging by how indifferent she seemed, he wasn’t sure whether she had really agreed to his accompanying her. He therefore kept close, putting up with her impossibly slow pace and reminding her of his presence from time to time by gently tugging on the sleeve of her djellaba. This drama lasted until they reached the climb of the Grenadiers. Ghita, who already had a good deal of trouble walking on the cobblestones when they were flat, went wobbly at the thought of the difficult stretch ahead. She resolved to elicit Namouss’s help, who was only too glad to lend a hand. Bolstered by such recognition, he gave her his hand and stood to his full height to offer his shoulder.
“Where are we going?” he asked, hoping to cement the pact.
“Don’t muddle my mind with your questions,” she replied, “and careful where you put your feet, otherwise you’re going to make us fall.”
Panting, they reached the top of the climb. Prone to sudden reversals, Ghita took a left down Lemtiyine and said, “Let go of my hand now. I can walk by myself. You think my bones have crumbled away or something? I’ve still got my own wings and I can come and go, rise and fall. The blade’s still sharp enough to chop the onion. Let’s go, we’re almost there.”
Lemtiyine! That was where Namouss’s school was. Could that be where the hadra was being held? What were Gnaoua musicians doing in Mr. Fournier’s inner sanctum? Would Mr. Benaïssa join in and play his flute? Indifferent to her son’s speculations, Ghita passed by the school without giving it a second glance. Her stride grew more confident. She sped up, took the first corner on the right, and almost started running. Namouss chased after her. They wound up in a little square and Ghita immediately rushed into a gloomy alley, shouting, “I can’t hold it any longer. Stay where you are and keep a lookout.”
A moment later came a psss. . ., then a char . . . rr; and Namouss, taken aback at first, guessed what was going on. A sudden panic seized him. What if a “stranger” were to pop out of nowhere? Would his mother have to time to finish and make herself presentable? It would be a catastrophe! Barely had he formulated these fears when a big fellow came out of the alley holding up the ends of his djellaba while shouting, “Women have lost all sense of shame and decency. Satan holds full sway over their minds. Puh!”
He stormed off looking furious.
A few interminable seconds passed before Ghita reappeared, her expression cheerful, making this trivial observation: “Allah, I felt like I was going to burst! What a relief! Well then, get going. It’s just here.”
In the fever of the preceding event, Namouss hadn’t even noticed the noises that were coming from the house his mother was now pointing out to him. It was a sacred din, where he recognized the beating of drums and the gravelly clatter of rattles. Namouss had often witnessed impromptu performances and acrobatic displays by Gnaoua musicians in Bab Guissa and Joutiya. Their musical style was very different from the usual Andalusian tunes that saturated the airwaves on Fridays and holidays. If Gnaoua rhythms were rollicking and visceral, Andalusian ones were gentle and melodic to the point of being soporific. Caught between these two extremes, Namouss had a penchant for a third genre, the melhoun, where the singer at least told a story and did so in the colloquial spoken in Fez. But what had chiefly drawn Namouss to this genre had undoubtedly been a particular song from his repertoire: “The Ballad of Ghita.” He’d been disconcerted when he’d heard it for the first time. Someone was singing on the radio and addressing his mother by her name. What sorcery had he used to find out she was called Ghita? Driss, who had been there at the time, picked up the refrain and sang along, clapping his hands, throwing his wife knowing looks, drawing her attention to a certain verse that enchanted him: “Listen Ghita, pay attention to the sense and the subtleties.”
Ghita lowered her eyes in a gesture of feigned modesty and indifference, although she was in fact on cloud nine and had picked up on every allusion the song was making.
This is the lament of the lover
Who burned, just as I once did
With desire for his sweetheart,
And whenever he thought the flame
Had flickered and gone out
The slightest sight
Of the young beauty
Would restore the flame
And set him on fire,
Poor lover, deserted
By sleep and appetite,
Whenever he saw his damsel
It was as if he’d glimpsed
The gates of death,
She who so wholly possessed him
Cared not for his suffering
Blessed by life, she was
A ruler both cruel and just,
Standing before her door
He begs tirelessly for her favor
And will never give up.
Tell Lalla Ghita my sovereign:
Satisfy your lover when you meet him,
Oh you, mother rain . . .
Tell Lalla Ghita: you are the blessing
He is looking for, take pity
On he who loves only you,
You have made him lose all sense and reason
So why are you throwing him on the embers?
Revive him, with just one kiss
Oh my dear, before it’s too late,
Don’t you know he’s a slave
That’s been entrusted to your care
Who observes all rules of decorum?
His desires are yours, you are all
He lives for. Your indifference
Will be the death of him,
His torment knows no equal
Just like your beauty!
Tell Lalla Ghita my sovereign . . .
The unbridled, almost carnivalesque party taking place inside the large house they enter is a far cry from the intimate poetry and discreet melodies of that song. The crowd of spectators surrounding the Gnaoua is almost exclusively composed of women and children. The atmosphere is overheated. Clouds of incense smoke are rising from a number of braziers, gradually forming a thick fog where one can barely see anyone’s face. Volleys of ululations are unleashed at regular intervals as the rattles and drums play on. In the midst of this hubbub, Ghita suddenly leaves her child behind and, as if moved by mysterious forces, elbows her way to the front of the crowd. Namouss tries to catch up, but having opened for her, the wall of bodies quickly closes ranks again. Panicking, he tries to come up with a solution. Lifting his eyes, he notices that a number of other spectators are following the ceremony from the floor above by leaning on the parapet. He runs up. Moved to pity by how frazzled Namouss seems, a woman makes a little room for him, but in doing so squashes up against him, overwhelming him with the heavy smell of her perfume. Braving these nuisances, Namouss’s only desire is to find his mother again. He tries to make her out in the crowd by spotting the color of her djellaba. There’s no point. The cloud of incense has thickened and turned opaque. His gaze is then drawn to a group of women dancing in the middle of the room. Dancing is not quite the word for it. Their agitation has nothing to do with swaying arms and hips or quivering bellie
s and shoulders, movements Namouss associated with dance as he knew it, the sort that women threw themselves into with a coquettish air at fêtes and festivities. Instead, the only movement these women are making is snapping their heads back and forth in an increasingly staccato rhythm. The rest of their bodies remain immobile, except for when one of them sinks to her knees and begins shaking her torso back and forth with extraordinary strength. Freed from her head scarf, her hair would fall free and toss back and forth, then it began to fly around like a giant eagle experiencing turbulence in flight. Inspired by this ecstasy, the Gnaoua musicians play faster and faster, shouting hoarse sounds to egg the women on. The women reply by ululating in unison. At its climax, the ceremony takes an unexpected turn: A young female spectator leaps into the middle of the ring, and as if she’s been bitten by a scorpion, collapses onto the ground. Gripped by convulsions, she starts rolling and wriggling every which way on the floor. At this sight, a few dancers who haven’t yet lost all sense of reason run over to her, but instead of calming her down, they merely restrict her freedom of movement by surrounding her in a tighter circle. In doing so, these women look not only delighted but even envious of this “poor epileptic.” Moved to pity and racked by anxiety, Namouss pronounces the diagnosis. He knew all about epilepsy. Cases of it were not so rare in the Medina. Whenever they occurred, the first-aid workers immediately set to their principal aim: freeing these bodies of the evil spirits that had possessed them. They would put a large iron key in the victim’s hand and sprinkle a little water in his face. Whereas here no one was doing anything to stop the attack. The young woman continued to writhe while the women around her ululated, taking the girl’s affliction as a blessing.
The Bottom of the Jar Page 12