Desert

by J. M. G. Le Clézio

  But Lalla loves being outdoors on days like that, maybe precisely because there is no one around. It’s as if there were nothing left on earth, nothing that belonged to humans. That’s when she feels most divorced from herself, as if nothing she had ever done could count, as if all memory had been erased.

  So she goes over toward the sea, to the place where the dunes begin. She sits down in the sand, wrapped in the blue cloths; she looks at the dust rising in the air. Above the earth, at the zenith, the sky is a very deep blue, almost the color of night, and when she looks over at the horizon just above the line of dunes, she can see that pink ashen color, like at dawn. On those days you are free too from flies and wasps because the wind has driven them back into the hollows in the rocks, into their nests of dried mud, or into the dark corners of the houses. There are no men, or women, or children. There are no dogs, no birds. There is only the wind whistling in the branches of the shrubs, in the leaves of the acacias and the wild fig trees. There are only the thousands of stone particles lashing at your face, parting around Lalla, forming long ribbons, snakes, plumes. There is the sound of the wind, the sound of the sea, the swishing sound of sand, and Lalla leans forward to breathe, the blue veil plastered against her nostrils and lips.

  It’s great because it’s as if you’d sailed away on a boat, like Naman the fisherman and his companions, lost in the middle of a huge storm. The sky is blank, extraordinary. The earth has disappeared, or almost, barely visible through the cracks in the sand, ragged, worn, a few dark patches of reefs surrounded by the sea.

  Lalla doesn’t know why she goes out on those days. She just can’t help it, she can’t stay closed up in Aamma’s house, or even go walking through the narrow streets of the Project. The burning wind dries out her lips and her nostrils; she can feel the flame descending inside her. It might be the flame of the light in the sky, the flame that comes from the East and that the wind is forcing into her body. But light doesn’t only burn, it also liberates, and Lalla can feel her body getting lighter, swifter. She resists, clinging to the sand dune with both hands, her chin against her knees. She barely breathes, in short little gasps, so as not to become too light.

  She tries to think of the people she loves, because that can keep the wind from blowing her away. She thinks of Aamma, of the Hartani, of Naman most of all. But on those days, nothing really counts, not even any of the people she knows, and her thoughts slip immediately away, escape, as if the wind had torn them from her and carried them out among the dunes.

  Then suddenly she feels the eyes of the Blue Man from the desert upon her. It’s the same look that was up there on the plateau of stones at the edge of the desert. It is a blank, imperious gaze that pushes down on her shoulders with all the weight of the wind and the light, a look filled with unbearable dryness that is painful, a look that has been hardened like the particles of stone that are hitting her face and clothing. She doesn’t understand what he wants, what he’s asking for. Maybe he wants nothing of her, he’s just simply passing over the coastline, the river, the Project, and he’s going even farther out, to burn up the cities and the white houses, the gardens, the fountains, the wide avenues in the lands on the other side of the sea.

  Now Lalla is frightened. She would like to stop that gaze, to stop it on herself, so that it wouldn’t go out beyond that horizon, so it would cease its revenge, its flames, its violence. She doesn’t understand why the storm of the man from the desert wants to destroy those cities. She closes her eyes to block out the sight of the snakes of sand coiling around her, those dangerous plumes. Then she hears the voice of the desert warrior in her ears, the one she calls al-Ser, the Secret. She’s never heard him so clearly, even when he appeared before her on the plateau of stones wearing his white cloak, his face veiled in blue. It’s a strange voice that she hears inside of her head, mingling with the sound of the wind and the hissing of the sand. It’s a distant voice that is saying words she doesn’t really understand, endlessly repeating the same sounds, the same words.

  “Make the wind stop!” says Lalla out loud, without opening her eyes. “Don’t destroy the cities, make the wind stop and the sun stop burning, make everything be at peace!”

  Then again, in spite of herself, “What do you want? Why do you come here? I’m nothing to you, why do you talk to me, and only to me?”

  But the voice is still murmuring, still fluttering inside of Lalla’s body. It is only the voice of the wind, the voice of the sea, of the sand, the voice of the light that dazzles and numbs people’s willpower. It comes at the same time as the stranger’s gaze, it shatters and uproots everything on earth that resists it. Then it goes farther out, toward the horizon, gets lost out at sea on the mighty waves, it carries the clouds and the sand toward the rocky coasts on the other side of the sea, toward the vast deltas where the smokestacks of refineries are burning.

  TELL ME ABOUT the Blue Man,” says Lalla.

  But Aamma is busy kneading bread on the large earthenware platter. She shakes her head. “Not now.”

  Lalla insists. “Yes, now, Aamma, please.”

  “I already told you everything I know about him.”

  “It doesn’t matter, I want to hear you talk about him again, and about the man called Ma al-Aïnine, Water of the Eyes.”

  So Aamma stops mashing the dough. She sits on the floor and starts talking, because deep down, she really likes to tell stories.

  “I already told you about this, it was long ago, in a time that neither your mother nor I knew, for it was when your mother’s grandmother was a child that the great al-Azraq, he who was called the Blue Man, died, and Ma al-Aïnine was just a young man in those days.”

  Lalla knows all of their names well, she’s heard them often since she was a small child, and still, each time she hears them, it gives her a little shiver, as if something deep down inside of her had been stirred.

  “Al-Azraq was from the same tribe as your mother’s grandmother, he lived far to the south, beyond the Drâa, even beyond the Saguiet al-Hamra, and in those days, there wasn’t a single foreigner in the land; the Christians weren’t allowed in. In those days, the warriors of the desert were undefeated, and all of the territories south of the Drâa belonged to them, for a very long way, deep into the heart of the desert, all the way down to the holy city of Chinguetti.”

  Each time Aamma tells the story of al-Azraq, she adds a new detail, a new sentence, or else she changes something, as if she didn’t want the story to ever finish. Her voice is loud, somewhat singsong, it rings out oddly in the dark house with the sound of the corrugated iron cracking in the sunlight and the humming of wasps.

  “He was called al-Azraq because before becoming a saint, he’d been a desert warrior far to the south, in the region of Chinguetti, because he was a nobleman and the son of a sheik. But one day, God called upon him, and he became a saint, he abandoned the blue attire of the desert and dressed himself in a woolen robe like the poor, and he walked barefoot through the land from city to city with a staff as if he were a beggar. But God wanted him to stand out from other beggars, and so God made the skin of his hands and face remain blue, and the color could never be washed away no matter the amount of water he used. The blue color remained on his face and hands, and when the people saw it, despite the worn woolen robe, they understood he wasn’t a beggar, but a true warrior of the desert, a blue man that God had called upon, and that is why they gave him that name. Al-Azraq, the Blue Man...”

  As she speaks, Aamma rocks back and forth lightly, as if she were marking the beat to music. Or sometimes she is quiet for a long time, leaning over the large earthenware platter, busily breaking up the dough and bringing it back together again to flatten it out with her closed fists.

  Lalla waits, without saying anything, for her to go on.

  “No one from back in those days is still alive,” says Aamma. “Everything that is said about him comes from tales, his legend, what can be remembered. But now there are people who don’t want to believe tha
t anymore, who say it’s all lies.”

  Aamma hesitates because she’s choosing what she’s going to say carefully.

  “Al-Azraq was a great saint,” she says. “He knew how to heal sick people, even those who were sick in their heads, those who had lost their minds. He would live anywhere, in the shacks of shepherds, small sheds of leaves built around the foot of trees, or even in caves high in the mountains. People came from far and wide to see him and ask for his help. One day, an old man brought his son who was blind, and he said, ‘Heal my son, you who have received God’s blessing, heal him and I will give you everything I have.’ And he showed him a bag full of gold that he had brought with him. Al-Azraq said, ‘Of what use can your gold be here?’ and he motioned out toward the desert, without a drop of water, without a piece of fruit. And he took the old man’s gold and threw it on the ground, and the gold turned into scorpions and snakes that fled into the distance, and the old man began to tremble with fear. Then al-Azraq said to the old man, ‘Are you willing to go blind in place of your son?’ The old man answered, ‘I am very old, what use are my eyes to me? Let my son see, and I will be happy.’ Immediately, the young man recovered his sight and was dazzled by the sunlight. But when he saw that his father was blind, he was no longer happy. ‘Give my father his sight back,’ he said, ‘for it was I whom God condemned.’ Then al-Azraq granted them both the gift of sight, because he knew they were good-hearted. And he continued his journey toward the sea and stopped to live in a place just like this, near the dunes by the seaside.”

  Aamma remains silent for a moment. Lalla thinks of the dunes, the place where al-Azraq lived, she hears the sound of the wind and the sea.

  “The fishermen gave him food every day because they knew that the Blue Man was a saint, and they sought his blessing. Some came from very far away, from the fortified towns in the South; they came to hear him speak. But al-Azraq did not teach the Sunna with words, and when someone came to ask of him, ‘Teach me the Way,’ he simply told his beads for hours without saying anything else. Then he said to the visitor, ‘Go and gather wood for the fire, go and fetch some water,’ as if the visitor were his servant. He would say to him, ‘Fan me,’ and he even spoke to him with harsh words, accusing him of being lazy and lying, as if the visitor were his slave.”

  Aamma speaks slowly in the dim house, and Lalla believes she can hear the voice of the Blue Man.

  “That’s how he taught the Sunna, not with spoken words, but with gestures and prayers, to force the visitors to become humble in their hearts. But when simple people came, or children, al-Azraq was very kind to them, he said very gentle words to them, he told them marvelous tales, because he knew their hearts were not hardened and that they were truly close to God. They were the ones for whom he sometimes performed miracles, to help them because they had no other recourse.”

  Aamma hesitates. “Did I ever tell you about the miracle of the source he made spring up from under a stone?”

  “Yes, but tell me again,” says Lalla.

  That’s the story she loves most in the whole world. Every time she hears it, she feels something strange, like a feverish chill, moving deep down inside of her, as if she were going to cry. She thinks about how it all happened, very long ago, at the gates to the desert, in a village of mud and palm trees with a large empty square where the wasps hum and the water from the fountain shines in the sun, smooth as a mirror reflecting the clouds in the sky. There’s no one in the village square because the sun is burning down very hard, and all the people have taken shelter in the shade of their homes. From time to time, a slow ruffle of scorched air passes over the still water of the fountain, like an open eye watching the sky, and casts a fine white powder on its surface, forming an imperceptible milky veil that melts quickly away. The water is clear and deep, blue-green, silent, very still in the hollow of red earth in which women’s feet have left glistening prints. Only the wasps come and go over the water, skimming the surface, then turn back toward the houses from which the smoke of the braziers is rising.

  “It’s the story of a woman who went to fetch a jug of water at the fountain. No one remembers her name now because it all happened so long ago. But she was a very old woman who had very little strength left, and when she reached the fountain she began to weep and lament because it was such a long way for her to carry the water back home. She remained there, squatting on the ground, weeping and moaning. Then all of a sudden, without her hearing him come, al-Azraq was standing beside her...”

  Lalla can see him clearly now. He is tall and thin, wrapped in his sand-colored cloak. His face is hidden behind his veil, but his eyes are shining with a strange light that is both soothing and invigorating, like the flame of a lamp. She recognizes him now. He’s the one who appears up on the plateau of stones, up where the desert begins, the one who envelops Lalla in his gaze so firmly and with such insistence that it makes her dizzy. He appears just like that, as silently as a shadow, he knows how to be there when he’s needed.

  “The old woman continued to cry, so al-Azraq asked her gently why she was weeping.”

  Yet you can’t be frightened when he appears silently, as though he’s sprung up from the desert. His eyes are filled with kindness, his voice is slow and calm, light even streams from his face.

  “The old woman told him of her sorrow, her loneliness, because her house was so far away from the water, and she hadn’t the strength to get home carrying the jug of water...”

  His voice and his gaze are one and the same thing, as if he already knew what the future held, as if he knew the secret of people’s destinies.

  “‘Don’t weep over that,’ said al-Azraq. ‘I’ll help you get back to your house.’ And he led her back home by the arm, and when they had arrived in front of her house, he simply said to her, ‘Pick up that stone by the side of the path, and you will never again be in need of water.’ And the old woman did as she was bidden, and under the stone, a source of very clear water sprang forth, and the water spread out until it formed a fountain, purer and more beautiful than any other in the land. So then the old woman thanked al-Azraq, and later, people from all parts came to see the fountain and taste its water, and everyone praised al-Azraq who had received such powers from God.”

  Lalla thinks about the fountain that sprang up under the stone, she thinks about the very clear, smooth water shining in the sunlight. She thinks about it for a long time in the half-light, while Aamma continues kneading the bread. And the shadow of the Blue Man recedes, silently, just as it had come, but his forceful gaze remains hovering over her, enveloping her like a breath.

  Aamma is quiet now, she says nothing more. She continues to punch and knead the dough in the large, wobbling, earthenware platter. Maybe she too is thinking of the lovely fountain of deep water that sprang up under a stone on the path, like the true words of al-Azraq, the true path.

  THE LIGHT IS beautiful here every day on the Project. Lalla had never really paid attention to the light until the Hartani taught her how to look at it. It’s a very clear light, especially in the morning, just after sunrise. It shines down on the red rocks and the earth, brings them to life. There are places for seeing the light. One morning, the Hartani takes Lalla to one of those places. It’s a chasm that opens at the bottom of a rocky ravine, and the Hartani is the only one who knows about this hiding place. You have to know where the passageway is. The Hartani takes Lalla’s hand and leads her along the narrow tunnel that descends into the earth. Immediately you can feel the cool dampness of the shadows, and sounds cease, like when you put your head under water. The tunnel burrows deep into the earth. Lalla is a little frightened because it’s the first time she’s ever gone inside of the earth. But the shepherd squeezes her hand tightly and that gives her courage.

  All of a sudden, they stop: the long tunnel is bathed in light because it opens right out into the sky. Lalla doesn’t understand how that is possible because they never stopped going down, but it’s true nevertheless: the sky is right the
re in front of her, immense and weightless. She stands motionless, breathless, wide-eyed. Here, all that’s left is the sky, so clear that you think you’re a bird flying through the air.

  The Hartani motions for Lalla to come closer to the opening. Then he sits down on the stones, slowly, so as not to start a rockslide. Lalla sits down a little behind him, trembling with dizziness. Down at the bottom, all the way down at the bottom of the cliff in the haze, she can make out the great barren plain, the dried torrents. Out on the horizon, an ochre mist spreads: it’s the beginning of the desert. That’s where the Hartani goes sometimes, all alone, taking nothing with him but a little bread wrapped in a handkerchief. It’s in the east, where the sunlight is the most beautiful, so beautiful that you’d like to go running barefoot through the sand, leaping over the sharp stones and the ravines, pressing ever onward in the direction of the desert, just like the Hartani does.

  “It’s beautiful, Hartani!”

  Sometimes Lalla forgets that the shepherd can’t understand. When she speaks to him, he turns his face toward her, and his eyes are bright, his lips try to imitate the movements of language. Then he grimaces, and Lalla starts laughing.

  “Oh!”

  She points to a still black spot in the middle of the air. The Hartani looks at the spot for a moment and makes the sign of a bird with his hand, crooking the index finger, and spreading the last three fingers out like the feathers of a bird. The spot glides slowly along in the center of the sky, circling back on itself a little, dropping, coming closer. Now Lalla can see its body clearly, its head, its wings with spread quill feathers. It’s a hawk in search of its prey, sailing silently along on the wind, like a shadow.