A Shimmering Red Fish

by Youssef Fadel

  26

  We heard the sound of machines even before we crossed over the wires, stopping in the middle of the courtyard that was covered with prickly grass. We didn’t go as far as the storage shed door. That was because Father appeared—looking like he had before, all covered in sawdust, happier than he’d ever been, in the bloom of youth, beaming because of a victory we hadn’t yet seen, hands on his hips in a deliberate challenge, surrounded by four black guys standing in the same challenging way—preventing us from going any farther. The National Department of Electricity employee seemed small in front of him, worthless and lacking any authority. All of a sudden, he no longer seemed as intimidating as he had before. To be honest, he seemed insignificant to me, inspiring not the slightest bit of fear after his initial defeat. Then, when he came back after a few days, asking whether Father had returned from his travels, he didn’t wait around for me to come up with a lie on par with those about the export office, Japanese citizenship, and Turkish animal feed. He just handed me a hundred-dirham bill as soon as he stopped in front of me, a bill I was in most urgent need of. From that moment on, he became the most insignificant person as far as I was concerned, like someone you could easily pass by anywhere without giving a second glance or paying any attention to at all. I could have closed up the workshop and headed down to the beach, leaving him standing at the door like a beggar. I really could have told him that he had come back from Agadir and flown to Tokyo (this last thought almost caused me to break out into hysterical laughter). And I could have quite simply asked for another bill or two. But I remembered the ceiling the employee had talked about before. The four black guys looked like they were charged with guarding someone important. Their faces had the same stern look Father’s had, like a well-trained gang, organized and ready. What could the employee do? I had never seen him look so fragile. So much so that I wondered where the fear he used to inspire had gone. Right then, it would have been better for him to go get his pail and fishing rod, and head down to the shore rather than ask about the ceiling or make a fuss about why it was delayed. Unfortunately, he didn’t have this gear with him, and anyway, it only would have made him appear even more insignificant. The image of him carrying what looked to be a pail and fishing rod, with the smell of sardines rising from him, cheered me up in a way I hadn’t expected it to.

  It was as if we were in an arena, with me watching two wrestlers and knowing in advance which way the match was going to go. They stood there facing one another for a while, each evaluating the strength of his opponent as if trying to intimidate the other one first. Each concealed the weapons he had sharpened beforehand, or at least tried to make it look that way. I walked away a bit so as to retain the drama of the scene. I stood not too far away, between the two of them, like the referee; a referee who knew from the start that he was going to side with one of the two opponents, no matter which way the battle went. Like someone watching two contestants he knew very well in open battle, but who pretended that he didn’t know either of them so as not to make the match appear to be rigged. But he leaned in favor of one of them. Not because of kinship or blood, but because of a defiant, solemn stance, or because of each combatant’s past history. Out of sympathy for him, because of the hands on his hips, he favored the man covered in sawdust. Father shifted his weight from one leg to the other now, like someone who knew how the fight would turn out, and said, “Everything comes in due time,” as he looked at the black guys rather than the employee. In a voice containing a little modesty, and quite a bit of mockery, the employee responded, “What time, Si Omar? The time has passed.”

  “Everything comes in due time.”

  The only thing missing from the mosque was Father’s ceiling.

  Working, working. His words were filled with contempt. They contained hatred for his adversary even before they’d climbed into the ring. “Everything comes in due time . . .” His ideas only emerged from his head when he pleased. Thoughts had their moods.

  “Do you know anything about wood, my good employee? Do I know anything about electricity? Why don’t you worry about your job? What is your job? Stringing electrical cables? Well then, string your cables and leave us alone.”

  “And the ceiling?”

  “Why doesn’t everyone just stick to where they belong? Do you understand anything about wood, ornamentation, and coloring? Do you know what Casablanca red is? Do you know, first of all, who invented it?”

  “But where’s the ceiling?”

  “It’s around.”

  “Can we see it?”

  “No.”

  The four black guys with their broad arms crossed over their chests moved closer to Father, as if assuring the employee that there was more abuse to come. What flowed from Father’s tongue came to resemble a song. That’s because Father was a poet. Does the employee even know anything about a thing called poetry? What is paronomasia? What are homonyms? Does the National Department of Electricity employee know what juxtaposition is? It is shade and light together, one next to the other. Now I was hearing Father’s old, true voice. I recognized it, and I could tell from its tone that he was intoxicated. Now he recounted his glories. Then he moved to his favorite story—the sixty-sided sittiniya dome that he constructed in the Dar Pasha house. “Do you even know what a sittiniya is? Three full years to make one dome.” And his story with the pasha? Does the employee know it? To this day, all Marrakechis recall and recount it. Once, while he was explaining to the pasha what he was doing as the pasha watched him walking in circles around the courtyard for three full days, touching neither wood nor chisel, nor mixing a color, Father told him, “I’m a poet, not a carpenter forced to work out of necessity. I’ve never begged in exchange for my art.” He picked up his tools and carried them back to his house. After a week, he went back to work in the pasha’s palace and the pasha didn’t ask about anything anymore. He didn’t say a word to him about how late the work was or why he stood there with his nose in the air watching the stars at noon. He gave him all the money, food, and clothing he needed and left him alone with his creativity. After three years, the dome was revealed. It was the sittiniya dome, none other.

  “And the ceiling, where is it?”

  “Someone like me,” my father said, “needs more time in order to finish work that’s on par with the sittiniya—that might even be better than it—because I’m a poet, not just any old carpenter slapping together cheap, crummy wood or making cupboards to sell in the market. Just finding the right wood is a difficult task. Cedar wood, but not just any cedar. Rather, cedar that when you smell it you say, ‘That’s it . . . that’s it.’ You fall in love with it at first sight, and you feel in your heart that it shares the same feeling for you. Then you need to allow sufficient time for each piece to find its special rhythm. The two tempos that will be like Neruda’s ‘Canto General.’”

  The employee’s voice was lost in the poetic din. “And the ceiling, where is it?”

  “Do I understand medicine, or engineering, or radar? Every profession has its experts. This is how the world has always been.” He laughed, happy, intoxicated, pleased with this last sentence. The tone of his voice changed, as if he were giving lessons to uninterested students. “When it has to do with carving wood, when it has to do with choosing wood, first of all, and then with preparing it, you won’t find a better hand than this one. Then there’s the other hand that ornaments it in a way you won’t find in any book—gardens, forests, butterflies, or seashells . . . or all of this together . . . or nothing of the sort. Your emotions are what put these visions before you. In the end, they’re nothing more than squares, circles, and triangles. Meticulously well-fitted shapes.”

  The employee had already left.

  27

  The minaret wasn’t green. A half hour passed as we hung on halfway up the minaret, yelling, cursing everyone on the face of the earth as long as no one could hear us from so high up. We yelled ourselves hoarse. From here we could see that we were against everyone, against ever
ything. As if the shackles that fastened us to the ground had been broken. Kika and I were happy sitting on the metal bars, legs dangling in the air. Nothing more than a weak sound emerged from our mouths at this point as we shouted and laughed. We had used up the last of our voices, yelling out our protest. But we were happy nonetheless. Especially Kika, who continued to yell louder than I was so he could forget all about the visa. His mother had gone to Spain after New Year’s. Kika continued to believe that some sort of mistake had been made at the consulate. Then he thought that the people in the consulate had taken revenge on him because of the chaos he had caused at its door, and rather than stamp the visa into his passport, they skipped over it and stamped his mother’s. But he’d practically forgotten all about that now. Hundreds of seagulls gathered above us—white, gray, distant—floating in the morning clouds like a swarm of flies sliding across an overturned piece of ice. I scoffed at Kika when he said the minaret was green. I didn’t contradict him, even though he was wrong. Now the seagulls were gathering in large numbers above us, as if preparing for their winter journey, even though they’re birds that don’t migrate. As they clumped together it made them look darker. Seagulls aren’t always white. In this way they’re like the minaret, which only looks green at certain times of the day. Contrary to what Kika says, the minaret spends the rest of its time changing colors—from bright white to deep black. The minaret changes color according to people’s moods. Kika’s hand felt warm on my shoulder. My shoulder was glad to be so close to this warmth. I remained silent as long as the hand stayed on my shoulder. The feeling remained, along with all the confidence it provided me. I didn’t move. I didn’t utter a single word lest the hand on my shoulder should move away. We were still suspended halfway up the minaret when this happened. We heard a distant boom that sounded like a large rolling boulder. Then we realized it was the beating of drums, like the ones you would hear in wars long ago. We scurried down as fast as our arms and legs could take us as the roar of the drums drew closer, until the awesome structure appeared, obscured amid a group of boisterous, clamorous people. We couldn’t say who these drums were beating for. We didn’t understand yet what was going on.

  The appearance of the ceiling surprised us both as we stood at the base of the minaret. We didn’t know that it was Father’s ceiling until it was right in front of us. I should have recognized it from the smell. An enormous structure made of wood, as high as a small mountain, arched like a lid. The inside of it wasn’t visible just yet. Upside down like a bell. Tied down with thick ropes, lying flat on a platform with four wooden wheels being led forward by dozens of young black men. Their clothing was highly ornamented and they were wearing red and yellow caps on their heads, with braids of the same vivid colors dangling from them. Their faces were painted with yellow and red lines. Light sandals were fastened with straps that went up their legs. Behind them were other black men beating the drums. These ones were barefoot and their legs were muddy. Their faces were painted white, which made their thick lips appear redder than they actually were, and their eyes appeared shinier. Large earrings that hung from their pierced ears were jangling. Their chests were bare and adorned with clusters of white shells or yellow frankincense. Pulled up around their midsections they had plaited belts made of straw and hemp, green as grape leaves, going down to their knees and inlaid with colored shells. The cart passed by and the strange procession stopped in front of the minaret, right in front of us. On top of the high ceiling, Father sat cross-legged. Over his shoulders he wore his black selham, which was embroidered with gold thread that sparkled delicately, as if he had come bearing gifts for a king of long ago. His beard was carefully trimmed. In his hand was a cane that looked like a scepter. On his face there was a calm dignity, or I should say, his face had no expression whatsoever, as if it was appropriately frozen, in its final state. The entire scene was completely ridiculous. Drums beating. Bare-chested black men dancing. Behind them there was a rainbow. One of them stepped out of line and pointed to Father, yelling in his ancient language that resembled tumbling pebbles. A thunderous, collective yell followed in the same ancient language, making the same clamorous noise. With the same enthusiasm. With these black men dancing, having donned the costumes of their distant tribes for Father, with these drums beating for Father, with the rainbow that had risen up behind them painting the cloudy sky with its captivating colors, and with the minaret that stood out now in all its majesty, as if we were standing on the steps of a virtuous saint’s tomb, and it was the time of year to visit him. The only thing missing was the sacrificial animal. The black men danced to the beat of the drums, kicking the muddy ground. The mud reverberating with their stomping. Bodies dissolved into the African rhythm. The bus that brought the tourists stopped on the main road and the tourists hurried out with their cameras so as not to miss the extraordinary scene. They stood along the sidewalk as if at a public performance, their cameras flashing blindingly.

  The black men’s muscles danced to the beat of the drums. Sturdy, well-formed muscles. Dramatic. Sweaty. I put my hand on Kika’s. I was relaxed, completely relaxed. The sun’s rays were silver, faint. They pierced the cloud cover. Its rays fell onto the sweaty black skin in lightning-quick flashes, bestowing a captivating color on this spontaneous carnival. Father raised his cane and the procession started up again as we walked behind it toward the mosque.

  Did his resounding fall show on his face as he sat there so broken? When I walked up to him, touched his shoulder, and he didn’t turn toward me? Laid out on his back without his embroidered selham or scepter, without the pomp that had lasted for just a few minutes. In the middle of the mosque’s empty courtyard. Above him, his cracked ceiling. The tourists had left, as had the black men. Perhaps his fall had appeared on his face even before that moment, while he was making his way toward the minaret surrounded by his strange entourage, as happens in real life. Like that man who walks obliviously along the sidewalk, hands clasped behind his back, when all of a sudden, for no logical reason, without the slightest justification, without turning right or left, without raising his head to see what the building he’s passing by looks like, head bowed, he just walks by, but he might be thinking about something. That is to say that somehow, he sees what will eventually happen to him. The stone that will crush his head isn’t there at all. Or perhaps it is there, but it can’t be seen. He still pretends that it’s in the hand of the worker who’s fixing holes in the roof. Or maybe he can convince the worker that it’s a stone that won’t fall. Rather, its task is to plug up all the holes in anticipation of the coming rain. A distance separates them, and there’s enough time for the passerby to walk safely by. The man walking by pauses for a moment, a second, just a fraction of a second, which is all that’s needed for the stone to lodge itself in his skull. That’s because the man passing by can see the stone before it falls, he sees it in his imagination, falling with a single blow. Baaf! The whole time that exists between him and the accident, all his mind does as he pauses, looking for something in his pocket or tying his shoe, is prepare for this blow that won’t come as any surprise. Perhaps that was what Father saw as he sat cross-legged on his throne, calm, grave-faced, distracted. In any event, his face had shown nothing except for what was about to happen to him. It might have been there even before he arrived sitting cross-legged on his ceiling like a king from bygone days, surrounded by his new entourage of black men, calm, with no distinguishable expression on his face. Maybe he had brought his fall with him from his house, and it had been with him the whole time he worked on constructing his ceiling. It had been with him night and day. It had slept with him in bed and traveled with him. That is to say that the fall was there, built into the ceiling as well.

  For the tourists, in the mosque’s open patio, when we finally went in, Father became an eloquent guide, his tongue overflowing with everything he hadn’t said during his long years of silence. Ladders and scaffolds rose up, ropes were pulled tight, tractors were hitched, and the ceiling slowly li
fted. Workers held on to the ceiling from every side, leaning as it leaned, with the young black men helping them. The young black men had changed back into their everyday clothes, their everyday look. And what was Father doing right then? He was like a ship’s captain steering his boat toward its final harbor. He walked around his rising ceiling, examining it as closely as he pleased. A broad smile split his face as he followed the ceiling up with his eyes. Then he stopped and remained there for a moment, frowning, thinking, at the height of excitement. I tried to read Father’s face to figure out where his thinking was headed in this rare moment. I saw fishermen storm the mosque’s patio with their yellow raincoats, baskets, and rods. I saw the employee approaching. His black cap bobbed right and left, and I could practically hear him exhaling. I asked myself whether he felt the same amount of pride that Father did. Had the anger he felt toward him last time subsided? Had he forgotten about the insults? Then the ceiling appeared above us, dazzling. Gasps of wonder rose up. The most beautiful ceiling my eyes had ever seen. Carvings descended like colored snowflakes from melting snow. So smooth. Ornamentation in red, green, and gold. Channels of blue that gave off just the right amount of tranquility between the descending colors. A forest motif surrounded by little arch-shaped pieces embracing one another on a red background. Father didn’t stop talking. “This ceiling that you’re looking at contains eighty stars.” He began to count them, pointing to each one, explaining, “This is how every part is formed; each has its own fixed shape and size. Nothing can be added or taken away without destroying the complete homogeneity of it.” Then Father lifted his cane toward the center of the ceiling and, as if justifying his enthusiasm more than anything else, said, “That in the center is an egg-shaped medallion decorated with fine, interlocking palm fronds on a blue background that brings to mind the overall theme.” Father passed his hand over his white hair. I watched the employee rather than him, but I listened only to Father’s voice. “There can be no humans or animals or anything else without the connections that tie them together. There exists nothing but connections, neither in the world of human beings nor in the world of objects.” He pointed to the other side of the ceiling as if, after an entire lifetime, he had finally found the ideal audience for his creativity. “The totality of this vegetal ornamentation is decorated with gradually fading colors—rose, gray, and green—mixed in with contrasting shadows. Here is a repeating pattern, here is its opposite. Here we have symmetry and contrast, and over here we have a pattern of another type. Contrast and juxtaposition for a shape made up of four elements. Patterns repeating without interruption. They’ll remain in your heads even after you’ve left.” He explained things primarily for the tourists. He didn’t consider us. He didn’t consider the sweating workers. He didn’t consider the black men who were celebrating his achievement. Without actually saying it to us, it was as if he wanted to make us feel that what he was saying was more than we could understand. He explained it to the tourists and their cameras, which hadn’t stopped flashing: “I didn’t study in a university, but I know things by way of a special sense. There is nothing more beautiful than nature. The shapes of plants and the way they grow according to a known numerical equation that existed yesterday and will remain the same tomorrow. I don’t add a thing. I merely take forms from nature and vary them so the eye doesn’t grow weary or become bored, know what I mean? The form will deteriorate if the connections between its constituent parts are unclear and undefined. If that happens, a feeling of dissatisfaction will be the result. Same thing if one of the parts is too big compared to another. A feeling of satisfaction comes over me when there’s balance and restraint between different parts.” Father sat on an improvised chair. He took a break. He wiped away some sweat that we couldn’t see. That was because a change had come over Father’s face. He looked disturbed. Something was bothering him. I walked up to him and touched his shoulder. Rather than turn around, he craned his neck, looking hard and long at the ceiling. What did he see? Then he got up, his face changing color—an unnerving pall came over it. It went on this way for what seemed like a long time. In the meantime, the tourists withdrew. The show was over. The black men withdrew as well. The mosque’s patio emptied. Everyone walked away while Kika and I stood where we were. Father stood in the middle looking up. We lifted our heads and looked in the same direction. Right then, something caused him to stiffen. He took a step backward. I might have realized what he had realized. Only those who know about the decorative arts could see what Father and I saw. He pulled the ladder over and climbed up. His hand touched the wood. He came back down and saw that the crack wasn’t visible from below. He climbed up again. He tried to move the ceiling. It didn’t budge. He pushed hard on it. The ladder tilted, and I saw Father falling. We took two steps backward so he wouldn’t fall on top of us. I walked over, leaned over him, and touched his shoulder. Then I moved him, to see if there was any blood under his head.