After a moment, Lalla hears the gush of water pouring out of the drainpipes and hitting the bottom of the empty kerosene drums; she’s as happy as if she were the one drinking the water. At first it makes a crashing metallic sound, and then gradually the drums fill up and the sound becomes deeper. And water is gushing everywhere at once, over the ground, into the puddles, into the old pots left strewn around outside. The dry dust of winter rises into the air when the rain beats down on the earth, and it makes a strange smell of wet dirt, straw, and smoke, which is pleasant to breathe in. Children are running around in the night. They’ve taken off all of their clothing, and they’re running naked along the streets in the rain, laughing and shouting. Lalla would like to do the same, but she’s too old now, and girls of her age can’t go out naked. So she goes back to sleep, still listening to the patter of the water on the sheet metal, still thinking of the two lovely gushes of water spurting out on either side of the house and making the kerosene drums overflow with clear water.
What is really fine, when water has fallen from the sky like that for days and nights on end, is that you can go take hot baths in the bathhouse across the river, in town. Aamma has decided to take Lalla to the bathhouse near the end of the afternoon, when the heat of the sun lets up a little, and the big white clouds start gathering in the sky.
It’s women’s day at the bathhouse, and everyone is walking in that direction along the narrow path that follows the river upstream. Three or four kilometers upstream there’s the bridge, with the truck road, but before reaching that, there’s the ford. That’s where the women cross the river.
Aamma is walking ahead, with Zubida, and her cousin whose name is Zora, and other women that Lalla knows by sight but whose names she’s forgotten. They hitch up their skirts to ford the river; they’re laughing and talking very loudly. Lalla is walking a little behind, and she’s very pleased because on afternoons like this, there aren’t any chores to do at the house or any wood to gather for the fire. And also, she really likes the big white clouds, so low in the sky, and the green of the grass by the side of the river. The river water is icy, earth-colored; it ripples between her legs when Lalla is crossing the ford. When she reaches the canal, in the center of the river, there is a ledge, and Lalla falls into the water up to her waist; she hurries to get out, her dress clinging to her belly and thighs. There are boys on the other bank, whom the women bombard with stones for watching them pull up their skirts to cross the river.
The bathhouse is a large brick hangar built right beside the river. This is where Aamma brought Lalla when she first arrived in the Project, and Lalla had never seen anything like it. There is but one large room with tubs of hot water and ovens where the stones are heated. It’s open one day for women, the next day for men. Lalla really likes this room because a lot of light comes through the windows set up high in the walls under the corrugated iron roof. The bathhouse is only open in summer because water is scarce here. The water comes from a large tank, built on a rise, and it runs down an open-air conduit to the bathhouse, where it cascades into a large cement pool that looks like a washtub. That’s where Aamma and Lalla go to bathe later, after the hot tub, pouring large jugs of cold water over their bodies and letting out little gasps because it makes them shiver.
There is something else that Lalla also really likes about this place. It’s the steam that fills up the whole room like white fog, piling up in layers all the way to the ceiling and escaping through the windows, making the light fluctuate. When you first walk into the room, you feel as if you’re suffocating for a minute, because of the steam. Then you take off your clothes and leave them folded on a chair, at the back of the hangar. The first few times, Lalla was embarrassed; she didn’t want to undress herself in front of the other women, because she wasn’t used to baths. She thought the others were making fun of her because she didn’t have any breasts and her skin was very white. But Aamma scolded her and made her take off all of her clothes; then she tied her long hair up in a bun, wrapping a strip of canvas around it. Now she doesn’t mind getting undressed. She doesn’t even pay any attention to the others anymore. At first, she thought it was horrid because there were very ugly and very old women, with skin wrinkled up like dead trees, or else fat fleshy ones, with breasts dangling down like waterskins, or still others who were sick, their legs covered with ulcers and varicose veins. But now Lalla doesn’t see them in the same way any longer. She pities the ugly and sick women; she’s not afraid of them anymore. And also, the water is so beautiful, so pure, the water that has fallen straight from the sky into the large tank, the water is so new that it must certainly heal the ill.
That’s the way it is when Lalla enters the tub water for the first time after the long months of the dry season: it envelops her body all at once, closing so tightly over her skin, over her legs, over her belly, over her chest, that Lalla momentarily loses her breath.
The water is very hot, very heavy; it brings the blood to the surface of the skin, dilates the pores, sends its waves of heat deep into the body, as if it had taken on the force of the sun and the sky. Lalla slides down into the bathtub until the scalding water comes up over her chin and touches her lips, then stops just under her nostrils. Afterward, she remains like that for a long time without moving, gazing up at the corrugated roof that seems to be swaying under the trails of steam.
Then Aamma comes with a handful of soapwort and some pumice powder, and she scrubs Lalla’s body to get the sweat and the dust off, scrubs her on the back, the shoulders, the legs. Lalla docilely submits, because Aamma is very good at soaping and scrubbing down; afterward she goes over to the washtub, and she submerges herself in the cool, almost cold water, and it closes up her pores, smooths her skin, tightens her nerves and muscles. This is the bath she takes with the other women, listening to the sound of the waterfall coming from the tank; this is the water Lalla prefers. It is clear like the water from the mountain springs, it is light, it slips over her clean skin like over a worn stone, it leaps up into the light, splashing back up in thousands of drops. Under the waterspout, the women wash their long heavy hair. Even the ugliest bodies grow beautiful through the crystal-clear water; the cold raises voices, makes shrill laughter ring out. Aamma throws huge armfuls at Lalla’s face, and her extremely white teeth gleam in her copper face. The sparkling drops roll slowly down her dark breasts, her abdomen, her thighs. The water wears and polishes your skin, makes the palms of your hands very soft. It’s cold, despite the steam filling the hangar.
Aamma envelops Lalla in a large towel, she wraps a sort of cloth around herself that she knots on her breast. Together, they walk toward the back of the hangar where their clothes were left folded on chairs. They sit down, and Aamma starts to slowly comb out Lalla’s hair, one strand at a time, preening each of them carefully between the fingers of her left hand, to extract the nits.
That’s great too, like in a dream, because Lalla is gazing straight out ahead, not thinking of anything, exhausted from all the water, drowsy from the heavy steam struggling up to the windows where the sunlight wavers, numbed from the noise of the voices and the laughter of the women, from the splashing water, the humming of the ovens where the stones are heating. So she is sitting on the metal chair, her bare feet resting on the cool cement floor, shivering in her large wet towel, and Aamma’s adroit hands are combing tirelessly through her hair, pulling it out, preening it, while the last drops of water run down her cheeks and along her back.
Then, when everything is finished, and they’ve put their clothes back on, they go and sit down together outside, in the warmth of the setting sun, and they drink mint tea in small glasses decorated with gold designs, almost without speaking to one another, as if they had been on a long journey and had had their fill of the world’s marvels. It’s a long road back to the Project of planks and tarpaper on the other side of the river. The night is already blue-black, and the stars are shimmering between the clouds when they get home.
THERE ARE DAYS th
at aren’t like all the others – feast days – and those are the days you sort of live for, wait for, hope for. When the day is near, no one speaks of anything else in the streets of the Project, in the houses, over by the fountain. Everyone is impatient and wants the feast day to come faster. Sometimes Lalla wakes up in the morning, her heart thumping, with a strange tingling in her arms and legs, because she thinks that today is the day. She jumps out of bed without even taking the time to run her hands through her hair and goes out into the street to run through the cold morning air, while the sun hasn’t yet appeared and, except for a few birds, everything is gray and silent. But since there isn’t a soul stirring in the Project, she realizes the day hasn’t come yet, and all she can do is go back and get under her blankets again, unless she decides to make the most of it and go sit in the dunes to watch the first rays of sunlight touching the crests of the waves.
One thing that is long, and slow, that makes impatience seethe deep in the bodies of men and women, is fasting. Because throughout the days leading up to the feast, people eat very little, only just before and just after daylight, and they don’t drink anything either. So, as time goes by, there is a kind of emptiness that spreads inside your body, that burns, that makes a buzzing sound in your ears. Even so, Lalla likes to fast, because when you don’t eat or drink for hours on end, days on end, it’s as if the inside of your body is being cleansed. The hours seem longer, and fuller, because you pay attention to the slightest little things. The children stop going to school, the women stop working in the fields, the boys stop going to the town. Everyone sits around in the shade of the shacks and the trees, conversing a little and watching the shadows move with the sun.
When you haven’t eaten for days, the sky seems cleaner too, bluer and smoother over the white earth. Sounds ring out louder, and longer, as if you were inside a cave, and the light seems lovelier, purer.
Even the days are longer, it’s hard to understand, but from the moment the sun rises until dusk, you’d think a whole month had gone by.
Lalla likes fasting in that way, when the sun burns down and dryness sweeps over everything. The gray dust leaves the taste of stone in your mouth, and from time to time you have to suck on the little lemon-flavored herbs or the bitter chiba leaves, being very careful to spit out your saliva.
During the fasting period, Lalla goes to see the Hartani up in the rocky hills every day. He too goes without eating or drinking all day long, but it doesn’t change anything about the way he is, and his face is always the same burnt color. His eyes shine brightly in the shadow of his face, his teeth gleam in his smile. The only difference is that he covers himself up completely in his homespun robe, to prevent water loss from his body. He stands there on one leg like that, motionless in the sun, the other foot resting on his calf just under the knee, and he gazes out into the distance, over where the reflections are dancing in the air, over in the direction of the herd of goats and sheep.
Lalla sits down beside him on a flat stone, she listens to the sounds coming from all sides of the mountain, the insect calls, the whistling of the shepherds, and also the cracking sounds made by the heat dilating the stones and the wind passing. She’s in no hurry, because during the fast, she doesn’t have to go fetch water or dead wood for cooking.
It’s great to be in the midst of all of this dryness when you’re fasting because it is as if an intense feeling of suffering were stretched tight everywhere, like an insistent gaze. At night, the moon appears on the edge of the rocky hills, completely round, dilated. Then Aamma serves the chickpea soup with bread, and everyone eats quickly; even Selim, Aamma’s husband, who is called the Soussi, eats hurriedly, without putting olive oil on his bread like he usually does. No one says a word, there are no stories. Lalla would rather like to talk, she’d have so many things to say, a little feverishly, but she knows that it’s not possible, for one mustn’t break the silence of the fast. That’s the way it is when you fast, you also fast with words and with your whole head. And you walk slowly, dragging your feet a bit, and you don’t point at things or people with your finger, you don’t whistle with your mouth.
Sometimes the children forget that they’re fasting because it’s difficult to control yourself all the time. Then they burst out laughing, or they take off running through the streets, kicking up clouds of dust and making all the dogs start barking. But the old ladies shout after them and throw stones, and they soon stop running, maybe it’s also because they lack strength due to the fast.
It all lasts for so long that Lalla doesn’t really remember anymore what it was like before the fast began. Then one day Aamma goes off toward the hills to buy a sheep, and everyone knows that the day is drawing near. Aamma goes alone, because she says that Selim the Soussi is incapable of buying anything worthwhile. She walks away along the narrow path that snakes up toward the rocky hills, where the shepherds live. Lalla and the children follow her at a distance. When she reaches the hills, Lalla looks around to see if the Hartani is there, but she knows very well it’s no use: the shepherd doesn’t like people, and he flees when inhabitants of the Project come to buy sheep. The Hartani’s adopted parents shear the sheep. They have built a corral of branches stuck into the ground, and they are sitting in the shade waiting.
Other sheep traders are there, and shepherds too. A strange odor of animal fat and urine hangs over the dry earth, and the sharp bleating of imprisoned animals can be heard coming from the pens of branches. A lot of people have come from the Project, even some from the towns; they left their cars at the entrance to the Project where the road ends and followed the path on foot. They’re people from the North, with yellow skin, gentlemen dressed in suits, or else peasants from the South, Soussis, Fassis, people from Mogador. They know there are a lot of shepherds in the area, sometimes they know relatives or friends and hope to get a fine animal for a good price, clinch a good deal. So they are standing by the pens, haggling, making motions with their hands, leaning over the fences to get a better look at the sheep.
Aamma walks deliberately through the market. She doesn’t stop, she just walks around the pens, looking rapidly at the animals, but she sees immediately what they’re worth. When she’s looked in all the pens, it’s obvious she’s chosen the sheep she wants. So then she goes to see the trader and asks his price. And since she wants that particular sheep and no other, she barely even haggles over the price and gives the owner his money right away. She was careful to bring a rope, and one of the shepherds puts it around the sheep’s neck. That’s it, now all that needs to be done is to bring the sheep back home. Aamma’s eldest son, the one who is called Bareki, has the honor of leading the sheep back. It’s a big strong sheep with a dirty yellow fleece that smells strongly of urine, but Lalla feels a little sorry for the sheep when it goes by, head hanging and eyes frightened because the boy is pulling with all his might on the rope and strangling it. Then they tie the sheep up behind Aamma’s house in a shed of old boards made especially for it, and they give the sheep as much food and water as it wants for the last few days of its life.
So then one fine morning when Lalla wakes up, she knows immediately it’s feast day. She knows it without needing anyone to tell her, just opening her eyes and seeing the cast of the light. She is on her feet in a second, out in the street with the other children, and already the rumor of the feast is beginning to run through the air, to rise over the houses of planks and tarpaper, like the sound of birds.
Lalla runs over the cold earth as fast as she can; she crosses fields, runs along the narrow path that leads to the sea. When she arrives at the top of the dunes, the sea wind hits her all at once, so hard that her nostrils close up, and she stumbles backward. The sea is dark and brutal, but the sky is still such a soft, light gray that Lalla isn’t afraid anymore. She undresses quickly and, without hesitating, dives headfirst into the water. The unfurling wave covers her, rushes against her eyelids and eardrums, into her nostrils. The saltwater fills her mouth, runs down her throat. But on this
day, Lalla isn’t afraid of the sea; she drinks in large gulps of the saltwater and comes out of the wave staggering, as if drunk, blinded with the salt. Then she goes back into the wave that swells up around her.
Just then, the all-white seagull Lalla likes so much passes slowly overhead, mewing softly. Lalla waves at it, and she shouts out names at random to make it come:
“Hey! Kalla! Illa! Zemzar! Horriya! Habib! Cherara! Haïm...”
When she shouts that last name, the gull cocks its head and looks at her, and starts circling over the young girl.
“Haïm! Haïm!” shouts Lalla again, and now she’s sure it’s the name of the seafarer who was once lost at sea, because it’s a name that means the Wanderer.
“Haïm! Haïm! Come here, please!”
But the white gull circles over once more and then flies away on the wind, down the beach, over to the place the other gulls gather every morning before taking flight for the city dump.
Lalla shivers a little because she’s just this minute felt the chill of the wind and sea. The sun will soon be up. The pink and yellow flush is nascent behind the rocky hills where the Hartani lives. The light makes the drops of water on Lalla’s skin sparkle, because she has goose bumps. The wind is blowing hard, and the sand has almost completely covered Lalla’s blue dress. Without waiting to dry, she gets dressed and goes off half running, half walking, toward the Project.
Squatting in front of the door to her house, Aamma is cooking the flour fritters in the large pot filled with boiling oil. The earthen brazier is a red glow in the night shadows that still linger around the houses.
Now this just might be the very moment of the feast day that Lalla likes best. Still shivering from the cold sea, she sits down in front of the burning brazier and eats the sizzling fritters, savoring the sweet dough and the harsh taste of the seawater that is still in the back of her throat. Aamma notices her wet hair and scolds her a little, but not much, because it’s a feast day. Aamma’s children also come and sit down near the brazier, their eyes still swollen with sleep, and later Selim the Soussi comes. They eat the fritters without saying anything, plunging their hands into the large earthenware platter filled with amber-colored fritters. Aamma’s husband eats slowly, working his jaw as if he were chewing cud, and once in a while he stops eating to lick the drops of oil running down his hands. He does talk a little, saying trivial things that no one listens to.
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