Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  So the days passed and Summerfield watched from his window, worried for little Raja and guilty too as she disappeared from the life of the valley. If only he had paid more attention, perhaps spotted the killing aim before the shot, pushed Badr to safety. The haunting thoughts and hypotheses came frequently to his sleep.

  They called him a hero now, the English warrior who, with such temerity and calmness, had stepped up to the monster Abrach and coldly blown his head away; the hero who had dared to defy tradition through his love for his friend; Summerfield who had defied—though no names were ever given—his fellow tribesmen and their duty to finish off Badr on the field of battle. Summerfield who had saved the white woman; Summerfield, the uninitiated foreigner who took command of the men in combat and who led them safely home. Summerfield who, in all his humble magnificence, refused to accept the spoils of war and who preferred his men instead to inherit the trophies.

  It troubled him—the salutations, the stories and the visits. The children playing in the snow chanted his name, the men smiled fiercely as he crossed paths, the yarns became ever bigger of feats he had never committed. And most of all, the bragging among the tribesmen, the belief that they were now invincible. Winners of the moment, thought Summerfield, unable to face the inevitable and devastating defeats of tomorrow. For the French soldiers would come. It was as inevitable as the spring.

  Abrach—El Rifni—also troubled his mind. The monster of the mountains, they called him, though only Badr had ever known how he had been before. Summerfield had closed his eyes when he pulled the trigger. The sound—how did Jeanne describe it? Like fat sizzling in the pan. An awful, nagging sound he would never forget. And the oddest thing of all—Abrach himself. Sometimes, the confusion was such that to Summerfield’s mind the man he had killed wasn’t Abrach at all. The genial, generous man who had sponsored him in his penniless, early days in Marrakesh was a different being altogether from the hideous, misshapen bulk who had led the murderers to the hunting lodge and Jeanne. Summerfield had confronted a stranger, the devil geist of a man that had once been Abrach. And now both he and Badr were gone—the two men who had once shown him their friendship and allowed him to survive. It was a strange, haunting feeling. And a lonely one.

  Meanwhile, Jeanne had taken possession of his bed while he slept on a pile of hay on the floor of his dwelling. She convalesced quickly, the ointments and potions the village women administered miraculously making her bruises vanish almost overnight, smoothing away the cut on her cheek, healing the pain in her lower abdomen. Cured physically, realised Summerfield, but still and probably for much longer desperately ill inside.

  Indeed, Jeanne had withdrawn completely into herself. There were days when she said nothing at all. She lay on Summerfield’s bed or else huddled, knees drawn, by the fire, avoiding him. Summerfield was patient. He ensured she was kept warm, received daily visits from the women and gave portions of his meagre food to supplement her own. She was moody, regularly goading him, scared at the thought of carrying child, then unsettlingly silent for long periods of time. The only real attention she offered was towards the small bundle of correspondence she had retrieved. It began to annoy Summerfield. It wasn’t so much the thought that she had fallen in love with Jim Wilding—that he had accepted—but rather the way in which she almost worshipped the letters, making a rather histrionic demonstration of protecting them whenever anyone got too close to her. She read them at least three times a day in what Summerfield soon realised was a sort of ritual. Read, smile, put them aside, hide them, cry, grow angry, feel reproach, sleep—only to wake again and repeat the process. Summerfield felt powerless. He felt angry. What had she done with his own letters he had so tenderly sent her all that time ago?

  Outside, the weather reached a peak of severity towards the end of the first week of January and then calmed. The old Mullah informed him the snows had stopped and would not come again until the following November. Sunshine peeped occasionally through the clouds and in some places the thick white crust of snow began to melt. Towards mid-month it drizzled then rained for two days and the village paths were turned into a quagmire.

  Then, one day, Raja showed her face again, slipping head bowed out of her house on the pretext of a chore, only to return an hour later, noted Summerfield, with her head held high and the permanent frown of sadness replaced by a look of quiet determination.

  It got warmer. The people got hungrier. Up above the village behind the fortified walls of the Kasbah, the granaries were now nearly empty. The Kaïd placed armed guards in front of them and his men distributed increasingly smaller rations to the people of the valley. The same words could be heard twenty times a day—never had there been such a hard and empty winter. A child died, then another. The curious hollowness around the eyes that accompanied malnutrition was present on many faces. Dogs and cats began to mysteriously disappear. In December, most of the valley’s fowl had been slaughtered and now it was the turn of the goats and mules. Towards the end of January only the fittest, finest beasts were kept to regenerate the herds in spring while the others were killed, cut up and distributed equally among the families. Desperate prayers were said, imploring God to see the seeds safely through the frozen days until the thaw. Great hope was placed on the early spring crops of millet to bring the valley back from starvation. Along with the other men and boys, Summerfield went hunting for any game—rabbits and wild goats, but also birds and mice that could be boiled and stewed. Excepting the guts which were fed to the few dogs remaining, nothing was thrown away and everything from head to tail consumed. A man from a neighbouring village was stabbed while attempting to kill a cat and both owner and thief spent a week in the Kasbah locked in separate cell rooms.

  Summerfield, unable to stand the heavy silence of Jeanne’s presence, paid a visit of respect to Raja and her family, glad to breathe freely. Sinking mid-calf in the mud as he crossed the stretch of track between his abode and Raja’s house, he caught sight of her mother waving to him from the window. Finally, extracting his foot from a particularly tenacious muddy hold, he stepped up to the threshold and edged his way to the window where he found himself almost nose to nose with Raja’s mother.

  ‘Salaam, Lâlla Tizni. My deepest respects,’ said Summerfield, clinging onto the sill so as not to fall back into the mud. ‘And to Raja, too. Pray tell me, where is she? I would like to speak to her.’

  ‘She is by the fields, clearing snow,’ replied the woman, with that curious warbling voice that Raja seemed to have inherited. ‘And your help might be most welcome, perhaps.’

  Summerfield frowned. ‘Ah. Well, I will go.’

  ‘Yes, go.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Summerfield, hesitating. Mrs Tizni seemed rather odd today, he thought. Perhaps the prolonged crying. ‘Salaam.’ He bade goodbye and edged carefully back along the wall.

  He picked his way along the edge of the track where the rocks and stones made walking easier and descended towards the first set of terraces on the valley side where Raja’s family had sown their crops the previous November. The olive trees stood twisted and grey and he surprised himself with the thought that in another month or so they would bud into colour. He had almost forgotten the striking beauty of the greens and pinks that lit up the mountains.

  He spotted Raja before she saw him, a small, vigorous bundle of black, squatting as she pushed away the snow with a plank of wood. The squelching of his steps informed her of his presence and she looked up as he came within talking distance. She stood up. Her legs were brown with mud up to her knees and she was sweating from her work. Summerfield could smell her sweet, spicy odour.

  ‘Raja,’ he said. ‘Hello.’

  ‘The hero,’ she replied, terse-lipped. The theatrical frown she used to express discontent cut deep into her forehead. ‘May God care of you.’

  ‘And you yourself, dear bereaved Raja.’ Her frown relaxed and she seemed a little embarrassed. Summerfield stood silent, watching her, aware despite the layers of clothes she was
wearing that she had lost quite a bit of weight. ‘Your mother proposed I might help.’

  ‘She would propose that to a mule and I might accept.’

  Summerfield sighed deeply, glancing away and then back at her. ‘You look thinner.’

  ‘Surprising,’ commented Raja, picking up her plank of wood again.

  ‘The pain was great for me too, Raja. I have also come to pay my respects.’

  Raja hummed and looked down. ‘I thank you, then. Now,’ she continued, squatting down, ‘I must continue with my work.’

  ‘And I will stay and help.’

  ‘I do not need help.’

  ‘You do,’ insisted Summerfield.

  ‘I don’t,’ answered Raja, beginning to heave the plank into action.

  ‘It looks heavy.’

  ‘I am a Berber woman. I know how to do a man’s work.’

  Again Summerfield sighed deeply and exhaled just as noisily.

  ‘Your mother said I could help Raja and not the donkey I have sitting in front of me.’

  ‘Oh!’ The young woman let out a little gasp of shock. ‘You haven’t changed, you English. Even your old self comes back through the hero.’

  ‘I am not a hero,’ said Summerfield, shaking his head. ‘It’s what people want in order to turn their minds from their empty bellies.’ He glanced aside and caught sight of a rake propped up against an olive tree. He stepped tentatively across and took it.

  ‘Harry—I did not accept your help.’

  ‘Your mother said I was to.’

  ‘Maybe you are lying. I will ask her later and then apologise if necessary.’ Summerfield edged closer to her, upturned the rake and began pushing away the snow. ‘No, I said.’ Summerfield continued, grunting as he pushed with all his strength. ‘I said no!’ repeated Raja.

  ‘And I say yes!’ he finally shouted. ‘Raja—you stubborn, naughty child—’

  ‘I am not a child!’ she shouted back, her voice rising to a high-pitched wail. ‘I’m a widow—a woman!’

  ‘You are!’ returned Summerfield.

  Raja rose, holding the plank between her two hands and approached him.

  ‘Raja—what d’you count on doing? Don’t—’

  Too late. She was against him now, pushing at him with the plank with all her force. Summerfield felt ridiculous and wondered if anyone up at the village was looking at them. And then, with one almighty heave, Raja sent Summerfield slipping. He let out a shout, desperately flung out his arm to grab Raja, missed her and plunged back first into the quagmire with a loud slap.

  ‘You cow! You sheep’s arse of a woman!’ he shouted, his anger worsened by the fact that it was impossible to extract himself from the mud. ‘Help me, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘Do not blaspheme the Prophet!’ said Raja, her initial gape of surprise turning into laughter. ‘Oh, no! Summerfield, you make me—make me laugh!’ Her voice cracked into a joyous screech and she shuddered with the effort, her eyes streaming with tears. ‘Oh, how stupid you look. Oh, poor proud Englishman!’

  ‘Just help me,’ said Summerfield, his anger subsiding as her screeches became contagious.

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve laughed for two months!’ said Raja, bending down and trying to reach across with her hand. ‘I can’t.’ She leant forwards, picking up the rake and offering the handle to Summerfield who had at last managed to wriggle his back free to reach a sitting position. ‘Pull.’ Summerfield pulled and Raja let herself fall. She landed with a splat beside him and rolled onto her side.

  ‘You did that on purpose!’ whined Summerfield, himself now laughing.

  ‘Of course,’ giggled Raja, her face covered in smears of rich brown mud.

  ‘And how, oh stubborn woman, are we to get out of this now!’

  Minutes later, having crawled, slipped and wriggled like snakes, they were sitting breathless in the snow beside the little field. Their laughter had subsided, only Raja, obviously still thinking of the picture he must have given, letting out a low unrelenting chuckle.

  ‘Look at us,’ said Summerfield, making a grimace as he glanced first at her then himself. ‘We’re filthy.’

  ‘I don’t care. It was so funny,’ said Raja, suddenly timid. ‘Thank you, Harry.’

  Summerfield caught her regard for an instance, those jet black eyes that sparkled a little, just like before. A warm, baffling feeling shivered through him and he leant towards her, ever so carefully, so that his shoulder momentarily touched hers.

  ‘We have both lost something, Raja—and the pain was so great.’

  ‘Badr was a splendid man, Harry.’ Summerfield nodded. ‘When I think we were to marry in the spring—after all this time and waiting…’

  ‘It is sorrowful.’

  ‘It was written. It had to be.’

  ‘Raja, please.’ Summerfield shook his head. ‘Do not echo what the elders say. Express what you really feel and do not cover up life’s injustice with easy words about fate.’

  Raja looked up and he thought she was about to retort, when her eyes softened again.

  ‘I feel,’ she said, tentatively, ‘like the sky has collapsed. Like the stars were killed. That the world about me is without light.’ She gave a strange little sound, like a hiccup. ‘At least, it was like that for many weeks. And then, one day I decided to go out.’

  Summerfield nodded. ‘I watched you from my window.’

  ‘And I noticed that there was colour,’ continued Raja. ‘That the smallest of things—birds, the children, rabbit prints in the snow—were real. I knew then that Badr was part of it and that he had left to become the details around us. I knew that it was impossible to bring him back to the village.’

  Summerfield studied her, surprised more than anything else. ‘Raja—I didn’t know you could speak like that. Why? Why do you pretend to be a strong, unthinking woman all the time?’

  ‘Because I am!’ said Raja, suddenly switching back. ‘I’m both. But women cannot show thoughts or deep ideas about things.’

  ‘With me you can,’ said Summerfield. ‘In fact, it’s what you’ve just done. I’d much prefer a wife who could be both brave and funny and with whom I could talk with about serious things too.’

  ‘A wife? You?’

  ‘Well, yes!’ frowned Summerfield. ‘Am I that undesirable?’

  ‘You have the white woman.’ Raja’s face took on a trace of cheekiness.

  He let out a guffaw. ‘No—no, not that.’

  ‘Some say you knew her from before?’

  ‘You know perfectly well I did, so there’s no need to ask a question,’ said Summerfield.

  ‘Well, if a man lives with a woman under the same roof,’ answered Raja with hardness in her voice, ‘in our traditions it means only one thing.’

  Summerfield waved her away.

  ‘What’s more, it is sin if you are not married.’

  ‘I tell you I—we—are not…’ Silence. Summerfield battled for his words. ‘Not you know—doing things.’

  Raja hummed and clucked her tongue. She scratched her cheek with grimy fingers. Summerfield suddenly had the feeling she was bothered by something, but couldn’t quite pin it down.

  ‘I think you were once in love with her, am I wrong?’ she probed, feigning disinterest.

  Summerfield shrugged his shoulders. ‘We both were. Terribly in love. I could have died for her—and very nearly did.’

  ‘Then why don’t you love each other again?’

  ‘Raja,’ sighed Summerfield, leaning back to look keenly at her. ‘You’re very curious.’

  ‘A woman who isn’t might be a man in disguise!’

  ‘Who made up that silly saying?’

  ‘Me,’ replied Raja, smiling cheekily. ‘Shame on you for calling me silly.’

  ‘Well,’ resumed Summerfield, shaking his head again—really, this young cat was beyond his understanding—‘Time passed, things happened, we changed, fate—’

  ‘You said fate was—’

  ‘I know, I know
,’ rectified Summerfield, irritably. ‘What I meant was that she found another love. A better love.’

  ‘A better love than yours?’ chirped Raja, half-amused, half-flattering.

  ‘No need to mock me, Raja. I can tell you it damn well hurt—as much as Badr. I say a better love because I know the man and he is good. And if ever she manages to return to him, he is intelligent and wealthy enough to offer her a good life.’

  ‘I do not need wealth,’ said Raja and checked herself. ‘So—perhaps yes, you were right. We have both suffered.’

  ‘Our hearts died,’ added Summerfield. ‘But somehow hearts manage to come back to life—like the seeds of a wilted flower.’

  Raja gave a little grunt and clucked her tongue again. ‘So, here we are.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ said Raja, falling into silence. Then: ‘So if I understand, the white woman—Jeanne—she has no desire for you?’

  ‘Raja—I’ve just told you!’ Summerfield felt exasperated. What was she after?

  ‘And you have no desire for her, in that case—am I wrong?’

  ‘Stop asking me if you’re wrong,’ said Summerfield, irritably. ‘Because you want to convince yourself that you are right!’

  ‘Well?’ Raja’s voice too had grown irritable. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Why in heaven’s name—?’ began Summerfield and then stopped. Could it be—could it be that Raja was jealous? Good God! At that moment, he looked at her looking at him and realised she hadn’t so much lost weight through grief as through change. A change in her body. The past four months had seen her shed her adolescence. Gone were the full, rounded forms of her body and face and now—she was right—she was a woman.