I have no desire for the civilian life that the general’s spoiled daughter proposes. I’m already married. I have a wife who is sick and whose name is Zineb. More than two months had passed since I’d seen her face. I spoke to her on the telephone once and she said she was resting with the doctor and his wife, who were taking good care of her. Joumana, however, had told me that, God willing, the general would divorce me from Zineb so that I would be fully available for his daughter who had so attached herself to me. I’d rather engage in a pitched battle from which I’d never emerge. I would prefer to face a hundred enemy soldiers armed to the teeth. There’s nothing but the enemy in the Sahara, not to mention the burning sand and sun, and other things of that sort. I’d rather be sent to the front lines to die in an ambush.
Brigadier Omar had no idea that he would find himself in the same boat as us. In the tavern he whispered in my ear, “There’s another option, but it’s not for you. Some pay an amount of money to the general for the enemy to purchase them. This allows the general to maintain his list of prisoners. Get it? There are two lists, and if you reject the ugly and spoiled Joumana you’ll be on the list of soldiers who’ll be killed.”
I’d rather die than be in a relationship with that imbecile! She resembles the cig she holds between her fingers and her voice is thin and offensive—I can’t stand even a single minute of it, so just imagine how it would be if you had to hear it for the rest of your life. I’d rather go into exile or throw myself headlong into any losing battle.
Then silence prevailed once again. We don’t hear a sound in this stretch save for the crunching of stones under our shoes. We don’t expect to hear a sound coming from either human or animal. We don’t have Naafi with us to scan the distant mountaintops with his sharp vision, looking for a quarry. If there were an enemy there, Naafi would have at least helped us figure out where we were. We began to walk along a stone path with dirt and sand extending out on either side. There was no trace of a single plant to mark this stretch, and in the distance there were gray mounds obscured by the fog of distance that lay between them and us. The country became something else. Brigadier Omar now only spoke into the radio in whispers, as if to alert us to the imminent danger. From time to time, a burned-out tank frame rose into view, the remains of a forgotten battle we hadn’t heard about. The tanks resembled calcified boats anchored on a sea of sand from which almost all life had receded, now inhabited only by snakes and lizards, with the wind and the dust of the desert sands whistling in the hollows, along with the souls of the soldiers who had passed through toward the unknown.
Fear began to creep in little by little. I recalled Brahim. Not one of us had been hit while we were guarding the well. Except for a few moments of nerve-wrenching terror, nothing memorable had happened. We forgot everything about that day. The following day Brahim ran away, and then was released from service by what seemed like a miracle. The day after that we saw Naafi being carried on soldiers’ shoulders, looking sadly in the direction of the tavern. What was he doing now? He was leaning up against the fort wall combing his hair, waiting for his leg to rise up from the dirt. We tried to forget the fear that was gradually creeping in. In the tavern, we heard the remaining soldiers tell stories of the hallucinations, of things they had seen such as swarms of locusts that pierced the skin, or mirages you took for water and that you couldn’t help but head toward as they beckoned you to them—as soon as you saw one it would call out to you and seize you, your mouth watering, and you would have no choice but to go toward it. Then I tried to forget, to sleep, to remember beautiful things like Fifi’s turtle, for example, or the small cat that used to rub up against my leg whenever I stood in the doorway, and that came wherever I went for a while, before a runaway taxicab ran it over.
I tried to forget, and then the burned tank frames appeared. I looked at Mohamed Ali, who was walking in front of me. What was he thinking about right now? About his French wife who loved the desert? I saw his sweaty back rising and falling as he stumbled between the soldiers’ helmets and shoes strewn over the obscured road. We saw the remains of war right in front of us, and they threatened us at every moment. There was no metal dipper swinging nearby, but nonetheless, my imagination continued to conjure up a distant creaking and people moving on the horizon, to the right and the left, like those who kept throwing their bucket into the depths of the well.
We approached a small hut erected on a bare stone hillock with a cannon on top of it, its barrel aimed in our direction. Above the hut, next to the cannon, a flag with faded colors fluttered. In front of it was a short wall made of stones piled up haphazardly. The structure appeared to be a primitive fortification. We stopped, first Mohamed Ali, then me, then Brigadier Omar, who was attached to his radio. Silence prevailed. All of us were waiting. Every once in a while the brigadier lifted his head in our direction to indicate that we should move forward, but we didn’t move. He made to shoo us with his hands as if we were two chickens, but we still didn’t move, like two stubborn horses. Then the brigadier returned to the radio, asking questions and talking. The general on the other end of the line ordered him to push us in the direction of the hut. We sensed that something was not right here; that the cannon was a real cannon, and that it hadn’t just fallen from the sky. The brigadier continued to insist that the cannon was made of rubber, but one would have had to be blind not to see that the cannon was real. Nonetheless, the brigadier thought otherwise, and the general on his farm thought otherwise as well.
As we faced the hut’s door the cannon let loose a shot that went right over us, just a few paces away from us. After that came the roar of bullets. Should we flee? What should we do? Should we protect ourselves with the wall? What wall? The wall had been blown away and dust covered everything. I couldn’t see Mohamed Ali in the middle of the dusty whirlwind. I heard the brigadier yelling from far away, “Stay where you are!” Brigadier Omar couldn’t see that I was crawling in the dust trying to save myself, just as he had. He ordered us to not leave our posts, but where was Mohamed Ali?
The sand enveloped the sky. Mohamed Ali and I were surrounded by sand; we were deep in the sand, and it felt like needles in our eyes. We ate sand and breathed sand. There was sand in our lungs, noses, and mouths. The brigadier’s voice grew distant. Sand filled my mouth, and it didn’t matter whether I tried to spit it out, swallow it, or just leave it there. I guessed that Mohamed Ali was not far away. I crawled through the dust. I felt the sand. Then I found him. His body was covered with blood, flowing copiously out of him. In place of a head there was a big hole with blood bubbling from it like a fountain. I called for Brigadier Omar but his response never came. I could make out a shadow passing through the wall of sand, fleeing. I saw him but he didn’t see me. I called out nonetheless. No sound came out of my mouth. My voice had become sand and Mohamed Ali’s body was just a trunk and a hole with blood gushing out of it.
What’s the use of war? Bullets, knife wounds penetrating through to the bone, injuries that would inevitably come, sooner or later, killing, death here or there. What is death other than a commodity that people carry in their blood? In times of war and times of peace people learn how to stay alive, but is it possible to do so without also killing in one way or another? All roads lead to killing. All plans are laid with devilish care to promote the commodity of death. Perhaps people invented war so as not to die alone. The soldier draws a small heart on his grenade before throwing it at his enemy, or he might write “Good morning, friend” on both sides of it. Soldiers celebrate their collective death like children. “Hello, death, and welcome!” Damn you, death! All of those who fled were right. They threw down their rifles and gave themselves up to their enemies willingly, in order to keep their salaries flowing, and in order to preserve the hope of returning to their loved ones alive.
If I were asked about my position concerning this war, I don’t know how I would respond. I don’t have a position. I’ve never had a position on any issue, nor has anyone ever asked me for on
e. Ask Captain Hammouda, who raises goats so as not to die of high cholesterol. Ask Brigadier Omar, who flees toward Fifi’s tavern where his stinking drink awaits him. Ask General Bouricha, who knows better than any of us; this is why he sits on his farm pressing olives without responding to the king. However, I do know that I don’t want to die. Moreover, I don’t want to defend anything except for the stories I invent lying down in the steam room of the hammam, and Zineb, whom I love as no one else could possibly love a woman.
18
GOD IS THE ONE WHO takes and the One who gives, and getting worked up about it is nothing but a waste of time. I have my health and what remains of my fortune. I have my family, and if God decreed that I take leave of them for all these years then He had His reasons. A man is a man wherever he goes and wherever he settles down. Fadila’s marriage is what concerns me right now. The scent of henna and lemon and rosewater wafts through every corner of the house. I’m not the sentimental type. I’m not the type who reveals his feelings and emotions by what he says and does, and from the look in his eyes, with or without reason, like a woman does. No. Never. I wasn’t concerned with Fadila’s hands, which were covered with dough, or with her mother’s glances, which, despite all of these years, still overflow with desire, or with the looks of the neighbors who harbor an overblown grudge because they weren’t expecting me to appear in the middle of “their” wedding celebration. Despite all of this, my emotions got the better of me and I shed two tears, two rare creatures. Fadila loves me, that much is clear. As for her mother, Fatima, after the initial shock, my presence in the house clearly makes her very happy. The day after my arrival she went to the hammam and came back seeming younger. She put on perfume and painted her cheeks with rouge, perhaps so that I would feel some regret for all that I had lost.
Fadila’s groom is a teacher. His father is unemployed, his mother is sick, and he has six brothers and sisters. He may have been thinking about moving them all into this house, but now that I am here, his calculations have been thrown off. When I sit on the house’s patio watching them come and go as if they were walking around their own courtyard, I’m seized with the desire to throw them all out. The teacher tries to get close to me because he heard that I work in the palace and he thinks he can count on me to support them. He doesn’t know anything about my unenviable situation. This is what I read in his eyes, and it’s for the best. He thinks he can find his way into my heart just by throwing himself at me, kissing my hands, and yelling, “Welcome, Hajj!” This teacher thinks he’ll dazzle me when he sits down to debate matters of religion with me. They had told him that I am learned in the religious sciences and he contrives this blunt way of getting close to me. His most recent idea was to let his beard grow long so as to appear respectable and so that his talk about what God and the Prophet said would be convincing.
Fadila attached herself to him as a drowning person desperately grabs onto the last piece of floating wood. I saw how she looked at him, her will stolen from her, and he looked at her the same way, with the same idiotic eyes. All lovers have this stupid look that distinguishes morons and fools, and that reminds you of patients in a mental hospital. I always wonder why lovers look like such idiots with their sick stares. I never asked Aziza to fall in love with me, only to marry me. It was her chance to think about her future, as well as the future of her mother, her ex-con criminal brother, and the rest of the family. She found a husband easily. It was the only way for her to reach a decent social status. That’s what I used to say. I was wrong.
“A teacher,” she said. You can never tell with this type of person which leg he’s dancing on—one leg is with God and the other with Satan. Fadila is happy, unlike her mother Fatima. She waits impatiently for the celebration that will conduct her to the house of the man she has chosen. Fadila loves me in her own way and I hope she has an agreeable marriage, but a man is a man no matter what, and when he lets his emotions show in front of everyone, with no sense of shame, it is inappropriate even when it comes to his own daughter. I’m against this sort of manufactured overflow of emotions. Showing emotion during these sorts of affairs is a waste of time. Tomorrow she’ll get married and after two months she will have forgotten us. The same thing goes for me; in two months time I won’t even remember the color of her eyes.
My new life preoccupies me and makes me forget my problems. Most of the time I get up before ten. Fadila is washing the courtyard, singing the song of her coming happiness. Once I’ve left my bed, completely refreshed, her mother prepares bread and country butter for me, along with a glass of tea, as if for the first time. The teacher passes by wishing me a nice day and leaves for work. I won’t go to the palace door today. I’ll give them more time to think. I continue to linger in bed, studying the room’s walls. I see that I am at home, with my people, and I think about how when I return to the palace, I’ll pay them back for all that has been lost, because they deserve the best.
Then I put on a short white djellaba, my yellow babouche, and my red tarboosh, the national hat. I go up the street to Si Hussein’s barbershop. I try to walk with a serious gait, the way I used to walk, as if I were still employed at the palace. I hurry my steps to look like I’m rushing to take care of something, not in an exaggerated way, but just enough to garner the respect of those I meet and to put sufficient distance between them and me. I also do this to avoid the abundance of hellos and hellos-to-you and the kisses on this cheek and then the other cheek, two or three times depending on what the kisser wants, sometimes even four times. I don’t know where they got this baffling custom from. Three or more kisses? What’s with us? And you’d think that I could avoid them if I took this extremely long and winding alley I haven’t set foot in for quite some time. Oh no! There are always three or four people waiting to ambush me at any time of the night or day. This one wants a job for his son who has been unemployed for years (he doesn’t know that I’m now unemployed just like him), that one wants a permit of one sort or another. This one hands me a piece of paper requesting a taxi license, that one wants me to intervene in a legal case, and this last one heard quite by accident about my return and wants only to see my dear face, to say hi to me, and to inquire about my health. But they’re always there, wherever I happen to be passing, always lurking and waiting to pounce, night or day, even if I walk by at three in the morning, as if they spend their time sitting on their doorsteps or in front of their shops waiting for me.
In the barber’s living room I tell stories to the customers about some of the different phases of my long life in the palace. They enjoy that a lot and it only increases their curiosity and enthusiasm. They crowd around me to bask in a little bit of the warmth of absolute power. The barber’s customers consider themselves lucky to be listening to my wonderful stories, the likes of which they have never heard before. Stories about when I would sit with His Majesty, about when I would tell jokes about this or that minister, when I would travel with him abroad or accompany him on a hunting trip, what food His Majesty likes to eat and what drinks he enjoys, how he sits and how he sleeps. They are awestruck when I tell them that I’m the only one allowed to enter His Majesty’s bedroom. I never thought the effect I would have on them would be so great. I describe His Majesty’s laugh for them, the different types of laughter, the meaning of each, the extent of each, and the wisdom hidden behind each of his different movements. Usually I spend my afternoons this way, happy in my role, and the day passes without bringing anything new.
Before the wedding and all the commotion that goes along with it, with the approach of the fateful night, strange symptoms began to show on Fadila. Her breasts grew like two water skins filled to the brim and she began to give off a foul smell like a lion in heat. We watched her as she crossed the courtyard and entered the bedrooms shaking her two full water skins, trailed by the strong smell coming out of every pore in her body. The teacher never grumbled or complained as she walked in front of him, which was understandable, considering he was the type of person who, on occ
asions such as these, was completely preoccupied with the profits he was going to reap after the wedding. He’d get rid of the smell later. But the others? I wasn’t sure why they hadn’t noticed anything. They hadn’t complained or betrayed any reaction, however small, as if they were of the same species as her, or as if they were her accomplices. And her? She didn’t utter a word. It was as if the penetrating smell spoke for her and the others didn’t exist. The smell of henna mixed with rosewater no longer had any effect. Fadila’s smell had completely conquered it. It obscured every other smell—lemon and clove and henna—all of which had disappeared under the smell of sex. The more her mind tried to flee from it, the more it tyrannized her body, surrounding and squeezing it until its repressed desires were secreted. Then, when the teacher and his family showed an exaggerated enthusiasm as the wedding day grew near and the feverish race toward the rewards they would reap overtook them, Fadila began to complain of pain in her head and in all her joints. Fatima said it was just a temporary illness. But no, this was not a simple cold or headache. The pain settled in her knees. This made me secretly laugh. The poor teacher’s hopes were dashed. He wouldn’t get a thing and his family wouldn’t know any of the comfort or luxury they had been counting on after divvying up my fortune because my daughter Fadila was no longer strong enough to walk. She was confined to her bed and didn’t get up even when the teacher and his large entourage left the house never to return.
Dada, an expert in these matters, said that it was an oppressive jinn that was in love with her. He had taken her over and inhabited her body. Every time he saw another human being he fought it. It might even be the King of the Jinn, may God protect her, and for these cases, no treatment would work. The only treatment was to wait. One day they’d decide to leave her body on their own accord. I said before that jinn kings are like human kings—they have their whims and we can’t do anything about it, for there is no power nor strength, save for in God.
A Beautiful White Cat Walks with Me Page 16