Chaos, A Fable

by Rodrigo Rey Rosa

  “It’s a good name, Abdelkrim,” he said, smoking a kif cigarette and following the winding smoke with his eyes. “Like the leader from the Rif, no?”

  The next time I went to see him, I brought the boy with me.

  “Is it done?” he asked me, after looking at the boy with interest.

  “What?”

  “The operation.”

  I laughed.

  “Here we do it later,” I told him. “It’s important that the boy be aware of it.” But I knew he didn’t approve. “If you know what you’re doing, it’s perfect. We’ll do it sometime in the next five years.”

  “Right, right,” he said with displeasure, then changed the subject.

  He had to get ready for friends who were coming to see him—gallery owners, collectors, admirers from Europe and America.

  “There will be many guests. Can you help me?”

  “How many guests?”

  “About seventy.”

  “That’s a good number, John. Seventy is no problem. I’ll help you.”

  John bought a painting from me every year, more or less, and his friends, who came from far and wide to see him, especially during the summers, also became my buyers. You could say I lived on this income during that time—selling my paintings to the Nazarenes. May Allah, who forgives all sinners, forgive me.

  II

  Time does not exist. Five years passed, and the moment came to have Abdelkrim circumcised. Mouloud, the prophet’s birthday, was approaching, so we decided to go with the boy to our tchar in the Rif. Before setting out, Rahma and the boy went to the hammam and came back home with their feet and hands patterned with henna. Rahma dressed him in new clothes: a white casheb and saroueles, a cap from Fez with a five-pointed gold star, and calfskin sandals.

  I drove. I had the money John had given me to buy a bull and to pay the tahar.

  In Sidi Ammar, we were greeted with shouts of merriment. At night the women gave money to Rahma, as was the custom—and still is, Hamdul-lah—and they served us heaping plates of couscous. The moussem is celebrated on a plain about an hour’s walk from the tchar. A big black cloth tent is pitched over the saint’s tomb, people come from other villages, and the cheer of women’s voices can be heard throughout.

  I took a seat at a makeshift café—set up among prickly pear trees covered with drying clothes—while Rahma went with the boy to buy sweets and a little meat from a newly sacrificed bull. I watched my borrowed money trickle away. Then she took the boy to a place forbidden to men, where the women paint their faces with root powders and kohl.

  When the music began, the children lined up single file while the women shouted out uyuyuys and marked time with quick hand claps. Not long after, you could hear the boys’ screams and weeping. The screams were so many and the cries so piercing that I had to get away. I walked up to a rocky mound at the far end of the esplanade and sat in the shade of a large boulder to smoke a few pipes of kif. I gave thanks to Allah, who had allowed me to save a few dirhams of the money John had given me for the bull. We had all shared the cost of the tahar between us, so that was a good thing.

  I closed my eyes as I listened to the women’s ululations and the boys’ cries and the drums and claps. Before long, I heard a flutter of wings near my face. I opened my eyes. A huge crow had perched on a rock just beside me. It looked at me first with one eye, then with the other.

  “Salaam aleikum,” I told it.

  Then I heard, inside my head, “Aleikum salaam.”

  We looked at each other awhile in silence. I refilled my pipe.

  “Shni bghit?” I asked the crow, but it didn’t answer. I drew on my pipe and blew out the smoke. “Culshi m’sien? Everything all right?”

  “Culshi m’sien,” I heard, again, in my head. “Everything is fine. Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes,” I said. “You’re a friend.”

  The crow opened its beak and cawed.

  “Your son, Abdelkrim, has a special”—or could it have said spatial?—“destiny in store for him. The whole world will know his name,” the crow predicted from inside my head.

  “Hamdul-lah!” I exclaimed.

  “Listen, Mohammed,” it continued. “Go get his foreskin while you still can. Put down your pipe and go. Now—before they bury it!”

  A little confused (the kif?), I walked toward the tent over the saint’s tomb and made my way as best I could to where Rahma and Abdelkrim were sitting. The tahar had just finished the circumcision. The boy was shrieking, and Rahma was consoling him. As is still the custom today, they had put the little ring of bleeding flesh in a small pot, full of earth from the saint’s grave. If anyone saw me take it, they said nothing. It was as if, among the women, I had made myself invisible. The tahar, with his tweezers and his barber’s razor, was concentrating on his next procedure.

  I went back to the shady spot among the rocks where the crow was waiting. I opened my hand. The skin, covered with dirt and blood, was almost black. The crow shook its head and stretched out its neck to its full length, its beak pointing upward. I knew what to do. I took the ring of skin—flesh of my flesh—carefully cleaned off the paste of earth and blood, and placed it around the bird’s neck, which was so black it seemed blue. What a beautiful necklace! I thought. At that moment the crow, with a cry of triumph or of joy, took flight and disappeared beyond the mound of red rock.

  I filled my pipe again.

  III

  The next cassette threatened to jam (a defective roller?). When it picked up again, Mohammed’s voice began:

  A lot happened in 1999. Abdelkrim fell terribly ill and nearly died. He suffered from high fevers in the morning and again at night. One morning his mother asked me to take him to the Spanish hospital. “If you’d gotten here any later,” one of the doctors told me, “he’d have died. We’ll have to admit him. But don’t forget the money—can you get it?”

  I left the boy with his mother at the hospital and went up to Monteviejo to see John. The white dog had died, and the black one didn’t look like it had much time left. When it heard me, it got up, barked a little, then threw itself back on its straw mat next to the back door.

  I found John sitting in the sun at the end of the terrace, in a wicker chair next to the big palm tree, his legs covered with a blanket. He was very thin.

  “How are you, Mohammed. Everything all right?”

  He seemed glad to see me. I hadn’t visited him in months.

  “Everything’s fine, John. And you?”

  He closed and opened his eyes. “I’m still alive. Would you like to sit down?”

  He shouted something, and a servant I’d never seen before—tall and dark skinned—appeared.

  I didn’t like his face. From the Djebel, I thought. John asked him to bring me a seat.

  “This is Abdelwahab,” John said. “Mohammed is a friend.”

  “Welcome,” said Abdelwahab.

  I sat down, and the djibli went to the kitchen to make tea.

  “How is Abdelkrim?” John asked.

  At times, it was as if he read my thoughts.

  I told him I’d taken the boy to the hospital early that morning. He understood.

  We drank tea while the sun rose higher in the sky. The heat began to bear down on the terrace. Abdelwahab entered with a tray to collect the glasses and helped John out of his chair.

  “I’ll be back, Mohammed,” John said. “You can wait here or, if you like, go into the living room.”

  “Ouakha.”

  John went into the house on the djibli’s arm, and I got up and took a walk around the terrace. Beyond the Bay of Tangier, you could see the Djebel Musa, clear and gray, like a resting camel.

  Hamdul-lah, I thought.

  John and the djibli came back a few minutes later. John took up his seat near the palm and waited for the other man to leave before handing me an envelope.

  “To help cure Abdelkrim,” he said. “I hope it’s enough.”

  On my way back in the car, I opened t
he envelope. It was full of one-hundred-dirham bills.

  In a matter of two weeks, the doctors had cured Abdelkrim—a virus, they said—and I didn’t see John again until 2001, in September. John was from New York, but the last time he’d been there, the twin towers didn’t even exist.

  This time Abdelwahab took me into the living room, which was full of chimney smoke, and told me to wait there. A short time later, he announced that John would receive me in one of the rooms on the main floor, where he was confined to his bed.

  “How are you, John?”

  “As you can see. But sit down.”

  I sat at the foot of the bed.

  “It’s incredible,” he said. “They’ve gone insane.”

  “You think there’ll be a war?”

  “There’s already a war, isn’t there?”

  “A Muslim didn’t do this,” I told him. “That’s impossible.”

  “Come again?”

  “Believe me, John. The Jews did this.”

  He laughed, but I could see he didn’t think it was funny.

  “Right, a Jew named Mohammed Atta and another named . . .”

  “Believe me, John. They’re Jews.”

  “Well, they don’t seem to be. Nor does their leader, what’s his name, bin Laden.”

  “Al-lah hu a’ lam,” I answered. “Allah knows all.”

  In those days, many things ceased to be as they’d been. It was true that the world was going crazy; I didn’t understand anything anymore. But I knew that the end, when Allah would settle all accounts, was drawing near.

  Abdelkrim had turned eleven, and his mother insisted he should go to school. Not just to the mçid—the school attached to the mosque—which he already attended, but to another where he could learn a profession that would allow him to escape poverty. She wanted him to be an engineer, a lawyer, or a doctor—“Something,” she said. I was against it, but I gave my approval. John helped us enroll the boy in the American school, on Harun-er-Rashid.

  Before he was sent to school, I used to take Abdelkrim fishing at Achakar, by the caves of Hercules, where the sea crashes against the rocks. We’d set out before dawn with poles and lines and whitings from the market. Sitting on the rocks, Abdelkrim would help me grind the tiny fish into a paste, which I’d mix with a little sand to make it heavy. Then we’d throw it into the water. The smell attracted the fish. The sea stirred up foamy eddies that murmured at our feet, while I told my son fantastic stories, and some true ones too. Then Abdelkrim started school, and all that came to an end.

  I kept fishing when there was good weather, but I went alone, with my kif pipe. The world had gone mad, and I didn’t care for it anymore. I no longer sought out my old friends. But Rahma was happy because the boy was healthy and his grades were very good.

  “He’s going to learn so much,” she’d tell me. “When we’re old, he’ll take care of us better than anyone could, Mohammed.”

  I said nothing.

  One morning while I was fishing in the usual spot, a very large crow landed by my side. It was a beautiful bird.

  “Salaam aleikum,” I said.

  This must be the king of all crows, I thought to myself. It was huge. Its claws looked as if they were made of steel, its beak of crystal. But its plumage—how can I describe it? It was so black that when the light changed—the light trembles constantly when you’re smoking kif—it threw off sheens of green and blue. It had golden eyes.

  I asked it, “Are you the same bird I saw in Sidi Ammar?”

  The bird spread its enormous wings.

  “Listen!” I heard it say with perfect clarity—as I had heard it years before, inside my head. “Don’t forget my words, because your fate and that of your entire city depends on what I’m about to tell you.”

  I responded by leaning forward.

  “Your youngest son, Abdelkrim, was chosen by Allah to do great works. You, his father, must understand this. You must serve your son as if he were your lord. Watch him always, and see to it that his desires—even the very least of them—are fulfilled. Do as I tell you, but do it in secret. Not even the boy himself can know that the will of Allah, Lord of All Things, is that you and your family, but you especially, are to be his followers. The air and the clouds, the winds of the north and the south, the east and the west will be like brothers to him, as they are to me.”

  I heard a woman giggle behind me, then the voice of a man.

  “Ashi, ashi, habibti.”

  I turned my head, but they were hidden among the boulders.

  The crow took flight, and I watched it disappear between the rocks and the sea.

  I reeled in my line and saw that the fish had carried off the bait. I threw the rest of the whitings into the sea and got ready to go back to the city. I thought of climbing up higher among the rocks and shaming the fornicators, but I let them be. May Allah judge them.

  I headed back to Tangier by way of Mediuna, where the children sell pine nuts beside the road. I bought half a kilo. I wanted to make one of Abdelkrim’s favorite desserts that afternoon.

  IV

  Slightly distorted on the tape, Mohammed’s voice continued:

  Time—our great friend, our great enemy—never stops, even though time doesn’t really exist. That is the will of Allah.

  One afternoon Rahma told me, “Mohammed, we have to go to the school. The principal wants to talk to us.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I think they’re going to give Abdelkrim an award.”

  “Ouakha,” I said. “God is great.”

  I remembered what the crow had told me.

  We were standing in the large office of the principal, Mr. Collins. On one wall hung a portrait of him in Moroccan attire—white djellaba, yellow slippers—posed against a background of blue sky and spongy clouds. It was one of John’s paintings.

  “Tswir,” he said, looking at the portrait. “What do you think?”

  Rahma was very happy, saying, “Hamdu-li-lah, hamdu-li-lah.”

  I was uncomfortable. He was principal of the school and, people said, a friend to King Hassan II and his son, the new sultan, but Mr. Collins was reputed to be a weekend drunk with a special fondness for boys. The stories of his binges and scandals were plentiful. He had a loud voice and every so often would burst into long guffaws. For this, he’d earned himself the nickname of l-H’mar, the donkey. He invited us to sit down. He looked at Rahma, then at me.

  “How are you, Mohammed?” he asked in Spanish.

  “Fine, Peter. And you?”

  “How is our dear John?”

  “I haven’t seen him for some time.”

  “You should stop in and see him. I was with him on Sunday. He asked about Abdelkrim, and about you and Rahma as well. He thinks of you.”

  “Ouakha, I’ll go and see him.”

  “Excellent.”

  He turned to look again, approvingly, at his portrait. Then he spoke.

  “I’ve asked you here today to talk about Abdelkrim’s future.”

  Rahma nodded her head eagerly.

  “He’s an extraordinary boy, as you must know. As parents of a boy like this, you have a special responsibility.”

  Rahma looked at me, her eyebrows raised.

  “He has a unique intelligence, that’s all there is to it,” Mr. Collins continued. “As Rahma already knows, this year he has received the highest marks, not only in his class or his grade level, and not only of recent years, but the highest in the entire history of this school!”

  He looked at me solemnly.

  “Mohammed,” he said. “I don’t know what you think of such things, but we take them very seriously. I requested that Abdelkrim take a series of tests. About a month ago, I sent the results to a university in Massachusetts to get an expert opinion. Well, as it turns out, they’re very excited to meet Abdelkrim over there.”

  He paused, as if waiting for a response. He looked at Rahma, then at me.

  “Well,” I said, “by all means, let them
come meet him. Marhababikum. They are welcome.”

  “Yes, Mohammed. They have already come. They’re here. And they have already spoken with Abdelkrim. They’re even more impressed than they were before! They say they want to take him to America—not immediately, but soon, and with your permission—so he can continue his studies, special studies, very special, with other boys like him, in a special American school.”

  I shook my head. “Peter, thank you very much, but no.”

  Mr. Collins looked at Rahma, who nodded yes.

  “Mohammed,” said Mr. Collins, “I want you two to discuss this calmly before you say no. Would that be all right?”

  “Ouakha,” said Rahma.

  “Fine,” I said, and got up.

  “Thank you, Mohammed.” Mr. Collins stretched out his hand to give me a firm, emphatic handshake. I touched my chest. He added, “My congratulations to you. Your son is a genius, a gift from Allah.”

  “Báraca l-lah u fik,” said Rahma. She kissed her own hand and held it out to Mr. Collins. “Shukran b’sef.”

  “La shukran, Al-lah wa shib,” he said with a strong American accent.

  We crossed the office. I looked back at the portrait John had painted of Mr. Collins, looking petulant in Moroccan dress, the sky and clouds behind him. “Zamil,” I thought.

  “And Mohammed!” Mr. Collins shouted from his desk as Rahma and I were leaving. “You must go and see John sometime soon. I think he’s not well.”

  “Ouakha,” I said.

  “Give him my regards.”

  “Ouakha.”

  Rahma didn’t speak until we were in the car.

  “Mohammed, we must think carefully about what we’re going to do—not for us, not for me or you, but for Abdelkrim.”

  I nodded my head. “Bismil-lah,” I said, and started the car.

  “In the name of God,” Rahma repeated. “It is he who knows.”

  It was around this time that the Americans hanged Saddam Hussein, their old friend. That is how they are, and Saddam was wrong to trust them.

  I talked with Rahma about what was happening in the world. I reminded her of the first Gulf War. “The Americans did it,” I told her, “to deceive the public. What they wanted was oil, and to make people forget about President Clinton and the Lewinsky woman.