by Yasin Adnan
“What’s your name?” the chief asked, his tone forceful.
“I forgot my name and I don’t want to remember it,” the creature replied, staring at an invisible point on the station’s wall.
“Why do you live in cemeteries?”
“No one bothers you in the kingdom of the dead,” the creature said.
The policemen soon learned that the monster survived on plants and the few animals he managed to catch in the necropolis. To him, all animals were good to eat: dogs, cats, birds. When asked why he’d left the Bab Ghmat Cemetery, he replied after a long silence—a silence that clearly irritated his listeners—that the living had come there to disturb the dead, and he didn’t like that. He thought the living should mind their own business.
The chief felt his blood boiling in his veins. He wanted to give this fool a good hard smack for daring to mock them, but managed to restrain himself for fear of losing precious ground in his investigation. “Explain to us what you’ve just said,” he demanded.
A silence fell over the creature again. None of the policemen dared to prod him, for they knew that the man before them was searching for his words, grasping for the power of speech he’d nearly lost after keeping his silence for so long.
Finally he spoke: “A woman and two men came to the cemetery in the middle of the night. Twice. They dug up a dead body and put it back in its rightful place. Then, the next night, they came back to the same grave, and under the full moon they exhumed the body and buried it again.”
His interrogators froze. They were certain that what they’d just heard was true: experience had taught them to read the truth in the faces of witnesses. But they couldn’t see the connection between this story and the death of their colleague.
“Let’s suppose that what you say is true. But what about Inspector Chaloula? You haven’t told us about that yet,” the chief said abruptly, hoping to catch the vagabond by surprise.
“Who’s Inspector Chaloula? I don’t know him, I’ve never even heard of him.”
“Chaloula is the man you killed before you disappeared.”
“I didn’t kill anyone, I’ve never killed anyone, it’s the others who’ve killed me many times over,” the vagabond asserted.
“And the bones that disappeared from the cemetery?”
“I buried them. Those who are in the ground should stay there,” the man added before retreating back into his silence and refusing to answer any more questions.
The chief gave the order to put the poor devil in preventive detention. He called in several other eyewitnesses to the inspector’s death, all of whom claimed that they’d never seen the vagabond, and that Chaloula had been walking alone when he’d suffered his fatal attack.
* * *
The results of the autopsy put the chief to a new test; it seemed his colleague had been poisoned.
After he’d briefed the squad, they decided it would be wise to go back and trace Chaloula’s movements on that fateful day. They learned that he’d had breakfast and lunch at home and a black coffee at work. And so they procured some of the coffee beans from his office and sent them to a lab that confirmed they were of good quality and contained no harmful chemicals. Then they called in Chaloula’s wife, who was still in mourning and barely able to respond to the interrogators’ questions. Although they knew her well, they didn’t spare her the discomfort of testifying. She described the meals she’d prepared for her husband that day, which the whole family had eaten. But the chief noticed that each time the word poisoned was spoken, the widow’s face went ashen and her lips trembled uncontrollably. He decided to risk everything and ask his next question with utter conviction.
“Why did you kill your husband?”
Those few words were all it took to make Chaloula’s wife burst into tears. She explained between sobs that an old woman, a charlatan, had sold her a fruit jelly that had spent the night in the mouth of a dead man. It was supposed to make her husband docile, incapable of raising his voice. She could then do with him as she pleased—that was how the old woman had explained it.
They brought in this charlatan who, seeing the widow’s tears, confessed her crime.
It turned out that the dead man in whose mouth the jelly had spent the night was a snake charmer. He’d forgotten to remove the pit viper’s venom gland after capturing it, and as he was putting it into a basket he carried on his back, the serpent took advantage of a moment’s distraction to sink its fangs into the man’s neck.
Translated from French by Katie Shireen Assef
An E-mail from the Sky
by Yassin Adnan
Hay el-Massira
Ashbal al-Atlas Cybercafé: the name is so beautiful—the Atlas Lion Cubs. An extremely successful name. It is true there are no more lions or tigers in the Atlas Mountains near Marrakech, but there are still monkeys. Monkey and boars, as well as some wolves. It’s all right. The name is only a metaphor. A metaphorical name for a virtual space. The café is very spacious, Rahal. Not like the other narrow téléboutiques where you buried dozens of years of your life. Since you obtained your BA in Arabic literature from Cadi Ayyad University in 1994 you have tried, in vain, to join L’Ecole Normale Supérieure for teachers. The results are announced at the beginning of October and your name is never among the successful. And, like a mouse, you retreat to your corner in the téléboutique to eavesdrop on the lives of others from behind your old wooden desk.
“Hello, Fatima.”
“Hello, Lhaj.”
“Hello, Lhajjah.”
“Hello, cutie.”
“Hi, love.”
“Hello. Hello! Hello? You hung up on me, you bitch. Wait until I get my hands on you! Wait and see.”
Endless conversations. You provide coins for the customers, as you enjoy spying on their conversations and lives. But things began to change. With cell phones, the customers waned and the téléboutique income deteriorated, and life in this small place became boring. Things have gotten better now. The space has more potential than what you had been dreaming about. The screens now spread all around this place you have built, Rahal. The new mission you have been engaged in is to open doors for your customers on their midnight journeys to a refuge, toward morning lights and ports of virtual blue ether—a mission filling your heart with great pride.
Congratulations! Computers crammed deep to allow the customers to navigate, spellbound, to the screens anchored to the walls. Rahal, you’re able to spy on them all from your own computer. You are the only one with your back to the wall, so you can control the room and watch what goes on. And whenever you get tired of spying on the screens of others, you find your private computer in front of you. You can open your Hotmail account and up pops your happy virtual life, just like those of your customers. Life is better on the Internet, Rahal. Life is more beautiful and bright.
* * *
New cybercafés have proliferated along Dakhla Avenue and all over the streets of Hay el-Massira, an area that the government launched as a huge residential project in the mideighties. In the beginning, they were intended as houses for the middle class. Later, more economical apartment buildings spread like mushrooms—instead of the green spaces that were planned—bringing a great number of low-level employees before el-Massira was able to assimilate people from the neighboring villages. Provincial villages whose inhabitants practiced agriculture and shepherding in the lands west of Marrakech alongside the road to Essaouira. The lands that were turned into subdivisions and housing developments. Restructuring projects will eventually succeed in integrating these small villages whose children have mixed with those of the middle-class employees at Lycée Zerktouni to become, in turn, the “kids of the sector.” These kids are so proud of belonging to Hay el-Massira and patronizing the cybercafés on Dakhla Avenue.
Customers come and go. But a small group slowly begins to form around Rahal. Salim, a high school student spellbound by the new virtual world, has two e-mail accounts so far: a Hotmail and a Yahoo. He sometime
s comes with his father and at other times with his little sister Lamya. Salim was the first to point out to Rahal that he should have a printer. He always looks for new sources of information on the Internet and needs to print his findings daily, which he uses to brag to his friends at school.
* * *
Samira and Fadoua always arrive, sit, and leave together. Their specialty: chat rooms. Together they merge into one virtual personality. They love to chat with young men in Arabic, French, and English. Their handle: Marrakech Star. Two in one: like shampoo and conditioner. Qamar ad-Dine al-Sayouti picks on them whenever they show up at the café. Qamar ad-Dine, the son of Shihab ad-Dine al-Sayouti, the most famous of Islamic education teachers at Lycée Zerktouni, and the one the students tell the most jokes about.
“Which of us is the shampoo? And which is the conditioner?” Fadoua asks him.
“To be honest, I am still not sure. When I decide you’re the shampoo, I’ll let you know.”
Qamar ad-Dine knows all the stories of Marrakech Star because Fadoua and Samira always bring their correspondence in English to him so he can explain to them what they don’t understand, and correct their answers so that their messages are sent with fewer mistakes.
Qamar ad-Dine’s English is good and so is his French. But he always says that his Arabic is unfortunately not so good. He doesn’t show any regret as he repeats this confession; on the contrary, a wicked pride appears on his face. Does he say this to spite his father, Shihab ad-Dine, the teacher of Arabic who switched to teaching Islamic education not for love of religion, but out of laziness and a desire to rid himself of grammar and syntax? Islamic education class is for both students of science and those in the humanities. Two hours a week for each group. Many students consider the session a break to be spent on the playing fields in front of the school, or at Rahal’s, for those who can afford it, especially because al-Sayouti does not take attendance.
In reality, Qamar ad-Dine doesn’t hate his father, but he does hate talking about him. He prefers the company of students not from Lycée Zerktouni, those who know nothing about al-Sayouti, who have never heard the jokes at his father’s expense. Fadoua and Samira are exceptions. Despite the fact that they are his father’s students, their relationship with Qamar ad-Dine is predicated upon the café and has nothing to do with the institution. He is a handsome young man who speaks different languages well. Therefore their relationship has been a real advantage for Marrakech Star.
Qamar ad-Dine is always available in the café, to the point that Rahal leaves him in charge when he has some errands to run. In exchange Rahal is lenient with him when it comes to payment. Qamar ad-Dine will sometimes pay for three hours and get five. Rahal makes him an unofficial assistant, even though Qamar ad-Dine is not aware of his secret promotion.
Qamar ad-Dine has begun to enjoy the adventures of Marrakech Star and their international e-conquests. This one is serious, that one chaste, and the other shows promise. This one wants to come to Marrakech to visit an eye doctor, and inquires about the best hotel and airlines. The other suggests that she come visit London; he would take care of the flight and she is welcome to stay in his apartment for a week, or even a month—if she can, of course. Another suggests, with suspicious reverence, that she come for a minor pilgrimage to holy Mecca.
* * *
When Amelia the Nigerian arrives at the cybercafé, Marrakech Star fades away. Fadoua notices that Qamar ad-Dine is totally distracted whenever she shows up. Sometimes Amelia comes alone. Other times her friend Flora accompanies her. Yakabo always joins them later. Maybe it’s a trick so that Rahal won’t tell them not to share one computer. The cybercafé’s regulations are clear: two people maximum per computer.
No one knows how Yakabo is related to Amelia and Flora. Is he a brother? Some other relative? A lover? With Africans it can be difficult to guess. In any case, they are lucky: apartment owners don’t ask them about their documents. They don’t scrutinize them as they would Moroccans. Young Moroccan men find it hard to live with their female friends without marriage documents. But with the Africans no one cares. Even if they are Muslims from Mali or Senegal. That’s why they live together. They can pile between five and ten people into a small two-bedroom apartment. Qamar ad-Dine doesn’t pay attention to these details. He is not in love with Amelia. He is just glad to see her. She makes him happy and her smile delights him, and that’s all he can ask for. It is also a chance for him to practice English with her. However, there is another dynamic at play—a somewhat sensitive one. And it is better to keep it to himself, especially in front of Fadoua and Samira.
Qamar ad-Dine wants to leave the country in any way possible. He is tired of Shihab ad-Dine and the boring life he has at home and at school. And even this damned cybercafé he seems to be addicted to. He is fed up with Rahal’s snooping. Whenever he looks up he finds him staring at his screen. He is tired of the small talk of history teachers at school. They come in groups to the café, as if they’re going to the mosque. They hog the computers and instead of surfing the net they begin to talk as if they’re in the teachers’ lounge. They say that life under Hassan II was abominable and that the country’s conditions have improved a lot with the coming of the new king.
Expanded freedom, new vitality, and initiatives for change. Qamar ad-Dine does not pay attention to the tales of his father’s friends. He doesn’t see any change at all. Who cares what they think about life under Hassan II? He was a young kid back then. And now he feels he has grown up and that he doesn’t want to regress. He doesn’t have any time to waste on such conversations.
Qamar ad-Dine longs for another life, the life he sees in movies and on TV. Life as lived by God’s chosen people in the north. Qamar ad-Dine wants to escape from here. Emigration is a sacred right. He doesn’t want to stay in a place that chokes him with creatures he doesn’t like. He doesn’t understand why he doesn’t have the right to eject this entire boring world from his days and nights, from his life, from his future, and move on.
* * *
“Of course I’m Christian. Why do you want to know?” Amelia asks.
“Just an innocent question. Can we talk outside?”
She leaves Flora staring at the screen alone. She apologizes to her in a Nigerian dialect; Qamar ad-Dine only picks up the name Yakabo, which was repeated three times. Outside he invites her to Milano, a café across the street. He discovers she smokes. As soon as Asma the server puts a cup of coffee in front of her, she takes out a pack of cigarettes: Marquise. She lights one and hands the pack to Qamar ad-Dine.
“Thanks, but I don’t smoke. I’ll be quick. I want to learn about Christianity from you. I mean: I want to know more. I read online about the Holy Trinity and Unitarianism. About Christ’s humanity. About the differences between the Eastern Orthodox Church and Catholicism and also between Lutheranism and Anglicanism. I also read the Sermon on the Mount ten times and I learned part of it in Arabic, French, and English,” Qamar rambles. “Want proof? Here’s a quote: You have heard that it was said, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. But I say to you, do not resist an evil person; but whoever slaps you on your right cheek, turn the other to him also . . . and whoever wants to . . . whoever wants to . . . Wait, I forget. Here’s another quote: You have heard that it was said, you shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy. But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. There is also, Ask and it will be given to you. I memorized them. Listen—”
“No! You listen, Qamar—” she interrupts.
“Abd al-Massih, the Servant of Christ . . . My new name is Abd al-Massih . . . You’re the first person I’ve confessed this to. You must keep it between us.”
“Listen, Abd al-Massih, there seems to be some confusion here. When I told you I was Christian, I was talking about the family religion. Believe me, I am not as Christian a
s you imagine. I don’t go to church, I don’t read the Bible, and I don’t know the Sermon on the Mount. I’m Christian and that’s all. Take it as it is. Let’s get back to the cybercafé, please. Flora is waiting for me.”
Qamar ad-Dine is disappointed. His discovery of Christianity is new. He had started with porn sites. And because this son of a bitch who runs the cybercafé was whipping him with his obtrusive looks, Qamar ad-Dine changed gears toward emigration sites. Then he switched to random groups on the Net. Then one day he found himself on the other side following Jesus Christ: I will follow you wherever you go, and Jesus said to him, the foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.
You’re right, teacher, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.
Qamar ad-Dine was shocked to receive Amelia’s cold answer. He is in dire need of someone to support him in these sensitive times of his Internet searches for the truth. Amelia is his angel, his mother in the cybercafé. His mother. His sister. No difference. He finds in her smile the good-heartedness of the saints. But she has disappointed him and that hurts him a lot. Imagine: she doesn’t read the holy book and does not know the Sermon on the Mount!
As for Amelia, she was quite shocked as well. Flora and Yakabo had pointed out to her that Qamar ad-Dine is fond of her. Or at least he is very interested in her. Since then she has been watching him too. She finds him handsome and she likes his teasing, joyfulness, and politeness; his good English; his polite way of speaking. Why not? A sweet young man who deserves her attention. Amelia was ready for anything with Qamar ad-Dine. From fervid passion to passing adventure. When he invited her to the café, she joined him without hesitation, happy and enthusiastic. But the silly man had dragged her into a heavy conversation about the Holy Trinity and the Sermon on the Mount. Amelia knows about Qamar ad-Dine’s obsession with emigration, but she could not have imagined his craziness would lead him to choose Christianity as an excuse to leave the country.