Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  He found them, along with ten or so other bodies, in a dip in the ground behind the village. There were also the carcasses of animals—goats and several dogs. A thin layer of earth had been hastily shovelled over them, but the rain had washed most of it away. Despite his training, despite the fact that he had seen to many wounds over the past weeks of fighting, some of them terrible, he felt sick at what he saw, Harry. The word you would use is macabre, is it not? Arms implored the sky, faces twisted in pain, days of being exposed to the open air having bloated and blackened them into horrible masks. He hardly recognised his father, his mother, his two brothers, his sister. But it was them. My poor friend Abslem stayed there three days and three nights, the time it took to cover the bodies, the time it took for a few of the mistrustful, terrorised survivors to return. Abslem, my friend, had nothing left. And that, Harry, is the story…’

  Summerfield did not speak straight away. He returned Abrach’s gaze, his feelings deadened. Had Abrach been recounting his own story? It seemed very likely.

  ‘And Abslem—did you know him well?’ he probed.

  ‘Very well,’ said Abrach, emotionless. ‘He was a dear friend.’

  ‘And after? What did he do?’

  Abrach changed position and stretched his legs before him before returning to his squatting position. ‘And after, my dear friend Abslem decided to find out who had been responsible.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The order had been given by a young and rather ambitious captain in charge of a company of legionnaires. In return for the ambush of a French logistics column and in order to put an immediate halt to the rebellion, all villages sympathetic to the cause of Moha Ou Hammou Zayani were to be ‘pacified’. Rather a sinister euphemism, don’t you think, Harry? Burnt to the ground or murdered are hardly expressions to be used in the newspapers back home in France. Naturally, those whose houses were to be burnt objected. I remember Abslem’s father having an old musket—a century-old thing bought off a wandering Moor. I believe Abslem’s father tried to defend his house with the very same musket. Not much worth when faced with mortars and Hotchkiss machine guns.’

  ‘I think I would have tried to seek out those who committed the killing,’ said Summerfield. ‘And I would have given them the same treatment.’

  Abrach smiled, sadly. ‘Can one kill a hundred-and-fifty men, Harry? Should one seek revenge on the Corporal who pulled the trigger, the Sergeant who put the torch to the house or the politician who ordered the pacification? That is the entire problem, Harry. And I believe Abslem chose the man in charge of the troops on the ground. His logic was that an educated man such as an officer should have had the moral and intellectual duty to refrain from uneducated acts of barbarism.’

  ‘And did he find him?’

  ‘The responsible is still alive, Harry.’ Abrach turned and looked at him with painful irony. ‘And now working as the government administrator for French Southern Morocco. He lives, no doubt, barely three miles from where you and I live, in his comfortable house in the expatriate quarter in Marrakesh, with his family and with his servants. Every day, he is driven to his office where he doubtless spends long hours making difficult administrative decisions for the well-being of his territory. And as for Abslem El Rifni—I believe he died years ago.’

  20

  It was unbearable. Summerfield spent the rest of the day closed deep within himself, as though he had pulled a blanket around himself and curled up in a corner for refuge. His mind had tripped like a switch and, in electrifying clarity, had at once understood: the man ultimately responsible for the burning and killing in Abrach’s village was none other than Philippe-Charles Lefèvre, the neat, round-shouldered, snobbish and intelligent little man in charge of regional administration—Jeanne’s father.

  Early the following morning, Abrach led him on foot, up through the valley, on a short trek before the sun became too hot. Again, Abrach mentioned the necessity of acting fast and suggested that once back in the city Summerfield set immediately to the task of writing. Troubled, slow to react, and in answer to Abrach’s questioning, Summerfield offered a lame excuse of not having slept well on the straw mattress provided him for the night.

  ‘Ha!’ laughed Abrach, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘The English adventurer!’ Summerfield smiled wanly and continued, head bowed, as they climbed the track towards the next village. ‘If you take the opportunity to travel through the mountains to the desert—and one day I would like to offer you this as a gift—you will have to get used to the conditions!’ Again Summerfield looked up and smiled briefly in return, the perfect hypocrite.

  He was surprised by Abrach, for despite his large frame he proved very nimble and very sure-footed on the steep rocky paths. In the beginning, Summerfield had stepped out in long, rapid paces, putting energy into each step and subsequently becoming almost breathless on the crest of the first rise. With Abrach leading, Summerfield’s eyes naturally fell on the merchant’s feet and he began to study him. Strangely, Abrach seemed to put no effort at all into his step. It was rather the lack of force that provided the perpetual motion—like a pendulum in a clock. The merchant’s steps were short and regular and light, declining the temptation to stretch and heave across the gaps where the rock had broken, but instead strictly following the contour of the terrain, hugging to it and almost making it his own as though he and the hillside were one single force. The same rhythm, foot after foot, step after step.

  Summerfield copied and soon found, despite initial reticence from his legs—and he realised a behaviour that was somehow particular, somehow profoundly linked to his European values in his resistance—that he was able in this way to spare his breath so that his lungs also moved in harmony with his effort. It was almost hypnotic and he was glad, concentrating on the ascent, that his mind was busy from other preoccupations.

  In the approach to the next village, the same phenomenon of the little heads popping up above the rocks and crests, shapes hidden in the trees—the children were watching them. Abrach waved, only once, and his free hand rattled in the large pockets of his gandora striking something metallic.

  ‘Sweets, Harry. I bought two tins in Marrakesh. French sweets from Vichy. It says so on the lid.’

  ‘D’you think they’ll appreciate them?’ said Summerfield, now stepping in line beside the merchant.

  ‘I do not know of any child who does not appreciate a sweet,’ replied Abrach, confidently.

  But this time, he was wrong. When the first gaggle of wild-haired toddlers met them at the entrance to the village, Abrach presented a tin of sweets, unfastened the lid and handed the drops to the expectant little hands. One by one, the hands popped the sweets into mouths. And one by one, the expression on the children’s faces turned from delight to one of horror, several of them fighting for breath and opening their mouths to promptly spit out the foul tasting drops. Summerfield looked across at Abrach and his dismay and broke out laughing. Taking the tin from the merchant’s hand he read the words on the pale blue lid: goût extra fort menthe verte—double-strength spearmint taste. No wonder they spat the stuff out—it was as if the children had popped fire into their mouths.

  They were welcomed at the chief’s house and served msemen—traditional pancakes dripping in honey—together with the inevitable welcoming glass of sweet mint tea, the water for which Abrach supplied from his own gourd.

  ‘For the English guest,’ he explained. ‘Water from the city. I would not like your unaccustomed insides to experience a week in bed, Harry.’

  It was ten o’clock when they began to make their way back. To see them off, a group of girls formed an aisle and began to sing. They listened politely for a few minutes, Summerfield enchanted by the girls’ attempts to appear coquettish despite the difficult conditions of hygiene in the villages.

  Again, Summerfield was reminded of the Romany image. Some of the girls, the younger ones, were bareheaded, the older, adolescent girls wearing only a light headscarf knotted at the back in pi
rate fashion. Their dresses were bright green, blue or red smocks with many beads and tassels, faded through countless hand-me-downs and sometimes either too baggy or too tight. They wore woollen tights or leggings, mostly black and holed and cut off at the ankle. Several of them sported hands and faces made up with the intricate swirls and patterns of orange or henna ink which Abrach informed were to make them even more attractive to possible suitors. They sang, or chanted a curiously melodic series of songs, at the same time counting the rhythm with little shuffling movements of their feet and clapping their hands. Even this was so unlike the European way of clapping, for their little hands came together without clasping, palms flat and with a slight, outwards circular motion to produce a curious dampened clicking.

  ‘What are they singing about?’ said Summerfield, leaning his head towards Abrach.

  ‘Oh,’ smiled Abrach, wistfully, ‘They are women’s songs of the fields—asking when their love will come, when the rain will fall and when the crops will flourish.’

  On the point of leaving, a sudden loud clucking came from the girls’ mouths—a high-pitched shriek that Summerfield had sometimes heard in the poor districts of the city. A hand, followed by others, reached out to point at him. Summerfield glanced at the merchant whose expression turned from one of attentiveness to glee.

  ‘They would like you to sing before you go, Harry.’

  ‘Sing?’

  ‘Most of them have never seen a white man—let alone an Englishman. They know you are different and they are curious. Me too, I may add. What indeed do the English sing about?’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Summerfield hesitated. ‘I suppose we sing mostly about the sea—after all, we live on an island.’

  ‘So sing them a sea song,’ urged Abrach.

  ‘The only one I know,’ said Summerfield, ‘Is…’ And with that, he commenced, before the suddenly embarrassed and wide-eyed group of girls, to give a rather enthusiastic rendition of Bobby Shaftoe together with sailor’s jig. Abrach howled with laughter and when Summerfield had finished and a sudden silence descended on the valley, applauded loudly which set the girls off giggling and shuffling coyly on their feet.

  ‘I think several of them have fallen in love with you, Harry,’ said Abrach, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Let us leave.’ And with a series of waves that lasted the most of three hundred yards, the two of them set out on the path back to Abrach’s village.

  It was in the early afternoon, during the car journey back, that Summerfield’s mood soured as he returned to thinking of the complications of his relationship with Abrach. It was indeed an extremely delicate situation.

  As the car, this time Abrach giving free licence to the driver to decide upon the required speed, bounced, slewed and jolted over the dirt tracks back to Marrakesh, Summerfield fell deeper and deeper into introspection. At first he closed his eyes and made out he was sleeping and then, unable and unwilling to cover it up any longer, he turned to Abrach and looked at him with hardened eyes.

  ‘You are troubled, Harry,’ said Abrach, almost a remark. Summerfield remained silent, holding his gaze. ‘I noticed it often during these past two days.’ Abrach’s face saddened slightly, almost as if he knew. ‘You have something to tell me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Summerfield, the muscles on his jaw tightening. He nodded. ‘You have treated me well, Abrach. You have become like a friend as well as a patron.’

  ‘I believe we touched on this subject before, Harry. I wondered, at that moment, if there was something else you wished to say.’

  ‘You were perhaps too trusting in me.’

  ‘Trust should never be doubted before it has chance to grow. It lasts right up until the moment it does not.’

  Summerfield nodded silently once more, dropping his gaze and then looking back up. ‘I have some trouble with the mission you have given me, Abrach.’

  ‘You have written well, Harry. I believe it is thanks to you that I am so close to my heart’s goal.’

  Summerfield shook his head, somewhat summarily. ‘I know—I know. You already told me.’

  Abrach stared and then his face suddenly broke into a smile that Summerfield could only describe as fatherly. ‘I shall not prevent you from saying what you have to say, Harry. I shall not judge.’

  ‘I—thank you for your tolerance,’ said Summerfield, uneasily.

  Abrach waved his hand. ‘It is a virtue we have. Sometimes too much of a virtue for our people,’ he added. ‘Please, continue, Harry.’ The little car went over a hollow in the road, slumped on its suspension and bucked as it came out.

  ‘It’s a question of values,’ Summerfield went on, steadying himself against the arm rest—‘my values.’

  ‘Ah—values!’ Abrach gave a little laugh. ‘As we live and gain experience, some are lost and others gained.’

  ‘And some remain until the end,’ said Summerfield. Abrach tilted his head and nodded agreement. ‘It has come to the point where—where through having to read the young woman’s messages, I have almost come to understand her.’

  ‘It’s as though you know her,’ added Abrach.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have the same feeling,’ said Abrach. ‘And I suppose we both do. She is very true, is she not? Very naive—in a good sense of the word. We should all be naive, Harry. Like those children back in the villages. We should not become cynical and bitter as adults. But we do. Unfortunately. Life is like that.’

  ‘Precisely. And I wish to remain naive in some respects,’ said Summerfield, seizing the opportunity. ‘Like those children. While I appreciate your goal—’

  ‘My goal?’ interrupted Abrach, his voice suddenly becoming cynical.

  ‘Love is a very altruistic thing.’

  ‘But sometimes we may use love to permit us to do many things, Harry. Many crimes are committed in the name of love. It is a grand excuse.’

  ‘I’m not saying your search is a crime, Abrach,’ said Summerfield, a little confused. ‘And my trouble is not just with the fact of writing. You know the situation in Europe.’

  ‘So you, too, think war is the only way left.’

  ‘No. I don’t think that. I wish there were some other way. But everything points in the direction of war, Abrach. I will have to go back.’

  Abrach laughed. ‘Oh, how you have changed, Harry. Is it the influence of your American friend you mentioned?’

  ‘It is my decision, Abrach,’ replied Summerfield. ‘Maybe I have changed. One of the things I have discovered—or rediscovered—is who I really am.’

  ‘You wear Arabic clothing!’ said Abrach.

  ‘Beneath which lies an English skin. Abrach—thanks to you I have grown to love this country. I also love your people. But,’ he shook his head, ‘I am fundamentally British, born on an island with, as you said, its fog and rain and green hills. I’ve thought deeply, Abrach. I cannot let anyone attempt to harm my birthplace. If I were five thousand miles from home, I would return to defend it.’

  ‘You will be fighting for politicians you do not believe in, Harry,’ intoned Abrach. He paused. ‘Though I understand. In the past—and perhaps even in the present—I am doing exactly the same.’ Summerfield frowned and Abrach held up a hand. ‘Oh, it does not matter now, Harry. I will perhaps explain at another moment.’ The merchant remained silent for a while and then looked back at Summerfield. ‘Firstly, you plan to leave if the situation worsens in Europe. And secondly, your values tell you that any further work to ensnare the young lady is wrong. Is that it?’ He looked enquiringly at Summerfield and Summerfield nodded in return. Abrach sighed, passed a hand over his brow and mopped away a bead of sweat. ‘I cannot force you, Harry, for I can understand these arguments—both of them. Please understand that I, too, have had to ask myself many questions concerning the young Frenchwoman. My mind is constantly aware of the moral argument to the issue. Later, I hope, we shall have the opportunity for me to explain, in further detail—other details—my desire for this person.’

  ‘Thank
you,’ said Summerfield, firmly, though Abrach once more held up a hand, this time almost as a sign of warning.

  ‘But! And there is a but, Harry. My condition of acceptance is that you write that one, last message on my behalf.’

  Summerfield shook his head. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘A poem,’ said Abrach, unflinchingly. ‘A poem, Harry Summerfield. And after that—a long-lasting respect and friendship between us born of my gratitude and my respect. I shall ask no more and shall expect nothing else. You will be free.’ Abrach leant forwards, close to Summerfield’s face and stared at him, his eyes sparkling. Summerfield returned the regard, bit his top lip and gave a brief, closing nod of his head.

  ‘All right.’

  21

  They sat in a hollow by an orange grove, barely a mile from the school, by a stream that fed the fields. It was part of the ancient underground irrigation system and this particular section lay uncovered, the flagstones having been unearthed years ago to tile a landowner’s floor or build the walls to a house.

  They were hidden from view. Craning one’s neck, just above the lip of the depression, a patchwork of wheat and maize could be seen, dotted with date trees and wells, stretching across the plain beyond the city until, in sharp contrast, the sand took over. Here and there, donkeys sauntered slowly in the fields driven by little dots of children. The women bent towards the earth, dug, stood up to stretch, then stooped again to work.

  They had walked in awkward silence, meeting up along a path behind the Académie. And now they sat in awkward silence, shy, full of what to say but unsure of how to say it. It was like having the answer to all your dreams, all those moments of desire and conviction and determination, suddenly answered, suddenly made real—and accompanied by a thought, half-dread, half-lack of assurance, that it was all too soon.