When the pharmacist came to our house with his modest presents, Fadila wasn’t there. We looked for her but could not find her. As long as the pharmacist remained in the house, she remained hidden in some deep dark corner. Where had that devil disappeared to? Was she in the corner of some darkened room? Could she be on the roof or at the neighbors’ house? She wouldn’t appear until the pharmacist had left the house, having waited a long time for her. He had left the pharmacy empty and had come to say hello to his fiancée, but instead of exchanging greetings with her, he would spend an hour or two exchanging words with my mother about the weather. And Fadila? She would disappear, just like the day before. Why? She just wasn’t ready. Her chest hurt and her head was spinning.
“But she’ll rally with God’s help,” said my mother. Then she said, “It’s the evil eye, God forbid! The women living around us envy us because God has bestowed his mercy upon us.” Then she said “It’s magic. The girl is bewitched.”
So one day my mother took her to the tomb of Sidi Bou Amr close to the house. She burned incense, waving it all around, and leaned her head on the wood of the coffin for a whole night in order to get rid of the effects of the cursed magic that was messing with her mind, but Fadila continued to disappear whenever she caught wind of the pharmacist’s approach. Every time she smelled him coming, she would be stricken with real trembling and would begin to run about like a chicken with its head cut off. Yes, Fadila had grown up all of a sudden. Her breasts had swelled to alarming proportions, but my mother’s alarm was even greater. What would she say to the pharmacist when he came, his gifts having preceded him, counting on him to give us something other than potatoes swimming in oil to chew on, counting on him to allow her to stop going to the collective? Her joints ached, as did her eyes and fingers. Every part of her body tingled with pain. When she thought about waking up at six in the morning and spending the day bent over the loom, she was overtaken with a desire to drag the girl by her hair and shove her under the pharmacist in order to be done with this nightmare.
It seemed that the pharmacist was in no hurry. He took up residence in our house, going to his pharmacy in the morning and returning home right after work. His room was cleaned every day. His food was prepared on time. He left early and when he came home he would head straight to his room, as if he were in a hotel. He no longer sat with my mother to talk about the weather. Then we all went to visit Saint Moulay Brahim, without the pharmacist, of course, because he no longer asked about Fadila. Marriage no longer concerned him. My mother lit candles and circled the tomb with Fadila for three days straight so that God would open her heart to the pharmacist, but it remained closed despite all of our supplications and prayers. Even though my mother sprinkled her body with water that flowed from under the tomb’s dome, the effects of the magic and the evil eye did not go away. Fadila’s pains got worse and the pharmacist stopped asking for her. He would cross the patio and cloister himself in the room that had become his, as if he had settled there permanently. He bought a new bed, a dresser, and linens. He bought soap, toothpaste, a brush, and cologne as if he were in a hotel, albeit a free one.
Then my mother no longer saw him crossing the patio. She only smelled the scent of his cologne that he left trailing behind him as he walked by quickly on tiptoes. Then he began to lock his room—his room—just like in a hotel. The only thing missing was a number on the door! And my mother kept wondering what had happened to the pharmacist. When she asked him to at least pay her rent, he refused, saying that he had rented another room in another house, and just like that, the pharmacist disappeared along with my mother’s faith and hope that the burdens of life would be lifted for her and for us.
Fadila returned to her previous life and nothing much changed at home. The matter of my sister Fadila’s marriage and its failure became a familiar story. I can’t think of her without recalling all her subsequent engagements. As if there was little more to her, my mother viewed it as a duty to mention the stories every chance she got. Anyone entering our house would hear her complaining about the ruin of her daughter to whom God had forgotten to grant His mercy, and whoever left the house would have the same disgrace ringing in their ears. Then my mother began to complain all the time and about everything, from the heat to the cold, from over salted food to a forgotten spoon on the table to an unwashed glass. And along with all of this complaining she wouldn’t miss an opportunity to launch into endless formulaic expressions such as “God forgot her in His mercy!” or “What can we do? She has followed the path that God laid out for her.”
And the old neighborhood matchmaker, Dada, would keep coming by with news of a possible new fiancé.
12
I KNOCKED ON THE PALACE door at ten in the morning, as I usually do, and the guard simply gestured for me to go away.
“No one is expecting me today? How strange. Have I become deaf without noticing? I heard of His Majesty’s arrival, which is why I came.”
The guard didn’t notice my joke and repeated the gesture, indicating I should go away. My problems with Aziza and her mother diminished a bit beneath the crush of black thoughts that were now descending on me. Those problems paled in comparison and more pressing questions took their place, eventually transforming into a single question: What’s going on inside the guard’s head? Did he really not recognize me? Does he want a bribe? Did the king not ask for me yet? For days I have been hearing on the radio about His Majesty’s inauguration of this or that school, and I’ve seen on television that His Majesty visited this orphanage, or that he welcomed some guest to his palace in Marrakech. I told myself that His Majesty was busy and when his tasks were all done, he’d call for me. I calmed myself with the notion that his mood would have improved since the last time, lulling myself to sleep with these comforting thoughts and waiting, but no one knocked on my door. And that morning, when I stood in front of the palace door, the guard shooed me away.
Aziza and her problems faded into the background. Her mother had taken up residence in our house weeks ago. She brought along her son, who had just gotten out of prison. New problems, to be sure, but they were obscured completely behind the clouds of much more serious concerns. The question hung above my head like a sword: Does he not need me anymore? This would be extremely unlikely. First of all, why would he not need me anymore? Zerwal has been away for a long time now. He might even have died, and no one cares about him, even enough to know the cause of his death. Second, I don’t recall ever hearing of a jester who was not needed. He remains sitting on his chair jesting and making a fool of himself and of all those around him until he dies. Third, is there another jester in this whole country so much better than I am that His Majesty would no longer need me? I look around me and count the faces that appear on TV—all types of faces, all types of expressions, all forms of eloquence that pass across the screen—and I don’t see anyone as gifted as I am. All of the images that go by and all of the words that are said don’t equal one iota of my silly antics that make even those in mourning laugh. If Zerwal were alive, I would have said that a trick was being played on me, but Zerwal is lying in his grave with his hump underneath him.
At the Café les Négociants, I sit watching the street. My mind is there, my whole being is there at the palace, or, rather, at its door. I wait for the person to appear who will take me by the hand and lead me there. People walk by in front of me, but I don’t see the person I’m waiting for. I don’t see anyone. I thought about Aziza’s mother. What would she say now? She’s mocking me deep down inside, I know it, or maybe she’s crying to herself now that she no longer has a son-in-law working in the palace. I’m sitting on the café’s terrace like an overly anxious adolescent. No one is coming today. I think of Aziza’s mom until I’m no longer thinking about the palace’s locked door. Something has gone terribly wrong. I don’t drink my coffee.
I can’t stand the atmosphere at home. There are too many of them now: the mother, her sons, her daughters. And Aziza has become silent. Her mother
is the one who has decided on everything since settling into my house, since even before that.
I spent the evening and half the night in the garçonnière lying down, not moving at all. Will anyone knock on my door to deliver me from my thoughts? I go through all of the funny stories I’ve told and I think of others, but I don’t laugh. The king has forgotten me. After a week this has become all but certain. They have forgotten me and I don’t know why. Did I do or say something that angered His Majesty? I remember my last soiree at the palace as having gone well, although His Majesty was not present and all I gained from it was a suit that one of the businessmen gave to me as a present. What happened then? Did someone whisper some sort of scandalous words about me into His Majesty’s ear? What a black night, like being in a forest in the middle of the night, with all of its ghosts and nightmares.
The following morning I got on my bicycle and headed to the palace. This has been my place of work for more than fifteen years. Not counting the times I went to this wealthy person’s house or that politician’s or high-ranking officer’s place, I haven’t known another safe place. I have no refuge or calm, except for right here. It is my home and my Kaaba and I won’t leave it. I’m a jester, and the king himself is the one who made me a jester!
I had never considered becoming a jester before, and it only happened with the king’s intervention and divine providence, but where were they now? This was when I needed them most. The jester is allowed to do anything, even head to the palace in the morning unannounced. The proof of this was the bicycle parked in the square facing the large gate, waiting for an order to enter that would surely come at any moment now. But the gate remained closed. After waiting for a while I approached the guard like any other citizen requesting an interview with the king. The guard was new on the job and didn’t know me. It wasn’t the same guard who had been standing there a few days before. It was a guard who never in his life had heard that there were jesters in the palace. He was baffled as he looked through the small opening in the door and saw a man in full possession of his faculties submitting such a strange request. I imagined him thinking, “Is this man really asking for the king, or is he kidding?” The guard replied sarcastically, “Sure,” then retreated behind the gate and closed the little window. Perhaps he was smiling to himself and shaking his head, and perhaps he continued to laugh once he reached his little hiding spot behind the door.
What am I going to do at home? I won’t be able to face my loneliness, or my questions that don’t have clear answers. I no longer have the desire to see anyone. The only people I run into seem to be gloating. What will the barber say? Will he satisfy himself by laughing at me? I took a taxi and went to my unfinished house on the outskirts of the city. I would rather spend my time surrounded by plaster and concrete, isolated and not seeing or hearing about anyone. I won’t open my door to anyone who knocks, even if it’s someone the king has sent personally. Everyone has disappointed me, and from now on I don’t want to have any human contact. I’m just fine in my unfinished house. I’ll finish it when I’m done with all of this trouble, with Aziza and her mother, with the palace and its problems. I’m done with everyone. I have everything I need here and I no longer need anything else. I never needed anyone. On the contrary, they’re the ones who were following me around, seeking my company.
The guy digging the well on the plot of land that was to become my garden was more important than anyone else at that point, a simple man who knows what men are worth. I sat not too far from the well to exchange a few words with him while he was down in the hole swinging his pickax. I looked at him every once in a while, watching his sweaty back and his strong hands powerfully striking the dirt. Down below, four meters underground, he didn’t complain about anything. He knew neither king nor minister, and that didn’t concern him at all. With the same pickax and the same digging motion, he dug deeper into the depths of the earth, resigned to his fate. Six meters, then ten meters, he kept on digging, and after a little while, or after a few days, a spring would burst forth here. Yes, water would gush underfoot, as if it were a miracle. And what did the well digger hope for? His only hope was to finish his work early so he could attend a friend’s wedding where he’d eat, drink, sing, and dance until morning. Then the next day he’d return to his digging. His friend was marrying a co-worker of his from the olive-processing plant.
It was Saturday. Not so long ago all days were the same to me, to the point where I couldn’t distinguish Saturday from the other days. I listened for the digging, but didn’t hear him striking the earth anymore. I could no longer stand the silence. I asked the digger what he was doing. Had he reached the water? This digger is a better man than me. What am I doing? What’s my role? What useful work have I done other than make the king and his entourage laugh? And for what? Tomorrow I’d stand in front of the palace door, only to see the guard gesture for me to go away. I didn’t know what I was waiting for. The digger dug. He was waiting for the water that would flow out from under his sandals, whereas I was waiting for one person to remember me. I’d left his inner thoughts and there was no way to return. The digger was waiting for water to gush out from under him. His friend in the olive-processing plant moved olives from one barrel to another, waiting to take his bride, while his bride, for her part, had spent years in the plant next door, separating the olives from their pits and dreaming of the young man who would deflower her tonight. They would marry tonight. No one would be satisfied with them or dissatisfied with them. They were all happy and content. They’d sing and dance until morning, whereas I was truly the most miserable creature on the face of the earth. I don’t make water burst forth from the earth, nor do I remove the pits from olives. I’m just a jester, and what’s the use of a jester without his master?
I saw clearly how far I’d fallen when the digger came out of his hole, wiped off his sweat, washed his hands, and invited me to go with him to the wedding of his friend who worked in the olive-processing plant. This digger didn’t know me. He didn’t know anything about my recent past, nor did he know anything about the people I’d associated with. Perhaps it wouldn’t interest him at all that I was the king’s private jester. I found myself smiling as I thought about performing for the digger. This invitation showed me perfectly clearly how far I had fallen, in a way that no longer needed any explanation—from the palace to the wedding of an olive worker. Was there a downfall any greater than this?
I headed off to the house of Si Hussein the barber. Si Hussein was a childhood friend. I knew him and the cobbler he shared a house with. Two bachelors hanging out together singing, smoking kif, and laughing. This was what I was lacking. My gloomy face had a positive effect on them. They found my sullenness, which resembled the anger of a child who refuses to accompany his father to the hammam, hilarious and didn’t stop laughing until I got up and headed toward the door. What had gotten into them? I’d thought I would be able to relax in my friend the barber’s house. It was the kif smoke that finally refreshed me, not the laughter of Si Hussein or his friend the cobbler. I got up without fanfare so as not to give them another reason to laugh. I went down the stairs and listened. They hadn’t noticed that I had left. They were completely stoned. Well, they wouldn’t spend any more of their evening at my expense, these two dogs laughing inappropriately and for no reason.
I waited for a taxi but none came, so I walked home. I found it locked and my keys wouldn’t open it. The door finally opened and Aziza’s mother appeared. Next to her stood her son, the one who had just gotten out of prison two days before. She informed me that Aziza did not wish to see me. She disappeared for a moment behind the door and reappeared with my suitcase. She threw it at my feet and stood there waiting for my response. There was nothing on the woman’s face or on the face of her criminal son to indicate that she was kidding. The first thought that crossed my mind was that news of my supposed dismissal had reached her. I became aware of my profuse sweating, so I wiped my face with the sleeve of my djellaba. What am I to do wit
h all of this nonsense? Am I to wipe it away too? And does my dear mother-in-law know where I’m supposed to go? No. No one is interested in this. I remained standing there staring at the door, half expecting Aziza to peer out from it.
“I take refuge in God from the accursed Satan.” I said these words as if to lessen the bad thoughts that had overwhelmed me, as if to find my way once again.
13
Day Five
I ASKED JOUMANA WHY HER father the general doesn’t laugh. She said that he’s always been like that, that she’d never seen him laugh, not even once. He has a cold disposition and a dry temperament. Perhaps that is why he covers his face with black sunglasses, and has requested that they be buried with him. Then she showed me some x-rays. His heart is as small and shrunken as a piece of burned rubber. Doctors have advised him multiple times that he should laugh more in order to prevent further shrinkage and hardening, but despite this advice his lips rarely part in a smile. When he settled in the Sahara he tried bringing along a number of jesters and deformed freaks, but he got rid of them after less than a week. She also said that he has an excess of bile in his spleen, and that this is what causes the aggression and bouts of fury he’s known for and that worsen in the winter months, and for this too there is no treatment other than laughter. “The bile is infected too,” said the doctors, “and no medicine will be of any use to him except for laughter.” But what can be done if the body doesn’t comply? The doctors advised him to start doing laughing exercises, little by little, like a medication taken in small doses until one becomes accustomed to it, because sudden laughter can also kill. This is why he brought the jesters and the freaks to his farm.
A Beautiful White Cat Walks with Me Page 11