Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  He glanced down at the three lines in his notebook. Three lines that had taken two hours to ease onto the paper. They were what Abrach would have written, if he could. Summerfield hesitated, his lips pursed. And then, on a second’s impulse, he scribbled over them blackening them out completely. In five minutes, as if mirroring his anger, the sky over the city turned metal blue, then black. The rich quarters to the south and west were lit by the glow of lamps, the poorer districts to the north and east by firelight.

  And then the idea came to him. Unformed, distant, but still solid, like a nut growing in size. He got up, disappeared into his rooms and resurfaced again holding an oil lamp. He placed it down by his notebook, excited now and remembering exactly what he had erased some ten minutes before. He picked up his pencil, rolled it between thumb and forefinger, tapped out a rhythm on his knee. Slowly, very slowly, he began to write.

  I had not hoped for such a sweet and gentle reply. The simple truth of your words made me conscious of my clumsiness. I am a rock whereas you are water, clear and flowing. Already I am changing shape, smoothing my hardness, polishing the roughness of my stone. Like you, sweet lady, may my words trickle softly in reply while running deep and true. May I be at once both polished stone and rushing water.

  Summerfield did not stop there. He stayed, lingering on the roof until the air from the mountains reached him, cold and clear. He began to write freely and for himself—something he would have written for her, personally. It was when the Morning Prayer sounded across the city from the minaret, just before dawn, that he finally closed his book and descended from the roof to his bed.

  9

  The next day, he took the message to the district where Badr, the young go-between lived. Abrach had given express orders that it should be Badr who came to his rooms, but Summerfield, after initial formalities were dropped, had already accompanied the young messenger on a visit of his home patch in return for a meagre payment.

  It had been a new discovery for Summerfield, for Badr lived in a district even poorer than his. It was there, among the disorderly sprawl of huts and tents made from corrugated metal, crudely shaped bricks, wood and canvas, that Summerfield had handed over the second message almost a week and a half before. Here, the faces were lined and hard and wore expressions of either distrust or outright displeasure at his presence, even with Badr at his side. After barely thirty minutes in the place, it was Summerfield who had decided to leave, filled with his first real presentiment that he was in danger. Badr, who had also become aware of the uneasy atmosphere, had seen him off with an apologetic shrug and the words (not without a hint of pride, Summerfield had noted) ‘this is where the outcasts come, for there is no other place’. It had intrigued him. The total lack of welcome, the unspoken language that told him he was a foreigner and therefore an enemy. And he knew he would return.

  This time, Summerfield was intent upon getting closer to Badr’s people. He dressed in his loose-fitting cotton trousers and shirt that he had bought in the market place, donned his open-toed sandals he usually kept for wearing in his rooms and lastly, still with effort, wound the black headscarf around his head, across the lower part of his face, and tucked the remaining material into the nape. Already tanned, only his blue-grey eyes seemed foreign. But then again, remembering that the Berber tribes from the mountains counted clear-eyed men and women among them, he wondered if it would pass off. He carefully slid the latest letter into a pocket and set out to find a calash.

  At first sight, the driver refused to take him—a good sign. Coming closer to speak, Summerfield noticed a look of surprise on the driver’s face followed by a frown which to all appearances seemed to suggest madness. This made Summerfield laugh and he climbed aboard, filled with a sense of mischief he hadn’t felt since strolling Gibraltar streets with the American, Jim Wilding.

  Purposefully, Summerfield left the calash some distance from the shanty district and went the rest of the way on foot. His first steps made him feel conscious of his gait—even that was different, European. Continuing, he tried to observe without drawing undue attention and finally chose a model—a man of roughly his height and build who seemed to walk slightly on his toes, giving him an unsteady, shambling air. Summerfield, his mind wholly into the game, adopted the gait as well as he could and walked on. He received no particular stares, no particular looks. He seemed to have succeeded.

  The red, brick and plaster inhabitations resembling that of his own became steadily less frequent, replaced by the shanty housing he remembered from his first visit. It was as if a frontier had been crossed. The indications of poverty suddenly appeared. Groups of idle men sat on corners, the streets became increasingly unclean and rutted and filled with cast away rubbish and drying faeces. Old women huddled against their makeshift homes, children streaked with dirt and in rags, played or squabbled. There was the odd cart here and there, but mostly things were carried and mostly by women, some bent double with their loads. The same stares, in spite of his clothes.

  Summerfield realised that it didn’t matter who he was or even, to a lesser extent, how he dressed. He was a foreigner, one who did not belong to the usual, the known. This time, from behind his covered face, he stared back. And he noticed that those who stared at him finished by averting their eyes. He was beginning to think he really did pass as a Berber, when Badr bumped into him.

  ‘Monsieur Summerfield?’ said the young man, incredulous.

  ‘Harry,’ said Summerfield, caught between irritation and embarrassment. ‘I’ve come with a letter.’

  ‘The patron would not think well of it,’ said Badr, drawing him aside.

  ‘I had to get it to you quickly,’ said Summerfield by way of justification. ‘It’s an important letter this time.’

  ‘I see,’ said Badr, scratching the soft, patchy stubble of his evernascent beard. He reminded Summerfield increasingly of a much clawed at teddy bear. ‘Then let me invite you. Come.’

  Summerfield followed slightly behind and Badr, occasionally glancing back, talked. ‘You look very like us, Monsieur.’

  ‘Harry,’ replied Summerfield.

  ‘But there are some things that told me clearly that you were not.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Summerfield, again feeling irritated. ‘What?’

  Badr stopped and turned to face him. ‘First your clothes are too new. Look at those around you—their clothes are clothes of brothers and cousins, of fathers and even grandfathers—and maybe even of those they have killed.’

  ‘Good God.’ Badr laughed and Summerfield frowned. Perhaps the young man was trying to impress him with stories.

  ‘And then,’ continued Badr, once more scratching fiercely, ‘your smell.’

  ‘My smell.’

  ‘When I walked into you, I smelt soap—European soap. We use—or try to use,’ he corrected, ‘liquid soap made from olives. Or orange essence.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip,’ said Summerfield and they continued walking. ‘I’ll remember it.’

  ‘Lastly,’ added Badr, grinning cockily, ‘the watch you are wearing is a very expensive watch and one which we would never have the chance to wear.’

  Summerfield glanced down then looked up in surprise. ‘I’m not wearing a watch, Badr.’

  ‘Correct,’ replied the young man. ‘It’s in my pocket. I took it from you when we walked into each other. Here—’

  Summerfield shook his head, defeated, and took it from the young man’s hand. ‘Thank you, Badr. You know—you could have kept it and I wouldn’t have realised until later.’

  Badr smiled and then his face darkened. ‘In this part of the city most people never know if there will be a later—it is why I gave it back.’

  Summerfield grunted. ‘It’s because you like me.’

  The young man echoed him. ‘It’s perhaps because I like you, Harry. But do not mock me—my father died last year, one of my brothers the year before that. They did not see a later. And they were quite naturally robbed before I arrived to collect thei
r bodies. It is a law here.’

  ‘Against the rules of Islam,’ mentioned Summerfield. ‘What do the religious leaders say?’

  ‘They risk their lives everyday. Things are changing, Harry,’ said Badr. Summerfield looked sharply at him. He himself had said something of the same sort to Abrach only two weeks before.

  ‘You mean the old rules are being forgotten?’

  This time it was Badr who looked keenly at him. A thin smile appeared on his lips and his voice dropped in tone and volume. ‘I think you, of all people, know what I mean. Is not Socialism a world religion, Harry?’ Summerfield remained silent. ‘Come—let us talk in a safer place.’

  They entered a shack with a large overhang made of tarpaulin that gave protection from the fierce sun. From Badr’s invitation, Summerfield had imagined something more intimate. Instead, the shack was crammed with men drinking and smoking black tobacco. The smell was overpowering and Summerfield breathed in short, sharp doses, the time it took for him to become accustomed.

  ‘A drink of orange?’ suggested Badr. ‘It is the cheapest of drinks and the best. Allah made the fruit grow in abundance around here, even in the poorest districts.’

  The juice was sweet, silky and surprisingly cool. It seemed out of place with their shabby surroundings. After a while, Summerfield turned to Badr, picking up on the previous conversation.

  ‘And who do you believe, Badr? Allah or Marx? You don’t seem to mind mentioning both in the same breath.’

  Badr leant forwards, suddenly earnest. ‘Unlike some, I am beginning to believe that they are not incompatible.’

  Summerfield cocked his head. ‘A powerful combination. Does Abrach know of this?’

  ‘My relationship with the patron is one of work and respect. I would not dare to trouble him with my views. He works hard and has many worries to solve concerning daily business.’

  Summerfield nodded. ‘I’m not surprised by what you say, Badr—it’s rather you yourself who’s surprising. I would—’

  ‘Never have thought a person of my status could be so aware?’ finished Badr.

  ‘I suppose—perhaps said less bluntly,’ continued Summerfield. ‘And why did you speak to me about this?’

  ‘I understand why you wish to dress like my people. And because you are of a similar belief.’

  ‘I don’t believe in God,’ returned Summerfield.

  ‘Then you will do before your life comes to an end,’ replied Badr. ‘Forgive my frankness—but here, in this land, you will finish by finding Him.’

  ‘And what makes you so certain?’

  ‘Easy,’ grinned Badr, returning to his former self. ‘Because this country is so beautiful.’

  ‘And so is my own country.’

  Badr pondered momentarily. ‘I do not know England. But is He not present there, too? I believe you even have a song—in England’s pleasant pastures seen,’ he said, with a pronunciation that made Summerfield wince.

  ‘Badr—you surprise me at each turn. Though you really do need some English lessons, if I may be so direct.’

  ‘And you must learn our language—the real language of this country.’

  ‘You’re right,’ nodded Summerfield and added, somewhat mysteriously, ‘and perhaps I will.’

  They talked on, the conversation leading to Abrach on whom Badr skilfully avoided any comment and then turning to the letter. Summerfield reached inside his pocket and handed it across.

  ‘What does she look like?’ said Summerfield, innocently.

  ‘I did not know it was addressed to a woman,’ replied Badr, evasively. ‘My patron wishes to keep his life his own.’

  ‘So you don’t actually deliver the letter?’ continued Summerfield.

  Badr shook his head. ‘Abrach is a clever man—and very prudent. I have a special place I must leave it and I never see who takes it.’

  ‘But you could.’

  ‘I wish to live,’ replied Badr, curtly. ‘I have…a lot of things to do in this life.’ Summerfield grunted and looked down into his glass. ‘And now,’ added the young man, ‘If you will excuse me, I must go immediately and put the letter in its place. And please do not try to follow me,’ added Badr. ‘I say this to ensure that we both will have a later.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Summerfield, realising it was useless to pursue the issue. ‘I’ll stay a little longer and have a walk. I’ll be all right, won’t I?’ he added, as Badr rose.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ smiled Badr. ‘You are almost one of us!’

  Remaining in the makeshift café, Summerfield immediately regretted Badr’s departure. Was it a case of creeping paranoia he was feeling, or were there indeed several pairs of eyes fixed on his back? Angry with himself, he ordered another drink, although part of him began to advise him urgently to leave. And then it happened, not from inside as he had expected. But from outside.

  There was a sudden squeal of brakes and the sound of skidding. Even before the vehicle stopped, the shack became mayhem. Chairs and tables were upturned in a cloud of dust and before Summerfield knew it, everybody was pushing and clawing to get out. Bewildered, Summerfield half rose and looked around him. The rear exit was a mass of bodies. He even saw two men leap out of the side window, the capes of their gandoras flapping madly as they disappeared at a run. And then he felt someone tug violently on his arms. He resisted, pulled away and was tugged back. He span round with a shout of anger and stopped, his mouth agape. A French gendarme stood before him, one hand clutching his arm, the other raised above his head and holding a cane. Summerfield frowned, perplexed. A long second passed. And then the cane came down with an agonising thwack across his shoulder. ‘I’m British!’ he heard himself wail, before collapsing to the ground.

  Unable to raise his head for fear of being beaten yet again, Summerfield let himself be pushed outside to join a group of men waiting by the tailgate of a lorry. He was bleeding and his shirt was ripped where the cane had repeatedly struck him. With a series of sharp orders and a few prods with their canes, the para-military gendarmes—a squad of them—managed to assemble the men in two rough lines. There were at least twenty and Summerfield, now risking a glance, noticed two of them as those who had glared so fiercely at him in the café. Papiers! The gendarmes strode along the line, addressing them one-by-one. Those who had papers presented them for inspection, those who didn’t were pulled out of the line and made to climb aboard the lorry.

  ‘Toi! Papiers—yallah!’

  Summerfield looked up. A tall, red-haired gendarme, his upper lip sweating profusely, was staring at him. A strong mixture of sweat and eau de cologne wafted from his khaki uniform and filled Summerfield’s nostrils. From the accent, Summerfield thought he might be from the north—not that far from Calais, almost England. It was ludicrous.

  ‘First of all, I’m British,’ said Summerfield. ‘Secondly, don’t tutoye me and thirdly—I want an apology.’

  ‘What the hell—?’ said the gendarme, wide-eyed. He turned. ‘Sergeant Gautier!’

  A sergeant appeared with a waxed moustache so intricately arranged it would, in normal circumstances, have made Summerfield laugh aloud. The man had a look in his eye that made Summerfield feel horribly ill at ease—the sort of look that indicated the sergeant was capable of anything.

  ‘What’s this bloody darkie want? He’s bleeding like a pig.’

  ‘I’m a British citizen,’ said Summerfield, wincing.

  The two policemen looked at each other. ‘What the hell are you dressed in that clown outfit for, then? Where are your papers?’

  ‘I don’t have them on me.’

  ‘Get into the lorry—immediately!’

  ‘I’m British,’ repeated Summerfield, almost with desperation in his voice. ‘I just happened to be in the café—I’m visiting. Please.’

  The gendarmes seemed suddenly unsure of what action to take and again, Summerfield felt that danger—he was clearly facing two individuals whose thought pattern was distinctively binary. Any abrupt act
ion, words or movement and he was sure they’d be capable of shooting him on the spot. Slowly and painfully, Summerfield lifted his right arm and unwound the cheiche on his head, hoping his clear brown hair would serve as indisputable evidence to his nationality.

  ‘We should really inform the lieutenant,’ said the younger gendarme.

  The sergeant shook his head and spoke quickly. ‘No—it’d only land us in trouble. Think of all the shit paperwork. You,’ he added, turning back to Summerfield. ‘You idiot. Go away—now. And you didn’t see any of this, understand?’ His hand tightened its grip on the cane and Summerfield nodded timidly. The sergeant flicked his head. ‘Fuck off now—dégage!’ Summerfield stepped out of the line and walked away, conscious of the hostile stares of the other unfortunate men.

  A day passed and the pain worsened. Upon arriving back in his rooms from the poor district—he couldn’t remember the journey back—he had fallen into a deep sleep. It was the pain that awoke him in the night. Unable to move his left arm without a searing blade shooting through the whole side of his torso, he gingerly undressed. It took him almost twenty minutes and when, finally, he managed to uncover his shoulder, he almost fainted. There were two, distinct purple weals where the cane had struck him, surrounded by a dark red crust where the blood had seeped out and congealed. His whole shoulder had swollen into a blotchy red and blue and a truly gigantic, egg-shaped protrusion had appeared where one of the marks ran over his collarbone. The skin had split and wept a yellowish fluid. He hoped he hadn’t fractured it and thanked God the cane hadn’t hit his face—what a dreadful mess that would have made. He bathed the wounds with boiled water and covered himself up, wondering how he was going to find a doctor.