A Shimmering Red Fish

by Youssef Fadel

  I stand close to the blind woman, watching the little girl push the stone in front of her as Kika recedes from view and disappears from my life forever. I think about the stone that moves from rectangle to rectangle. Comfortable with its short journey that’s defined by the lines of wet charcoal. It doesn’t take its thoughts any further than this, and for thousands of years it won’t have the desire to go any further. I also think about the numbers that fly around me. Un, deux, trois. They play their part in moving the stone along from square to square. Everything has its small, humble task that it seeks to fulfill and doesn’t care to move beyond. I hear the woman tell me to come closer, so I do. She clears a space next to her. The fringes of her decorated headscarf fall over her forehead. This makes her look not so old despite her deeply wrinkled face. She doesn’t look like Mother, who covers her hair with a black cloth—always black, and without fringes. The trace of a hidden smile never leaves her lips. She tells me that she knows what’s making me so sad. Her sadness should be greater than mine, but that’s not how it is. Her children and grandchildren had left during the night so they wouldn’t have to take her with them, leaving her as she is now—blind and crippled. She was born this way. No sight to guide her and no movement to carry her along. She doesn’t know why she was created, why she continued on, or how she will leave this world. She’s never harmed or been of any use to anyone. She couldn’t have even if she had wanted to. This is why she stopped praying years ago because she didn’t know who she should direct her prayers to, or why. Her children and grandchildren had slipped off, tiptoeing away one night after another. She hadn’t been asleep when they left. She pretended to be asleep so they could leave with clear consciences. Her only daughter didn’t turn back to look at her as she locked the door and fled. The little girl stops playing when she hears the woman talking about her mother. She comes closer. The woman places her hand on the little girl’s head and says, “As for this child, she was hiding in an armoire in one of the destroyed houses so she wouldn’t have to go with them.” Then, with the same calmness, she asks me if I want to see. I have no desire to see a room, destroyed or not, containing an armoire in which a child no older than six had hidden. She says she is talking about the girl.

  “What girl?”

  Farah. I stop asking, looking, and even thinking as I sit there next to the old woman. I am a long way off from thinking that just a few steps are separating me from her, and that Kika had been standing in front of that same door. Rather than go in himself or invite me to go in, he had continued down the street in order to lead me astray. The little girl grabs my hand and leads me to the first floor. Yes. Her thin hand makes this miracle happen; a cold, thin hand forgotten in a forsaken alley, with such power to infuse you with so much happiness without you even realizing it. I let the little hand take me up, leading me without question. Trusting. Surrendering. As if I were finally grabbing onto proof that she is there. The child’s hand trembles between my fingers, as if I were holding a day-old chick, able to feel its heartbeat between my fingers, trying not to let it fall. I placed my hand into hers without the slightest thought—without hope, for Kika had left none—or rather with the only thought that had any control over me. In the state I am in now, I prefer to think only about my steps as they imitate those of the child. Do the prints left by the girl’s bare feet bring me any closer to her, or do they help widen gap between us? I couldn’t have thought of anything beyond this even if I tried. Farah’s image is alive, yet unable right then to invade my thoughts. Even when the little girl stops in front of the door, I don’t know what’s going to happen. Farah isn’t going to enter the realm of possibility again after all that has happened to me—with her and with Kika. With her primarily. As if there had been an opportunity before her and she had lost it. Even the door can’t reveal all the surprises caught up in there. It is nothing more than a falling-down door that makes you back up rather than invites you to go forward. I stand at the doorstep while the girl sits down on the top step. She takes out the small stone she has been playing with and begins to tap the wall with it—un, deux, trois—while I stand there hesitantly, unable to move beyond where the girl has taken me. I turn toward the girl. The small, thin, beautiful hand is tapping the wall while I, like someone spelling out words in a new language, knock on the door three times, imitating the same rhythm the little hand is making—un, deux, trois. The door to the room opens on its own. I take a step forward, accompanied by the rhythm of the small stone in the little girl’s hand.

  35

  Mother

  I had bought a half kilo of meat for the couscous because tomorrow was a Friday. I also bought vegetables and a lot of tomatoes. I like tomatoes more than any other vegetable. The meat cost a lot. The neighbors say I make the best couscous in the neighborhood. Abdullah came at night with the keys in hand. Abdullah is Habiba’s husband. I told him, “Abdullah, I’m making couscous first,” to which he replied, “We don’t have time.” Abdullah’s in a hurry because he wants to pray with the people in the new neighborhood’s mosque. Abdullah was forced on us. Like life. We put up with him so God will do what’s best. So, we left before dawn. Habiba, Khadija, and Si Omar in his chair. The little one, Karima, jumped up onto the cart and went back to sleep. Ever since he fell in the mosque, Si Omar hasn’t gotten up from his chair. We carried as much as we could with us. Abdullah went empty-handed so as not to be late. Khadija said, “Let’s take turns pushing the chair because it’s a long way.” Because of her pregnancy, Habiba wouldn’t be able to. I put the meat and vegetables in a plastic bag and tucked them underneath the chair. We placed what remained of the furniture and dishes (still dripping wet) on the cart, along with the black rooster we would slaughter before crossing the threshold of the new house. Friday is always a blessed day. Our neighbor, Kulthum, was in front of her house washing her old dishes and putting them in a green plastic pail. When she buys a pail, she always buys a green one. Abdullah forbade us to tell anyone about where we were heading on account of the evil eye, even though everyone was heading in the same direction. I told her anyway. “Shame on you. God entrusted us with neighbors,” she said. “May God bring you health and wealth, amen.” Abdullah didn’t know that her family left before we did, also because of the evil eye. People don’t like to move. Even me. But for the sake of a new place to live . . . Besides, the flood didn’t leave anything standing. This house came at just the right time. In the new neighborhood, our lives would continue as they had been, with family and neighbors, because we’d known one another for ages. Good God, the street has never been so quiet! A sort of gloom envelops the soul before wrapping itself around a place in its entirety. The moment one leaves one’s neighborhood is difficult, and it leaves a mark on the soul similar to being orphaned. The cart was small. Khadija wanted to take her bed with her. The cart’s owner asked that we not burden the animals that were pulling it, but Khadija insisted on the bed. It was a new bed, not the bed she’d left at her husband’s place. Most of the bed hung off the cart. Habiba said, “Why don’t we tie Father’s chair to the cart so the donkey can pull them both together?” Si Omar wasn’t sold on the idea, indicating this with his eyes. As we passed in front of the mosque, I asked him whether he wanted to stop for a bit so he could look at it at his leisure. Tears glistened in his eyes. I handed him a handkerchief. He has started to speak with his eyes. Health is the most important thing in life. Once you lose your health, no amount of money or power will be of any use. That’s what I think.

  The chair was purchased at the flea market. It cost us what we spend in a whole week. All of life’s necessities are expensive—water, electricity, even bread at the public oven. We eat a lot of eggs. The children don’t help at all. I had hoped that my daughter, Khadija, would have been luckier than I’ve been. That she would have found a job or traveled. That she would have found some enjoyment in the world and not think about marriage. Our ancestors used to say, “Marriage and death, there’s nothing else left.” The day he went off,
Suleiman didn’t change his clothes. He didn’t wear any extra clothes. He hadn’t yet made up his mind about going. He ate his dinner, went off to bed, and fell asleep at his usual time. I woke him up in the morning so he could empty the trash can. That was how it went. He found the kids all gathered together. They said to him, “Will you split with us? This time it’s guaranteed.” He went to the port in his pajamas. No pants or anything. When his brother, Outhman, came back that evening, he said that maybe he’d done it. Maybe he’d found a safe place to hide in a truck. Regardless, when he got there, he’d take care of himself. Then news arrived that he was working in the Gulf. Suleiman could always take care of himself. Outhman is just like him, but he’s still flighty. He doesn’t do anything useful. Except for when it’s time to eat, he’s never at home. No doubt a day will come when he’ll join his brother and I can rest assured that he’ll be okay. He’s always thinking about when he’ll leave for the Gulf. Everyone who goes to Europe comes back in the summer strutting around like a pharaoh—cars, money, swagger. But they don’t tell the truth. They don’t say they’re doing hard labor. They say, “Everything’s beautiful. There’s work. Money’s there. Cafés are open day and night. Your rights are guaranteed. And if you marry one of their daughters, it’ll make finding work even easier. Even without work, you can live your life on unemployment. Then you won’t need a job. You won’t have to wake up at dawn for any old job.” Others say, “There’s work in the Gulf, not in Europe.” That’s what I think too. We haven’t always lived in the old city. Our first house was like an inn. In fact, originally it was an inn. Even after it became a private residence, it still looked like an inn. But it was old; so old that the stable wasn’t even fit for livestock anymore. I begged Si Omar to move. I refused to stay there because it was so old. Its roof was falling in. It was more than a hundred years old. It had been an inn for livestock and people before my father bought it when he arrived in Casablanca, turning it into a woodshop and a place to live. I told him, “Let’s sell it before it collapses on us,” but Si Omar doesn’t think the way I do. I saved some money, which I used to rent a house, and we lived there up until yesterday. Ever since I moved into this house, Si Omar hasn’t spent anything on his children and I don’t say anything to him when he visits us. He comes and goes as if walking around the bazaar. The kids don’t need him now. Suleiman left for the Gulf and Outhman will join him there. Khadija’s health improved thanks to Abdullah. It seemed that the epileptic fits paid off. They agreed with her. She didn’t fall down and faint anymore. Nor did she tear at her clothing. She had almost become happy. And when she marries again, if God smiles upon her and grants her a respectable husband, my work will be done. I’ll be able to say that my ship has arrived safe and sound. The girls insisted I sit next to the cart’s owner. The cart’s owner loves to rent out his cart, but he doesn’t like burdening his animals. I sat in back so as not to hear him grumble, and to be able to see the road as it stretched out beneath my feet. Karima came and sat next to me, happily swinging her legs in the air. I took her into my arms and kissed her hair. People change when they move from one place to another. As I swayed from side to side atop the cart, I found myself humming an old song I had always liked: “The blanca, mon amour. I’ll marry her without any magic allure . . .” There was still a long way to go. Those who knew the city better than I did said we’d get there in the afternoon. Habiba got tired of pushing the chair. To protect her head from the sun, she put a cloth over it. We needed the sun a day ago, during the flood. We didn’t need all that rain, and we don’t need all this sun now. Where were the clouds that had been floating by up above? We don’t have fields or farms. The rain left the lemon and strawberry farms alone, but attacked our poor houses. The road we were traveling on was long and wide. There were brightly colored billboards everywhere, rising up all along the road. The flood hadn’t damaged them at all. Naked blondes laughing with their full red lips. Khadija dragged her feet as if on a forced march. Advertisements for luxury apartments. Were those the same apartments that were waiting for us? Complete with bathrooms and windows that looked out onto the forest? I didn’t know a thing about the new neighborhood. It wouldn’t be as grand as those on the posters, but at the very least we’d be moving from the misery where we had been to life as it should be. That was how I saw it. Still, and may God forgive me, moving to the new residence will keep us from the only thing that had made us feel that we were alive—the ocean, the beach, and the wind as it carried the smell of seaweed into our houses in the morning. Being able to see the ocean so close to us had allowed us to feel that life was worth living. It was no accident that they built the mosque beside it.

  The kids grew up with nothing to fear. I used to be scared for them when they were younger. I didn’t want them to be raised badly, even though all neighborhoods are the same now—dope fiends, beggars, and drunks everywhere. I worked for the sake of the children. If it hadn’t been for the children I wouldn’t have thought about working. I always bore my responsibility inside and outside of the home because Si Omar was never around. When we were living in the stable—that’s what I called it—he worked in a carpentry shop in the morning, and in the evenings he’d go see his friends at the café, not coming home until after midnight, smelling of kif, sweat, and all the other smells that accumulate in cafés. I was born and grew up in that stable. When he was still alive, my father bought it and turned it into a large woodshop. People would come from all over Casablanca to buy tables, armoires, doors, and all the other things they needed for their houses. As for my cousin Si Omar, Father brought him from Marrakech because he had no job, and taught him the craft. He got so good at carpentry that now it was like he was born with it. But he could never hold onto money for too long. By the time my father died, we had already gotten married and replaced him in the shop. When Si Omar’s business flourished, he began to spend indiscriminately. Men are all the same. They only spend money on themselves. He never bought me a gift, not even when business was booming and he was making lots of money, except in those first days of marriage—except for the necklace and the two rings. When we got married he bought me a necklace made of regular silver and two rings made of Saharan silver. He took me on the back of his motorbike to Sidi Abdel-Rahman Beach. My hair, wrapped in a silk kerchief, blew in the wind—he also bought me a silk kerchief. At Sidi Abdel-Rahman Beach he bought me some shaved iced. It was the first and last time. He bought me a scoop of shaved ice because I asked for it, and because the idea had never before crossed his mind. That time has passed. Our share of fatigue, worry, and ennui has caught up with us.

  Then we arrived in a neighborhood called “California,” which I had never heard of. It had trees of every sort, both inside and outside the houses. Over here, the houses were like palaces, complete with guards, green roofs, and arched windows. We sought shade beneath the trees and asked a guard for some water. The families on the road with us were tired. We left them behind. We had covered half the distance. We were tired too. Before we started to walk again, Karima said she could walk on her own two feet to the new neighborhood. The pain, which I had forgotten about, returned to my knee. The cart’s owner said, “The cart would’ve had enough room for everyone if it weren’t for Khadija’s bed.” I asked Khadija if we could get rid of the bed, for Habiba’s sake, who was pregnant, and who wouldn’t be able to go on if she had to keep walking. For the little girl’s sake too. For everyone’s sake.

  When I was first married, I used to get up at seven and perform the morning prayer. Then I’d prepare breakfast, sweep up, wash the floor, and straighten up the house. After that, I’d make dough for the day’s bread before starting to prepare lunch. After lunch, I’d wash the dishes and plates, then take a short nap to get ready to start the last part of the day’s work—washing up, and rinsing the wheat (if there was any) then drying it. At five I’d go out to the souiqa street market, which was an opportunity to forget about the house and its tiring chores. By this time of day, the prices of fruits
and vegetables would have been reduced—I just needed to be careful because the quality was rarely very good by then, but I can tell fresh vegetables by their color. Then I’d return home to prepare dinner and wash the dishes. When I was first married I’d spend summers in the country at Si Omar’s family’s place. I stopped doing that when I moved to the old city and began to work, thanks to God. I bought a sewing machine just like some of the neighbors had done. Working at home is better than working somewhere else. Sometimes my knee hurts and I feel as if my life is slipping away from me. There’s no city like Casablanca. “The blanca, mon amour, I’ll marry her without any magic allure . . .” I already miss it even though I’ve just left. I don’t know why. No one dies of hunger in Casablanca, unlike in Khouribga or Settat, where you don’t always find what you want or need. Not so in Casablanca. Rich and poor alike—everyone finds what they want there. One time, Si Omar suggested we sell the house my father left me and buy a house in Berrechid, but I refused. Despite the drunks and homeless beggars who give it a bad reputation, not to mention the overcrowding, the thieves, the black-market alcohol dealers, and the criminals you find everywhere, Casablanca is still the most beautiful city. I started to sew at home to meet the household’s daily expenses, and God did not disappoint me. It was as if you had said, “Wealth came right to my door.” Because Casablanca is just that. What you need to live on appears right there in front of you. All you need is a little positive thinking. Washcloths, headscarves, children’s clothing, and long women’s shirts, as well as the many products from the north that I added afterward. Women like the clothes I sell, and they buy them in bulk because they’re cheap. They can wear many of them in a single day. From this angle, I can say that I’m lucky. I believe in luck. The lucky one always moves forward. Lucky because we were born in the right place. This is the only place in the country where you can feel secure in life. I say that if you don’t make it here, you won’t make it anywhere. Not in Europe and not in the Gulf. But the kids, kids in general, are always looking to far-off places, wanting things they don’t know anything about and have never seen in their lives. As if they’re living in a perpetual dream. In any case, we’re all prisoners of our own fate, which we cannot escape. That’s how I see it. The neighbors are jealous of me because my business is profitable. We have to praise God because the neighborhood gave us what any person would hope for—work, family, neighbors. This is the right place. The problem of thieves will, no doubt be solved because people are convinced, even without having to say it, that honest work is what will keep one’s reputation intact. Misfortune won’t touch you as long as you carry goodness in your heart, because God will never be satisfied if evil triumphs. Also, the police are around at all hours of the day and night. I hope there are as many in our new neighborhood. The police are evil, there’s no denying it. Their operations are bad for business. Especially when they’re overwhelmed by greed and seize our neighbors’ merchandise only to sell it on the next street over. Working for the police is also a profitable business.