On the other side of the mountains, the caravan arrived at the Taïdalt palm grove, where the Noun River and the trail to Goulimine begin. Nour thought they would be able to rest and drink to their heart’s content, but the palm grove was small, shrunken from drought and the desert wind. The tall gray dunes had eaten into the oasis, and the water was mud-colored. There was hardly anyone in the palm grove, save a few old men, wasted with hunger. So Ma al-Aïnine’s troop traveled on the next day, following the dried river toward Goulimine.
Before reaching the city, the troops of Ma al-Aïnine’s sons rode out ahead. Two days later, they came back with bad news: the soldiers of the Christians had landed at Sidi Ifni, and they too were heading northward. Larhdaf wanted to go to Goulimine all the same, to fight against the Spanish and the French, but the sheik motioned toward the men camping on the plain and merely asked him, “Are those your soldiers?” Then Larhdaf bowed his head, and the sheik gave the order to depart, skirting Goulimine, toward the Aït Boukha palm grove, then across the mountains to reach the Bou Izakarn trail to the east.
Despite their exhaustion, the men and women made their way for weeks through the red mountains, along dry torrents. The blue men, the women, the shepherds with their herds, the pack camels, the horsemen, all had to weave their way through the blocks of stone, to find a passageway over the rockslides. That is how they reached the holy city of Sidi Ahmed ou Moussa, the patron saint of acrobats and jugglers. The caravan spread out over the arid valley to pitch camp. Only the sheik and his sons and members of the Goudfia stayed within the confines of the tomb while the noblemen came to show their allegiance.
That evening there was a collective prayer beneath the starry sky, and the men and women came together at the tomb of the saint. The silence around the fires was broken only by the crackling of dry branches, and Nour could see the slight frame of the sheik squatting on the ground, reciting the formula of the dzikr in a low voice. But that evening, it was a prayer without shouts or music, because death was too close, and fatigue had made their throats tight. There was nothing but the very gentle voice, light as a wisp of smoke, chanting in the silence. Nour looked around and saw the thousands of men sitting on the ground, draped in their woolen cloaks, lit by fires scattering out into the distance. They sat motionless in silence. It was the most intense, most painful prayer he had ever heard. No one moved except, from time to time, a woman breastfeeding her child to put it to sleep, or an old man coughing. In the steep-walled valley, there wasn’t a breath of air, and the fires were burning very straight and bright. The night was ice-cold and beautiful, filled with stars. Then the glow of the moon appeared at the horizon, over the black cliffs, and the absolutely round silver disk rose hour by hour to its zenith.
The sheik prayed all night long as the fires went out, one after the other. The people, overcome with exhaustion, lay down to sleep right where they were. Nour only left the gathering two or three times, to go urinate behind the bushes in the valley bottom. He couldn’t sleep, as if his body were burning with fever. Next to him, his father, mother, and sisters had dozed off, wrapped up in their cloaks, and the blind warrior was sleeping too, his head lying on the cold earth.
Nour continued to watch the old man sitting next to the white tomb, chanting softly in the silent night, as if he were rocking a child.
At daybreak, the caravan went on, accompanied by some of the Aït ou Moussa and mountain men from Ilirh, from Tafermit, the Ida Gougmar, the Ifrane, the Tirhmi, all those who wanted to follow Ma al-Aïnine in his war for the kingdom of God.
There were still many more days of crossing the deserted mountains, along dried torrents. Each day the burning sun, the thirst, the blinding, overly white sky, the all-too-red rocks, the dust that suffocated the animals and people started over again. Nour couldn’t remember anymore what the world was like when he wasn’t on the move. He couldn’t remember the wells, where the women go to fetch water in their jugs and chatter like birds. He could no longer remember the song of the shepherds who allow their herds to wander, or the games children play in the sand of the dunes. It was if he had been walking forever, endlessly seeing identical hills, ravines, red rocks. At times he would have liked so much to sit down on a stone, just any stone by the side of the trail, and watch the long caravan going off, the dark shapes of the men and the camels in the shimmering air, as if it were a mirage fading away. But the hand of the blind warrior did not leave his shoulder, it pushed him onward, forced him to keep walking.
When they came in sight of a village, they stopped. The name of the village was passed from one person to the next, buzzing on everyone’s lips, “Tirhmi, Anezi, Assaka, Asserssif...” Now they were walking along a real river, in which a thin trickle of water ran. Argans and white acacias grew along its banks. Then they walked over an immense sandy plain, as white as salt, where the sunlight was blinding.
One evening as the caravan was settling in for the night, a band of warriors arrived from the north, in the company of a man on horseback wearing a long white cloak.
It was the great sheik Lahoussine himself, who had come to bring the aid of his warriors and distribute food to the travelers. Then the people realized the journey was drawing to an end, because they were entering the valley of the great Souss River, the place where there would be water and pasture for the livestock, and land for all of the men.
When the news spread amongst the travelers, a feeling of emptiness and death came over Nour once again, as it had before leaving Smara. The people were running back and forth in the dust shouting out, calling to one another, “We’ve arrived! We’ve arrived!” The blind warrior was gripping Nour’s shoulder very tightly, and he too was shouting, “We’ve arrived!”
But it wasn’t until two days later that they arrived in the valley of the great river, before the city of Taroudant. For hours they followed the river upstream, walking in the thin streams of water running through the red stones. In spite of the river water, the banks were barren and dry, and the earth was hard, baked by the sun and the wind.
Nour walked over the smooth stones of the river, dragging the blind warrior behind him. In spite of the blaze of the sun, the water was as cold as ice. A few scraggly shrubs were growing in the middle of the river, on little pebble islands. There were also long white tree trunks that the floodwaters had brought down from the mountains.
Nour had already forgotten the presentiment of death. He was happy because he too believed it was the end of the journey, that this was the land Ma al-Aïnine had promised them before leaving Smara.
The hot air was laden with smells, for it was the beginning of spring. Nour breathed in that smell for the very first time. Insects danced over the streams of water, wasps, light flies. It had been so long since Nour had seen any wildlife that he was happy to see those flies and those wasps. Even when a horsefly suddenly stung him through his clothing, it didn’t anger him, and he merely shooed it away with his hand.
On the other side of the Souss River, hugging the red mountain, was the large city of mud houses, looming up like a celestial vision. Unearthly, as if suspended in the sunlight, the city seemed to be waiting for the men of the desert, waiting to offer them refuge. Never before had Nour seen such a beautiful city. The high windowless walls of red stone and mud glowed in the light of the setting sun. A halo of dust was floating over the city like pollen, encompassing it in its magical cloud.
The travelers stopped in the valley, below the city, and gazed at it for a long time in both love and fear. Now, for the first time since the beginning of their journey, they felt how truly weary they were, their clothing in shreds, their feet wrapped in bloody rags, their lips and eyelids burned by the desert sun. They were sitting on the shingles of the river, and some had pitched their tents or had built shelters out of branches and leaves. As if he too were feeling the fear of the crowd, Ma al-Aïnine stopped with his sons and warriors on the bank of the river.
Now the large tents of the tribal chieftains were being raised; th
e pack camels were being unloaded. Night fell on the ramparts of the city; the sky went dark, and the red earth turned black. Only the high frost-covered peaks of the Atlas, Mount Tichka, Mount Tinergouet, still glistened in the sun when the valley was already sunk in darkness. The call for the evening prayer in the city could be heard, a voice that echoed out strangely like a lament. On the shingles of the river, the travelers were prostrating themselves and praying too, without raising their voices, accompanied by the soft gurgling of the stream.
When morning came, Nour was astounded. He had slept through the night without feeling the stones bruising his ribs, or the cold, or the dampness of the river. When he awoke, he saw the mist drifting slowly down the valley, as if the light of day were pushing it along. In the riverbed, amidst the sleeping men, the women were already up, going to fetch water, or gathering a few twigs. The children were looking for shrimp under the flat stones.
But it was when he looked at the city that Nour was filled with wonder. In the pure dawn air, at the foot of the mountains, stood the tall fortress of Taroudant. Its walls of red stone, its terraces, its towers were clear and distinct, seeming to have been sculpted out of the bedrock of the mountain itself. From time to time, the white mist passed between the riverbed and the city, half hiding it, as if the citadel were floating above the valley, a sort of earthen and stone vessel gliding slowly past the islands of the snow-capped mountains.
Nour stared at it without being able to turn away. His eyes were fascinated with the high windowless walls. There was something mysterious and threatening in those walls, as if the city wasn’t inhabited by people, but by supernatural spirits. Slowly, the light appeared in the sky – pink, then amber-colored, just like that, until the intense blue was everywhere. The light sizzled on the mud walls, on the terraces, on the gardens of orange trees and on the tall palms. Lower down, the arid lands traversed by the irrigation canals were an almost dusky color of red.
Standing stock still on the beach in the silence, surrounded by the men of the desert, Nour watched the magical city awakening. Thin wisps of smoke lifted into the air, and – almost ethereal – the familiar sounds of life, voices, the laughter of children, a young woman singing could be heard.
For the men of the desert, sitting motionless in the bed of the river, those wisps of smoke, those sounds seemed immaterial, as if they were dreaming that fortified city on the mountainside, those fields, those palm and orange trees.
The sun had risen high in the sky, was already burning the stones of the riverbed. A strange odor wafted over to the nomad camp, and Nour had a hard time recognizing it. It wasn’t the sharp and cold smell of the days of fleeing and fear, the smell he had been breathing in for such a long time across the desert. It was an odor of musk and oil, pungent, inebriating, the smell of braziers in which cedar coal is being burned, the smell of coriander, of pepper, of onions.
Nour breathed in that odor, without daring to move for fear of losing it, and the blind warrior also recognized that blissful smell. All the men remained motionless, their wide eyes looking on unblinkingly, achingly, at the high red wall of the city. They looked at the city which was so close and yet so distant at the same time, the city that might open its gates, and their hearts beat faster. Around them, the pebble beaches of the river were already shimmering in the heat of day. They watched the magical city without moving. Then, as the sun rose higher in the sky, each of the men, one after the other, covered his head with a flap of his cloak.
LIFE WITH THE SLAVES
LEANING ON THE RAILING, Lalla watches the strip of land that has appeared on the horizon like an island. In spite of her fatigue, all of her energy is turned toward scrutinizing the land; she’s trying to make out the houses, the roads, maybe even the shapes of people. Next to her, the passengers are crowding up against the railing. They’re shouting, gesticulating, talking excitedly; they’re calling to one another in all diVerent languages from one end of the afterdeck to the other. They’ve been waiting for this moment for such a long time! There are many children and teenagers. They’re all wearing the same tag pinned to their clothing, with their name, date of birth, and the name and address of the person who is waiting for them in Marseille. The bottom of the tag has been stamped, signed, and marked with a small red cross circled in black. Lalla doesn’t like the red cross; she has the feeling it’s burning her skin through her smock, that it’s gradually leaving its mark on her chest.
The cold wind is gusting over the deck, and the heavy waves are making the iron sides of the ship vibrate. Lalla feels nauseous because all night long, instead of sleeping, the children were passing around tubes of condensed milk that the Red Cross officials distributed before they embarked. And also, since there weren’t enough deck chairs, Lalla had to sleep on the floor in the nauseating heat of the hold, surrounded with the smell of kerosene, of grease, shaken by the chugging of the engine. Now the first gulls are flying over the stern, they’re screeching and squawking as if they were angry to see the ship arriving. They don’t look like princes of the sea at all; they’re a dirty gray color, with yellow beaks and a cruel gleam to their eyes.
Lalla hadn’t seen the sun rise. She’d fallen asleep, overcome with fatigue on the tarpaulin in the hold, her head resting on a piece of cardboard. When she awoke, everyone was already up on deck, their eyes glued to the strip of land. The only person left in the hold was a very pale young woman holding a tiny baby in her arms. The baby was sick; it had vomited on the floor; it was whimpering softly. When Lalla drew near to ask what was wrong with it, the young woman looked at her without answering, glassy-eyed.
Now land is very near, it is floating on the green sea littered with trash. Rain is beginning to fall on the deck, but no one goes for shelter. The cold water runs over the children’s frizzy hair, forming drops on the ends of their noses. They are dressed like paupers, in thin, short-sleeved shirts, blue cotton pants or gray skirts, sometimes in traditional long homespun robes. Their bare feet are stuck into black leather shoes that are too big. The adult men are wearing old worn suit jackets with pants that are too short, and woolen ski caps. Lalla looks at the children, the women, the men around her; they seem sad and frightened; their faces are yellow, swollen with weariness, their arms and legs nubbly with goose bumps. The smell of the sea mingles with that of fatigue and anxiety, and off in the distance, like a smudge on the green sea, the land also seems sad and weary. The sky is low; the clouds are hiding the tops of the hills; no matter how hard she looks, Lalla can’t see the white city Naman the fisherman used to speak of, not the palaces or the church towers. Now there is nothing but endless stone- and cement-colored wharves, wharves opening out onto other wharves. The ship loaded with passengers is gliding slowly through the black water of the basins. Standing on the wharves, a few men are watching the ship go by indifferently. Though the children shout at the top of their lungs, waving their arms around, no one answers them. The rain continues to fall, a fine cold drizzle. Lalla looks at the water in the basin, the black greasy water, where refuse even the gulls don’t want floats.
Maybe there is no city? Lalla looks at the rain-soaked wharves, the shapes of the docked freighters, the cranes, and still farther out, the long white buildings making a wall at the far end of the harbor. Little by little, the merriment of the children on the International Red Cross ship begins to subside. From time to time, a few shouts ring out, but they don’t last. The officials and female assistants are walking over the deck, shouting out orders that no one understands. They succeed in grouping the children together and begin to call out names, but their voices are lost in the noise of the engine and the clamor of the crowd.
“... Makel...”
“... Séfar...”
“Ko-di-ki...”
“Hamal...”
“... Lagor...”
It doesn’t make any sense and no one answers. Then the loudspeaker starts talking, as if it were barking over the heads of the passengers, and a kind of panic occurs. Some people ru
n up toward the front, others try to climb the stairs to the upper deck, where the officers push them back. Finally, everyone calms down because the ship has just docked and the engines have been cut. On the wharf there is an ugly cement structure with lit windows. The children, the women, the men lean over the railing trying to get a glimpse of a familiar face amongst the people that can be seen walking around over there, no larger than insects, on the other side of the structure.
The process of disembarkment begins, meaning that for several hours, the passengers remain on the deck of the International Red Cross ship, waiting to be given some kind of signal. As time goes by, the children who are crowded together on the deck grow more and more restless. The small children begin to cry, with a continual high-pitched whining, which doesn’t help matters. The women shout, or sometimes the men. Lalla is sitting on a pile of rope, with her suitcase beside her, in the shade of the bulkhead of the officers’ deck, and is waiting, watching the gray gulls in the gray sky.
Finally the time comes to go ashore. The passengers are so tired of waiting that it takes them quite some time to get moving. Lalla follows the drove up to the large gray structure. There, three policemen and some interpreters are asking questions of the people arriving. It is a bit quicker for the children, because the policeman simply reads what is written on their tags and copies it on the forms.
When he’s finished, the man looks at Lalla and asks, “Do you intend to work in France?”
“Yes,” Lalla says.
“What job?”
“I don’t know.”
“Housemaid,” the policeman says, and writes that on his form. Lalla picks up her suitcase and goes over to wait with the others, in the large dirty room with gray walls where the electric light shines brightly. There’s nothing to sit on, and in spite of the cold and the rain outside, the room is stiflingly hot. The youngest children have fallen asleep in their mothers’ arms, or else on the floor, lying on a pile of clothing. Now it’s the older children who are complaining. Lalla is thirsty; her throat is dry; her eyes are burning with fever. She’s too tired to think of anything. She’s waiting, leaning up against the wall, standing first on one leg, then the other. At the other end of the room, in front of the police lines, is the very pale young woman with a blank look, holding her baby in her arms. She’s standing in front of the officer’s desk looking haggard, not saying anything. The policeman talks to her for a long time, shows the papers to the interpreter from the International Red Cross. Something isn’t right. The policeman asks questions that the interpreter repeats to the young woman, but she just looks at them, not seeming to understand. They don’t want to let her through. Lalla looks at the young woman who is so pale, holding her baby. She is holding it so tightly in her arms that it wakes up a little and starts screaming, then calms down when its mother quickly uncovers her breast and offers it for the baby to suck on. The policeman looks embarrassed. He turns away, glances around. His eyes meet those of Lalla, who has just walked up.
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