While he was talking, a stout, impressive-looking professor came out of the student office. One hand was full of white papers, and the other held a silver pen. ‘Primary final, follow me!’ he shouted. He moved out of the office into the street and turned to the left; Bozaid, the other boys and I followed in a line until we reached the fountain embedded in the wall. Pedestrians stopped there to wash their hands or quench their thirst. The professor stopped, whisked a vial made from an animal’s horn from his pocket, popped the cork, and spread a thin line of black snuff on the side of his fist. He unceremoniously snorted with first one nostril, then the other. He immediately launched into a frenzy of sneezing. Happy afterwards, he beamed at us over his shoulder to check whether we were still there behind him.
Following him, we humbly removed our shoes and entered the Kairaouine mosque, where the teaching took place. It looked dark and immense. Classes were on, and professors were shouting from their pulpits into the huge open space. Students of all ages were sitting on the floor, rubbing shoulders and looking up at their professors. The professor took Bozaid and me to class space B, showed us the group, ticked his paper and left, the other students trailing behind him in a row like ducklings.
Bozaid and I joined in and ensconced ourselves into the tightly knit group of students, all sitting cross-legged on the floor, the privileged on sheepskins. Our arrival disturbed no one. The professor, bobbing his head right and left, kept teaching and all the students were mesmerised by him. How to snatch wealth and punish perverts were my first lessons. It struck me as more like preaching than teaching.
‘Americans don’t wash their socks,’ the professor said. ‘They change them six times a day, and throw their dirty socks in the bin. Each person has at least two or three cars.’
I was stunned. To my frustration, the professor didn’t teach in my mother tongue, Tarifit, or even in any Moroccan dialect. It was all in high, Classical Arabic. My concentration withered into a splitting headache. My heart skipped a beat when twelve o’clock struck, the official time for a two-hour lunch break. The mosque became empty, dark and silent. Tramps, looking for peace and tranquillity, replaced students, some to eat what they had gathered, and others to count the money they had collected.
The two-hour break allowed me to catch up. I scurried to the second-hand bookshop nearby and bought two small dictionaries, a few jotters, a couple of pencils, a single pen and an eraser. Carrying all that made me feel happy like a proper schoolboy, albeit one with an empty head. I had a quick lunch with Kamil, and was surprised to hear that he had applied for a job to become a primary school teacher.
A shivering fear struck. I might be left here alone in this funduq. How will I pay the rent? I wondered. Nevertheless, I was excited to start the second half of my first day at school.
Returning to school in the afternoon, I found Bozaid already there, nibbling dates from a big bag, biting on a long, thin piece of bread, and glancing at a newspaper spread out on the floor in front of him. He looked unhappy and lonely. A minute before two o’clock, space B was filled with students, swarming like honeybees. Just in time, Professor Haiani arrived with one hand full of books and the other holding his shoes.
He climbed the risers to the pulpit and announced, ‘Today’s lesson is “kill to live and live to kill”.’ This is more preaching, I thought to myself. The professor broke the rule. He taught us in Darija, not Classical Arabic. Bewitched, the students became excited.
‘Before tackling this crucial topic, I want you to understand,’ he said. ‘Law, religion and morality are inextricably connected. Clinically splitting one from the other leads to the death of them all. This is an axiom you should always remember.’
In a flash, Bozaid stood up, put his hand in the air and said boldly, ‘Sir, if a Frenchman kills an Algerian, is it kill to live or live to kill? What if an Algerian kills a Frenchman?’
Professor Haiani stopped teaching, closed his eyes and tilted his head back toward the ceiling. No words escaped from his mouth. We all looked at each other, wondering. Bozaid remained standing.
‘Sit down,’ said Professor Haiani, after too long a pause. ‘Any more questions?’ he asked.
Furious, Bozaid stood up and asked, ‘What about my question?’ The professor refused to answer.
The three-hour lessons were both confusing and tense, but fortunately also marked the end of the week, Wednesday. The main doors became bottlenecks with students running out. In the immense space, the shadows of ghosts could peer from behind every pillar and meet in any of the myriad of dark corners.
On the way back to the funduq, I wondered if it would help me to work with Faissal and Marnisi, who had sat beside me. There were other things also occupying my mind. Could Kamil really hold a job as a primary school teacher in a rural area? I wondered. My hope was that he would change his mind.
As I slipped into the room, Kamil asked, ‘Do you know anything about hamsters?’
‘A bit. Not very much. They are tiny animals, between rats and mice.’
‘No, they’re not,’ Kamil said politely. ‘Could you go with me to buy one tomorrow? I had one, but it died just before I came here. I really miss my hamster!’
‘What do you miss? It’s just a nasty mouse!’
‘Could you go with me anyway?’
‘A hamster in this room? Look – we are surrounded by hundreds of abandoned, homeless, hungry cats. We will be hounded by cats, and the hamster will be terrified. The hamster needs to be caged all the time, fed and watered.’
The absence of Moussa and Samir was already a problem. I wasn’t certain that Kamil would survive here without Moussa, and was faced with the possibility of being left alone, so to keep him happy, I reluctantly agreed.
The thought of buying a hamster the next day, Thursday, made Kamil happy. He fell asleep over his jotters. I picked up a dictionary and concentrated on learning a few Arabic words. Forced to comply with the landlord’s rule, I stopped at ten o’clock. The light went off, and in the darkness of the room, I rolled myself in my blanket and went to sleep like a dog.
Thursday was my first day off school, and I went out scavenging for second-hand books. Returning to the funduq at lunchtime, I found Kamil full of excitement. Moussa’s corner had been turned into hamster-land. Before a hamster had even been bought, he had named it Kizzy. He wanted us to dedicate a quarter of the room to Kizzy.
‘Kizzy needs a cage,’ I argued.
‘Yes, but also a playpen, and I would make sure it couldn’t get out,’ he said.
Kamil might have been clever and might soon be a teacher, but there was something about him I didn’t understand. Finding other accommodation is the only way for me to survive, I decided.
Going with Kamil on Thursday afternoon to buy a hamster was an expedition. I was hit by the complexity of Fez’s population. We left the old town and headed toward Malah, a Jewish ghetto, a society with no restrictions on women. Beautiful, portly women were walking about freely with no scarves or veils. The merchants struck me as entirely different from those in the old town; jewellery, clothes and stationery were the main wares. There was a completely different dynamism from the old town.
Beside the Jewish quarter was the French ghetto for the well-to-do. The area between the two ghettos was open, dusty and used as a bus station. Within this area, there was a big gambling stall with Indian music, deafening even to the already deaf, and a red light flashing every second. Traders came to the pitch to sell their goods and avoid heavy taxes. Bananas, oranges and grapes were sold far cheaper than in any shop in the town. Hot fried chickpeas and salted nuts were the favourite snacks of the shoppers. Pet lovers like Kamil had a number of choices: caged birds of all sizes and colours, caged hamsters as well as other animals.
The choice was easy for Kamil; he hated all animals except hamsters. A shrewd trader with two hamsters and several caged birds quickly caught his attention. Kamil fawned over two baby hamsters sleeping on top of each other in the corner, but he couldn’
t decide which one he wanted. To give himself time to decide, he bought a snack of fried chickpeas and moved around dreamily.
By this time, I had had enough of looking at the rodents. ‘I’m going home, Kamil,’ I announced.
‘Yes,’ he said, flustered. ‘I’ll buy the beige one!’ Going back to the trader, he found the beige one had already been sold. Kamil took the news gravely, biting his wobbling bottom lip. With no choice left, he bought the white one. Happy after his initial disappointment, he cradled the cage close to his chest all the way back. Going back to the funduq with Kamil carrying the hamster, I felt embarrassed. I pretended that I didn’t know him and wasn’t with him whenever possible, but Kamil kept talking to me enthusiastically and ruining my disguise.
I spent the rest of the day tidying the room and cleaning my one shirt. Fortunately, I didn’t have any underwear to wash or worry about.
Kamil soon happily settled into a daily routine with his hamster. I heard him many times in intimate dialogue with his pet, as if he were asking Kizzy questions or answering hers.
My second day in school began with Professor Allawi, who taught us maths. He was a very big man, very round and always happy. His one flaw was his habit of showering all those around him with saliva whenever he boomed out his explanations. He brought fruit and vegetables to explain mathematical concepts to us and cut an apple into many pieces to demonstrate fractions.
To make sure we could hear him and not miss any of the words coming out of his mouth, we all rushed in and fought to sit closest to the pulpit, facing him. Two boys in front of me quarrelled about space; they exchanged insults and elbowed each other, but that wasn’t enough. They stood up to fight. One of them threw his jellabah off to fight unrestricted and, to our horror, he wore no trousers. All he had been wearing was his jellabah and a worn, torn shirt. Naked, he continued to fight for the best spot to face the teacher. What a society! I thought. It can’t even provide trousers for its most ambitious children!
11
It was holidays and Christmastime, but without Christ; Christmas meant nothing to me. All the students went home except Kamil and me. Kamil’s hamster, Kizzy, drove me crazy. Dead during the day and alive during the night. I tried to keep her up during the day in the hope of a quiet night, but always failed.
The winter was harsh and wet; it poured more than the land could absorb. Local people had never seen weather like this, with such rain and clouds. The flooding and mountains of mud made streets impassable. The few tethered horses in the funduq were sunk in water and mud up to their knees. ‘This is the second and the last flooding after Noah,’ said the landlord. It was, however, a paradise for skiers; the Atlas Mountains were all covered with thick, powdery snow.
After New Year, exam results came back and were alarming. To stave off the calamity of failing, Faissal, Marnisi and I decided to meet each day after school in the mosque and work as a group. To revise, we picked a quiet corner far away from worshippers and sat on the freezing cold floor. Nothing was between our bums and the floor except a paper-thin rug made of jute, which provided neither heat nor comfort, nor did it stop the rising dampness.
Faissal, Marnisi and I hailed from different regions. Each of us carried heavy baggage: regional tradition, family background, humour, mood, accent, personal prejudice and temperament. Fruitless arguments started; competition and jealousy quickly bloomed, which wasted a lot of time. I suggested working more quickly and sticking rigidly to the school syllabus.
Marnisi agreed, but Faissal didn’t. Full of idealism, he hated the West and all its products, even aspirin and penicillin. The West, according to him, justified their own thievery and crime. We spent hours debating our different views on stealing, adultery and the punishments for committing crimes. ‘Cutting a thief’s hand off for stealing doesn’t fit the crime,’ I argued.
Faissal was outraged at my comment and bellowed, ‘Both the arm and leg should be cut off!’ Marnisi showed real disgust.
Weeks later, all the students were surprised to be issued a card and number to attend a mobile clinic for x-ray screening. Six boys in my class tested positive for tuberculosis. Kamil, in a different class, was also positively diagnosed.
Kamil was ordered, as were the others, to not attend classes and to present himself to a specialised hospital for isolation and treatment. The hospital was the most hated in the town. It was a coffin before the grave. Kamil refused to go. For a few weeks, he did nothing except cuddle his hamster. Kizzy had lived in a cage, but now Kamil gave it full freedom to move around in the room, until one evening it ventured out. A hungry cat was waiting and snatched it away. Kamil and I watched what was happening, rushed out, chased the cat and I nearly killed myself tumbling down the stairs. The cat, like lightning, jumped on the roof with Kizzy still dangling from its mouth. Kamil blamed me for having an evil eye and never showing any affection or tenderness toward Kizzy. He went into a deep, strange bereavement. He refused to eat, to talk to me, to go out or wash himself. He became smelly, and the room with him.
A few days after the tragedy, at lunchtime, the funduq caretaker came up and gave a hard knock on the door. ‘Kamil! Come down! Two French nuns are asking for you!’ he shouted.
‘That seems very odd,’ I told Kamil. Curious, I went out first. Two middle-aged Catholic nuns in black cloaks stood beside each other. They were standing like statues, in complete silence, holding some envelopes like corpses in their hands. Kamil, peering down the stairs, came down hesitantly. The two French sisters didn’t speak the Moroccan Darija, but they knew enough to get by.
‘Are you Kamil?’ asked one of the nuns.
‘Yes,’ Kamil answered.
‘This is a letter ordering you to go to the hospital. You are very ill and a danger to yourself and your friend. You might die if you refuse treatment,’ said the nun, while the other quietly looked on with a fixed smile on her face.
Kamil fell to the ground in a faint. For a moment, the sisters stood watching the scene, as did the caretaker. I had previously learned that a person or animal is only dead and ready for burial when the breathing stops. Kamil’s chest was going up and down.
The two sisters left and the caretaker scurried off, leaving me behind with Kamil lying on the ground.
* * *
JANUARY LEFT US BEHIND, and February loosened its grip. The severe winter was showing decisive cracks; days were visibly longer and the sky noticeably clearer, but winter was not completely defeated. It felt cold. The spring holiday was in everybody’s mind.
Kamil, frightened of a second visit from the nuns, decided to go home. ‘Going home won’t help,’ I argued.
A resolute fatalist, he said, ‘Everything is decided.’
Two days later, with a heavy heart, I accompanied him to the coach station. That same afternoon, I was supposed to meet Faissal and Marnisi, but emotionally upset and frightened about what would come next, I didn’t. I went to the funduq straight from the coach station. When I opened the door, the room looked unusual, immensely big and with many shadowy corners. The room is jinxed, I thought to myself. Everyone who has lived in this room has met his demise, including even innocent little Kizzy. I had been taught in the past to recite verses from the Holy Koran whenever I felt in imminent danger, which I did immediately and aloud. I tried to trick myself into being a big brave boy, living as if the room were the same and nothing had changed, that Kamil and even Moussa and Samir were still in the room. A few hours later, the landlord rapped on the door.
‘Kamil has left. The full rent is expected next week,’ the landlord demanded. Now I found myself all alone in the funduq with no one to share the overwhelming burden of the rent.
I went to sleep but couldn’t close my eyes, haunted by the fear of what might happen if I did. An object might fall from the ceiling or someone might stone me from any corner; every bizarre thing I had heard in my childhood and hadn’t believed came alive in my mind. Even the small, crooked table looked sinister with the white strip of moonlight fa
lling across it. To shut me up, my mother used to terrify me with the Mo-Mo, who would pull me out by my feet and gobble me up. No walls or doors could stop the Mo-Mo, an abhorrent beast that could go wherever it liked. The night dragged on and by the morning I felt physically aged by the ordeal.
At long last, morning arrived and the sun shone brightly all over the town. I left the room and felt a rush of happiness, a renewed love of life and relief at being out. I arrived at the school, where the first person I happened on was Bozaid, sitting cross-legged, surrounded by books and jotters, and eating Moroccan donuts. Before the lesson, Faissal and Marnisi arrived. They were furious with me.
‘Where were you yesterday?’ they asked. ‘We waited and waited.’
‘I was out of my mind. I have an accommodation problem,’ I said. ‘Kamil has left.’
* * *
UNABLE TO PAY THE rent, I had no choice but to join the homeless in the Mosque Rssif. I left the funduq and handed the keys to the caretaker, who looked at me carrying two sheepskins on my shoulder and several bags in my hands. He gave me a mean look and turned his back. He despised me as I did him. I looked like a tramp, but he looked and lived like a hyena.
On my way to my new home a dreadul image of my cousin Ahmed clutched my mind. Without intending to, I had now outwardly become like him, a tramp.
The mosque was huge and open with towering ceilings that seemed to stretch to the heavens. It had no heating and with no warm carpets, only tiles, it was a very cold place to be at night. However, what it lacked in heat, it made up for in beauty; right in the middle of the mosque stood a magnificent mosaic fountain from which, day and night, huge streams of water soared into the air and smaller jets flowed all around as if dancing in watery precision.
After a struggle with the mosque’s caretaker, I was allowed to sleep there, but during the day my belongings had to be out of sight so that respectable worshippers would not be deterred from worshipping there. The mosque was tidy during the day and a chaotic mess during the night. The students’ presence was not to the liking of every worshipper; for some, we were cursed rats, and probably we were.
A Riffians Tune Page 12