“What meat do you make them with? Dog meat or cat meat? Surely not beef, in any case! Do some people use donkey meat?”
“Oh yes, it’s healthy, and tasty too, like horsemeat. It’s sold in many markets in developed countries.”
“Is it true that a number of sausage sellers hunt fat dogs in the dumps and cook them in spices and toxic dyes that they buy in drugstores?”
“Yes it’s true, but these sausages have never killed anyone, as far as I know,” he said. “Quite the contrary. Customers flock to them as if they were holiday sweets. If you go to the square at the end of the night you won’t find a single one left. The tourists and drunks will have eaten them all.”
Chatting about meat is always entertaining, even if it’s about the meat of filthy dogs that graze in the municipal dumps. For a little while, our chatter made us forget worrying about the sick man. Jokingly, I said to his son-in-law that when I was crossing the courtyard I heard dogs barking on the roof.
“Aren’t those poor dogs waiting their turn to be stuffed into the casings made from the innards of dogs that died before them?”
He strongly and angrily denied this, protesting adamantly: “There are no dogs in this house! We buy our meat from the municipal butcher, meat certified by the veterinarian. They have the proper papers!”
“But then where was the barking coming from?”
“What barking?”
“I’m just kidding,” I said, continuing that dogs are clean animals, that their meat is no worse for you than donkey meat, and that they are preferred in China and Vietnam over nobler meats such as lamb. The sausage seller left the room in a huff.
Two tears glistened in Zerwal’s eyes. Was he considering his impending death? No, he wasn’t. He said, “Your son, Hassan. Now that’s a man, brave, never mincing his words. I’m happy for him, for what he does. I didn’t say it to you at the time but we need people who speak the truth every once in a while in order to maintain our equilibrium.”
So the hunchback has become a wise man all of a sudden. Has his approaching end brought wisdom to his tongue? I won’t hide the fact that I felt a bit of pride upon hearing these words, but I have to say that his frankness confused me. Was he being truly sincere or was this another of his tricks? There is no way to solve puzzles such as these, and I have neither the time nor the mental wherewithal to plunge into these depths. I left the hunchback’s house feeling an optimism I hadn’t felt before. Zerwal was on the verge of death, close to joining the line of corpses thrown into the dumps every day.
7
Day Three
NIGHT, HEAT, SWEAT. USING ONLY the light of the moon so the enemy won’t see us, we turn our backs to the well and play cards, wiping away our sweat. We sit about a hundred meters from the well so he doesn’t smell us. The night cloaks our presence so that no one can see us. There’s no wind to hide the smell of our sweat. We, the four conscripts—Brahim, Mohamed Ali, Naafi, and I—play cards. We don’t need to turn around to see the well, to know that it’s behind us and that we’ve been guarding it since dawn. We spent the entire day around the well. There’s been no cause for alarm. Some travelers came by for water. They hadn’t seen an enemy roaming around the well. They hadn’t seen an enemy anywhere in the area they had passed through, and that’s what we’ll say to the captain. “They didn’t see an enemy roaming around the well, captain!”
The well is still in its place, along with its stones and its water. We can say exactly where the well is and can see the metal dipper hanging above its opening without turning around, as if we have eyes in the backs of our heads. So we play cards under the light of the full moon, as if it were the sun, providing warmth as well as light. The wind stopped blowing at nightfall. Strange how a person can wait for a little bit of wind as if he were waiting for his life’s deepest desire. We breathe with noticeable difficulty. We breathe in hot air, its heat filling our lungs. We sweat and wait for a wind that will never come, because we’re in the desert. The sound of bats brushes against my hair. Small black shadows fluttering over my head, arousing no one’s attention then disappearing into the desert night. I can’t see them, but I feel a thread tying me to them as they pass over my head and greet me like friends do in the train station when they find themselves facing one another on opposite sides of the track.
I say out loud, “So this is how bats sound.”
“How did you know there were bats in the desert?”
“I read it somewhere.”
No one laughs. We all feel the seriousness of the situation. Nighttime makes a person more serious than he would be during the day. The sound of bats returns, this time without shadows, resembling the screeching of happy children who have just woken up. The moonlight casts strange shadows on the distant sand dunes. A good part of the night has passed. There’s no tent for us to take refuge in, so we’ll lie down where we are, close to the well we’re guarding.
“Play! Put down a card!”
Brahim doesn’t put down a card. He shakes his head and remains fixed in place for a moment, then says, “And that sound?”
“What sound?”
“Listen!”
We don’t hear a thing, just the sound of the metal dipper swinging and creaking over the well. The well is behind us, close enough for us to hear a dipper made of metal creaking over it.
“Play!”
No one does and we stop playing. “And the creaking sound?”
“It’s just the wind making the dipper move above the well a hundred meters away. Play already!”
None of us plays a card. Then, as if it has been decided beforehand, I throw my cards onto the sand, onto the hot sand. Then Mohamed Ali throws his cards onto the sand, followed by Brahim, then Naafi. We wait for the sound to return. The sound of the owl’s hooting had disappeared just moments before as we entered another part of the night. It sounds as if someone is dipping the pail into the well. We listen closely. Yes, it is as if someone is dipping the pail into the well, but how can we see the well when it’s behind us? How can we be sure that someone is dipping the pail into the well? Creak crak creak crak. It’s the sound of metal. There’s no metal in this entire desert except for that damned dipper hanging over the well, but we can’t see it. We all wipe away our sweat, all four of us at the same time, as if it had been decided upon beforehand. We are silent. We listen. Creak crak creak crak.
I say, “Why don’t we poison the well?”
“What will we drink?”
“We have our canteens.”
“They have canteens, too! Do you think they’re walking around the desert without canteens?”
“Then why are they stealing our water?”
“I already told you, there’s no one there.”
“And that sound?”
Creak crak creak crak.
“Play!”
I have no cards in my hand for me to play, and I don’t turn toward the well. Brahim says that there is no one next to the well moving the metal dipper, that there is nothing making the creak crak creak crak sound, and that poisoning the well is an unreasonable idea because we still need the water, here and at the fort. As long as we’re in the desert we’ll need water.
“Fine.” I pick up my cards and brush the sand off of them.
“Why don’t we arrest one of them then?”
“One of who?”
“The enemy.”
“Which enemy?”
“Who’s moving the dipper back there if not the enemy?”
“The wind. It’s the wind that moves the sand and the stones. Everything moves in the desert. Why would it not move metal too then?”
“What wind?”
Since sundown we have been waiting for some wind. I moisten my finger and hold it up. There is no wind coming from any direction.
Brahim shouts, “Play!”
But we don’t play. We are listening to what is going on behind us.
“And just then! What was that . . . ?”
“Play, Mohamed A
li!”
“Now who’s throwing the pail into the well?”
The wind. It’s always the wind. We had stopped playing cards a while ago, but we hadn’t heard a pail being thrown into the well.
“Why don’t we poison the well at dawn before we leave? Then we won’t have to wonder who’s moving the dipper and throwing the pail in.”
But is it the sound of the pail hitting the water in the bottom of the well that we’re hearing?
“It could be some Bedouins getting water.”
“Bedouins in the middle of the night?”
“Why don’t we arrest them?”
“Arrest the Bedouins?”
“No, the others, the ones we can’t see. The enemy we’ve heard about but can’t see.”
“How can we arrest them if we can’t see them?”
Brahim begins to shift back and forth like a horse that senses a snake nearby. We are conscious of a number of things: the desert, the heat, the moonlight, the cards that are in front of us. And there are things that remain mysterious to us, such as what is going on by the well. Now we hear the dipper rising from the filled bucket. We can even hear the water splashing back down into the bottom of the well. We forget about the heat and the sweat. I’m not afraid because we’re in the dark, and I’m not sure why I remember that I am hungry. Does hunger have some connection to fear? I lie down on the sand. I can hear its whispering movement, continuous whispering almost like vibrations, grains of sand whispering to one another under the moonlight. Sand speaks in its own special way that you can only fully hear when you’re lying on top of it. Brahim, who is still shifting in his place, shakes suddenly as if he has just been stung. It isn’t a snake that bit him, though, and there are no bats flying over his head.
“Brahim, what’s up?”
He rolls around on the sand like someone possessed and, with terrified eyes, looks toward the well.
“Brahim? What’s up? There’s no one by the well.”
“Yes there is. Look!”
This time we are all looking toward the well—me, Mohamed Ali, and Naafi. As for Brahim, he is far beyond looking. He has left all of that behind him. His cold body is shivering from head to toe and white foam comes out of his mouth and collects on his lips. His eyes seemed to have turned white and his teeth are chattering. Mohamed Ali splashes water on his face and I shake his head and turn it in the direction of the well so he can see the well and the dipper that no one is moving.
“Brahim, look! No one’s at the well. It’s the wind playing with our imaginations.”
Zineb’s family came from a coastal city before settling in Marrakech. Whenever I looked at them, I smelled the sea. The month before my departure, I sold my motorbike in order to leave her some money to draw upon until I returned. I recommended she borrow from the doctor and his wife should she need to as well. She looked at me strangely. Zineb had changed. A fatigue resembling boredom had appeared on her face. When I asked her about it she wouldn’t respond. She would say that she herself didn’t know what had happened to her. I stopped going anywhere, saw no one. My relationships were reduced to almost nothing. I put off my rehearsals. When Aissa would come to rehearse the new show we were preparing, I would say to him, “Another time, Aissa. Another time.” I became incapable of thinking about anything that didn’t have to do with Zineb. I didn’t hear sounds that came from outside. I didn’t hear the seven o’clock train passing by the house. She wasn’t bedridden yet, but a weakness had stricken her to her very core. I didn’t know what this illness was called.
I’d sit in the living room and listen hard. After these four years I was able to distinguish every sound, every movement, and every smell. I knew the smell that would come from the kitchen after a little while. I heard her laugh and knew that she was laughing with the landlord, that she was telling him to come back in a week. I hadn’t paid the rent in months, but it didn’t matter. We’d pay it later. A visit to the doctor and his wife would return her vigor, and there’d be nothing to worry about. If this was how things were going to be, then it was no big deal. This time, instead of dragging her from them as I had promised myself I would do, I preferred to give in. I would put up with them as long as being with them returned some life to her face. She came and went as if a halo of light encircled the house. Here she was putting the kettle on the stove or pouring a glass of water. Here she was brushing her hair. Here she was opening the kitchen door with her long, delicate fingers. My eyes glistened with tears when I realized that the life flourishing around me could disintegrate at any moment. Tears come easily to me.
The whole month before my departure, I didn’t go near her. During long nights I carried hopes of sleeping with her just as any husband sleeps with his wife, but she’d excuse herself. I thought she was pregnant. No, she was just tired. Her mind and body were navigating worlds I had no way of glimpsing. Finally, when I insisted, she took to her bed. Zineb loves breakfast more than any other meal. I prepared her breakfast and carried it to her in bed. I kissed her forehead. It was cool. What was wrong with her then? Zineb was sick, but I didn’t know whether her illness had a name. Because of my longing to kiss her all over her body, I didn’t notice her illness.
I don’t think she yearned for nights at the Shahrazade. I don’t think she yearned for singing.
The day I left home, I looked at her, beautiful as she slept. The tranquility of sleep brought a translucent rosiness to her cheeks, so I left, carrying my desire and heartbreak with me.
Just before dawn, as we are returning to the fort, the question just hangs there, Brahim can’t get it out of his head: “The ones who were throwing the pail into the well, did they come by horse or did they come on foot?”
8
THE IMPORTANT GUEST LEFT, BUT the celebrations continued for a number of days. The whole country is in nonstop celebration. I have never seen people in such a state of joy and happiness. Everything has gone well and everyone is optimistic and wishing each other the best. Crystal chandeliers sparkle above us, casting pure light over the vast palace hall. It is a great day that no one will ever forget. Invited guests hover around tables and are served a variety of food and drink—pigeons stuffed with almonds, plates of gazelle and ostrich meat. The guests stuff themselves as if they are starving, and they squirrel away pieces of meat in their pockets as good-luck charms from the royal dinner. Afterward they’ll hang them in their homes as amulets and precious souvenirs. Some of them speak with long pieces of meat dangling from their mouths that resemble tongues. Their talking in the great hall is like a roar as jaws and teeth tear at their prey. You can hear bones snapping. Then the national orchestra occupies the podium in their solemn black clothing and the singers begin to sing anthems praising the dams that have been built, the sugar refineries that have been erected, and the rugs that have been manufactured.
His Majesty appears in the small window that looks out over the hall, and calls of “Long live the king!” rise up. He greets everyone and begins to throw coins. The singing stops and an indescribable chaos ensues. Some of the adulators throw themselves on the coins, exaggerating their movements so His Majesty can see what they’re doing. Others, when they grab a coin, turn toward him and kiss it with tears in their eyes. The king comes down from his perch, approaches the singer, and throws his coat over his shoulders. There isn’t a dry eye in the place. The singer shakes with fear. Perhaps he is remembering what had happened to his colleague when he had his shoes taken from him in front of the important guest. Trembling, he grabs his oud and begins to sing a song they say the king himself had stayed up all night writing the words and music to.
Ministers in their fancy suits walk in and out of the great hall drinking tea and loudly exchanging news as if they were the ones staying up all night planning our next victory. No doubt they are completely ignorant of His Majesty’s intentions, and this is for the best. Why should they be privy to the secrets they haven’t participated in planning? The officers also don’t know a thing. As a result the
y are relaxed, in their somber suits and with their official manner of standing. His Majesty decided all by himself to bring this affair to a definitive end. He’s a genius and doesn’t need anyone. They say that the important guest encouraged him to follow his plan, that the guest’s encouragement for his initiative gave him a new momentum. Everyone expects that the problem will soon be solved, although they don’t know exactly how. Perhaps General Bouricha knows the details of the plan, or at least some of them, but he doesn’t reveal a thing. This, too, is good.
I hadn’t seen the Sahara before, nor had I ever seen someone from the Sahara—a Sahrawi—in my life. I was picturing it as an endless expanse of sand, with snakes and turtles and a lingering sun capable of melting rocks. There’s no doubt that the days are longer and that stones have been melting there for ages, and there’s no such thing as a desert without sand. This is why there would be no battle. If there even is an enemy, the poor guy will only have his own shadow to hide behind. I hope to accompany His Majesty there to see the sunsets that the foreigners talk about with such enthusiasm. They say that the world stops for a few minutes at that moment because it’s so close to the sun. I’ll see it for myself when I go there with His Majesty. I’ll also see the enemy’s final evacuation from our land. Unfortunately, Zerwal won’t accompany us on our trip because his illness has crippled him.
His Majesty remained in the palace for a few more weeks. General Bouricha is the one now shuttling between Marrakech and the capital where the military headquarters are. For a number of days now he has seemed extremely energetic, as if additional hands and legs had been added to his body. The general’s face is thin and harsh, with eyes that are always concealed behind his dark glasses. I’ve never seen him without his uniform. I imagine that he doesn’t take it off except to sleep. This has caused me to change my opinion of him. Is this to say that I was wrong about what I had thought of him? Yes it is. The general is an important man. Weeks ago he was transferred to the theater of operations and soon he will bring to light all that he learned in French military schools. For the first time since his participation in the Indochina War, since which he has been unemployed, the opportunity to display his talents had arrived. For this reason his enthusiasm was redoubled. Like anyone else, he doesn’t want to dash the hopes that have been placed in him. The mission that he was charged with brought back his previous seriousness. He became distracted, like someone who could think of nothing else, like someone about to undertake the greatest mission of his life. What could he possibly be thinking about so much if not the Sahara crisis? Surely he’s thinking about the Sahara the same way the king is. He puts his head on his right hand and looks grave for a while, exactly as the king does.
A Beautiful White Cat Walks with Me Page 7