‘I don’t want you to look odd!’ she said, smiling at my expense. ‘Your father was pretty clumsy with bees. He never placed hives in the right spot, and never renewed them when they got old. His bees died prematurely, and your mother used to get frustrated with him and envious of my honey.’
‘Did you know my father very well?’ I asked.
‘I always thought so,’ she replied with a shrug.
‘Did you know my mother just as well?’
‘I wouldn’t say so,’ she replied. ‘There was a hell of a difference between them. Your mother worked pretty hard to tame her two piglet daughters. They tattooed their faces beyond recognition with long stitches on the forehead, both cheeks, the chin and neck, driving her to tears. It would have taken a blind man to marry either one of them, but that didn’t bother your father, which was an additional pain to your mother. How did you do in your exams?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t sat them yet,’ I answered.
‘Why are you strolling around here, then?’ she queried.
‘I’m hiding from thugs. I also had to run from my brother-in-law, but as soon as I arrived home, Uncle Mimoun forced me to read the land documents stored in my mother’s trunk. Thumbing through the suitcase, I chanced upon my father’s notebook. In two and a half pages, he described how Jusef (I’m assuming that’s me) ended up in their hands; that my real father was killed at sea and my mother was unable to cope. They took me in as their own. Has my father filled his notebook with fiction?’ I asked her.
Visibly at a loss for words, she threw her hands up in the air, turned on her heel and hobbled back toward the house. That’s a strange reaction! I thought. At that moment, she must have thought better of it and turned around to face me. ‘I never knew your father to be a liar!’ she stated forcefully. ‘The story is, they weren’t your natural parents, but I don’t know who your parents actually were. I have wondered that for many years.’ She backed a few steps and disappeared behind the door.
How can she not know? I wondered. She was a close friend of my father.
* * *
HAVING BEEN ABSENT FOR a month, I felt like a raven in a land of penguins when I arrived back in Fez. Looking for a safe haven, I hired a room in a small, respectable-looking lodging, owned by a French couple and managed by a local woman. I soon found that female and male prostitutes, black and blond, were hustled about like trains at the station, and kept the manageress busy cashing in. When I asked for the front door key, she refused.
‘It’s already dark. You’re not going out now, are you?’
‘Yes, I need to see a friend,’ I replied, with Kadija in my mind.
‘We never give the front door key to anyone. I can’t give it to you.’
‘I’ll be back early,’ I promised.
‘I’ll wait for you,’ she said.
It was dark and the street was empty, no cars or pedestrians were around, and I was alone walking down from the New Town to the medina. In the narrow, dimly lit streets, I couldn’t see who might be behind or in front of me, so, like a bat, I depended on my ears. Beggars were everywhere.
I reached Kadija’s house and wondered what her father might think or say to me. The house number was not easy to read, but I remembered the door, the sign above the lock, and the tiles on each side. I knocked on the door and a tall boy came out. He gave me a suspicious look, and asked, ‘What do you want?’ The tone of his voice said it all.
‘Kadija,’ I answered.
‘There’s no such person here,’ he answered with a sneer.
‘I am Jusef, her classmate. We had some lessons here not long ago, and our exams will start on Wednesday,’ I explained.
The boy didn’t budge. Kadija must have heard us talking and rushed, bare-footed, to the front door. I might have gotten a hug had her brother not been around. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked.
‘I went to my sister’s, then to our house in Kebdana.’
‘I have been working day and night,’ she said.
‘Have you seen Faissal and Najib?’ I asked.
‘No. They are hiding. It’s such a shame! But, I’ve seen Rahma and Bajia,’ she added. ‘Now that I’ve seen you, I’ll work harder!’ she whispered with a smile, checking that she hadn’t been overheard.
‘I came to see you as soon as I arrived,’ I said.
‘Exams start on Wednesday at eight. Do you think it’s safe?’ she asked, frightened. ‘I’ve heard they mistook a girl for a baccalaureate student and threw acid on her face. What is left if a girl is defaced?’
‘Nowhere is safe. Anyway, don’t forget to take your exam ID. They won’t let you in otherwise,’ I responded, noticing her brother’s menacing look. ‘I’m afraid I have to go. I promised the manageress of my room to be in on time. Otherwise I will be locked out.’
‘I’m glad you’re back,’ she smiled sweetly.
The manageress was pleased when I arrived before closing time. Seeing that I was tired and sweaty, she said, ‘You’re a sight!’
‘Yes, I was running.’
Inside my room, I felt exhausted and hungry. I avoided looking at myself in the mirror beside my bed. For three days, I lived on bread and milk. The manageress discovered how dedicated I was to my studies and how poor my diet was. ‘You need more than bread and milk,’ she told me.
Wednesday couldn’t arrive too soon. I hired a taxi and mapped a circuitous route. Puzzled, the taxi driver wondered why I was wasting my money.
Each examinee had to come and go at his own peril. Escorted by her father, Kadija arrived in a taxi with Rahma and Bajia. They were immediately ushered into the hall and then to their seats. I was already seated at the very front, near the window, face-to-face with the proctor. Faissal and Najib were far away and apart, for once. Kadija was seated in the middle and waved to me as she sat down. Rahma and Bajia were somewhere, but invisible to me.
Four hours of maths exams debrained me, and I was the first to hand in my paper and leave the room.
Kadija came out almost in tears, shouting, ‘Hard! Hard!’
‘It would have been harder if Professor Nassiri hadn’t given us those private tutorials!’ I answered.
‘Horrible as horrible can be!’ remarked Faissal as he lumbered out of the hall.
At lunchtime, Kadija’s father was already outside waiting for her. Some parents came to pick up their children; Faissal, Najib and I stayed in and shared our lunch. I had brought bread and a couple of mandarins; Faissal and Najib had brought bread and dates.
The second morning was different. Crafty, rough-looking and pretending to be tradesmen, thugs arrived at the exam complex at five-fifty in the morning, ten minutes before the real cleaners were to start, ingenious timing. Carrying buckets and brushes, they passed the gate, spoke to the janitor and penetrated the building, undetected and undeterred. They knew it was a short time before the janitor would raise the alarm. At lightning-speed, they sloshed petrol here and there, threw a match into the middle, engulfing part of the building in fire, and scurried away. The janitor realised that he had been duped, and when the real cleaners arrived, they could only watch the blaze. The building had been turned into a war zone. In the smoke, the police, fire brigade and undercover police watched and listened, but there was no one to cuff and no fish in the net.
On the third morning, the weather was out of character: cloudy, misty and surprisingly chilly; weather no one expected or enjoyed. Overnight, the school ground became a military camp. Vehicles of all sizes and soldiers of all ages and ranks were waiting for action, but all was calm; the moles were underground. The entrance hall was a football ground flooded with undercover police, eyes and ears strained. Leaving the dirty lodge early, I arrived at the building at seven-thirty with a black bag on my back and a suitcase.
At each side of the gate stood two tall undercover policemen, nervous and facing each other; not even a tiny fly could sneak in. ‘Your name and your ID,’ one of them asked me. This is going to be the morning from hell, I thoug
ht.
‘Your exam number,’ asked the other one. The documents were in my pocket. Behind the policemen stood the janitor and his assistant son, whose task was to identify any suspect and to tip the police with a wink of his eye.
‘What have you got there?’ the janitor asked me at the gate. ‘You’re not going to sleep here, are you?’
In seconds, two police jumped on me. Two burly men, their eyes popping, focused on the bag. ‘Open this bag!’ the commander shouted to me. I was slow to do so.
‘Are donkeys’ ears implanted on you?!’ one shouted at me.
Face scrunched, I unzipped the bag. No petrol was found, just dirty old worn-out books. ‘Jusef is here to sit his exams!’ said the janitor, trying to soften their harsh treatment of me.
‘Let him go!’ the commander replied, a pistol hanging on his belt, pushing his jacket out.
Passing the gate, I asked the janitor’s son if I could leave my luggage with him until six that evening.
‘If my father allows it,’ he answered. Shouldering his way through the police line, he shouted, ‘Are we allowed to keep Jusef’s luggage?’
‘Yes,’ replied his father.
Carrying my lunch wrapped in newspaper, I went straight to the biology lab. Access to it was shut and a few students were waiting nervously by the door. In their midst was Driss, an extremely tall, thin student with a moustache. Because of his height, he could talk to people in either the front or the back of a queue. He and I had never hit it off.
During his exam, Driss sat beside Kadija, and embarked on a very laborious technique of cheating. His arm was covered with writing, and each time he got stuck, he stretched his arm, allowing his shirtsleeve to pull back. The professor spotted his bizarre movement, and at first thought he was just nervous, but soon realised writing appeared each time Driss’ arm moved. The professor called his colleague next door, and both of them observed his aerobic art of cheating. At a quarter past twelve, Driss was expelled.
Exams over, the six o’clock siren sounded, and the janitor swept everybody out. Abdu-Rahim didn’t heed the janitor and an undercover policeman cuffed him. He was put outside and set free like a mouse from a trap.
I picked up my bag, my suitcase and searched for Kadija. Her face changed and her voice dropped when I told her, ‘I mustn’t miss the eight o’clock train.’
‘Couldn’t you stay until tomorrow at least?’ she asked.
‘By this time tomorrow, I will be in Kebdana. I have no money left,’ I responded.
Kadija moved away, faced the wall, covered her face with a book, and broke into tears. I stood beside her, knowing I was not allowed to touch her, and wished all had been designed differently.
‘I have applied to read pharmacology,’ she said. ‘You have applied to do medicine. I will change and do medicine as well.’
‘I hope they will give us a grant,’ I said. ‘As you know, you only get a grant if you don’t need one.’
‘Can I go home with you?’ she whispered to me so no one would hear.
‘I wish you could, but my life in Kebdana is tough. Like they did in the Stone Age, you have to grind your own barley to make bread,’ I answered, my heart pounding. ‘As a currency trader, I narrowly escaped death last summer in Melilla. I have nothing to go home to, and I will have to resume trading again, though I have no capital.’
‘I would be good to your mother. I would help,’ she pleaded.
Until now, I had been undisturbed by my father’s notebook, but was now stirred by Kadija’s mention of my mother. Just then, Kadija’s father lost his patience. The taxi driver hadn’t switched off his engine and had kept the meter running. ‘Kadija! Kadija!’ her father called. She feigned deafness. Angry, he leaped out of the taxi, and she was unaware of him until he grabbed her with both hands and bellowed, ‘Child! The taxi isn’t free!’
26
Not meaning to, Kadija left me standing alone with my feelings for her apparent on my face. Fortunately, there was no one to notice. Already lonely and with barely enough money to get home, I had no choice but to move on.
To get a ticket at the train station was a matter of strength. Travellers, wrestling and shoving, swarmed the ticket booth, and the shoving ended only with the train’s departure. I pushed and swerved to buy a fourth-class ticket on bare wooden benches. Men, women, children, the fit, the sick and some animals all shared the car. The train was long and slow. I imagined it had been built by French colonialists to transport their armed soldiers and livestock. However, it was the fastest engine I could afford.
Kariat Arkmane was lifeless when I arrived. Shops and cafés were closed, except Café Marhaba, where professional gamblers and hashish consumers spent the long nights fighting, sipping and smoking. Belly dancing crowned the nights.
Racing against the darkness, making a beeline, I found myself on Rabbia’s doorstep. She seemed pleased to see me. ‘Mrs Malani asked when you were coming and whether I had heard from you,’ she told me.
Heavy, dragging footsteps thumped outside the main door; it was her husband. He looked tired, his face spotted with dust. He threw his sandals chaotically behind the door and dropped himself on a small rug woven by my mother. He fell asleep lying on his back. His mouth dropped open and he began to snore.
‘Was it a busy day for you and Baghdad?’ I asked him later. ‘Rabbia told me that you and Baghdad trade produce in the village.’
‘We do,’ he said, declining to chat further.
After my long journey, the evening was comfortable and it was late when I arrived at my empty house.
At dawn, I was awakened abruptly by a heavy thumping that sounded like a drum. It was Uncle Mimoun banging on the door, frustrated by having to wait. Surprised to see him, I wondered why he was there so early and how he knew I was back home. He was desperate for my help. His daughter, Haloma, was getting married soon and, full of pride and trepidation, he wanted to impress and offer the best possible wedding in the region.
‘The wedding is in a few days,’ he told me. ‘I have invited over a hundred people but, as you know, two-thirds more will turn up with no invitation. I want you to fill my barrels, all ten of them, with water and buy fourteen kilos of grapes.’ I couldn’t say no to Uncle Mimoun, even though he lived five kilometres away from the water pipe.
‘Running out of water on a wedding day is second only to my daughter turning out not to be a virgin and being brought back to me as damaged goods, with compensation due to the groom!’ he stewed.
For three days, I did nothing but transport water on an old donkey to fill the barrels for the wedding. When the donkey was not carrying water, I rode him like a yo-yo, back and forth, passing Mrs Malani’s house.
As I ploughed along the dusty and rocky path, several metres below her prickly-pear fortified wall, she rushed out of her house and, descending the hill, stopped me on one of my trips. Tense and unsmiling, her large eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. ‘How many more trips will you make?’ she asked me.
‘Until the barrels are filled, provided not too much water is wasted,’ I answered.
‘Expect that. The bride bathes six times before leaving!’ she told me. ‘Why didn’t Uncle Mimoun hire one of those lazy lumps from the bingo club to fill his barrels?’
‘I don’t know,’ I answered. I didn’t understand Mrs Malani’s hostile tone. Overburdened, the donkey was restless and I tried to hold it steady.
‘How is your mother, Mrs Malani?’ I asked, to change the subject.
‘Old and frail. Her bones are one of her main problems, but she’s in marvellous form, spiritually satisfied. When are your exam results due?’ she asked me.
‘In three weeks, I hope. It’s been a very tough year for me,’ I answered.
Mrs Malani noticed the donkey struggling, stomping the ground, carrying its heavy weight and not moving. She touched its head with a gentle stroke and said, ‘Sorry, donkey. I kept Jusef talking and you waiting. Has Mr Mimoun more tasks for you?’
‘Yes
,’ I responded. ‘He needs grapes for the wedding.’
‘Ah, can he not buy them from Baghdad and Rabbia’s husband? They know all the farmers and who has what.’
‘I’ve already thought of Baghdad. Now that you mention it, it’s a perfect idea,’ I told her, but then remembered that Uncle Mimoun hated Baghdad.
She smiled, went away, and I continued my chore. Then I began to think, Uncle Mimoun wants me to get good quality grapes: seedless, sweet, fully matured in the sun, with no sign of ageing or shrinkage. All that to glorify Haloma’s wedding and collect praise for himself.
I went to Arkmane and strolled, looking for good grapes, in the open market. I found Baghdad standing behind a huge pile of grapes on the ground, with pears and mint beside him.
‘Good morning to you!’ he shouted at me. ‘Taste! Taste! Today grapes are from Boya-Bach, sweet and thin-skinned.’
‘Fantastic!’ I said, after tasting some. They were spicy and sweet, but I was hungry, having walked for three hours with nothing to eat. ‘I need about fourteen kilos of white and black grapes for Uncle Mimoun.’
‘Ah-h-h! For Haloma’s wedding!’ said Baghdad, realising I was serious. ‘Do the rest of your shopping and return at eleven. The best is still to arrive. I am expecting a farmer about eleven.’
I whiled away the time at the beach and returned to Baghdad at eleven. I was alarmed to find no new grapes had arrived as promised. Knowing the importance of grapes at a wedding and the intransigence of Uncle Mimoun, Baghdad said, ‘Let’s go and see Largo.’ Leaving Rabbia’s husband to struggle with the business, Baghdad and I rushed to Largo’s stand one hundred metres down the row.
‘Jusef needs about fourteen kilos of grapes of the best quality to impress undeserving wedding guests,’ Baghdad said.
‘You know me! I sell only good quality, but of course, I’ll have to charge more. That’s why I always finish after you,’ Largo answered with a smile.
Largo was called from every corner, encircled by his clients. Some knew his name, some didn’t. ‘Two kilos of grapes, please!’ shouted a client who didn’t know him.
A Riffians Tune Page 33