A Palace in the Old Village

by Tahar Ben Jelloun

  The shadow disappeared. Mohammed was trembling, bone tired. What should he do? Believe the spectre or laugh at it? He made his ablutions and prayed again for God’s help and support. Feeling almost at peace, he went off to his old house to sleep. His night was long and painful, cruelly upset by insomnia. Unable to lie still, he would get up, walk around, then collapse back in a bed that creaked and moved as if shaken by invisible hands. He felt that everything was slipping from his grasp, that he had nothing to hold on to. When his Koran fell from the table where it sat covered by material from the paternal shroud, a few pages fluttered loose and were carried away in the air. In a panic, Mohammed would have liked to know which sura had flown away, he would have liked to read it over and over, but that was impossible. He prayed until the sun rose. He tried to find where the missing pages had landed, but there was no trace of them, and when he opened the Koran, he was stunned to see that every page was blank. The verses had been wiped away, swallowed by something unseen. Wrapping the Koran in its piece of shroud, he clutched it to his breast, and fell asleep like that on the floor, on his little prayer rug, huddled up with an expression of agony on his face. Now and then he awoke shivering. It was midsummer, and he was cold, sweating; he could feel a fever rising.

  The house mirrored the confusion of his thoughts and in particular the illusions he still harboured. The bathrooms were on the first floor, with Turkish toilets, as in hammams. His children would never use them. They had never seen toilets without a commode, not even in a movie. Mohammed climbed up to the terrace and studied the horizon. Blue, mauve, orange, white: he saw the sky—or imagined it—in his favorite colours. The air was pure, without the slightest breath of wind. A great silence enveloped this world, his world. Gradually he began to feel better there, as if reconciled with himself and this outside world; he had settled in there and no longer heard the distant sounds of the road or the words of the black-clothed shadow. Looking around, he could see that he was the only man to possess such a big house, and that didn’t worry him at all. On the contrary, he felt proud: he, at least, had thought of his family, unlike those immigrants who abandoned wife and children and came home to work in their fields while waiting to marry a little shepherdess.

  Mohammed went from floor to floor, counting the rooms, losing track and starting over. He spent the evening floundering in calculations, trying in vain to find out how much all this had cost him. At bedtime, he realised there was no water to perform his ablutions before the last prayer of the day. He went to his old house, washed quickly, and returned to the new house, determined to get it ready for his long-cherished goal, his dream, his passion: to welcome his children as the real head of a family, like a lord, a responsible father. He reflected that other men have the drive and aspiration to amass a fortune, or to become a government minister or a stationmaster, whereas his ambition was of the utmost simplicity: to gather his children around him. That was not too much to ask of God, of LaFrance, of the vicissitudes of life—to bring his children here, to this dry countryside, and that unparalleled house, at his age, in this year when his life had changed rhythm and direction.

  He considered each of his children in turn. Mourad, the eldest: he’s kind, obedient, and eager for my blessing; he’ll come, even though he’s married to a Christian. Rachid, who calls himself Richard, is uncomfortable in his own skin; he got away from me early on, spending more time playing in our building’s courtyard than doing his homework. But he’ll come if his big brother insists. Othmane is a good boy; he’ll do what his wife tells him, though. A Moroccan woman from Casablanca, she has never liked us and thinks herself better than all of us put together, simply because her parents weren’t emigrants, so I’m not sure they’ll come. Jamila will, however, because it would provide a chance for our reconciliation, yet I’m doubtful about her as well because she holds a grudge and is as stubborn as I am. As for Nabile, he’ll be so happy to be here, with me. And my last little girl, Rekya, she’ll obey me without question. At least I think so.

  One Friday evening, ignoring the threats of the black thing, Mohammed summoned the readers of the Koran. Among them he noticed a very tall, slender man all in white, to whom he mentioned the black shadow, which made the other man smile. During the reading, a butcher cut the throat of a calf on the threshold while Mohammed’s wife burned incense within the house and poured a few drops of milk in all the corners. The house was blessed but uninhabitable. Prayers recited in a droning voice echoed within the walls in a strange, disturbing way, and when a few thin fissures appeared on those walls, one reader rose and ran off, convinced that jinns were at work.*

  Out on the patio, the men ate in silence (and rather quickly) from a large platter of couscous. The tall man took Mohammed aside to tell him confidentially that his house needed more protection, that a single evening of reading would not be enough. The demon’s resistance must be overcome, he told him.

  I believe that the people of the house, the owners, the ones you have disturbed, are demanding reparation, and only the word of God is effective against these beings who emerge from the stones in a black dust that swells into a menacing presence. You must double the number of readers, even if you have to bring them in from Bouya Omar—you know, the saint who cures madmen: they will know how to address the wicked creatures that swarm under the earth, waiting to find you alone and tear you to pieces.* Do you remember what happened some ten years ago, when Bouchta defied them? No, you don’t remember, or you weren’t there; well, the poor man fell into a hole that quickly filled up with dirt—and he was gone! And yet he’d been warned, told that the property, bought for a mouthful of bread, was inhabited by the invisible people—you know who I mean—but he wouldn’t listen to anyone, didn’t want to know. One evening, even before he’d begun to build, while he was out walking around the property, the earth just swallowed him up without a trace, so he never even had a proper funeral, since the body had vanished. It’s a serious matter; perhaps you think I’m merely telling stories, but the facts are there. In any case, as a good Muslim you have nothing to fear. Don’t forget: next Friday, an entire night of reading.

  After everyone was gone, Mohammed and his wife found themselves staring at a headless calf soaked in blood. All they could do was stand there. They looked at each other, then left the house in the middle of a moonless night filled with clouds in the shape of calves’ heads. Early the next morning the butcher took the animal away to cut it up. Each family received its share of meat. The portions were fair, so the villagers’ comments were more or less polite.

  16

  WITH THE LAST OF HIS SAVINGS, Mohammed bought furnishings for part of the house, including a sprung leather armchair he delivered to a spot outside his front door in a rented Honda. Taking advantage of the long shopping trip to Marrakech, he’d phoned all his children to invite them to join him and had even forced himself to call Jamila, whom he had expelled from his life when she’d married a European. He’d had to leave messages on everyone else’s answering machines; Jamila had been the only one home.

  It’s your father, yes I’m fine, in fact, things are going very well: the house is finished and I’m expecting you, so come, my daughter, you’ll see how big and beautiful it is, the loveliest house in the whole village…. What do you mean you can’t? You’re saying no to your father, who spent months building a little palace for you? No, my daughter, you’ll come for Eid al-Kebir. Arrange things with your brothers and come as a group: drive carefully, no speeding, I bless you, my daughter, may God keep you and give you health and happiness, see you soon, my daughter. As he was about to hang up, he heard her shout, But, Papa, are you crazy? What’s this business about a house? Do you think I can just leave work, abandon my husband, and come prance around out in the sticks in your dinky little dump? Papa, please, wake up! The world has changed, and I’m not the little girl you used to shower with candies anymore. That’s over—give up, move on, forget this house and this idea of bringing us all back together as if we didn’t have ou
r own lives to live…. Come on, Papa, don’t wear yourself out. Bye-bye, hugs and kisses….

  Mohammed was somewhat shaken, and perplexed, but he trusted his intuition: she would come.

  For all the others, he left a message, which he had always refused to do when he was in France: The house is ready, it’s big, you each have your room—come, I’m expecting you so we can celebrate Eid al-Kebir together: I’ve bought six sheep, so you’ll each have your own. You’ll see how handsome and spacious the house is, full of light and sweet smells. May God keep you! I’m looking forward to seeing you! If you drive down, be careful! The whole village is expecting you! We’ll finally be able to live as one big happy family! He dialed Jamila again, leaving a message when she didn’t pick up, speaking, perhaps, into a void: Jamila, my daughter, it’s your father calling you. I didn’t understand what you just told me. I’m waiting for you in the house, in the village, for the feast of Eid al-Kebir. It’s a family reunion, so come without your husband! I’m counting on you!

  I spoke to their machines, Mohammed told his wife. I hope those things will transmit my messages without changing them—unless they add that children should obey their father!

  Mohammed was absolutely certain: his family reunion would indeed take place. He would finally have his happy ending.

  The evening before the festival, he asked one of his nephews, the deaf-mute shepherd, to wait at the entrance to the village for the arriving visitors, to show them the rest of the way. Meanwhile Mohammed sat in his armchair, in the shade near the front door of the house, and waited. He fiddled with some prayer beads, trying to be patient, and gradually grew calmer, although he still felt twinges of anxiety. His wife had already gone to bed back in their old house, and Mohammed felt a little lonely, not abandoned, exactly, but rather misunderstood. Why isn’t she here, by my side? Why would she rather sleep, when the children will soon be arriving? She must be tired, she must have her reasons. Perhaps she’ll be overjoyed tomorrow to see all of them reunited with us in this beautiful house, and she’ll thank me. It’s not our custom to say thank you, but we show our satisfaction with a gesture or a smile.

  Strange … I don’t remember ever laughing with my wife. No great peals of mirth like some people have, no familiarity. We don’t talk much. I can’t remember ever having any long discussions with her, either. I think we agree about everything. We’ve never had an argument. That’s normal—we’re married. That’s what marriage is: the wife agrees with her husband. That’s how it is with us anyway. But now, tonight, I don’t understand why she isn’t with me. Doesn’t she like the house? She hasn’t said anything to me. I guess she thinks it’s too big. Maybe she’s right, but a family house should be large. I know it doesn’t look like any other house in the village. My wife fears the evil eye, and this house can be seen from all sides. She must be tired, or else she’s praying to God to guide our children here. I know her; she’s not trying to be mean to me; she’s just busy making sure our plan succeeds: burning incense, pouring milk in the corners of each room, hanging a talisman on the sole tree in the village, circling a slaughtered rooster seven times, hiring a few benevolent sorcerers to protect us from bad luck, envy, jealousy, problems created by our enemies.

  I can’t think of any enemies; I don’t have any. It’s shadows that pass by and leave their foul odour behind—I’ve never done a thing to make enemies. I’m so modest, so simple, that others don’t bother envying me, I’m too small for jealousy to notice. My wife believes otherwise, she has always practised those rituals and they don’t bother me. It’s best to be careful—you never know. The evil eye! Even the Prophet, it seems, knew about that. Can an eye look with hatred or envy at someone and bring him down? It’s impossible, yet … I do believe in it, but I don’t want to believe in it too much. One day a fellow at the mosque looked at me hard and said, You, they’re after you. I turned around but there was no one there, and he laughed at me. No, it’s an eye that’s after you, a big evil eye. It’s obvious, someone’s jealous and wants to hurt you, so here, take these plant leaves, put them in a teapot, and drink their essence; it will drive away the evil eye. If you want, come see me. I’ve even got an herb that fights fear, yes, it’s true, and for once it’s foreigners that made the discovery—in Italy, I heard.

  No one came. No sound of a car engine, no cloud of dust, nothing. The silence was unnatural. No birds or insects flew by. Nothing moved. Everything froze in place. It was as if the whole world had gone quiet. The silence inside Mohammed was engulfing that of the world. He was there, his heart full of questions and expectation, with only one prayer, murmured like a last wish. Leaning to one side, the house cast a shadow that made it even more imposing, almost threatening. In the bright sky, the twinkling stars left Mohammed feeling rather dizzy, as if he were on a voyage, suspended between heaven and earth, and gazing up at them he thought he saw people, roads, streaks of white. He stared at the moon but could not see a single one of his children there. People say you can see loved ones in the moon. Mohammed couldn’t find anything familiar. The moon was opaque. He let himself drift off, dozed a little. Impossible to really fall asleep. He was watching, his eye on the horizon; his head felt heavy, and there was sadness in his heart. He couldn’t feel his legs anymore but didn’t care.

  Waiting was a painful ordeal, yet not without hope. Mohammed had rarely waited for anyone, and he remembered how he’d haunted the corridors of Moroccan and French government buildings as well as the halls of the hospital where his wife had given birth. He hadn’t paced up and down but found a bench and stayed there. Once a nurse had asked him if he wanted to see his child being born. No, madame, that’s just not done!

  There he was, and for a few seconds he forgot what he was doing. His goodness was that of a man who does not know how to lie. Even for a joke, to make his children laugh, Mohammed had never lied. He was good and paid no mind to what others said. A kind man, with a single weakness written all over his face. One of his daughters had once told him, It’s so obvious that you’re a pushover! It was just a remark, not an insult; a child would not disrespect her father, it’s not done. Mohammed had wondered why children these days would consider kindness a sign of weakness. Did one have to be hard, authoritarian, and unjust to be strong, respected, admired?

  Waiting for the night to end, as if all would become simple in the morning. Waiting for dawn, the sky’s pallor and fatigue, and the resolution to begin the first prayer of the day. Waiting for one’s eyes to close on the light at last for the last time. Waiting, and saying nothing. Not protesting or growing impatient, withdrawing into the silence, into that expectation whose end he could not see. Getting through the night the way one gets through a police barricade or an ordeal. Going to the end of the night, crossing frozen lakes, climbing mountains, passing from one tree to another, steering clear of the big rocks, the wild animals, the wicked people, avoiding interrogations, and above all, not feeling any regret or exhaustion. Making the night a friend, a companion, steeping oneself in its dust and its lassitude.

  The woman was white, wrapped in a white veil. Approaching Mohammed, she held out her right hand, signalling him to follow her, and wide-eyed, he went along with this strange invitation. The woman was light on her feet, walking on tiptoe like a dancer; she took one of Mohammed’s thick, callused hands in her cold grasp and drew him after her as if afraid of losing him along the way. He followed her, smiling, and perhaps even happy. He had become light too. He knew all this was a dream and prayed, If only it doesn’t stop, and then he felt ashamed. In fact, it was a dream within a different dream. He had been thinking about an angel who would bring his children back to him. Mohammed and his guide soon found themselves in what appeared to be a deserted oasis, where everything was blue: sky, earth, water, palm trees, fruit, carpets. He looked at the woman, studying this face that seemed vaguely familiar, for she had the grace and lithe elegance of his wife when they first married. He also saw a resemblance to one of his daughters, but when he went closer to
the woman, everything changed, and her face became one that he had never seen before. Gently, she took off his clothes, invited him to enter a bathtub, washed him, scrubbed his back, added rose water to the bath, and while drying him stroked his shoulders, arms, and hands, which she delicately kissed. After handing him a white linen djellaba, she led him to a large sofa, where she sat down beside him and fed him fruit. After drinking some almond milk, Mohammed fell serenely asleep, gently caressed by the beautiful stranger. The dream within the dream drifted away with the night.