The Last Patriarch

by Najat El Hachmi

  7

  Fatma

  Some people teach you sex and some teach you love. Mimoun thought Fatma was teaching him love. He thought she’d fallen in love from the way she caressed him whenever she invited him into her bedroom. There was indeed some tenderness in her gestures. Unless it was because Mimoun was only twelve and had still to learn about the tenderness that existed in the world.

  Fatma lived next door, and was the oldest cousin Mimoun’s uncle still had to marry off. They say her father was so fed up she was still at home he’d even ‘offered’ to marry her off. Fatma had walked past her father and some women sitting near the road, watching the cars that sped across the landscape every two or three hours. Fatma, no doubt, balanced a bundle of damp washing on her head as she walked along, swinging her hips left and right as she so liked to do, her sly grin giving you a silent come-on. They say her father must have then made the famous comment everyone heard differently. What a wonderful backside, and still waiting to be premièred! How can any man on this earth resist that?

  What Fatma’s father can’t have known is that her backside had already enjoyed numerous premières. The girl was a virgin, of course; she had to preserve her honour for her wedding day and show all and sundry the blood stain on the white sheet the day after her wedding night when the women’s tongues would unleash their celebratory you-yous.

  Hymen intact, Fatma enjoyed her mother’s say-so to disappear to the back of the house with some boys from the village where, sheltered by the large prickly pears surrounding the rain-streaked walls, she did it or let herself be done.

  The worst gossips even tell of days when Fatma’s father was in the city and her mother let her take the odd boy to her own bedroom. Come on, hurry up, and remember, don’t let him do anything in front, would have been her words of advice.

  Mimoun had caught Fatma by surprise with her cheek against the clay wall, her dress up to her waist and her serual around her ankles, offering herself up. Long before she’d taken a fancy to his perfectly placed mole, to his soot-black eyes that always looked at her full of curiosity, and to those lips that seemed about to leap from his still half-childish face. Fatma knew lots about sex, and he thought she was teaching him love.

  He thought she was teaching him love on one of those afternoons when everyone was having an afternoon nap and the only sound was of crickets chirp-chirping. A very hot, dry afternoon, when Mimoun had called at his uncle’s house to ask for some oil, no doubt because his grandmother was cooking remsemmen3 and had run out halfway through. He arrived home late and the pastry must have been flakier than ever.

  Smiling that smile that was a silent come-on, Fatma had said this way, taking him to the back of her room, where the half shut door let in a thin ray of light. It was a blue, blue door when Fatma said do this or lie like that, stretch out like a husband, nobody’s here, don’t worry, your uncle will be back very late. And then gripped him where people didn’t usually, squeezed him with both hands, and took it even further. And he didn’t know how to react, whether to go all the way or be afraid of the woman who was making him tingle. I won’t hurt you, I’m not going to bite, you’ll like this a lot, you’ll be coming back all the time because you won’t be able to live without what I’m going to do to you now. All men like this. And she placed herself on all fours and said, now come in here for a bit, do it this way.

  Mimoun, who’d had no previous sexual experience in which he’d played the leading role, soon came and fell in love, all at the same time, though all the while thinking it’s time you had a proper husband, and high time you stopped offering your behind to all and sundry.

  He thought how he might tell grandfather. Are you mad? The woman’s ten year’s older than you, and the filthiest slut in the village by a long chalk. Perhaps better first tell his mother, who loved him, who was the most caring of women. He was sure she’d understand. Until he walked back between the prickly pear and uncle’s house, that shadowy corner that will hide you from almost everything, and suddenly no longer felt he was in love and that it was no big deal.

  Why did she go after other men if she had him? Why did she betray him? Wasn’t he enough? And he was learning how to caress her, he’d even discovered that spot women have that’ll drive them crazy if you squeeze it, so they say.

  Fatma hadn’t gone crazy for Mimoun and he must have felt like one of those floor-cleaning cloths that get left in the corner of the yard, neither entirely wet nor dry. Especially when he saw her bum aloft in front of Mimoun’s uncle, who bit his lip while assailing her. It disgusted him to think he’d passed through that same place. How many had passed that way before him? How many after him? He must have felt like he wanted to be sick and run away as quickly as he could, to a place where nobody would recognise him, as if the whole village knew he’d been humiliated in that way.

  He must have been listening to their panting when he decided he wanted a woman who was his and nobody else’s. Their muffled moans and cries must have come to him while he was thinking that there were no women like his sisters, who were decent and didn’t dare look a strange man in the eye, and the woman he’d choose would be that kind, if not more so. She would be faithful to him even in her thoughts. And if she wasn’t, or if he’d the slightest inkling she wouldn’t be one hundred per cent loyal, he’d soon tame her.

  8

  This isn’t what you’re destined to do

  Either you girls get him up or I will, Mimoun probably heard his grandfather mutter as he curled up under the warm sheets. It wasn’t the best way to start the day, but the fact was Mimoun often slept in, we’ve said how much he liked his sleep, and the truth is the men were often waiting for him in the truck, out on the road.

  The first day he was certainly more punctual, but as the week went by his thirteen-year-old back must have jibbed with every spadeful he loaded into the truck. Either you girls get him up or I will, grandfather probably repeated, seeing his door was still shut. Then it would be grandmother, come on, get up, rhaj4. Moussa’s lads have been waiting for you down the road for ages.

  And she’d let so much light into the room he couldn’t stay there hugging his knees. Not only because of the light, which he could have ignored by keeping his eyes shut. He knew if he pretended to be asleep for much longer, grandfather would stick to his word and chase after him. And grandfather wouldn’t be as gentle at waking his son up as grandmother was. If he was barefoot, it wasn’t quite so bad. It hurt a lot more when he kicked you in the ribs, where there’s less flesh, if the bastard was wearing shoes. Come what may, Mimoun wanted to avoid early morning knocks, for they say it’s the worst time of day to have that kind of upset that lingers with you and does the harm it does.

  We expect he got up in a hurry and went straight to the washbowl in the yard, the one that was always next to the barn, gathered water in his cupped hands and splashed it over his face so the water ran away into the drain.

  Grandmother had probably already smeared his hunk of bread with olive oil, perhaps still of the opinion that her son was too young for such hard labour. But she could do nothing, Mimoun hadn’t benefited from his schooling and if he stayed at home he’d have only created more problems. And he’d already created too many of those. He stole the hens’ eggs she kept for her husband’s breakfast, making a hole in the shells and sucking out the contents; that was probably why he got more robust by the day. He asked her for money she didn’t have and had a right tantrum if she refused. Grandmother went so far as to ask the neighbours’ wives for loans in order to keep him happy, hugely embarrassed, not knowing when she would be able to repay them. She very likely sold the odd rabbit to avoid those horrible cries that always recalled that smack and dull thwap.

  It was some time since she’d taken him for a cure; he just wouldn’t go. She’d say, my son, let’s go and see rhajja and she’ll get rid of your rage, but he’d say it was rubbish and all that smelly woman did was steal their money. So Mimoun had more and more of those tantrums, like a small ch
ild, when he didn’t hit anyone, not yet, but hit himself as hard as he could on his chest and legs. He pulled out whole locks of hair and grandmother ran over in a state to try to pull his clenched fingers off his head.

  No one knows if it was because they’d stopped going to see rhajja or because Mimoun was getting older, but the fact was the headaches he caused were getting worse. Until grandfather must have said enough is enough, this layabout has been idling too long. I’d been working for some time, he’d say, at his age, and not just in the fields, but asphalting roads under the midday sun.

  As there weren’t many roads left that anyone wanted to asphalt, grandfather spoke to rhaj Moussa and his sons. He’d go with them and their truck and load up the sand they transported to the city, where someone could afford the luxury of building houses with bricks, cement and tiles rather than adobe and lime, as they did locally.

  The work wasn’t difficult in itself. Filling the barrow with sand, one spadeful after another, bending his backbone a thousand times to get a good load and, with each spadeful, loading more sand for the truck. Pushing the barrow up the wooden ramp, where he couldn’t fit both his feet, reaching the top part of the truck and tipping in the contents of the barrow. This was probably what he liked doing most, but it didn’t last long. And the dust got everywhere, left your lips dry so they cracked after a few days of doing the same thing over and over. It left your head white as if you’d suddenly aged, and your hands so rough they’d never be the same again.

  To begin with, Moussa’s sons were pleasant enough. They encouraged him to race against them, to see who could load the barrow first, see who could get there first, who could go on working the longest. Mimoun always won, until he won so often the others stopped competing. As you do it so well, we’ll leave it all to you.

  Mimoun was happy, especially when he received the first money that was his and nobody else’s. He used the last trip into the city to buy a kilo of veal; he kept the rest to buy cigarettes. He wouldn’t have to play tricks on his mother anymore or look for cigarette butts on the road from which to get a last drag. Not anymore. And he’d come home with the kilo of meat for the stew, give it to his mother and kiss her on her white headscarf that smelled of cloves and vinegar. Forgive me, mother, for making you suffer so, forgive me, I know I’ve upset you a lot, but you know I never did it on purpose. I know, my son, I know, and she must have cried she was so sorry for that adolescent who’d soon be a man. Didn’t I say this lad was good-hearted? I know, my son, I know, you’re a good boy and you’ll look after your father and me when we’re old. His sisters probably started kissing and hugging him all at the same time.

  Until the day he felt a big drop of sweat roll between his shoulder blades and down his aching back. Moussa’s two sons were by the river, in the shade, smoking under a tree that bent over the water. They were so relaxed they’d half-closed their eyes and were resting their chins on the palms of their hands.

  Mimoun felt that big round drop of sweat and saw through them, although he’d begun to get an inkling a few days earlier. Hey! Am I doing all the work then? Of course, what did you think? It’s our truck, you idiot. They saw him turn red, his eyes blazing, and he couldn’t stop shouting. You shitty buggers, you’ve been taking me for a ride all this time. You twat-faced bastards, he kept repeating, running as fast as he could and stopping now and then to pick a rock up and hurl it at them as hard as he could. Moussa’s sons tried to dodge the rocks as they ran after him, come here, you prick, we’ll give you some real medicine, not what your pathetic father gives out, you ungrateful sod.

  Mimoun must have run fast. He always said he ran home hell for leather. Summer took its toll on him but it would have been worse if he’d been caught by the two brothers, who told grandfather everything.

  While he was running, come here, you prick, Mimoun realised this wasn’t what he was fated to do.

  9

  The collapse of the natural order

  Mimoun locked himself in the boys’ bedroom and decided never to come out. Nobody knew exactly what had happened, but then Mimoun had these moods. He could go into his room after lunch and not resurface until evening, so nobody thought it strange if he came in from work and slammed his bedroom door behind him.

  Grandmother must have noticed his face was more transfigured than usual. The yard went silent and his sisters exchanged glances, but carried on shelling peas for dinner. What’s up with him now?

  We don’t know if anyone noticed that Mimoun was soaked in sweat and his face was about to explode. He stayed shut in his room while the girls got everything ready, shelling peas, peeling potatoes, shooing the hens back into their shed, collecting the clothes drying on the bushes around the house and taking a moment off to chat to Fatma, who gave them that come-hither look and told them how she’d tattooed a mole under the corner of her lips. Make a small, dry cut with a razor and fill it with kohl, right, or whatever you have to hand. God will punish you for mutilating your body like that. But Fatma belonged to a type of woman that was alien to them.

  Grandfather got back from work, because he was still flattening the odd sandy path nobody wanted to asphalt, and took off the djellaba he always wore to shield himself against the weather even in that heat. He took the pan of boiling water off the embers, added cold water so as not to scald himself and went behind the house, to the area sheltered by prickly pears, to perform his ablutions before evening prayers.

  Grandmother patched Mimoun’s trousers and mended socks: she could still thread a needle even as the sun was beginning to set. She prayed in front of her open bedroom door, lit all the oil lamps in the house and supervised the girls in the kitchen. She warmed up the bread on the embers in the yard, because she hadn’t baked that day and what was left was too cold to eat as it was. She went out for a walk down in front of the house and met up with Fatma’s mother on her step, holding the doorjamb while she looked out at the countryside. They probably gossiped about who’d gotten married and what so-and-so’s daughter had done and grandmother must have stooped down more than once to cut the grass the doe rabbits like so much.

  All this happened while Mimoun was still shut in his room intending never to emerge.

  All this happened while grandfather went to the mosque and met rhaj Moussa holding his rosary beads and shaking his head. Your son’s beyond the pale, Driouch, I don’t know if you’ll ever get him back on the straight and narrow. Grandfather must have felt embarrassed face to face with the man who’d trusted him and allowed his son to work with his two boys. He stared at the ground while he listened to rhaj’s version, crouching down and hoping no one else could hear. He used very strong language, so strong he couldn’t even repeat his words, was even rude about his mother. Driouch, I know you’re not to blame, I know you well enough and can’t think how you spawned such a little devil. He’s diseased, nobody behaves like that for no good reason, he must be sick.

  We don’t know if grandfather managed to go to congregational prayers. We do know he didn’t stay on for the conversations that usually take place once the communication with the Supreme One is over. He most certainly hurried along the road, lifting up his djellaba, hands in pockets, so he could take bigger strides. I’ll cure you of all this, he thought, as he turned up the slope to his house.

  It was dark by now and the occasional frog croaked when grandfather started banging on the blue door with all his might. Come out, you son of a bitch, you bastard. We’ve been shamed before the whole village, why did you behave so crazily yet again? Don’t worry, I’ll cure you for good. Come out, you little devil, or I’ll knock the door down.

  Mimoun didn’t answer. Anyone might have thought he couldn’t care less, if it hadn’t been for the blood pounding ever more quickly through the veins in his neck. You bastard, you bastard, he was always so quick to insult grandmother when something like this happened. He could also hear her from inside. Let him be, you know what he’s like, he’ll come out tomorrow.

  But when you’re ridicul
ed in front of someone you respect, rage comes to your lips, your fists, every part of your body, and you can’t stop cursing and lashing out.

  He went on so long Mimoun began to think that this time he wouldn’t let him escape and walk off scot-free. He remembered the episode with the prickly pear and thought if that happened when he was still a kid, his punishment now would be much worse if it was to make any impact.

  He readied himself by the door. He waited for grandfather to smash it down while the blood pounded in his neck and temples.

  Grandfather finally gathered momentum and banged his shoulder against the wood as hard as he could. Again and again. And yet again while his daughters, wife, cousins and sister-in-law came upstairs when they heard the noise and tried to stop him. ‘Bastard’ was the last word he uttered before the door burst open and rebounded off the wall.

  They stared into one another’s eyes. We don’t know if Mimoun was still afraid, we don’t know if grandfather was afraid, but Mimoun brought a tightly clenched fist from behind his back and hit his father’s nose as hard as he could. With his eyes shut and before grandfather had had a chance to hit him.

  Mimoun didn’t wait to see how his father would react; it would have been too risky. He slipped between all the people trying to stop him, threw off all the hands and arms that got near him, not knowing if he’d hurt him a lot, if his nose had started to bleed, or if it had all run off him like a jug of cold water. It was the first time a son had hit his father, it was to turn the natural order of things upside down: it was something nobody could ever have imagined.