Quickly, the afternoon caught up with me. I hurried to the boulevard to catch the bus back to the Spanish border. Standing waiting, I wondered, Will I make it home? A sudden foreboding enveloped me, like a vulture circling above me and ready to nip. There’s something wrong with my trip here, something with Sanaa as well. Do I need to go through all this just to be able to pay for schoolbooks? Awisha has no magic for Sanaa, yet my sister needs to believe in something magic. I can’t give her Awisha’s balls to poison her husband.
Still waiting for the bus, I spied what looked, from a distance, like a pig’s dropping. I picked it up, tried to wad it in my hand, and it didn’t crumble. It was a piece of burnt rubber. I wrapped it up and put it in my pocket.
The bus arrived and was only half full. Going out from Spanish Africa to Morocco was easier; no one bothered me. For the Spanish, I was one problem less. For Moroccans, I was worthless, carrying no goods.
Very little transport was available from Nador to Zaio so late in the afternoon. Travellers preferred early morning and avoided the spooky late afternoon. There were a few taxis, but they charged higher prices and didn’t move until they were full. A taxi broker shouted, ‘Berkan! Berkan!’
‘A seat for Zaio?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he responded, ‘but full price,’ even though Zaio was halfway to Berkan.
Leaving the town, the taxi was half-empty, but an arrangement had been made to pick up contraband on the outskirts. One smuggler was a distinctive, good-looking woman, full of energy and charm. She chatted all the way to me, and wanted to know what had taken me to Melilla. I told her the truth: magic and Awisha.
‘Your sister should just do the same as her husband,’ she told me.
She asked to be dropped several miles before reaching Zaio, in the vast desert of Sabra. It was completely dark, and no house or light was visible. Everyone wondered where she would go. She carried some blankets and a few loaves of bread. The driver dropped me in the middle of the village, in a eucalyptus grove, opposite a café.
* * *
SANAA SMILED AND LOOKED happy when she opened the door and realised it was me, late that night. She was in a hurry to hear what Awisha had said, had done, and what magic I had brought her.
‘Things will get better and settled, Awisha said,’ I lied.
‘Is that all she said?’ she asked.
‘Your husband is harassed by a bagra,’ I said.
‘I knew that!’ she exclaimed and clapped her hands. ‘It’s not his fault. But who is this bagra?’ She tried to blame some women, but her mind couldn’t settle on any particular one. ‘I’ll find out,’ she assured herself. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. She gave me this magic.’ I plucked the piece of burnt rubber from my pocket and handed it to her.
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know.’ She looked at it in awe. ‘A very small pinch should be burned from time to time,’ I said.
Sanaa ran to the kitchen, pinched off a tiny piece and burned it. ‘What a stench!’ I exclaimed. The rubber released a horrific smell. Sanaa liked it, and the odour was so repulsive that it awakened her husband.
I was glad to leave; my mother and I walked about four hours through a valley, over the mountain, across several hills before reaching the long sloping valley that led home. My mother lost her breath several times and had to rest. I had never known she was asthmatic.
She collapsed the moment we arrived. I saw her breathing fast, with her mouth open and her tongue peeking out. I wondered if she were shuttling between life and death. My mother had been driven by compassion to make the journey to Sanaa, but Sanaa had tricked me; she never paid me.
* * *
THE TIME TO RESUME school was at my doorstep, but I was still at home. I had no money to travel, to buy clothes, books or for medical care. I had five brothers-in-law, three of whom were teachers; the other two were in Frankfurt. They had never offered a penny when I first went to school, and I wouldn’t go to them cap in hand.
Not hesitating, I found myself pounding on Uncle Mimoun’s door. Luckily, he was at home, surprised to see me, and invited me in. He had a guestroom and, in the middle, a massive radio and battery to match with an antenna strung through the window to the outside, a flag of wealth. When Mimount heard I was there, she joined us, but her presence made it embarrassing for me to explain the motive for my visit.
‘Can I borrow some money from you?’ I asked Uncle Mimoun. A long, deep silence followed. I didn’t know what was bubbling in his head.
‘How and when would you repay me?’
‘I don’t know.’
I left with no idea what he was thinking, but, nevertheless, any hope was much better than none.
Later on, Uncle Mimoun popped in unexpectedly. He came with Mimount and his rifle on his shoulder to show who he was. He would have carried a cannon if he could, or were allowed. Mimount was gracious and chatty. No dinner was offered, just tea with barley bread, but no butter. The snack was nearly over, and still I had no idea if Uncle Mimoun would lend me any money or not.
After the meal, while everybody was in a good mood, Uncle Mimoun thrust his hand in his breast pocket and handed me thirty dirhams. Neither my mother nor sisters knew the reason for it. ‘This is the price for your flute that your uncle destroyed,’ said Mimount. ‘He’s always felt guily about it,’ she added. Uncle Mimoun and Mimount went home, and I was asked to explain the mysterious thirty dirhams.
16
The night before leaving for school, I talked with Rabbia. She was deeply unhappy with herself and her life, and with our parents for giving birth to her.
‘How is your herbalist career progressing with Mrs Malani?’ I asked, hoping to change her mood.
‘Mrs Malani uses a variety of herbs and some are very delicate, but now everything is dry and dead. She loves to walk the mountains and survey the hills.’
‘What about your soul stitching?’ I asked.
‘I despise people; I look at their skin, their eyes, their lips and their tongues. Rarely do I see harmony. Usually it’s a fountain of hatred, doubt, sex, abuse and crime.’
I packed a small case with a few books and clothes, and trudged the deserted gravel road in the early morning to Moulay-Rachid, two hours away. I left worried that Rabbia might kill someone or herself. Extremely thirsty, I could see only dust and desert around and ahead. At Moulay-Rachid, I took a siesta under a eucalyptus tree and waited for the coach coming from the east, heading north to Nador. The first coach was full. The second came and was full, but the aisles were free. I paid for a seat, but didn’t get one.
From Nador, I took the night coach to Fez, a long, lonely journey. Arriving at Bab Ftouh evoked an old anxiety; a feeling of insecurity grabbed me. I threw my luggage on my back and headed to Tazzi’s house. I passed the door of the Rssif Mosque, and remembered the nights I had spent there, wrapped in cold air. I reached the house and made a beeline to my tiny old room, where Rammani, Taji, Omar and I had spent our last days together. The light was on, but the door had a new lock. I knew my old friends wouldn’t be here. Others would be.
I waited until the caretaker came. The new caretaker was an old man with a white beard who looked religious and wore a tall Fezzi hat. After checking my ID, he said, ‘You are sharing the room with two people. Wait until they come to let you in.’
More space, I thought to myself. I squatted near the door and waited for them. Nabil came first and opened the door for me. The first thing I saw were posters of half-naked men and women all over the walls. The two best corners were already taken. I had to content myself with the end of the room, close to the door and exposed to the draft.
I looked at Nabil and noticed that he was tall, older than me, but one year below me in school. Mounir arrived next and was surprised to find me laying my bedding out. He was also older than me, but short and lumbering. I felt uneasy with Nabil and later, he made life miserable for me. Both Nabil and Mounir refused to share the cooking, which made the room c
ramped and smelly.
Coming back from school, I found Nabil with a very young boy, naked, in his corner. I chased the boy out of the room, but he was starving and Nabil had paid him, so I found him in the room again the next day. I felt the room was dirty.
I asked to change my accommodation and reported Nabil’s abuse to the caretaker, who didn’t care, was rude and graphic in his reply. ‘I can’t put a lock on a boy’s ass or castrate the abuser!’ he said.
I was very lucky to get a spot in another house, Dial House. With two boys, I shared yet another exceptionally narrow, long room with a partition halfway up the wall, allowing only a façade of privacy. I began to run out of money and prepared myself to go home, as there was no job I could do; my only other choice was depravity.
I couldn’t contain my joy when I was told in class that I had a boarding space in the new dormitory. I spent the night packing my books and left my blanket and sheepskins behind for unlucky Mahamad, who was not accepted as a boarder based on his marks and only lasted two more months before giving up and going home.
From Boujloud, I took a taxi. The driver dropped me at the amazing French wooden door, ornate in a Middle-Age style, with a forbidding and constantly manned barrier. A smaller side door was craftily inserted within the massive entrance. The moment my foot crossed the threshold, I heard a shout. ‘Hey! Where are you going?’ demanded a huge, burly man rushing to ward me off. ‘Do you have any papers?’ he asked.
Pulling my papers out of my jacket pocket, I showed him my ID.
He didn’t look at them. He was illiterate and with his index finger, pointed to the bursar’s office, which was at the very end of the school and at the top of several flights of steps. The school, a complex, was new and whitewashed. Outside the bursary door, a thin black man, looking bored to tears, was squatting on a small chair behind a tiny table and waiting for orders.
‘Get in!’ he motioned to me. The room was large, its walls were painted white and it looked chic. Spontaneously, I crossed to a young man who looked extremely pleased with himself, and yet not entirely at ease. Facing him, a girl was pounding on a typewriter sounding like a drum roll. The young man jeered at me with contempt, ticked my name on his roll and threw my school ID back at me. While scribbling, he flirted with the fashionable young typist, who looked like a whore. They spoke French and gestured to each other to express what their words failed to convey. I understood nothing of what was passing in front of me. French, like Greek and Latin, was for the intelligent, Arabic for the slow and awkward, and I was counted as one of them. To check there was no name-swapping, he passed me to a second man in authority in an even bigger room. The man was obese and his left ear was twisted as small as a pea. He wrote my name on his final checklist and shouted, ‘Pavilion Eleven! Take any empty bed. The bedding will be provided later.’
On my way to Pavilion Eleven, strolling between the buildings, I felt as if I had moved from the Middle Ages to modern life. The school had been a French army barracks, entirely secured by a high mud wall. Massive classrooms had been built in parallel buildings. On the other side of the campus were several dormitory pavilions, behind which was a huge refectory with accommodation for the kitchen staff. At the very back, far from it all, on a sloping hill overlooking the campus, two luxurious houses were built, one for the bursar and one for the rector. The school and the houses were worlds apart.
While I was finding my bearings, looking like an intruder, I met a moustached sixth-year prefect who pointed the way to Pavilion Eleven. Coming face-to-face with the pavilion, I spotted Bozaid coming out, using crutches. I was happy and excited to see him. At first, I thought he might have injured himself, but getting closer, realised he had no leg and had the trouser leg folded up and pinned.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
Leaning on one of his crutches, Bozaid stopped and wiped his eyes. Watching in shock, I stood frozen beside him.
‘During the summer, I joined the Algerian Liberation Army,’ he explained. ‘We infiltrated a complicated protected zone beyond Oujda and Saidia. We cut through the electrified barbed wire, which created a massive spark, drawing French fire. Waiting until the guns were silent, we moved deeper into French-Algerian territory. Unfortunately, several metres away from the wire, the French army had laid land mines. We combed the land slowly, but somehow, I stepped on a mine and my leg was torn to pieces. The mission was aborted. I was pulled back and rushed to the hospital. No bones were left to stand on, so they amputated my leg above the knee. I woke up with no leg.’
Frozen in horror, I listened to his story until the prefect jostled us to move inside for dinner. The refectory was impressive, long and wide, with large glass windows covering two-thirds of the walls. Tables were designed to accommodate six chairs, all made with wood and steel, military style. Four boys were already around the table finishing their soup. It wasn’t easy for Bozaid to sit. He was still learning how to use his crutches, as well as how to live with one leg missing. The shock and sadness crossed my body like a muscle spasm each time I watched Bozaid struggle. He had been as strong as a lion and as agile as a squirrel, but now needed help to sit down.
It was reassuring, somehow, for me to sit at the same table with someone I already knew. Controlled smiles and low voices were the tempo of the table. The moment dinner was over, each prefect took his charges to the assigned revision class. Bozaid was given an exceptional privilege, a key to the dormitory. I followed him, and inch by inch we reached the dormitory pavilion, which looked like a large, long hangar with twenty-four bunk beds inside, most of them occupied. Some were tidy, and some just barely. At the far end, there was one empty bed on the lower bunk, beside the window. I sat on it and threw my belongings on the floor beside it. Puffing on a cigarette, Bozaid was at the other end, near a window, on the lower bunk.
‘New arrival!’ shouted a man, papers flying in his hands, who burst into the dormitory. A second man behind him carried blankets and sheets. I showed my ID and after much ticking of paper, I received two sheets, two blankets and a round, long pillow, property for which I became fully responsible. Beside my bed stood a tall steel locker allocated to me, but buying a padlock was my duty.
It passed in a blink of an eye. If I awakened and found myself behind goats and sheep, I would be convinced I had dreamed a fantasy I wished were true.
While I was trying to make my bed, cuddling my sheets and blankets, Bozaid was babbling like a burst pipe. His smoke clouded the room, and he raised his voice each time he thought I had missed one of his words. He felt the need to talk.
‘Be aware,’ he shouted, with an ironic tone in his voice. ‘The light goes off at ten o’clock. The queue for the toilets is very long. You might pee in your trousers.’
He hadn’t lied. Twenty students burst into the dormitory. Books, bags and jotters were chaotically thrown on beds; lockers were slammed in anger and frustration. There was no listener, and yet everyone talked. Like a stampede, a massive rush to the bathroom began. Two single sinks, not enough to keep up with the sudden flood of thirsty boys, lined the wall. I heard verbal skirmishes, saw shoving, and those were the norm of the night.
Toilets were where most vicious fights erupted. Bullies often tried to eject other boys from the showers or push them from the sinks. Bullies were not fighters, but cowards; they never stood up to a real fight, but they bullied. Often, they picked the wrong victims. Boys with quiet demeanour often turned out to be fierce and nasty fighters.
At lightning speed, we were all in bed and quiet; the light turned off. A thin beam of light pierced the window and darted in and around the darkness, giving me a fright. I sat up in bed and peered around, but no one else was bothered. It was the prefect’s final check to make sure no light was on, to save energy. This was my first night ever sleeping on a mattress or in a bed, and I found it amazingly comfortable.
Up early, I was the first in the shower room. There was no competition, no queue and no hot water either, but I ventured into the shower
. The icy water, hitting my neck and head, took my breath away.
Dormitories shut their doors at seven in the morning. Like a herd, we rushed to the refectory door a few metres away.
Breakfast was cold: French baguettes, butter, jam and coffee. At the table, Bozaid was mute, cold like a stone. He brought with him a small transistor radio that he was fiddling with, but was not allowed to listen to; waves of frustration crashed on his face.
From the refectory, we shuffled down to the new, modern buildings, all bungalow-shaped and sun-facing. I expected to be in the same class, but boarding school brought a different selection of boys, and of all those I knew I found only Faissal. Happy to see him, I asked, ‘Where is your seat?’
‘At the very front,’ he pointed.
‘Who is beside you?’ I asked.
‘You,’ he said with a twisted smile. ‘No one wants to sit beside me.’ I took the seat beside him and dropped my bag on the desk.
Looking around the class, I found myself mingling with the sons of successful traders, judges and teachers. Milodi, Jalil and Gabran were not the only bigheaded boys in my class. Shami, the shortest boy, with thick, black eyebrows, constantly brought the local tabloid to class. He was highly motivated and fanatically dogmatic. He loved to invent city gossip involving sex, thievery, scandal or incest. I hated his enthusiasm for dirty stories, and he disliked my criticism, but we sat in the same class and learned the same lessons.
I enjoyed every class except Professor Sculli’s religion class. I was naïve, and he nearly ended my education. Short, stout, blond, balding and blind, he taught enthusiastically and used his bellicose voice to subdue the hyperactive and fascinate the lazy. His voice rang out whenever he heard a squeak of a chair or table. He never sat down; he swung from right to left until the end of the lesson. From time to time, he checked with his left hand that he hadn’t stepped too far astray from his desk. I was unlucky that morning, and he was in a bad mood.
On the subject of Mecca, I asked, ‘If it is a matter of congress, could it be held in the United States of America?’
A Riffians Tune Page 18