My first lesson was English, taught by Mr Green who was from Chicago and a member of the Peace Corps. His introduction was like preaching in an empty cathedral, and it was as clear as a bell that he was a do-gooder but a bad teacher. To make it worse, he hadn’t prepared anything, no papers or handouts, and he was given the most difficult, ambitious and clever class. ‘What a teacher! What a teacher! What a teacher!’ we echoed around the class after he left.
We stormed into the rector’s office and demanded a different teacher. Not wanting the incident to start a precedent, the rector resorted to expulsion threats. He called me to his office in the afternoon and told me, ‘You are mad! You’re on the watch list!’
He has no idea what goes on in the classroom. All we want is a good teacher, I thought.
A week later, Mr Green returned to hold class again, but there was no one to teach. We had boycotted his class. He was replaced by a tough Scottish teacher from Glasgow. Fascinated by his accent, we at first thought Scots were inhabitants of Texas.
* * *
AFTER THE TRIMESTER EXAMS, Abdu hadn’t seen his half-brother, Bo-jaama, a day student, for two weeks. ‘Let’s go and see him,’ he said to me. With two other students, Bo-jaama rented a room in the Jewish ghetto from a rabbi who occupied the ground floor.
We pounded on the door; the rabbi’s wife came out and looked furious. ‘Could we go upstairs?’ I asked.
‘Reason?’ she asked, suspiciously focusing on me.
‘My brother Bo-jaama lives here,’ Abdu replied.
‘Up you go!’ she said, and up we went. Bo-jaama’s door was ajar, maybe to let some air in, as the room was small like a coffin and had no window. Sadly, Bo-jaama was lying ill inside on the floor. He looked extremely pale, with no energy even to talk.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
‘No, I’m not,’ he replied weakly.
‘You have been ill for two weeks, you missed school, exams, and you didn’t try to contact your brother?’ I asked. Bo-jaama gave no answer. ‘You could have asked your landlord to call an ambulance for you,’ I added.
‘They saw me dizzy and holding onto the wall, but they never bothered.’
Abdu, taken aback, didn’t know what to do. He kept muttering to himself and pacing. ‘Let’s call the ambulance,’ I suggested.
We went to the post office and waited a long time before we could make a phone call. We called the ambulance, but it refused to come. It was nearly five o’clock, the post office was closing, and we had to be back at the school before seven. Abdu went back to his brother, and I went to the police to ask their help getting an ambulance. The police called it, and it came soon after. Semi-conscious, Bo-jaama was taken to the hospital.
We expected Bo-jaama to be out of the hospital within three or four days at the very most, but he wasn’t. Though there was no sign of him at school, the first visit we made was on Friday, three weeks after his hospital admission. Abdu and I scrambled to the hospital to find him. Unrecognisable, he was far worse than when he had been brought in and was lying in a huge dormitory in the midst of many. He was mentally alert but physically very weak. Before we left him, he asked if we could visit again and requested some food, but it was against hospital regulations to bring in food to patients.
A week later, I bought a tiny loaf, two oranges, and went with Abdu to see his brother. Entering the dormitory, we spied a visitor sitting on Bo-jaama’s bedside. Upon closer scrutiny, we saw a small, white man in his forties, holding Bo-jaama’s hand. As he saw us nearing, he kissed Bo-jaama on the lips, then departed hurriedly in the other direction.
Abdu, jaw dropped, raced toward his brother and demanded, ‘Who was he?’
‘My … friend,’ Bo-jaama returned sheepishly.
Abdu was shocked; he had never suspected his brother was homosexual and was lost for words. He bolted out and left me to finish the visit.
When I saw Abdu later that afternoon before dinner, he burst into a tirade. ‘Bo-jaama is the shame on the flag of my family. What am I going to tell my father?’
‘That Bo-jaama is very ill and in the hospital. The rest is up to Bo-jaama,’ I answered.
After dinner, Faissal and I went straight to the library. ‘What did you do this afternoon?’ Faissal asked.
‘Nothing great,’ I answered, not wanting to elaborate about Abdu’s brother. ‘And you?’
‘I went to the New Town and spent my whole afternoon strolling up and down. I saw our chemistry teacher. He has many children, and his daughters are beautiful,’ said Faissal. ‘He’s a biased marker.’
‘That will not be the case in the baccalaureate,’ I said. ‘The marking is done by external examiners.’
‘That’s what’s good about the baccalaureate,’ replied Faissal.
‘There are different types of baccalaureates, do you know? A prestigious one requires French,’ I said.
‘I wouldn’t invest my time learning French,’ he said.
Just as I had been dying to leave the Koranic school and shepherding, I was thirsty to learn the French language, intellectual oxygen.
* * *
I WENT TO THE Franciscan cultural centre in Batha, a chic boulevard, and asked Father Antoine, ‘Would it be possible to find someone to teach me French, but with no fee?’
Pessimistic, he promised nothing. Two weeks later, he surprised me. ‘Mademoiselle Michelle will give you her free Friday afternoon and teach you French. She has just arrived from Bordeaux. She can’t make it today, but next Friday,’ he added with a short, half-smile.
There were plenty of French books around, plenty of newspapers for those who could read, including the famous French newspaper, Le Monde, which I glanced at but couldn’t read. I left, downhearted that I would have to wait a week, and joined the street, packed with veiled women milling about, and men in groups trailing behind them. Two young boys, going down a lane, were shouting the deepest insults they could hurl on each other.
‘You’re a son of a bitch!’ said one.
‘You’re a son of a whore!’ retorted the other.
‘May God curse you!’
‘May God cut off your legs and arms and let you live!’
As I passed them, I thought, That’s the depravity of the city! Before time to return to school, I met Faissal wandering around. ‘Let me buy you a tea before we go,’ I offered.
‘Yes!’ replied Faissal. He had never refused mint tea, and he also loved to have a fuss made over him. He didn’t like French people and hated priests, who could do nothing right in his eyes. Heading back to school, we arrived in time for dinner, avoiding trouble. We didn’t go into our pavilion, but stayed outside arguing loudly until Abdu and Oujdi joined us. The argument ended in a huff, as Faissal was an absolutist, right versus wrong.
The school siren was a relief. Abdu and I joined the queue and inched at a snail’s pace toward the refectory. ‘Did you see your brother today?’ I asked Abdu.
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Bo-jaama was very hungry last time we saw him,’ I said, thinking that Abdu’s anger might have receded. Each time Bo-jaama’s name was mentioned, Abdu’s cheeks set like stone into a heavy frown. He obviously didn’t want me to talk about his brother.
Dinner was macaroni with cheese, white bread and, as a dessert, one small orange each. The service was very slow that night. Roaring voices and shouts came out from the kitchen; there had been a bloody fight. A worker had stabbed the chef, whose assistant had retaliated. In the midst of the hubbub, the ambulance arrived and rushed them away.
For the entire week, my mind teetered between Bo-jaama’s illness and Michelle. I couldn’t wait to meet her. I had no idea how old she was or what she looked like. Friday was a religious day; for me, it became Michelle’s day in the Franciscan House.
Michelle was anything but what I had imagined. When I met her, she struck me as a beauty contestant: personality and charm were hers in abundance. She fixed the hours, and I was always on time, waiting in the library for h
er. Her Citroën 2CV (or Deux-Chevaux), with its distinctive noise, could be heard from the library.
Reading, dictation and pronunciation were the meat of the lesson, which took the full afternoon. Michelle disliked the Parisian style of life and its arrogance, but, ‘if one were learning French, one might just as well speak like Parisians,’ she told me. Emphasis was on the pronunciation of ‘r’ to avoid picking up the Marseille accent.
Michelle was twenty-seven years old and engaged to a French student living in France, and for her, one year in Fez meant making a fortune. She taught French in an affluent girls’ school, but she disliked some girls, the filles à papa. ‘They are arrogant and spoiled,’ she told me. ‘Whenever parents are called in to see me, first and foremost, I have to listen to who they are, how important they are, and who they know. “My brother is a Minister”, one said. “I have access to the palace”, said another, and so it goes.’
Michelle was fascinated by the Moroccan social fabric and asked me, ‘Why can a man end a marriage with just words and why should he pay a dowry for a bride?’
‘It’s the price for virginity,’ I told her.
‘Do you believe in that?’ she asked me.
‘Yes, I do,’ I answered.
‘I don’t accept that,’ she said.
‘If you had lived here as long I have, you would understand it,’ I said. I tried to explain the paradox of the dowry. ‘It’s a gift, as well as payment for the hymen.’ But I refrained from telling her that two of my nieces had been married and divorced before dawn, as their husbands had declared they were not virgins. They had handed back the dowry and their parents had had to repay the wedding expenses. As for divorce by words alone, I recited the Bible to her, ‘The power of life and death is in the power of the tongue.’
‘Do you read the Bible?’ she asked me.
‘No, I collect proverbs,’ I answered.
The next time we met, she gave me a Bible.
* * *
WITH THE SPROUTING OF the spring flowers and trees, the school shut its gate for holidays. Most boys flocked home, but a small bunch stayed. With fewer students, the nights felt quieter and, during the day, the school was empty and spooky.
With more free time, Oujdi asked me if I would like to go to the New Town the following Friday.
‘I’m going to see someone in the hospital,’ I replied.
Intrigued, he insisted on accompanying me. Oujdi knew nothing about Bo-jaama; he didn’t know Abdu had a brother who was homosexual and in the hospital. He thought the hospital would be a place full of beautiful nurses, and hoped he might talk to some of them. He liked the nurses’ uniform, their white, short skirts and bare legs.
After lunch on Friday, Oujdi and I rushed to the hospital. On our way, I bought a few oranges, as Bo-jaama would be disappointed if we arrived empty-handed. The hospital gate was manned by a burly security guard: broad-shouldered, bold, stocky and full of authority. In his narrow hut, he enjoyed sipping his tea and listening to local music on a small radio close to his chest. The moment the gate opened, visitors stampeded in.
Some knew where to go, but most didn’t. Oujdi and I followed the visitor tide to the main hospital door. ‘It’s to the left,’ I said, remembering my last visit weeks ago. Confused, Oujdi and I went into the big ward where Bo-jaama had been lying. The excitement with which Oujdi had come evaporated as soon as he entered the patients’ dismal ward, where twenty or more men were lying on beds in two long, narrow rows. We looked around, but found no sign of Bo-jaama, just many other patients, some sleeping and others with eyes open, watching who was coming in and hoping someone would say ‘hello’ to them. Not finding Bo-jaama, I thought he might have recovered and gone home.
Outside the ward, we came across a male nurse. He was very tall, had moderately black skin and was half bald. Wearing thick glasses, he stirred right and left while walking down the corridor, as though losing his balance. He looked around thirty and was holding medicine in his hand. I scurried and stood right in front of him, as if trying to ambush him. ‘Sir, could you help?’ I asked.
He hesitated, skirted me, and kept moving on, his eyes glued to the label on the medicine in his hand. I motioned to Oujdi to follow the nurse, who finally stopped and looked at the oranges in my hand. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘We’re looking for Bo-jaama,’ I replied. The name didn’t ring a bell. ‘He was in this big ward weeks ago,’ I pointed out.
‘Weeks ago, weeks ago, weeks ago,’ repeated the nurse, shaking his head. Suddenly, the name Bo-jaama jogged his memory. ‘Follow me,’ he said, striding off on long legs. Oujdi had to jog to keep up with him.
The hospital was a real labyrinth. He took us far away from where we had been. Without a word, he pointed to a new door and a different ward. He looked at us and said, ‘He is very ill.’
He disappeared, and dazed, I whispered, ‘Thank you.’
Bo-jaama’s ward, several steps down, was accessed via a dark, narrow corridor. There was Bo-jaama, lying in bed number three, facing the door and in the midst of about twelve other men who were just as ill as he. They were all covered with blankets, just faces popping out like mushrooms. It was impossible to distinguish who was young or old; all were unshaven. Bo-jaama had a patchy beard and looked one thousand years old. Like many, he was expecting no one.
‘Assalamo, Assalamo,’ I repeated while standing at his bedside. No reply. This wasn’t what Oujdi had expected, and he looked overwhelmingly shocked.
When Bo-jaama opened his eyes, he seemed confused. Oujdi, standing beside me, confused him even more. He looked Oujdi up and down several times, but didn’t ask who he was.
Bo-jaama gained some strength and consciousness, recognised me and tried to prop himself up against his headboard, but he failed. Last time, Bo-jaama had asked for food, but not this time. He noticed the oranges at his bedside and gave them a slow smile, exposing green teeth, unbrushed for a long time. I was certain Bo-jaama didn’t know which month, day or year it was. I didn’t want to mention school, but there was no other topic to talk about.
Oujdi kept silent all the time and looked perplexed when Bo-jaama asked, ‘Where is my brother Abdu?’
‘He wanted to come, but he has exams. He sends his regards,’ I lied, trying to comfort Bo-jaama.
Before we realised it, the bell rang and visitors were swept out. ‘See you soon,’ I mumbled, not really knowing what to say.
From the look of it, Oujdi’s desire to be cheered by a semi-naked nurse had been dashed. ‘What’s Bo-jaama’s illness?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. I’m not a doctor yet,’ I replied. ‘Whatever they’re doing for him isn’t working, by the look of it. A hot pot of mint tea would probably work better.’
After the visit, we lost our inclination to go to the New Town. We didn’t even try to find a café to sit in to while away the time. We headed straight to the school library to leave behind the spectre of Bo-jaama’s ward. Oujdi hid himself in a book he wasn’t supposed to read.
Abdu plodded in late to the refectory and nearly missed dinner. He took a seat beside Faissal and me and looked exhausted.
‘Where have you been?’ I asked.
‘In New Town,’ he replied.
He looked shocked when I told him Oujdi and I had seen Bo-jaama. He nearly fainted.
‘Does Oujdi know that Bo-jaama is homosexual?’ he asked me outside the refectory.
‘No, he doesn’t,’ I replied.
‘Does he know that Bo-jaama is my brother?’
‘Yes, Bo-jaama told him. Bo-jaama is very ill, do you know?’
Abdu blinked his eyes and showed no emotion. Because I wished I had a brother, I was shocked, but then began to think.
‘Hospitals have plenty of doctors and nurses, yet people are ill and die. Schools are stuffed with teachers, yet people can’t read or write. Streets are full of police, yet crimes are rampant. Tribunals are full of judges, yet people are still seeking and waiting for justice, and s
ome are misjudged,’ I told Abdu. ‘Evil is not the opposite of good. There is only one evil and one good, and they are one apple; they both reside in the flesh. They are the flesh itself. It is like that, it has always been like that, and it always will be like that.’
Back inside the dormitory, it was quiet, except for Oujdi’s abrasive snoring. No one dared wake him, but everyone wished someone would. I lifted his book, freed his nose, and he immediately lifted his head up.
‘I was dreaming,’ he said. ‘Having a nightmare!’
‘What was your dream?’ I asked with a smile.
‘I dreamed I was riding a broken bicycle and chased by two Scottish women. They were headless! I pedalled as fast as I could, but I went nowhere, and they caught me.’
‘How did two Scottish women appear in your dream?’ I asked him.
‘You took me to the hospital with you,’ he answered. ‘The half-naked nurses I dreamed of turned into rough, tough Scottish women!’
During this spring holiday, the prefects didn’t care where we sat at dinnertime. There were so few of us anyway, and soon it became a habit for Oujdi, Faissal, Abdu and me to sit at the same table. But the table gathered the people with the most contradictory views. The debates turned into shouting and table-thumping. Prefects, worried, succumbed to eavesdropping.
‘I can’t understand why, when two countries are rubbing shoulders, one is poor and the other rich!’ shouted Oujdi.
‘I can,’ I told him. ‘This is how my sister’s donkey died. It was stung by a swarm of wasps while tied to a hook in the field. My sister saw it jumping, kicking in the air, trying to break the rope to free itself, and she thought it was happy-dancing. The donkey was restricted by its leg; you and I by the language typed into our brains.’
Our discussion was halted by the sixth-year prefect shouting, ‘Out! Out!’
* * *
THE SPRING SUN REVIVED the spirits, hearts and minds of men and beasts. I remembered cows stampeding, sheep and goats jumping and running, sexually excited, but I had felt nothing like that during this spring holiday. It came and went like the melting of a snowflake on the skin. Whenever my heart jumped, my mind opened a new chapter that I had to read and think about. Friday was the last day. Bo-jaama expects me and I must visit him, I thought to myself. I also knew I must work flat out the following weeks for exams, then go home.
A Riffians Tune Page 21