Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  ‘Well?’ It was Abrach’s voice, bringing him back.

  Summerfield looked up, searching the merchant’s eyes for any sign.

  ‘You look shocked, Harry. Are you all right? Not nauseous or anything?’ Summerfield shook his head, which didn’t stop Abrach from giving the driver a sign to slow down.

  ‘Surprising, that’s all,’ offered Summerfield, inwardly cursing himself for his cowardice.

  ‘Exactly!’ returned Abrach. ‘Do you see? What a terrible twist of fate—the very moment the young beauty falls in love—for that is surely what her words tell us—she meets someone, some unknown man, and wrongly believes she is the presence of her correspondent! Terrible!’

  ‘Awful,’ said Summerfield, half-heartedly.

  ‘Terrible!’ repeated Abrach, shaking his head. A small grin appeared on his lips. ‘And all very intriguing. Irony has always been a faithful companion. It adds a little spice to it all—a test, as I said, of my intention to have her.’ Abrach fixed his eyes on the horizon and the coming hills and was lost in his thoughts for some seconds. ‘That is why you must write as you have never written before, Harry. I will give you gold for your words.’ Summerfield shook his head, but Abrach insisted. ‘Write a poem, Harry—and enter the girl’s heart like a key to a lock. Turn that key, Harry Summerfield, a perfect fit, well-oiled and making metal melt to tender substance. I must have her heart completely, Harry. And then I shall meet her—as she requests.’

  They journeyed the last hour in silence, only the driver, occasionally swerving to miss a pothole or traveller, uttering oaths. The road began to climb, at first a soft slope and then a serious of abrupt bends as it wound its way into the hills. The pale gritty dust of the plain gave way to the pale, powdery pink of the hills. Here and there, sparse and almost desperate clumps of grass shot up and clung to the scree between the rocks, becoming lush and thicker as they got higher. The driver put the little Ford into low gear and they moaned and whined down into a valley and up the other side. A plateau, dotted with trees and then another descent into another valley. Abrach turned to Summerfield and grinned.

  ‘Nearly there.’

  At the bottom of the valley, the road turned into a track by a small river. The trees grew thick and the grass tall and the deepest green. Little fields appeared, like dominoes, stacked above one another on the slopes of the valley.

  ‘There,’ said Abrach, clutching Summerfield’s forearm and pointing. ‘The village.’

  ‘Where?’ Summerfield squinted out at the slopes of the valley.

  ‘Look carefully, Harry—there—to the right. Do you see?’ Sure enough, Summerfield began to make out the shadow of the rooftops and walls of an otherwise perfectly camouflaged group of edifices, built using exactly the same matter as their natural pink surroundings. ‘Spring has come early to the Atlas,’ murmured Abrach, his voice unable to disguise a note of joy. ‘This time of the year, further up into the mountains, it offers one’s eyes so much beauty of colour that it almost makes one weep.’

  The track narrowed before they came to the village, too narrow for the car to follow. Abrach signalled for the driver to pull up and, once at a halt, left the car and accompanied Summerfield for the remaining three hundred yards or so.

  It was a well worn path, steep and straight, up through a slight gully that trickled with a rivulet of water.

  ‘From the hills,’ explained Abrach, delighted that Summerfield was interested. ‘In winter, with the storms, the path resembles a small waterfall. There is a shallow well in the village, too. It becomes so full it spills over.’

  ‘Don’t they stock the water? For summer?’

  ‘Alas, no, Harry. It is not in our tradition. The people here do not, like you Europeans, think continuously of the future and plan ahead. When there is plenty in the present, they take what there is and when there is none in the future, they do not take any.’

  Summerfield nodded understanding and motioned to the trees. There were children sitting in them, observing silently as they climbed. ‘I see we are being watched.’

  Abrach laughed. ‘You can be sure they have been watching ever since we appeared on the crest of the first valley, Harry Summerfield. It is also in our nature—an instinct.’

  Nearing the village, they were met by a couple of stray dogs who scampered down from the first houses and sniffed at their feet. Abrach spoke something in Tamazight and gave them each a rough pat on the rump which sent them zigzagging crazily back towards the houses.

  At last the little path, wide enough for two mules to climb, levelled off and Summerfield found himself standing at the entrance to the village. From here, he could see the track wind its way past several other houses, all identical, rectangular edifices made of blocks of wattle and stone. The roofs were flat and made of wood, also covered by a layer of wattle which in some places flowed over the walls like petrified leaves. From his viewpoint, several houses looked as though they were in ruins.

  ‘A fire?’ he said, remarking the blackened walls.

  ‘One could say fire,’ said Abrach, his voice carrying a certain sourness. ‘One could also say that the families left for the towns and cities in search of work and left their houses in abandon. That would be true for some other villages, Harry. Not this one. Not here.’

  A woman appeared, young and with a shiny khaki coloured skin. She was barefoot, dressed in a bright red and blue dress and her face and head were uncovered except for a thin blue headscarf. Several trinkets hung from a sash around her waist and chinked when she moved. Summerfield thought she looked much like a European gypsy.

  ‘Do not forget, Harry,’ remarked Abrach, between greetings, ‘that the Berber people are not Arabs. While we follow Islam, our women keep the traditional ways. They are venerated for their beauty and their difference and are allowed a certain freedom of expression that the women of the city cannot have.’

  The woman, introducing herself as Fatima, beckoned for them to follow her and she led them into the small, shady entrance yard to her house, only to reappear seconds later and invite them inside for tea. Abrach took off his shoes and Summerfield, nearly tripping over a stray chicken that suddenly ran under his feet in panic, stooped to do likewise. They entered through a small, lopsided door and were soon submerged into the almost total darkness of a large room.

  A noise from the corner—a sort of moan—made Summerfield peer into the shadows. Abrach spoke in return, still in the Berber dialect that Summerfield, despite the odd word, couldn’t understand. A candle was lit. The aurora spread out to reveal a table, a teapot and glasses and, last of all, the origin of the moan—a toothless old grandmother, smiling the broadest smile he’d ever seen and either side of her, cradled in her arms, two small toddlers looking at him with incredibly round eyes. Abrach stooped, went through a rather ornate gesture of greeting and kissed the old lady who cackled. Summerfield stepped forward, bowed his head out of respect and shook her hand.

  ‘Please,’ said Abrach, gesturing to the floor and a cushion. ‘Sit down. The mistress of the house, Fatima, will serve us tea.’

  They drank in silence, Abrach occasionally uttering encouraging noises to the old lady’s comments. Summerfield did not know what the subject was, but it seemed mundane in nature. Then, rising suddenly and with a gesture of thanks, Abrach beckoned for Summerfield to follow. Emerging once more into the light and squinting furiously, Summerfield found himself suddenly confronted with the entire village, including a gaggle of children complete with running noses, wild tufts of hair and bruises. He grinned and still silent they grinned back, almost mimicking him. A man holding a stick, whom Summerfield judged to be in his mid-sixties, suddenly appeared and the group of silent onlookers parted, leaving a space for him to approach. It was the village chief, a shrewd-eyed little man, tough and wiry despite his age, his chin adorned with a neatly cut, brilliant white goatee.

  ‘Come,’ said Abrach, turning to Summerfield. ‘Let me show you where my parents lived.’

 
They took the main path through the village, past tiny enclosures where goats and chickens milled, bleating and clucking fearfully at their arrival. There were very few men to be seen and Abrach explained, as they inspected the village, that most of them had either been drafted or were working afar, in the towns and cities. They stopped momentarily in front of several houses and the grain store which looked almost new.

  ‘Good,’ beamed Abrach, swapping a few words of dialect with the chief. He turned back to Summerfield. ‘I have not forgotten my roots, Harry. I provide money for them to rebuild and maintain the village. It will not disappear.’

  ‘You say rebuild?’ asked Summerfield.

  ‘That was my word,’ replied Abrach and declined to explain further.

  ‘And this,’ said Abrach, coming to a halt before a large, open space, ‘was where my parents lived.’

  Summerfield hesitated, glanced at Abrach and followed the merchant’s eyes to the spot. The earth was smooth and rounded and undulating—obviously the mark of walls or foundations. He wanted to ask what had happened, but the silence that had suddenly come over the small group made Summerfield close his mouth. It was almost like a mark of respect. Something unsaid that meant that it was not time to talk. After some moments, and with a little shrug of his shoulders, Abrach turned away and continued his visit.

  When the tour of inspection had finished, Abrach led Summerfield apart, back down the slope to the small terraced fields. The place burgeoned with life, bright green shoots sprouting up in abundance from the red earth—wheat, maize, carrots, potatoes. Taking care to keep to the irrigation walls, they made their way down to the river, greeting and returning the greetings of the gaily dressed women working the crops. At last, Abrach stopped on a rock above the shallow river and sat down. He looked about him, exhaled heavily and smiled.

  ‘We shall wait here, Harry—they will call us when the food is ready. We are invited.’ Abrach gazed out from his perch for a long time, his eyes, noticed Summerfield, shining bright as they took in his surroundings. At last, turning to him, the merchant gave a melancholic sigh. ‘Here I spent a lot of my time with my friends, boys from the village. How we played! And then, later on and as an adolescent, I sat here for hours and read until sunset. A travelling teacher passed by thrice a week to instruct me. He pushed me hard, Harry. Made me read until my head ached and my eyes wept from fatigue—but I thank him. It was how I succeeded in entering higher studies.’

  ‘Your land is very beautiful,’ said Summerfield in return, complimenting the valley with a nod of his head. ‘I was also born and lived in a valley—but one completely different from this.’

  ‘No doubt filled with your famous green grass and rain and fog!’ laughed Abrach.

  ‘And quite a bit of sun, too—as I remember,’ added Summerfield, surprised at how defensive he sounded. ‘At least from June to August.’ He remained silent for some seconds, recalling the Kent Downs as if from a storybook. It all seemed so unreal—the prim fences and green meadows, hedges brimming with life, the lanes and the shire horses, the village post office and the country pub by the duck pond—like a model village one saw in the southern seaside resorts, Brighton or Margate. He turned back to Abrach. ‘It’s good of you not to forget your roots. I imagine they appreciate your help.’

  Abrach smiled at him, a little sadly Summerfield thought, and looked up across the valley to the outline of another village. ‘It is quite normal for a man to wish to send money back home to his village. Even more so to his family.’

  ‘The old lady?’

  ‘My aunt,’ replied Abrach. ‘She has trouble remembering me these days,’ he added, his voice trailing off.

  ‘And your parents? Brothers?’ said Summerfield, lighting a cigarette. He saw Abrach offer a glimpse of a smile and then he turned his head.

  ‘I know of a boy from this village, Harry. Would you like to hear his story?’ Summerfield nodded assent. ‘Well,’ continued Abrach, giving a sign for them to sit, ‘the boy’s name was Abslem, Abslem El Rifni to be exact. I knew him from when I was child. We climbed the same trees, swam in the same river and fought each other behind the same houses. He once hit me on the back of the head with a sheep’s bone destined for the dogs. I bled profusely and a large, painful knot of a bruise was on my scalp for many many weeks. Needless to say, Abslem was duly punished by his father and believe me, he could not lie down on his backside for many weeks either.

  And then we drifted apart for some years. I went off to stay with an uncle in Fez to study medicine. Abslem, who also wanted to study medicine, left the village to study in Rabat, in the north.

  Abslem’s family was very well seen by the villages in the valley. Indeed, he had noble blood, his father descending from a tribe which in former times ruled most of the area. Abslem was proud of his origins and not for one instant did he spend a day in the city without offering a prayer for his family and the village he had left. One day, he would return. You see, he had plans to set up a medical centre for the people in the foothills. They had always relied on the religious teachers, sorcerers and elders to administer remedies, though sometimes injuries—those that cause broken bones, for example—could not be properly cured. It is why we see villagers, sometimes children, with curiously deformed arms and legs where they were inadequately set. It is also,’ added Abrach, ‘perhaps one of the reasons why the people in the hills and mountains take their time about things. In the city they would say they are slow or half-witted, but it is really their way of reducing the risk of accidents.’

  ‘And Abslem?’ said Summerfield, interested. He leant forwards.

  ‘Abslem, yes…. Well he graduated at the age of twenty-six, a doctor, and initially gained experience working as an assistant at the medical school in Rabat—at that time a Franco-Spanish institute. It did not matter that he was not allowed to practice fully as a doctor—the colour of his skin decreed this. What was important was that he had successfully finished his studies and was able to learn from his environment. This he did for four years, never ceasing his letters to his village, never forgetting to send back every week a sum of money from his savings.

  But cities are strange places, Harry. Great cities are home to that which is most refined, but they also act as a magnet for everything that is sordid or malevolent or rebellious. It is often in the cities that the idea for revolution is born and in the countryside that it grows. You see Abslem became interested in politics and notably the Arabic cause. And for some strange reason, at that precise moment in history, certain individuals suddenly became aware that they all had an identity. That they were just as capable as their European masters—remember, the French practised direct rule—that is, every position of power was held by a white skinned official from metropolitan France—and that they had a right in the running of their country. Let me remind you, Harry, our previous discussions. We are in 1921, when Abslem was working as a medical assistant in Fez, when the Berber tribes of the northern Rif—and this region too—chose to rebel.

  So Abslem, upon hearing of the revolt, decided to make his way as quickly as possible to his village, firstly in order to look over his family and secondly, driven by a sense of destiny, to see what his role would be. His expertise in medicine proved extremely valuable. Once back in his homeland, he found himself solicited by both the Berber tribesmen and the French army. It was his code of professional ethics that made the decision for him and he spent long weeks travelling the mountains and valleys, sometimes following the armed tribesmen, sometimes the columns of French troops, and always respected because his help and skills knew no boundaries of race or nationality.

  One day, he decided to make his way back to the village to visit his family. He wanted to see if they were in good health, planned to spend a month with them and wait out the winter weather before rejoining the armies. He travelled for four days, skirting the base of the Toubkal and on the last day, descended the valleys to his village through the night.

  He arrived at his village jus
t before dawn. There were no lights in the houses of those who would be rising to tend the sheep and goats. There was no smoke rising from the chimneys. No barks from the dogs, warning the villagers of his approach. All was silent. Still, Abslem continued on his way, descending the opposite slope of the valley on his mule, every step of his animal a closer step to home and his family. On the horizon, the sky turned from black, to purple, to lilac and the first rays of sun pushed up over the mountain summits.

  In Abslem’s valley, the day did not come—at least not immediately. His eyes could make out the shadows where the village lay and still no lights. Perhaps, he thought, it was through security—the villagers not wanting to draw any undue attention to themselves. The air became lighter, carrying with it the strong smell of wood and the hearths. And then dawn came. Hardly four hundred metres from his village, the grey light of dawn filtered across the valley to show him what remained.

  For a while he sat on his mule, at a halt, and wondered if the light was not playing tricks on him. He even wondered if it were the fatigue of his weeks in the field and the strenuous journey back. But no. It was his village—a collection of charred walls and collapsed roofs. Spilled belongings littered the slopes around the houses, as if the insides of each house had been vomited outwards into nature. Here and there, clothes caught in the trees fluttered in the morning wind. They reminded him of bodies and Abslem’s feeling of shock was suddenly replaced by one of fear. He descended from his mule and led the exhausted animal, falling and then rising, up the slope to the village. Seven weeks before, he had seen old uncle Youssef sitting on his porch and cutting sticks for the fire. Several months before, his father had mother had welcomed him with open arms and embraced him till his cheeks hurt with their kisses. He called out, but there was no reply, Harry. The village was deserted, pillaged and his father’s house a gutted ruin. Of the main living quarters, three walls remained standing and what had once been the pride of the village, the coloured glass windows, were now empty, yawning holes. Treading carefully over the debris—it had rained and his lower legs soon became black from the charred wood and mud—Abslem thought he recognised some of his parents clothing.