by Sanmao
Then I understood. I found a bag, put the things in it and sliced a large chunk of cheese and half a watermelon. I also put two bottles of Coke in there. I didn’t have much stored myself, or else I would have given him more. When he saw that I was putting things in the bag, he hung his head low, a complicated mix of shame and happiness on his face. I really couldn’t take it.
I shoved the whole bag into the half-empty fridge and pointed out the sun to him. ‘Take it when the sun goes down,’ I said. ‘For now let’s store it here.’ He nodded eagerly, then bowed to me again, nearly crying tears of joy. He quickly made his way up to continue working. He must really love his kids, I thought. He must have a happy family, or else he wouldn’t have been so pleased about this little bit of food. I hesitated for a second, then opened a box of José’s favourite toffees, grabbed a large handful and put them in the bag. We didn’t have much food ourselves, in reality. What I was able to give him was really too little.
On Sunday, the mute slave was still working. José went up to the roof to see him. This was the first time he had met my husband. He threw down his tools and stepped nimbly over the bricks, calling out hoarsely. A few steps away, he extended his arm to shake José’s hand. I felt very happy seeing that he first offered his hand to José, instead of bowing. Around us his sense of inferiority was naturally diminishing, while conversely human compassion rose, bit by bit, in his heart. Smiling, I went down from the roof. The shadow of José speaking to him in sign language fell at an angle onto the ceiling.
José came down at noon, the mute slave happily trailing behind. José had dust all over his face. I figured he must have been helping him with the work. ‘Sanmao, I invited the dummy to eat with us.’
‘José, don’t call him that!’
‘He can’t hear.’
‘He can hear with his eyes.’
I picked up the spatula and spoke to the mute slave in Hassaniya Arabic, making big, slow movements with my mouth: ‘Sa–hā–bi.’ (Friend.) I pointed to José and said once more, ‘Sa–hā–bi.’ Next I pointed at myself. ‘Sa–hā–bu–ti.’ (Female friend.) Then I sat the three of us in a circle.
He understood everything. I was touched once again by his unguarded smile. He seemed excited and a little nervous. José gave him a push and he stepped into the living room. He pointed at his dirty bare feet. Waving my hands at him, I said it didn’t matter. I paid no further notice to him, letting the two men speak amongst themselves.
A while later, José came into the kitchen. ‘He knows the constellations.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He drew them. He saw the stars on one of our books and drew a picture with almost everything in the right place.’
I went to set out cutlery in the living room later and saw José and the mute slave sprawled out on a world map. Without even having to search, the mute slave pointed out the Sahara. I was stunned. Next he found Spain and pointed to José. ‘What about me?’ I asked him. He looked at me. I jokingly pointed to Spain, as well. He pantomimed a roar of laughter and waved his hands, moving to search the part of the map that showed Asia. After a while, he couldn’t find it and gave up.
I pointed to his temple and made a face. Stupid!
He almost laughed himself to the ground.
The mute slave was clearly most intelligent.
Rice with stir-fried beef and green peppers, I thought, would be hard for him to digest. In his whole life, he’d probably only eaten camel or goat a few times at most. He probably couldn’t bear the taste of beef. I invited him to eat white rice with some salt, but he refused. The look of nervousness was back. I told him to eat with his hands. He finally lowered his head and ate it all. I decided next time I wouldn’t ask him to eat with us, so that he wouldn’t have to suffer like this.
Word got out very quickly. The neighbouring kids saw the mute slave eating in our home and immediately told the adults, who spread the news to other adults. In an instant, everyone around us knew and, we soon found out, felt hostility towards both the mute slave and us.
The little girl I detested the most among our neighbours was the first to warn me, her voice full of hatred and scorn. ‘Sanmao, you shouldn’t talk to him. He is haloof ! A dirty person!’ (Haloof means pig.)
‘Mind your own business. If you call him haloof one more time, José will catch you and hang you upside down on the roof.’
‘He is a pig. His wife is crazy. He is a pig that works for us!’ Upon saying that, she ran over and spat on the mute slave, then looked at me with a challenge in her eyes.
José rushed over to grab this little monster. Shrieking, she fled from the roof and went to hide in her own home. I was very upset. The mute slave, without speaking, gathered his tools. Raising my head, I realised that my neighbours were staring darkly at José and me. We didn’t say anything and went down from the roof.
One day around sunset, I went up to gather up the clothes I’d hung to dry. I waved at the mute slave, who was already completing the roof of the room. He waved back at me. Just then José returned from work. He came in through the front door and up to the roof, too.
The mute slave put down his tools and walked over. There were no sandstorms that day. A flock of little birds sat on our electric wires. I pointed to a bird and told the mute slave to look. I mimicked their flying, then pointed at him and gesticulated. ‘You are not free, working yourself half to death while earning no money.’
‘Sanmao, that’s enough!’ José scolded. ‘What’s the point in riling him up?’
‘That’s exactly what I want to do. He has skills. If he were free, he could provide for a family, no question.’
In a daze, the mute slave looked at the sky for a while. He examined the colour of his skin, then sighed. A few moments later, he was smiling again. He pointed at his heart, then at the little birds and made a flying motion. I knew what he wanted to say was this: Though my body is shackled, my heart is free.
That he could communicate such wisdom gave me quite a shock.
As dusk approached, he firmly insisted on inviting us to his home. I hurriedly went down to find some things to eat. I put together a bottle of milk powder and white sugar and followed him home.
His home was on the edge of a sandy valley outside town. It was a tattered tent, looking even more lonesome and sad in the light of the setting sun. Just as we were approaching, two naked children burst out of the tent, yelling and laughing, and rushed to the side of the mute slave. Immediately full of smiles, he picked them up in his arms. A woman also came out from the tent. She was so wretched that she didn’t even have fabric to wrap around her body; she wore just a ragged skirt from which her feet poked out.
The mute slave repeatedly invited us to go inside and sit. We stooped and went in, finding that the tent only had a few hemp bags spread on the ground. The bags didn’t provide enough cover, so half of the floor was sand. Outside the tent was an oil drum, which was only partially full.
The wife was so shy that she stood with her back against the canvas of the tent, afraid to even look at us. The mute slave went over to fetch water and start a fire. He used an ancient kettle to boil water, but there weren’t any cups for us to drink from. Extremely embarrassed, he got so worked up that his face soon became sweaty. José laughed and told him not to worry. Once the water cooled down a bit, we could just drink it directly from the kettle and pass it around. Then he seemed to relax, smiling. This was already the greatest hospitality he could provide for us. We were incredibly touched.
It was clear their older son was still working at the rich man’s house and hadn’t come home yet. The two little ones snuggled close to their father, sucking their fingers and looking at us. I quickly took out what I’d brought and gave them each something. The mute slave also passed the bread to his wife, who sat behind him. After sitting for a while, it was time to leave. Holding one of his kids, the mute slave stood outside the tent and waved goodbye to us. José clasped my hand tightly. Then he turned to look at that
poor family who barely had a speck of land to call their own. For some reason we felt even closer than before. ‘At least he has a happy family,’ I said to José. ‘He’s not that poor a person, after all!’
Family is the wellspring of joy for all people, providing warmth in the face of bitterness. Even for a slave, I wouldn’t think he was too pitiable so long as he had a family. Eventually we bought some cheap fabric for his wife and kids. When the mute slave finished working, we slipped it into his hands and told him to go quickly before his master scolded him.
At the next Muslim holiday, we gave him a hemp bag full of charcoal and a few kilos of meat. I always felt embarrassed giving him these handouts. I went during the day when he wasn’t home and put them outside his tent before running off. His wife was kind but not very bright. She was always smiling at me, wrapped in the blue fabric that I’d bought for her.
The mute slave wasn’t like those mannerless Sahrawi people. He didn’t have anything to repay us with, but he surreptitiously repaired the ceiling that the goats had stomped into disrepair. At night, he’d steal water and wash our car. When the wind became intense, he’d quickly gather my laundry, put it in a newly washed bag, lift the ceiling board and throw it down into our home.
José and I kept hoping we could help the mute slave obtain his freedom, but to no avail. Everyone said that this was impossible. If we did manage to free him, we didn’t know how we could bear the responsibility. And what would happen to him if we left someday? Actually, we hadn’t really considered that the mute slave’s fate could be even more tragic than his current condition. For this reason we didn’t actively try to free him.
One day a great storm swept through the desert, raindrops pelting our ceiling. I awoke and gave José a shove to rouse him. ‘Listen! It’s raining. It’s coming down really hard.’ I was scared to death.
José jumped up, opened the door and ran out into the storm. The neighbours were all awake. Everyone had come out to look at the rain. ‘Holy water!’ they cried. ‘Holy water!’
I felt ice cold, frightened by this anomaly in the desert. Having not seen rain in so long, I shrank nervously into the doorframe, afraid to go outside. Everyone had brought out barrels to catch the rain. They said it was divine water and drinking it could cure illness. Heavy rain fell relentlessly. The desert became a sludge and our home was totally destroyed by all the leaks. A downpour in the desert was that bad.
The deluge lasted for one whole day and night. Even Spanish newspapers carried stories about the great storm in the desert.
The mute slave’s project was also completed the week after the rain.
I was reading around sunset that day. José had to work an extra shift and wouldn’t be back until early the next morning. Suddenly I heard unusually noisy children outside the door, along with the sound of adults speaking. My neighbour Gueiga knocked urgently at the door. When I opened it, she told me excitedly, ‘Come and see, quick. The dummy was sold off. He is about to leave.’
I heard a pounding in my ears and grabbed Gueiga. ‘Why was he sold?’ I asked. ‘Why was he sold so suddenly? Where is he going?’
‘After it rained, a lot of grass grew in Mauritania,’ Gueiga said. ‘The dummy knows how to herd sheep and deliver baby camels. Someone came to buy him and take him there.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘In front of the house of the people who have the construction project. His owner is also here, counting money inside.’
I ran out in great haste, my face transformed by anger and worry. I ran all the way to my neighbour’s doorstep, where I saw a Jeep parked nearby. The mute slave sat next to the driver’s seat. Rushing over to the side of the Jeep, I saw that he was gazing numbly ahead like a person made of clay. His face had no expression on it. I looked at his hands and saw that they’d been tied with ropes. His ankles were also tied loosely in hemp rope.
I put a hand over my mouth, looking at him. He didn’t look at me. Glancing in all directions, I saw there were only kids gathered around. I barged into the neighbour’s home and found the respected rich guy leisurely drinking tea with a group of well-dressed people. I knew this business transaction was over. There was no hope of rescuing him any more.
Running outside again, I saw that the mute slave’s lips were trembling. His eyes were completely dry. I ran back home, grabbed the only cash I had and looked around. I saw the colourful desert blanket spread on my bed and, without thinking, pulled it down. With the blanket in my arms, I hurried back to the Jeep where the mute slave sat.
‘Sahābi, I’m giving you some money and this blanket,’ I cried, piling these things into his lap.
He only noticed me then, along with the blanket. Suddenly he clutched at the blanket, making a crying noise. He jumped out of the Jeep, holding this beautiful blanket, and ran desperately in the direction of his home. Because the rope around his feet hung loose, he could run in small steps. I saw him running towards home at unbelievable speed.
The children saw that he was running. ‘Escape!’ they cried immediately. ‘He’s escaping!’
The adults rushed out from inside. A young person swiftly grabbed a big wooden board and ran after him in pursuit.
‘Don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt him!’ I almost fainted in panic. I ran yelling after them. Everybody was chasing the mute slave. I ran for my life, forgetting that I had a car parked at my doorstep.
As we drew near the mute slave’s tent, everyone saw him open up that riotously colourful blanket into the wind in the distance. Stumbling, he spread it over his wife and children. The ropes around his arms had broken. He cried out garbled noises while firmly wrapping the blanket around his wife and kids. Grabbing his simple wife by the hand, he made her touch the blanket to feel how nice and soft it was. He put the money I’d given him in her hand. Against the wind, I could hear only the sound of his voice and the red blanket flapping.
A few young people went over to capture him. The Jeep had also been driven there. He got in the car blankly and pressed his hand against the window. There was an expression of both joy and sorrow on his face. His white hair whipped in the wind. A distant look was in his eyes, which were still completely dry with no trace of tears. Only his mouth was still trembling beyond his control.
The crowd stepped aside as the Jeep began to go. The silhouette of the mute slave gradually disappeared into the sunset. His family members didn’t cry or scream. They held each other in a tight embrace, shrinking into the big red blanket like three stones formed in a sandstorm. Rivers of tears flowed down my face. I slowly walked home, closed the door and got into bed. Before I knew it, the roosters were already crowing.
Crying Camels
How many times in one day I’d woken from deep, dull slumber, I’d lost count. Opening my eyes, I saw a room already swathed in darkness. There were no voices coming from the street, nor cars passing by. All I heard was the clock on the table, its ticking clear and indifferent just like every other time I woke up.
I was really awake, then. Everything that happened yesterday wasn’t just a bad dream in the end. Each time I regained consciousness, my memory forced me to bear witness to a torrent of confused images. I had to relive, over and over again, the tragic event that had made me go mad.
I shut my eyes. The faces of Bassiri, Afeluat and Shahida drifted before me in waves, the hint of a smile rippling across each of them. I jumped up, turned on the light and looked at myself in the mirror. In the span of one day, my tongue and lips had become dry, my eyes swollen, my face haggard.
I opened the wood-framed windows that faced the street. The desert outside looked like a landscape of snow and ice, cold and lonely and devoid of life. This unexpectedly bleak view came as a shock. I stared dumbly at this vast and merciless world, forgetting where I was.
Yes, they were still dead, truly dead. Whether in a few short days or over the long span of a life, everything disappears in due time: tears, laughter, love, hate, the ups and downs of dreams and reality. On the sand, p
ure white like snow, there was no trace of the dead. Not even the nocturnal wind could carry aloft their sighs.
Turning back around to face the deathly emptiness of the room, I could almost make out Bassiri sitting cross-legged in the dim light. He slowly peeled away layer after layer of black fabric covering his head as I looked on in bewilderment, not knowing what to do. A hint of a suggestive smile flashed over his face, tanned to a dark brown that underlined the cold stars of his eyes.
I blinked. Suddenly there was Shahida sitting in profile beneath the bookshelf. Her long eyelashes were like a patch of cloud projected onto her thin and elegant visage. I stared at her. Still she took no notice, indifferent as though she were no longer part of this world.
I was completely oblivious to the car parking outside and the person rapping on my door until a voice startled me to my feet. ‘Sanmao!’ someone called gently.
‘I’m here,’ I said to the person outside, grabbing on to the lattice window.
‘Sanmao, there are no more plane tickets, but I’ll still take you to the airport tomorrow morning.’ It was the general director of José’s company who spoke quietly to me through the window. ‘I’ve arranged for two standby tickets. Maybe you can squeeze in. Just be prepared. José already knows. He says to lock the door when you leave. Who is the second ticket for?’
‘There’s only me. No need for the other ticket. Thank you!’
‘What? I had to beg and plead for these, and now you don’t need it?’
‘The other person is dead,’ I said flatly. ‘They’re not leaving.’
The general director froze and gave me a look. Then he glanced nervously at his surroundings. ‘I heard there have been incidents with the locals. Do you want to come into town and stay at my house for a night? There are no Spaniards here. It’s not safe.’