Meanwhile in the doorway Kadeja fanned the fire under our meal. Beyond, at a distance that was barely discreet, an inquisitive assembly awaited our next appearance. Murmurs of approval greeted the last word of Kalipha’s discourse and Kadeja bore in the kassar. It was heaped high with cous-cous garnished in our honour with chicken and raisins. We hitched nearer the bowl, the men as they rolled up their sleeves calling, perfunctorily: ‘Come Kadeja, eat of Allah’s bounty’ ‘Eat with enjoyment! May it strengthen thee!’ she responded from behind the pillar.
For the next few minutes no word was spoken except when Sidi Farrah, selecting some delicacy to lay at my place, exhorted me to eat. Kadeja replenished the bread flaps from time to time, her eyes discreetly downcast. Then, one after another, we dropped out, rendered Allah his due, and, settling ourselves against the wall, paid our compliments to Kadeja’s cooking with stentorian belches. Smiling this time, she reappeared with ewer, basin and towel for our ablutions. The fire-pot was placed before Sidi Farrah, and while he made the tea, Kalipha and Mohammed recounted the news of the town. Our hosts, in turn, had much to tell us about the winter rains. They had been so heavy this year that we had feared for the safety of our friends. Elmetboostah had been above reach of the flood, but in a nearby douar two women were drowned and there was scarcely a village that had not lost several dwellings.
Boolowi, who had not uttered a sound since our arrival, sat close beside me, his legs folded under him, hands clasped in his lap, perfectly content, apparently, to be seen and not heard – a model little mussulman. When he saw that I was watching him, he smiled timidly and with a furtive glance toward Mohammed whispered: ‘Come, Sherifa, come with me!’ Sidi Farrah was smiling. ‘Boolowi wishes to conduct you through the douar,’ he said.
We set out en masse, Mohammed, Boolowi and I heading a procession that rapidly recruited swarms of men and children. The douar was busy as a hive, and the workers were the women. Two of them were laying the foundation for a new dwelling, hoisting the blocks of mud into position one upon the other. On one side of the slope, six or seven half-grown girls were milking a double row of sheep, tied head to head. They hailed us with shouts and boisterous laughter and the men shouted back at them ‘May Allah aid thee!’ From the direction of the river straggled women bent almost double under the weight of their great water-jars; another group of animated maidens, each swinging a little hatchet, were off to gather firewood, while within the brush enclosure before each dwelling women were carding or spinning or weaving to the liveliest clatter of tongues. Some seated on the ground, their wooden bowls between their outstretched legs, worked oil and meal into granules for the supper couscous, others hovered like vestal virgins in the smoke of their cauldrons or, crouching, nursed the fires beneath their bread. At sight of us, work was abandoned. Their fingers flashed against their teeth as they let loose the welcoming zaghareet. Mohammed, Boolowi and I were drawn into the enclosures. ‘In the name of Sidi Abd-ul-Kedar welcome, kin of Kadeja!’ they clamoured. ‘May Allah prosper thee!’ ‘May thy days be blessed with honey, milk and figs!’ ‘May Allah content and enrich thee!’
Kalipha had often described – extravagantly it had seemed to me – the lavishness of bedouin hospitality. I realized now that his accounts had been quite literal. Every house we stopped at offered us its best. The women plied us with pats of mutton butter wrapped in leaves, with handfuls of dates and loaves of bread, they overwhelmed us with bowls of camel-milk and stuffed our pockets with eggs. At one house they gave chase to a fowl and thrust it squawking dismally into my arms! Mohammed came to my rescue and for the rest of the promenade carried my disconsolate chicken by its legs.
In one doorway, a woman sat churning, singing as she did so to the surge of the milk. She smiled at us, but kept right on with her lusty work-song. The churn was the hide of a baby goat, four black knots were all that were left of its nimble legs, the withered neck served as both handle and spout, but bloated with milk the little hide looked ludicrously lifelike. The woman’s song followed us as we sauntered on and the faces of my companions broke into broad smiles. ‘Sister Shedlia honours thee in her song,’ Kalipha explained. ‘She is singing “Oh, Madamma is like a virgin bride. Her skin is fleece fresh from the washing. The sun is bright on her hair.”’
The slope flattened toward the middle of the douar. Here, on a sort of common, were congregated all the men who had not joined the procession. They sat in scattered patches smoking and conversing.
‘The men do not work?’ I asked Kalipha.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘The seeds are sown, they await the harvest.’ He studied me for a moment, then under his bushy brows his eyes began to twinkle. ‘And for what reason does a man marry, hein?’
We were drawn into one of the circles and when, at length, we would have moved on, several of the men arose pressing us ‘to honour their houses’. Of the calls we made that afternoon one, particularly, stands out in my memory. Sidi Hahj, our host, was reputed to be the wealthiest man in the douar, yet his house was neither larger nor in any wise finer than the rest. In the yard his wives and daughters-in-law were washing wool and laying the snowy strands to dry upon the hedgebrush, two of his sons were unearthing sacks of grain from a jar-shaped cistern. All tasks were laid aside, however, as Sidi Hahj ushered us into the house and the excited women whisked about preparing tea.
The talk in the circle reverted to a subject begun upon the knoll when it had been proposed that I choose a mate and settle down for life in Elmetboostah. ‘By Allah!’ cried Sidi Hahj, ‘my last-born Mustapha seeks a third wife.’ The innuendo provoked hearty laughter, the women drew the folds of their headdresses across their smiling faces, Sidi Mustapha was grinning.
‘Though the countenance of your son pleases me,’ I countered, ‘I would, in truth, make a poor sort of bedouine for I can neither spin nor weave, neither can I plough nor thresh.’
‘Meselch!’ No matter! Sidi Hahj waved aside such demurs.
‘Nor can I perform even those tasks that his wives would consider the simplest.’
‘It is not for labour that my son would marry such a maiden!’ exclaimed the poor boy’s father. ‘B’Araby, he would wear thee as a Jewel in his turban!’
‘But his other wives?’ I suggested. ‘They would hardly care for that.’ This time it was Sidi Mustapha that spoke up. ‘They are no problem. I would divorce them – phweet!’ He blew them from the palm of his hand.
‘Well said,’ applauded his father above the laughter. The women were not making any attempt to conceal their merriment. ‘Thou hast heard thy husband?’ Sidi Hahj called to them. ‘My daughters be warned.’
‘My master hath no need to divorce us,’ one of them responded. ‘If it be the will of Allah, we will remain to wait upon her.’
‘Kief-kief larossa!’ Like a bride of Araby! exclaimed the other, bearing in the tea-tray.
When we took leave of the amiable Hahj and his family the sun had dropped low and the village was noisy with returning flocks and herds. From the top of the knoll we watched the sun slip behind the horizon. Without an interval of twilight the cold dusk descended upon the plain and the moon grew faintly luminous as if to distract us from the lingering beauty of the west. The cold had driven most of the women indoors, the hill-top gradually cleared until only a few of us, muffled to the ears in our burnouses, sat on, so engrossed in talk that dusk deepened to dark unnoticed.
Sidi Farrah had asked me what I was taught to believe respecting the phenomenon of the sunset. Kalipha spared me the necessity of an unimaginative answer by explaining that I was both ignorant and misinformed. I believed, for instance, that the earth was round! Nevertheless, he had found me teachable, even eager to learn the knowledge that had been vouchsafed the children of Islam. His apology moved Farrah and his brothers to such concern for my intellectual darkness, that I was given, then and there, my first lesson in physical science.
The village had grown dark and quiet. Here and there a supper fire still burned a
nd the women, as they glided to and fro, seemed more than ever like priestesses engaged in some mysterious rite, their voices subdued to a murmur. Above us stars shone from the unfathomable depths of the sky and all about the plain stretched as dim and vast and cold as infinity. Their version of the sunset seemed somehow remarkably plausible that night. At sundown every evening, I was instructed, a venerable dragon, known to the Arabs as ‘Eight Pair of Horns’, waits just under the horizon. As the sun rolls off the rim – if the earth were round how could all this be? – Eight Pair of Horns catches it and, like a bird with a seed, flies, and flies – never stopping to rest his heavy wings – until he reaches the other edge of the world where he deposits the sun that it may rise again and shine to the glory of Allah.
As we walked back through the village my mentors promised to teach me many things during our stay among them. The dogs, ever alert for marauders, stopped barking at the sight of us and grudgingly permitted us to pass. Doorways gave us bright glimpses of supper circles. The chickens that had taken to their chilly roosts upon the housetops made comic silhouettes against the pale sky. One by one, as we passed their homes, the men dropped out.
Dinner was waiting when we arrived. I was chilled to the bone, but the room was warm and bright. Kadeja arose from beside the fire-pot to take our cloaks. We dropped to our places and in a moment the smoking bowl was set down in our midst. It held lahsida, a wheaten pudding crusted with sugar and swimming with oil. ‘Ayia bishmella!’ the men called after Kadeja. Because we were en famille tonight I yielded to a wanton impulse – moving over I entreated Kadeja to join us. The little boys stared at me as if, although I persisted, they could not believe that I was serious. ‘Come, eat of Allah’s bounty!’ I urged, patting the place beside me. Kadeja’s eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘Eat!’ she responded, pantomiming the act. ‘Eat with enjoyment!’
‘But eat with us for my sake,’ I insisted, ‘for the sake of Sidi Abd-ul-Kedar, for the sake –’
Kalipha glared at me. ‘Are you possessed?’
‘Come join us, Kadeja,’ said Farrah not unkindly. Kalipha was very annoyed with me, but he was obliged to add: ‘Come along, Kadeja.’
She complied good-naturedly, however, she dipped but once in the bowl, then slipped away to prepare the coffees. Kalipha eyed me reproachfully. ‘Thou knowest it is shameful for an Arab woman to eat in company with men!’ On such points my friend was uncompromisingly orthodox.
With a smile of sympathy for my disappointment, Kadeja declared: ‘Every morsel that you eat, little sister, rejoices my own stomach!’
While we sipped our coffees Kadeja ate her own supper screened from us by the pillar. A few minutes later, the evening tasks completed, she joined us. Boolowi left his place by the fire-pot to curl beside her on the painted chest. Farrah prepared a cup of coffee and passed it along to her. Kalipha and I smiled significantly at each other. ‘Ah, yes,’ he murmured, ‘thanks be to Allah, all is well now between them.’ Farrah caught our meaning for he laughed, a little bashfully, and said to Kadeja: ‘We bagged our djinn, and threw him into the river, didn’t we?’
We had lit our cigarettes and were settled comfortably when there was a knock at the door. It opened upon Farrah’s brothers who salaamed and were, in turn, salaamed as they took their places among us. Tonight was open house at Sidi Farrah’s. Upon the arrival of his brothers, a steady stream of men poured into the room until we were a solid mass around the fire-pot. In the rich light of the oil lamps the lean faces gleamed like burnished copper. Kadeja withdrew to the dim region beyond the pillar where the womenfolk huddled, whispering and laughing.
It was bitterly cold outside. Each time the door opened upon another muffled figure, the sharp air burst in, causing the flames to leave their wicks and emphasizing our warmth and simplehearted cheer. The room was blue with cigarette smoke. Kalipha’s kif-pipe was passed about and the mawkish fumes of the burning hemp went to the head. Sidi Farrah, looking every inch the sheik, prepared the tea and, as a mark of the occasion, the steaming cups which Boolowi handed around were garnished with roasted chick-peas. ‘Are we to have a song, Brother Rashid?’ Farrah addressed a curly headed youth who smiled shyly and produced his flute. A place was promptly cleared beside him for the village bard and the audience relaxed with satisfaction as Rashid put the flute to his mouth and Amar, his eyes on the ground, began to sing. The melody was hauntingly monotonous, the theme a favourite with bedouin minstrels. Long ago, sang Amar, some maidens were at play in the moonlight. They scattered in fright as a horse dashed through their game. Like a shooting-star the rider swept from the saddle, seized Germena, the loveliest of them all, and bore her off. Great was the dismay in the douar, the wails of Germena’s mother found an echo in every black tent. The lovers rode far and fast across the plain. Reaching a pass among the hills at last, they drew up. They were embracing and praising the Prophet when suddenly a lion of shaggy mien confronted them. He invited the youth to dance with him. So, all solemnly they danced, the lion and the youth, in the light of the full moon until Germena’s lover, overcome by his partner’s foul breath, fell down in a swoon. It remained for Germena to divert the monster and she offered him her necklace. The fragrance of the ambergris enraptured the lion. He was disporting himself with grisly antics when the youth recovered, and, with a single thrust of his lance, ran the lion through the heart. Whereupon the pair, beloved of Allah, proceeded on their way.
And now, Kalipha informed me, it was my turn to sing. Y’Warda, ‘Oh rose’, brought down the house. My audience laughed until the tears stood in their eyes. They revived to hearten me with gusty Sahit! Sahit! (Well done! Well done!) then relapsed until they were helpless with merriment. With such encouragement, my fatuous maestro demanded song after song until I had exhausted my repertoire. Still he was not satisfied, for he was making an announcement that caused the mirth abruptly to subside. ‘By Allah!’ they breathed, leaning forward, all eyes upon me.
The room was suddenly still. I knew what was expected of me before Kalipha turned to me and said with unction, ‘And now, my little one, the Adan.’ This time my ludicrous Arabic provoked no amusement. The silence, that persisted for a few moments after I had finished, gave way at last to murmurs. They patted their chests in token of respect, they clasped my hands, and with fervent oaths touched their foreheads, then their lips. ‘Verily,’ I was assured, ‘thou art, at heart, a True Believer!’ This was always Kalipha’s big moment. Self-righteousness and pride made his face a shining star. ‘B’Araby, Brother Kalipha, thou hast surely found favour with Allah!’ ‘May Allah, the all-knowing, exalt thee for thy zeal!’ It is impossible to imagine that any reward laid up for him in the seventh heaven could afford my friend more satisfaction than the commendations evoked by my Adan! But he shook his head and sighed, ‘One does what one can. He causeth whom He will to enter into His mercy.’
Elmetboostah boasted nothing so bizarre as a timepiece, but it must have been very late when the party broke up reluctantly, consigning one another to Allah’s care. The door was bolted and, in a matter of seconds, the lamp was out and the six of us wrapped in our burnouses were lying like logs in a row. Boolowi and Mohammed, on either side of me, sharing my blanket, were instantly asleep. The voluminous folds of my burnous enveloped me like a fleecy tent, my head was cradled in a wooden camel-saddle. Through the tiny aperture that served as a window el Gamar the moon sent a shaft of white light. For a few minutes Farrah and Kadeja kept up a desultory conversation between yawns, then I, alone, was awake watching the embers in the firepot pulsate and crumble to ash. It may have been hours, it may have been only minutes, that I lay awake. Blackbeetles and fleas in legions seemed bent on consuming me; down the line Farrah and Kalipha snored to Allah. But the crawling of beetles and the nipping of fleas were nothing compared to the acute discomforts of spending a night between two small boys. I was resigning myself to the probability that I would not close my eyes, when I drifted off into a sound and dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER
19
Enter Habiba
KALIPHA’S CHILD WAS DUE to arrive in the spring; if not in March, then certainly in April. It was now May, the baby had not come, and I was to leave for America on the 15th.
Hope of welcoming the little Mustapha, or Habiba, did not entirely forsake me until the 12th, when I began to pack. How confidently I had promised Kadusha that I would not go before she was delivered! (‘Please God, may all my dear ones be about me when my hour comes,’ she had pleaded.) I had changed my sailing date three times in order to keep my promise. Further delay was impossible. More disappointed than I had ever been in my life, bitterly resentful at the meanness of fate, I made ready for my departure.
But the next morning before I was out of bed Mohammed was yoohooing under my window. ‘Good news, ma soeur!’ he shouted up at me. ‘Kadusha is in travail at this hour!’ At the warning pains the midwife had been summoned, and before daybreak Kadusha was escorted to the baths. ‘And now, As Allah is our God, she is seated on the chair!’ he finished breathlessly. He was on his way to fetch her mother. As he sped off he shouted over his shoulder, ‘Allez vite, alors. Ils vous attendent!’ And, indeed, if Kadusha was already upon the natal chair, it behoved me to hurry.
Relief, dread, anxiety, joy – I could not have told what I felt as I plunged into my clothes and hurried through the lanes, where the coloured doors of shops were still shut against the day. I was rushing along the main street dodging loaded burras, carts, and camels, when I heard Kalipha calling me. He and Babelhahj were seated in front of one of the cafés taking their coffees. ‘Where are you going, ma petite,’ he chided me serenely, ‘that you run as if pursued by the devil himself?’
Among the Faithful Page 20