The Boy Who The Set Fire and Other Stories

by Paul Bowles

  The bird had its nest nearby. It stayed a while there, and then it flew away. Baraka opened his eyes a little, and from where he lay, he looked around. He saw the nest and got up. There were three large eggs in it. Then he noticed that the eggs were moving. This frightened him, and he returned to the tree.

  Soon he saw one of the small birds break through its shell. As he looked, the other two also hatched. Two of them were healthy, and the other was feeble.

  The parents arrived. Baraka watched them feed the young birds. The two healthy ones ate hungrily, but the weak one would not touch the food. When the father saw this, he seized the weak one in his beak, and the pieces of broken shell in his claws, and flew away with them. Soon he returned, carrying nothing.

  Baraka opened his eyes. He was sitting forward on his mattress, holding his forehead and sweating. He got up and went into the bathroom. There he stood in front of the mirror, looking to see if there was blood on his forehead. The pain where he had fallen was so strong that he expected to see a great amount of blood. However, there was only a drop.

  He went back to his mattress saying: Strange. Such things don’t happen. Wait while I fill a cigarette with kif.

  He made the cigarette. While I smoke it I’ll drink a glass of tea. And then back to my place to see what happens next.

  He put the teapot onto the mijmah to heat. When it was ready he poured himself a glass of tea and lighted his cigarette. Afterward he shut his eyes. Quickly he was back in the darkness of the forest, near the wall of tree-roots. He found the nest, and looked at it as he passed. There was nothing in it.

  And now he discovered a way of getting past the wall of roots, into the other part of the forest. It was a narrow winding passage. As he pushed ahead, he became aware of a red light flickering in the distance. He watched it moving, and knew it was fire. After a while he came to where he could see the flames. There was a cave ahead, and in its floor was a huge hole, full of fire. As he stood looking, there was an explosion, and the fire belched up like red water out of the hole, higher and higher, until the roof of the cave was a glowing crescent.

  This sight delighted Baraka, for he felt that he had come upon something marvellous. He walked on through the maze of roots. The passage led him out onto open ground at the top of a steep cliff. Far below there was another forest, but he would have needed a two-hundred-yard rope to reach the bottom. He saw that if he went for miles along the edge of the cliff he might find a way down.

  Baraka stood for a while, letting his eye run over the landscape. Then he turned and looked down at the earth near his feet. Not far away squatted a large spider, covered with black hairs. Its eyes were bright blue. As he watched, it began to move toward him. Fear seized him, and the skin tightened all over his body.

  Baraka began to run, back into the maze of roots. Several times he looked over his shoulder and saw the spider coming along behind him. When he got to the darkest part of the forest he stopped looking back, and merely ran. It took him hours to get to the orchard where the roses grew. Then he turned again to see, but as he was looking back he ran full tilt into a tree. There was a terrible crash, and he opened his eyes.

  He was sitting upright on his mattress, staring ahead of him. His breath came in gasps and his clothes were drenched with sweat. He looked at the table. The spider was there, on the edge of the bowl of jduq jmel paste. Now that he had made it real, he was no longer afraid of it. He thought: Other men dream and return with nothing. But I’ve learned how to bring things back. Hamdoul’lah!

  THE SAINT BY ACCIDENT

  THERE WAS A POOR MAN named Bouqoudja who had seven children. He was a nchaioui who smoked kif day and night. His habit was to go fishing at Achaqar on the Atlantic coast, at the place where there is a cave. Outside the entrance there is a hole in the rocks where the fishermen get fresh water.

  One night when he was fishing Bouqoudja went to the hole to get some water, and he set down a large candle on the rocks. His head was full of kif, and after drinking he went away, leaving the candle burning. The following morning when he returned, it was still burning. He went into the cave and sat down in the dark.

  A family arrived at Achaqar to spend the day on the beach, and they came upon the waterhole with the lighted candle beside it. Oh, an altar! they cried. Then they looked into cave and saw the man sitting in the darkness inside. He was smoking kif, but they did not notice that. They said nothing, in order not to disturb him, and went back to leave some coins beside the candle. These were for the saint who they thought was living in the cave. When Bouqoudja came out he saw the money. He put it into his pouch and went fishing.

  That night he had good luck there at Achaqar. As he caught each fish, he tossed it up onto the rocks so that it fell near the water-hole beside the cave. The fish spattered drops of blood onto the rocks. At dawn he left the beach and went back to the town to sell the fish. He did the marketing for his family and went home.

  What do you think? he said to his wife. And he told her how he had found the money by the water-hole. He decided to buy an oil lamp and put it there, instead of a candle.

  When he returned to Achaqar, he discovered a hen with its throat cut, lying on the rocks. People had come and found the spots of blood there, and said to each other: Aha! They bring chickens here to sacrifice!

  They began to carry fowl and kill them by the water-hole. Each time they came, they left money lying there on the rocks. Sometimes they left a whole chicken with its throat cut, or even a live one tied by its leg. There was so much to eat that Bouqoudja no longer fished. He began to wear a white turban. Then he bought a white djellaba and a white tchamir. And he let his beard grow long. He whitewashed the rocks all around the water-hole, and spent all his time in the cave.

  One day a man and a woman came to see him. Sidi, they said, we have a son who is very sick. We’d like you to look at him, and write out some words for him.

  Bouqoudja took a bottle and washed it thoroughly. He filled it with the water from the hole, and said to them: Give the child a spoonful of this three times a day. The people handed him a blessing of money and went away. At home they gave the boy the water as Bouqoudja had instructed. The boy got well, and they came back to see the saint.

  Here’s the boy. He’s well. Hamdoul’lah! And now we want to give you a baraka.

  He thanked them and they went away.

  A khalifa who had heard of the shrine of Sidi Bouqoudja came to visit it, bringing his soldiers with him. They prepared a feast there on the rocks, and the khalifa went to the cave to talk with the saint.

  Bouqoudja was sitting in the darkest part of the cave. The kif smoke was very strong.

  What are you doing in here? demanded the khalifa, sniffing. Where’s the saint?

  Bouqoudja did not reply, and the khalifa went out of the cave, and left nothing on the rocks for the saint.

  One night not long afterward the khalifa was asleep. In his dream he saw the man who had been sitting in the cave, and the man looked at him sternly and said: Give me what is mine.

  But what is yours? asked the khalifa.

  The man did not reply.

  The khalifa awoke with a start, and was not able to get to sleep again that night. The next day he decided to send some soldiers to Achaqar to fetch Sidi Bouqoudja.

  When they brought Bouqoudja before him, the khalifa first begged his pardon. I didn’t recognize you, he said. I’m going to give you what is yours.

  And he handed Bouqoudja a great sum of money. Sidi Bouqoudja took it and said: Bismillah. The soldiers went back with him to the cave and left him.

  Then Bouqoudja went to the town to see his wife. Allah has helped me, he told her. The khalifa has given me a fortune. Now we must move to Tetuan.

  They went to Tetuan, where Bouqoudja bought an entire quarter containing twelve houses. He and his family moved into the largest one. The other eleven houses he rented to people with no money. If they were able to pay rent, he took it. If they could not, he let them stay anyway
. And he often took them food. The money the khalifa had given him provided Bouqoudja’s chance to become a true saint.

  When sick people asked to be cured, he was able to help them with the words of Allah, because he was now a saint. To the people who came to see him he was much greater than any doctor. He used to say to them: Have faith, and you can sleep with snakes. And they still go to the water-hole, even though Sidi Bouqoudja has been dead for many years, and they light candles and leave food and money for him still.

  ABDESLAM AND AMAR

  WHEN ABDESLAM’S FATHER DIED, he left him his farm with its cows, sheep and goats. Most of the money he got for his milk and vegetables he brought back to his wife Zohra, and she hid it away for him. Some of it, however, he spent on kif, for he was a heavy smoker. He smoked in the café all day, and when he went home at night he continued to smoke. Zohra would sit beside him on the mattress, and as he smoked he would invent long stories to amuse her.

  One night Abdeslam came home with his head more full of kif than usual. He went to sleep without telling any stories. During the night Zohra began to shake him. Wake up! she cried. The sick cow is dying. Kill her now, before she dies, or no one will be able to eat the meat. If you get there in time we can use it or sell it. Get up!

  Abdeslam got up and took a long knife with him out to the stable. It was dark there, and the kif in his head sent him to the mule’s stall. He cut the mule’s throat according to ritual, and went back to bed. I killed her, he told Zohra. Tomorrow morning early I’ll skin her.

  It was Zohra who got up first. When she went to the stable she found that the cow had died. Then she saw the mule with its throat cut. She ran to Abdeslam. Now we’ve got no meat and no mule either.

  Abdeslam sprang up and went to look. Allah! he cried. How am I going to get back and forth to the city?

  Zohra comforted him. You’ve got plenty of money, she told him. Why don’t you take some of it and go to a souk and buy a horse? And ride it back. Or buy a mare too, and they might have a colt.

  You’re right, I suppose, he said. But I’ll have to go today.

  She brought him a pile of money and wrapped it in a big handkerchief. Then Abdeslam set out on foot. It was summer, and the countryside was very hot. When he came to a stream he sat down in the shade of the trees on the bank. After he had rested a while he pulled out his kif pipe and smoked a little. Presently he said to himself: I’m going to take my clothes off and bathe in the river.

  He laid his pipe, his mottoui and his matches under some bushes by the trunk of a tree. And he undressed, leaving his clothing on the ground, with the handkerchief full of money on top. Then he walked toward the water.

  At that moment a large dark bird flew down. He turned, and seeing it perched on top of his clothing, began to run back. The bird flapped away as he approached, with the bundle of money hanging from its claws. It did not go very fast, and it flew over the trees. Abdeslam ran after it, naked as he was, and followed its shadow as it flew. Soon he was out of breath, and dropped to the ground. From there he watched the bird as if flew further and further away and disappeared.

  A Riffian named Amar was making a pilgrimage to the tomb of Sidi Bouchaib, which was in that region. Already he had passed through thirty villages, and he had only five more to go through before he reached the tomb. As he wandered along the banks of the stream, he came upon the pile of clothing left there by Abdeslam. He began to call out, to see if their owner was nearby. No answer came, and there was no one in sight. Then he took off the rags he wore and threw them into the stream. He dressed in Abdeslam’s clothing and went on his way. After he had passed through three more villages he was tired, and he sat down beside a spring that bubbled out of the rocks.

  After watching the bird disappear with his money, Abdeslam rested a while on the ground. Then he rose and went back to where he had left his clothing by the stream. He searched for a long time, but was unable to find anything. All he found were his pipe, his mottoui and his matches, which were under the bushes where he had left them. He sat down, still naked, leaning against the tree-trunk, and smoked a few pipes. Finally he began to say: No mule, no cow, no money, no clothes. No mule, no cow, no money, no clothes.

  When night came and it grew late, he got up and walked home. He met no one on the way.

  Zohra cried out when she saw him come in naked. Allah! What has happened?

  He raised his arms and looked at her. No mule, no cow, no money, no clothes, he told her. Then he collapsed on the mattress.

  What’s the matter? she cried.

  I’m dying, said Abdeslam. My heart is pounding.

  She heated water and washed him and put his tchamir on him. Then she made him sit up and take the soup she had prepared for him. Later she served him dinner. He ate heavily, and then he started to smoke kif. Finally he went to bed.

  Amar the pilgrim slept all night beside the spring. In the morning he drank all the water he could hold, and set out again. It was a very hot day, and he soon grew thirsty. When he came to a grove of trees, he walked in, looking for water. As he went along he came upon an open space near a stream. A large bird stood there, eating something it had caught. Nearby on a rock lay a white bundle, carefully wrapped and tied, but there was not a person in sight.

  Amar began to walk toward the bundle. As he got to it, the bird came flying at him, and attacked him with its beak. All the clothing he had found the day before was slashed into strips, and the skin on his body was cut open.

  Finally the idea came to him that he must bite off the bird’s head. Even when he had done this, his rage continued, and he ripped out the bird’s feathers. And he disembowelled it. He washed the carcass in the stream, made a fire, and roasted it over the flames.

  When he had eaten the bird and smoked a few pipes of kif, he decided to look at the bundle. He untied it and stared at the money. Then, feeling very happy, he tied it all up again and continued to walk until he got to the saint’s tomb.

  There he went inside and left a little money beside the shrine. He resumed his journey through the country, stopping to rest in a small village at the end of each day. When he came to a large town he decided to buy new clothes. The bird had clawed the others into rags. This time he had all his garments made of felt, so that when he was dressed in them he looked like a khalifa. He bought a magnificent white horse and a fine saddle, and started out for the Rif.

  At the fourth village he went to a café and bought some kif, which he prepared and cut. In that village they aged their kif, and their tobacco was fiery, the best. He made a cutting of kif that was kif and a half, and packed it into his mottoui.

  He got onto his white horse again and rode on, until he came to the village where Abdeslam lived. And he rode through the street, looking like a pacha or a vizir, and Abdeslam was walking along in the dust. He saw the horse, and paused to admire it as it went past. Then he looked up at the rider and said: Salaam aleikoum.

  Aleikoum salaam, replied Amar.

  You’re a stranger here, said Abdeslam.

  Yes. I come from a long way off. From here to my tchar it’s thirty villages.

  Welcome to our tchar, Abdeslam told him. Where are you going now?

  I’m looking for a café.

  Come with me. I’ll take you to a good place.

  Amar dismounted. They walked to the café, where he tied his horse at the entrance.

  That’s a fine horse, said Abdeslam. Do you want to sell him?

  No, no. I can’t sell him, Amar said.

  Abdeslam laughed. Whatever can’t be sold is a sin, you know, he said. Amar smiled, and they went into the café.

  They ordered two glasses of tea. Amar took out his pipe and his mottoui. Seeing this, Abdeslam did the same. Each one smoked his own kif, and neither one offered his to the other. Two friends of Abdeslam’s came into the café and sat down with them. They also took out their pipes and mottouis, and the four smoked a while, talking.

  Then Amar said he must be on his way. He paid fo
r the teas. Abdeslam got up, and they went out.

  As they stood in front of the café, Abdeslam turned to Amar and said: Why don’t you come home and eat with me and spend the night? And in the morning if you want to go on, you can go.

  Amar thanked him, and they went to the house. Zohra brought in the taifor with the dinner on it. Afterward they drank tea. Then Abdeslam, feeling happy after his meal, said to Amar: Here. Fill your pipe from my mottoui. And Amar then had to say to Abdeslam: Yes. Fill yours from mine.

  I think you’ll find mine better, said Abdeslam. It’s very good.

  Amar replied: That’s what I think about mine.

  Abdeslam waited a moment, and then he said: My kif is going to make you dizzy. I warn you.

  Mine may kill you, Amar told him, and they both laughed.

  Abdeslam handed Amar his pipe, already lighted, saying: Here. Smoke my kif. And see what it’ll do to you.

  Amar took the pipe and smoked it, and blew out the ball of ash.

  Your kif didn’t even reach the veins in my temples, he told Abdeslam. I’m going to fill the pipe for you with my kif.

  He filled the pipe and handed it to Abdeslam. Pull on it hard and swallow all the smoke, he told him.

  Abdeslam took a hard pull at the pipe and inhaled. Then he kept the smoke in his lungs. His eyes started from his head, and tears spouted from them. He could not breathe. He fell to the floor, and the sweat came out on his face. He was dead. Amar did not spend the night there.

  In the morning the house was filled with Zohra’s cries. The fqih came and chanted over the dead man. They carried him to the cemetery and buried him. Forty days later Amar returned to the village and married Zohra.

  WHAT HAPPENED IN GRANADA

  I USED TO WORK for an American in Tangier, driving his car for him. His wife often had to go and stay for a while in the hospital in Spain. One day the American said to me: I’ve got to take Mrs. James back to the hospital. If only you hadn’t let your passport expire, you could come. While I’m over there you ought to go and try to get a new one.