A Riffians Tune

by Joseph M Labaki

  ‘I’m in a hurry! I forgot my book,’ I apologised.

  ‘You could share mine,’ he offered.

  ‘I like to scribble notes in my book,’ I answered.

  Walking and talking, I found myself inviting Bozaid to our room. Everybody was in, and it was Omar’s turn to cook. The pot was ready for tea; all it needed was mint. I went out, bought a fragrant bouquet, and returned in an instant. Bozaid’s doughnuts were shared, and everyone had a small glass of mint tea.

  Looking at Bozaid leafing through the newspaper, I asked, ‘What’s the news?’

  Bozaid folded the newspaper and passed it to me to read. I couldn’t help seeing the front-page headline: ‘French Army Kill Two Boys and One Girl’. On the same page, lower down, there was a second headline: ‘Algerian Guerillas Destroy Two Bridges and Kill a French Colonial.’

  ‘No one expects to be saddened in the early morning with such headlines, but this is how every day starts for me,’ said Bozaid.

  Rammani snatched the newspaper from me and said, ‘How interesting this is!’ Reading in silence, he suddenly said, ‘This is “stop killing by killing”.’

  Bozaid, outraged, said, ‘It’s not the same.’

  ‘I was thinking from a moral point of view,’ said Rammani.

  ‘So was I,’ replied Bozaid, indignant.

  Caught in in the middle of this heated argument, I changed the topic. ‘Mr Murzook will give us the exam date…’ I said.

  Barely awake and appearing to suffer from a hangover, Taji shouted, ‘The date? What exams?’

  ‘Mock exams,’ I reminded him.

  ‘You’ve spoiled my morning,’ Taji shouted back.

  During the entire morning, my mind kept cogitating over my letters. I saw myself back home: shepherding a few sheep, riding a donkey, cultivating honeybees, and loosening the ground around fig trees. Uncle Ben Hamo had several daughters and would be delighted to be relieved of one of them. I wouldn’t be the worst choice of husband for one of his daughters, since he had given his eldest daughter to a convicted murderer. Maybe I could buy a passport and get into the world of hashish – the market was open for the brave. Remaining at school required money I didn’t have.

  The time for class to start, eight o’clock, was getting closer, and for me, it couldn’t come one minute too soon. ‘It’s time to go!’ shouted Omar, and everybody jumped to put his soleless shoes on.

  The street to the school was always noisy and crowded with schoolgirls. Bozaid, amazed and excited, thought he could steal a heart or two. Omar giggled at Bozaid’s arrogance.

  ‘We are to those girls what the untouchables are to Indians!’ I scoffed at Bozaid.

  Talking and almost racing each other, we arrived just in time, before Professor Allawi started his complicated lesson. Faissal and Marnisi knew my father had died. They both came and shook my hand. Embarrassed, I didn’t want to be pitied.

  Faissal took his seat, and to divert the attention from me, I asked him, ‘What did you do on your holiday?’

  ‘Revise,’ he replied. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Revise.’

  While we were talking, Professor Allawi and Mr Murzook appeared at the front of the class. As usual, Mr Murzook looked almost crushed with the heavy paper he was carrying. He looked quietly at the class and said, ‘Mock exams start Wednesday and finish on Friday. The results will be announced the following Wednesday.’

  Professor Allawi looked at him, smiled and said, ‘More work for me!’

  ‘The summer holiday isn’t too far away,’ said Mr Murzook.

  ‘I have already booked my car on the ferry to Paris via Madrid,’ replied Professor Allawi.

  Mr Murzook left, and the lesson started. He went from geometry to algebra as if he were faced with geniuses.

  The time before the mock exams passed in a wink, but while waiting for them and sitting them, I felt as if I had two heads – one where I studied and the other in the valley between Makran and Tassamat where I should be, home.

  During those days, Taji made life hard for his cousin Omar and quarrelled with him constantly. He had a bullying attitude and brought up all the family problems and arguments. Every evening, Taji entertained us with talk of Omar’s sisters’ and brothers’ problems, to Omar’s disgust and embarrassment.

  The Wednesday after exams was a nerve-wracking day. In the middle of the third lesson with Professor Himi, on the relationship between oxygen and breathing, the rector appeared in front of the class. He looked tired, heavily laden with paper and handed the pass and fail list to Professor Himi.

  Professor Himi proceeded to read out the names in alphabetical order, and didn’t use his gentle teaching voice. He pronounced each name with extreme clarity and strength. His voice reverberated throughout the mosque and one could almost hear him from the street. He announced the name, then ‘passed’ or ‘failed’.

  ‘Jusef, passed.’

  The rector appeared again and announced five names. Mine was one of them. ‘These five,’ he said, ‘have done very well and have won a financial award. Come to my office tomorrow with your ID to pick up your cash.’

  Traumatised by my father’s death, I was amazed I had even passed, let alone won an award. I went to pick it up on Thursday morning, but found the office closed. The rector had forgotten Thursday was a day off.

  I never thought I could get money free! Thursday was a long day for me. I went to collect my award early Friday morning. I knocked on the rector’s door, it slid open, and my mouth with it. Mountains of notes of all different sizes and colours, new and directly from the bank, were piled high on the rector’s desk. He proudly nibbled from each pile and handed the cash, like alms, to me. I felt happy, but not proud.

  Leaving the rector’s office, I joined the class already in session. Every student knew where I had been, but not how much I had been given. My award didn’t assuage my sense of guilt. I am needed at home.

  13

  I didn’t usually wish my life away, but the few weeks left before final exams couldn’t pass too soon. Omar and Rammani, terrified by their mediocre exam results, resorted to early morning yoga. Taji lost his cynicism and confidence. I rarely went out during this time, except to visit the public latrine half a mile away.

  I was in the room alone one midday with the door closed and the light on, when a rough pounding shook the flimsy door. It opened, and a head peeked in.

  ‘Stop! Stop!’ I shouted, jumping up. It’s either a tramp or a thief, I thought. A different head bobbed in, so I lurched to the door and jumped out to find Moussa and Samir standing side by side. With tears in my eyes, I hugged Moussa, then Samir. I wondered what had brought them here and how they had found me.

  Via Mr Lazar, they had learned where I lived and had heard about my father’s death. I couldn’t have wished for any better surprise than seeing them. Both looked happier and healthier than the days when we had rotted in the funduq. I offered them tea and asked about Kamil.

  ‘He’s all right, but not as he should be,’ answered Moussa. Neither Moussa nor Samir wanted to discuss Kamil. Something is wrong, I thought, but couldn’t imagine what it might be.

  ‘Do you know what? I got an award!’ I told Samir.

  ‘Blood from a stone!’ commented Samir.

  It was Taji’s rota. One o’clock ticked, but there was no Taji, and no food. Omar and Rammani arrived for lunch. I introduced them to Moussa and Samir, and they clicked immediately. Having two guests and nothing to eat was neither comfortable nor an honourable position for me. Thanks to my award, I invited everybody out for a meal in memory of my father.

  As I hated Bab Ftouh, we all clambered to a nearby restaurant in Boujloud to have couscous. All young, but with no visible signs of youth, we sat around a low table. We spoke politics, religion, society and family. Omar and Rammani left in a hurry to resume their revision, but Moussa, Samir and I went to a nearby café. The weather was hot, and we sat on the terrace and watched the peddlers, some bustling and some shuffl
ing.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ I asked Moussa.

  ‘Nothing I haven’t done before,’ he replied with a smile on his face.

  I looked at him and wondered. Moussa, who usually liked to tease, quickly realized he had lost me. ‘Beyond obtaining a passport, nothing is obtainable in this land,’ he said.

  Samir and Moussa didn’t say what their plan was for the night. I worried about where they might stay, as my room was far too small to house two extra boys, and I had no extra bedding. ‘What are you up to tonight?’ I asked Samir.

  ‘Going home,’ answered Moussa, sharply.

  ‘How?’ I asked.

  ‘By lorry,’ replied Samir. I was unaware there were lorry drivers with huge Mercedes carrying goods, such as potatoes and wheat, from the south to Nador. To add to their revenue, they stuffed people in the back of their lorries. That’s how I should get home, I told myself.

  The three of us headed to Bab Ftouh at half past nine in the evening. They wouldn’t be able to leave until much later, as lorries had first to be filled with goods. Trafficking illegally, the drivers picked up people late in the evening. We went to a small café and ordered a pot of tea. Lamenting the cruel hand fate had dealt us, we waited for a smuggler to appear. When one showed up, Moussa and Samir headed to Nador, and I hurried back to my damp, dark, cramped room.

  Living like a Sufi the following weeks, I continued my revision, my mind all the time full of bread, but my tummy, empty. On the eve of the exams, to fortify ourselves and raise our spirits, Omar and I purchased bread, oil and mint. To refresh our intelligence, we agreed to go to sleep early and that meant, for me, switching off the light. We all checked that we had our student IDs and the exam IDs. We knew no one would be allowed into the exam hall without them.

  Dawn crept into the dark room. Unusually, we all awakened simultaneously and together prepared our breakfast of bread and tea. Omar and Rammani headed to the hall first, then Taji. I picked up my jacket dangling on the hook right above where I slept, checked again for my IDs and, to my horror, found they were missing. I frantically checked every piece of clothing I owned, my sleeping area and everything surrounding it. I found nothing, and the time for the exam was quickly nearing. With nowhere left to look, it was either stay or go. The exam hall was half an hour’s walk from my room. Heart in my mouth and stomach churning, I took one last look at the empty room and left. I arrived just a few minutes before the main door was to be shut; two loud, rough men policed each side of the French door. In the hope of explaining my case quietly without making a scene, I approached one of them.

  The man thundered, ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t have my IDs for the exams,’ I said.

  ‘Go and bring them,’ the man instructed, dismissively.

  ‘I lost them,’ I pleaded.

  The sentry pretended not to hear. ‘Unless you have your ID cards, we are not going to let you in!’ the guard from the other side shouted.

  Frozen, standing still, I watched the last of the very late students stepping in. Refusing to go away but not allowed to enter, I was spotted by Professor Allawi, who was just arriving. ‘We know him! He’s known!’ shouted the professor. His words were my exam IDs.

  Shaken to the bone from the start, I took my seat, pulled out a few pencils, a ruler, two pens, compass and protractor, and glanced about. Several nervous faces were scattered around, but I recognised none. The building was enormous, yet every room was being used. The bell rang to begin the National Exams, and my heart sank. The morning was pretty tough, and no one expected the afternoon to be better.

  Back in my room during lunchtime, I told everybody I had lost my IDs. I was certain someone had lifted them, but who? I remembered Omar had stolen my blanket, but that didn’t mean he had taken my IDs. He kept quiet, and so did everybody else. For now, I decided not to trust any of them.

  We returned to the exam hall after lunch and waited for the door to open. Omar complained of a splitting headache and his knees buckled, dropping him on the stairs. I sat beside him and spoke to him, but he didn’t answer. He slowly closed his eyes and fell sideways onto my shoulder. I thought he was playing, and moved away. As I moved, he crumpled lifelessly onto the stairs.

  ‘Don’t fall asleep!’ I yelled, then realized Omar had fainted. I didn’t know what to do, and hoped some adult would come and help, but nobody twitched a finger. I fanned Omar while Taji talked to him. As if emerging from a spell, he slowly opened his eyes and sat up, dizzy, not knowing where he was. I put my arm under his, took him inside and handed him to one of those unsympathetic sentries. Omar’s fainting triggered the rector’s intervention.

  Before the end of the afternoon, in the middle of the exam, a microphoned voice vibrated through the room and the building. ‘Students, you are instructed not to leave until the rector has a word.’ The rector, wearing heavy green glasses and surrounded by staff, appeared on the balcony. He looked down at us from above and shouted, ‘Some students have fainted this afternoon because they are too frugal with food. Go and eat!’

  It’s not advice we need, it’s food! I shouted to myself, indignantly.

  * * *

  WHILING THE TIME AWAY after the end of the exams and waiting to hear if I had passed or failed, I went out to buy a jellabah for my mother. She had never had one. But, buying a jellabah without a veil was like wearing underpants without trousers. A crooked trader tried to sell me a veil to go with the jellabah, but I couldn’t see my mother, living on a high mountain, speaking to my uncles and cousins from behind a veil. They knew her and she had known them from birth. A jellabah or veil would make my mother look like a clown, I thought, and abandoned the idea. Now a widow, she had to face wolves and hyenas. Squabbles over gossip, a tiny piece of land, moving boundary stones or old inheritance never stopped.

  After a feverish week of waiting, the moment of truth arrived. I went to the exam hall to hear my fate. The street and the stair where Omar had fainted were packed with students, some with their parents, others with siblings.

  Within an instant of the door opening, those in the street pushed in, crushing each other; it felt as if the walls were closing in. The air became thin, and I could hear the heart beats of those close by.

  The rector, like a prince surrounded by his aides and flanked on both sides by professors, emerged on the balcony of the first floor, his favourite place. With a vibrating and worrying tone, he read a short list. He stopped, took a long breath, and added, ‘Tomorrow at eight-thirty sharp the oral starts.’ He whispered to one of his aides and made a U-turn. It was quick and brutal.

  The reality sounded unreal – the list was shockingly short. Over seventy per cent had failed! My name had been called, but none of my roommates’. Of those I knew, only Marnisi, Bozaid and Faissal had been called. The crowd was collectively struck dumb. Omar stood beside me, and Rammani slumped to the floor. With the help of Taji, I convinced Rammani to head back to our room.

  We had all known exams would be tough, but never expected such a massacre. For most, years of schooling had ended painfully. My fate remained still uncertain; the oral exam would skim the cream.

  In our room, I found Omar launching into a frenzied tantrum. He kicked, pounded and punched the walls, the table, the floor, the door, anything in his way. He cursed his father, his grandfather and hissed his needs had never been met. He had turned into a deranged mahboul. I was mesmerised by his kicks for a moment, but then, shocked, I yelled, ‘Stop! Stop!’, but nothing reached Omar’s ears.

  Holding his shoulders and looking into his red eyes, I whispered, ‘You know what happened to my cousin Ahmed.’ Omar had heard the story. In an instant, he calmed down, went to his mat and pulled the covers over his head.

  It was my turn to cook that evening, and I asked Taji to swap, but he refused. I bought two loaves of bread and made tea.

  The night was incredibly short, and the sun quickly rose hot and high, but never reached our room. Omar was up first, and I suspected he had never
slept. He went out and didn’t show up for breakfast. Rammani and Taji left after him, so I had breakfast alone. Still puzzled and anxious about my missing IDs, I carefully leafed through the books and papers lying on the floor. I opened one of Taji’s books and, to my surprise and horror, found my IDs tucked inside. Feeling deeply betrayed, I wanted to take revenge. I picked up my IDs and put them safely in my pocket.

  I went to the school which, just the morning before, had been besieged by students outside the door and packed with them inside. Laughter and voices had been heard from a distance away. Pedestrians had serpentined through the throngs. Now the street was quiet; the building itself like a ghost town. I entered and felt as if I were the only one inside. Then, I heard a vague whisper, but was unable to spot its source. I gave up looking, but the whispering continued. When I looked up, I spied Faissal waving from the balcony. He descended and greeted me with, ‘Didn’t you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t know where the whispering was coming from.’

  ‘I was trying not to make too much noise,’ he said. ‘Two professors were chatting about their holidays. I hope I won’t get either of them. By the way, we are on the same list. Your name comes after mine.This is a new list.’

  Still whispering, I heard my name being called by Professor Drissi. As he stood waiting for me, he looked short and smart, as usual, and wrapped in an air of arrogance. ‘Take a seat,’ he said the instant I stepped into the classroom.

  Watching him scribbling on his papers, I noticed how small his left hand was, and how small also, the watch on it. ‘First question,’ the professor said. ‘Identify four positions where the grammar forces the tongue to flatten and touch the back of the lower front teeth.’

  ‘It is not mentioned in the book, sir,’ I answered, dazzled by the question.