Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  ‘Tell me that you’re all right.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine, Jim. I—I miss you. I wish you were here with me.’

  ‘I do too. I want to take you away from this mess, Jeanne. I’ll try to be as fast as I can. Maybe leave a couple of days before I planned. I have to go now, Jeanne. I love you.’

  ‘I love you, Jim.’

  ‘I’ll phone tomorrow.’

  42

  June ruled over the mountains and the valley. At 4.30 a.m., the inhabitants rose with the rising of the sun, Morning Prayer floating like the smoke of the first morning fires, slow and bewitching. It was the time Summerfield loved the best—the first hesitant opening of the eyes, the freshness of the air in his nostrils, the smell of earth and that soft grey-blue light of the dawn—night time like an outstretched arm, clutching the day as they inexorably parted in opposite directions.

  For the first time in his life, Summerfield felt the strength of time—its great, massive presence gathered in a palpable tranquillity he had never thought possible. There were no chiming bells, no ticking clocks or racing second hands. No train whistles, idling motors or background babble of the crowd. The people of the valley awoke, washed, talked softly, ate. They followed the sun as it rose and obeyed time by following it obediently at its own pace. In Europe, Summerfield had the feeling that men tried to outpace time itself—a constant race to beat it at its own game. They rushed to shave and to eat. They pulled on their clothes and tugged on their shoes, sometimes forgetting keys, wives, children and kisses. After that, they ran to the bus, tram or train arriving at the office without a glance for the trees and sky. One did not think of nature—except for brief excursions into worry over the rain soiling one’s suit or a longing for sun and a holiday break. Europe was ruled by the clock, against the nature of nature itself. Somehow, it was madness. Somewhere along the line, Summerfield thought, it spelled doom for the industrial man. The machine was setting the rules for its owners and not the other way round.

  With obedience to the rise of the sun came lightness. There was work to do of course. But what did it matter if Summerfield arrived ten minutes late to the task or thirty? The work would be done or not done—for there was always tomorrow to finish off what couldn’t be done today. What absurd and utter madness, he concluded, thinking then of the old maxim. Don’t put off for tomorrow what can be done today. It was like cramming life into a sardine tin. Here, in the valleys, nobody put a number to their lives—an hour was an hour, one part of a day—nothing so sacred—and one died when one died and everything in between was life and nothing else. We are wrong, he told himself, to look too deeply into things. Scientific measurements—average lifespan, production rates, timescales—put the daily pressure of deadline on our minds and made us do inhuman things; like thinking of three things at once, dealing with four problems at the same time, staying after hours at the office to finish the job and dashing after pay rises—causes of stress, stomach ulcers, wrong to others, heart attacks and aggressiveness. For a man with time on his hands, free to stay in bed or work until he wished and when he wished, was generally not an angry, frustrated man.

  These days, Summerfield helped Raja in the fields although it was against the custom. Here, the usual was for the boys and young men to look after the goat herds, taking on the role of shepherds. The older men tended to men’s affairs—counting the harvest, trading and negotiating, praying, talking politics and occasionally taking up their arms. The women did everything else: weaning their children, shepherding them and setting them to work on helping with the daily tasks. They laboured the fields, carried bundles of firewood on their backs to the home, cooked meals, ensured the water supply and the washing and countless other tasks. The men looked upon Summerfield with surprise and mockery. Then the looks became reproachful and almost dangerous. Raja, hearing rumours that some of the men, their hostility fuelled by the religious leaders of the valley, were thinking of confronting Summerfield, advised him to stop helping.

  Where to invest his energy? Although not pressed by the urgency of time, Summerfield felt pressure from his own self-pride. He did not take long to find himself new employment. The idea came to him when exploring the winding paths that cut through the maze of village streets and houses. There was one particular place where the stench became so fierce that he retched, turned around and quickly backtracked to the village square.

  He saw Raja walking up the slope with a bundle on her back and she must have noticed his grimace, for she asked if he was all right.

  ‘No,’ said Summerfield, pulling another face. ‘I think I just found the village latrines!’

  ‘Oh, the gully,’ said Raja and smiled. Her beige eyes sparkled with mockery. ‘Don’t worry, Sidi Harry—you’ll get used to it.’

  ‘But people just squat there and—’

  ‘Pee and poo,’ said Raja, cackling with laughter.

  ‘Not only men. I saw a woman just hitch up her skirts—in broad daylight!’

  ‘And people do not do this in England?’

  ‘Well, sometimes…only if necessary. They did about three hundred years ago, I suppose.’ Raja laughed even more, shaking her head, quite too theatrically Summerfield thought. She was a cheeky one. And then it came to him. ‘Hold on! I’ve just had an idea!’

  ‘Like the football game!’ chirped Raja.

  ‘Orderliness and cleanliness,’ replied Summerfield. ‘Public toilets.’

  ‘What’s public toilet?’ inquired Raja.

  ‘Public toilets,’ said Summerfield again in English. ‘No—don’t worry. The word doesn’t exist in your dialect—or at least I don’t know how to say it. I mean a place where everyone can—do their business.’

  ‘But we already have a place.’

  ‘The place is a stink hole—unhygienic. Things like that brought on the bubonic plague in England. No, I mean a place where people are hidden from view and where they can sit.’

  ‘Sit? What for?’

  ‘For comfort, of course—are you stupid?’

  ‘Are you stupid?!’ retorted Raja. ‘You want to change us. But you don’t understand that this is how it is done—and it doesn’t bother anybody. It’s natural and as long as you take care to hide your—’

  ‘Thank you, Raja,’ interrupted Summerfield, bringing the conversation to a halt. A frown appeared on his brow and he refrained from launching into the offer of an argument. The young girl would surely beat him—she had a character like a lioness. ‘We’ll see,’ was all he said and walked away. ‘We’ll see…’

  He began by choosing the place—a square patch of almost level land at the bottom of the village bordered by a screen of twisted and ragged old olive trees. It was both visually sheltered and also subject to a constant breeze coming up the valley from the south, enough to drive away the swarms of flies. He then, once again under the gaze of a growing number of curious children, began to dig a series of ten holes, three feet deep, in a straight line south to north. He stopped at five—a sudden stratum of rock lying barely four inches below the earth rendering the task impossible—and dug the other holes where he began so that the whole formed an L-shape. It took him three days. Channels linked the holes together. He lined these with a thick local mortar people used to make bricks for their houses. Badr, back from his affairs, showed him how to mix it. From the channels, he traced a line to the future cesspit some twenty yards away. Here, he made the children place pebbles and stones in a square that measured some twelve-by-fifteen feet—the outline for the pit. It was at this point that the village Mullah appeared, leaning on his stick to view events. The children dispersed slowly, wary of the tutoring stick and Summerfield had to finish off placing the pebbles himself. The Mullah cleared his throat.

  ‘And pray tell me, Englishman, what you have in mind? A fortress, perhaps? A Houses of Parliament for the village?’

  ‘Your humour is of great strength today,’ replied Summerfield, taking pains to adhere to the strange protocol of formality one had to follo
w when addressing the Mullah. ‘Not such a grand edifice, I’m afraid. No—nothing lowlier than a toilet.’

  ‘A toilet? Is it not too large a toilet for your individual use, or perhaps our food is so at odds with your foreign stomach that your needs are so great?’

  Summerfield, still smiling, dropped the last pebble into place. ‘No, Respected Mullah. I am building a large toilet for everybody’s use. It will make the village cleaner, help with keeping modesty and provide comfort.’

  ‘It helps, perhaps, with making us more civilised,’ intoned the religious teacher, ironically. ‘And may I ask who gave you permission for this venture? You steal our soil for western edifices which none of us know how to use. Perhaps, when finished, you will be so kind as to demonstrate to the entire village?’

  ‘I regret that I have not asked, having believed that the ground was destined for no use. That I apologise for.’ Summerfield looked sharply into the little man’s shrewd eyes. ‘Respected Mullah, are you against the idea?’

  ‘I am against heresy, Englishman. Be careful that your construction does not overstep the ancient laws of the valley that is all.’ The old man stood as straight-backed as possible and turned away. ‘Oh, and by the way.’ He glanced stiffly back. ‘By what means do you intend to evacuate the waste? I see that you have built channels and are planning a pit. But it seems you have overlooked the water supply. Goodbye, Mister Summerfield. And yes—good luck!’ And with that, the old man hobbled away with what seemed a cackle of doom lifted straight out of a pirate pantomime.

  Summerfield sighed and sat down before his plans. He rolled himself a cigarette—thick, black local tobacco and a thin slip of rice paper. Damn, the old goat was right. He’d completely overlooked the water supply needed to evacuate the water. The nearest well was a hundred and fifty yards or more away in the village. The nearest stream of equal distance and the river beyond any practical distance at all. A small, grubby boy with inflated cheeks sat down beside him to sniff in the stray smoke and share in Summerfield’s despair. Summerfield gave him a glance and shook his head.

  ‘What’s you name?’

  ‘Mohammed.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it had to be,’ said Summerfield: ‘The first son, aren’t you. Well, Mohammed, I have a lot of work to do. Would you like to help me?’ The little boy nodded, unsmiling. ‘Good. I see you’re enthusiastic. In fact, I have a great amount of work to do—and I don’t know if it will all turn out worthless doing it.’

  ‘Why do something if you know it might fail?’ said the boy, the first sentence since sitting with him. It was rather a brutal one at that.

  ‘Ah, I see you speak. And wisely, too,’ added Summerfield with a wink. ‘Why?’ he pondered. ‘Because I’m British, that’s why.’

  ‘Hum.’ The boy grunted and squinted at Summerfield. His cheeks looked larger than ever—like a gerbil filled with sunflower seeds. ‘All right.’

  ‘You mean you believe it?’

  ‘You said the same when you invented the game with the ball,’ scowled Mohammed. ‘And you were right. This lucky British you speak of. It is bigger than our luck. I wish to be British too.’

  Summerfield laughed. ‘Then from now on, Mohammed, I say that you are an honorary British lucky. If I ever get out of this place, I’ll write a letter to the embassy about you!’

  ‘What’s an embassy?’ enquired Mohammed, losing the thread of things. Sometimes what the Englishman said was so silly that he couldn’t understand. ‘And why a letter?’

  ‘No worry. Just consider yourself lucky, that’s all. First, we need stones—big ones and flat. Like this,’ said Summerfield, using his hands to outline the shape.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I see you are logical-minded too,’ said Summerfield. ‘Too logical. For the thrones, of course!’

  ‘Kings have thrones,’ frowned Mohammed.

  ‘You’ll certainly feel like one after sitting on them. Crapping in comfort, Mohammed, it’s the only way. In fact, we’ll all be kings after this. The rest—the water and this big hole—well I haven’t the answer as yet. But it’ll come. I’m British.’

  ‘Me too!’ grinned Mohammed, unsure of the Englishman’s riddles but certain of his newly acquired power. Little Mohammed showed him a quarry behind the village that until then Summerfield had been oblivious to. It wasn’t exactly slate, but another stone that resembled it in colour if not texture. There was a tool, rather like a garden hoe but much stronger lying near the stones and apparently for communal use. The little boy lifted it with strong arms and brought it down sharply on a block. A puff of smoke, as if a bullet had struck it, exploded in the air above the impact and a small, clean, vertical crack appeared.

  ‘Excellent!’ shouted Summerfield. ‘Here, now you’ve shown me how, let me finish it off, Mohammed.’ He lifted the tool and brought it down in the cleft left by the boy’s initial strike. Immediately, a sheer slice of rock broke off and fell on its side among the debris. ‘Well, it works. Now all that’s left is toil and sweat.’

  The next day saw Summerfield and his helper back at the quarry, slicing rock. Mohammed brought along his younger brother who helped at the olive press. More importantly, their father was a muleteer—and the brothers had borrowed the communal animal for the early afternoon.

  With the borrowed mule, several trips back and forth from the quarry to the construction site were enough. The temperature was fierce and the valley was deserted. The two brothers watched, sometimes scowling, sometimes grinning, as Summerfield showed them how he wanted to place the cut stones—one vertical larger stone either side of the hole and two thinner, flat stones horizontally across the top, half a foot apart and straddling the three-foot hole beneath. By the end of the second morning, the latrines had been formed, the seats ridden of any sharp protrusions and the ten structures tested for strength and reliability. Several adjustments had to be made for the end five destined for children and the aged. But judging from the frowns on the boys’ foreheads, they still hadn’t realised what they were for. When Summerfield took them through a simulation of their use, grimaces and rasps and all, they broke into an unstoppable fit of giggling and laughter. The next morning, Mohammed and his brother arrived at Summerfield’s door at 6.30 sharp—at the head of ten other children eager to set to work on the British throne toilet as they had now baptised it.

  Summerfield and the small army of children began digging the large cesspit. Raja appeared, providing them with drinking water and looking at Summerfield, he noticed worriedly, with nothing short of glowering adulation. Badr, too, once his work was done, lent a hand, joking that even the tribal Kaïd, leader of the whole valley, didn’t possess such a magnificent set of thrones as this. And then, once again the village Mullah paid a visit. Hobbling into sight and nearly toppling into the deepening hole, he steadied himself on his stick, his mouth setting into a thinly disguised smile of disapproval.

  ‘I see that you have not yet thought about water, Englishman,’ he said, tutting fretfully. ‘And even if you do find an answer, who do you think will administrate the construction? Clean out the system, ensure the hygiene of the thrones, dig out the mess when it blocks and deepen the throne holes when they have been too often used? And what about the possible abuse of Holy Laws? There is much more to this than you have thought, Mister Summerfield.’

  The crowd of workers stood silent and motionless. Summerfield looked steadily at them before turning to the Mullah.

  ‘Respected Mullah, many hundreds of years ago, the kings and savants of your great religion were among the first to provide the civilised world with proper hygiene and waste evacuation. Their marvellous work eradicated disease and brought purity to the world when London was a stink hole of plague and filth. If I can help this valley, being inspired by your farsighted forefathers, then it will not be heresy.’ The Mullah remained silent, chewing on a wisp of his beard, thinking. ‘And indeed I must thank you, Respected Mullah,’ added Summerfield.

  ‘Thank me?’ The old man rai
sed his eyebrows. All eyes turned to him and his face fought between relentless animosity and a concession of pride.

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir. For I, Summerfield, am a dreamer. Since the beginning, I have been dreaming at every moment during the planning of this construction. And your sharp insights and criticisms have made me stop and think—because every dreamer requires a realist to ensure the success of a project. Children—everybody—I propose to applaud our Respected Mullah for his indirect help!’ The army of workers broke into—not as Summerfield had expected a round of spontaneous clapping—but a jubilant song interspersed with yelps and victory whoops. The old Mullah, at first distrustful, then embarrassed, finally seemed to decide it was best to extract the most from the lost situation and broke into a series of toothless smiles and elegant gestures of acknowledgement.

  Summerfield ate with Badr that evening. The young man was obviously impatient to tell him something and when he gave the news of the French defeat and subsequent armistice, Summerfield felt a strange sense of disinterest overcome him.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ he said, forcing emotion into his voice. ‘This tajine is really good, by the way. Who made it?’

  ‘Raja and her mother,’ replied Badr, scratching his goatee.

  ‘Mmm. Delicious. You know—Raja’s a lovely girl. An awful character, though. How old is she now? Fifteen? Sixteen? I caught her looking at me in a strange way this morning. I hope she isn’t…’

  ‘Harry, I don’t understand you. Not so long ago you were filled with anger at not being able to join your war,’ interrupted Badr, shaking his head. ‘And now, you talk about food and young women. And by the way,’ added the young man, parenthetically, ‘Raja is destined to be my wife. We were chosen for each other when she was nine and I fifteen.’

  Summerfield froze. ‘Hell—sorry, Badr.’