Infidels

by Abdellah Taïa

  Azemmour took me in without judgment, without treating me as an infidel.

  Azemmour is a separate territory. A city from another time. Free and unbridled. I was able to give birth there, to a boy. Smile at him, give him my breast. Wash him, keep him warm. Calm and comfort him. Teach him little things.

  But it didn’t last long.

  I slept. Too much. It was winter. I was completely exhausted. I slept much more than I should have. One morning when I woke up, he wasn’t breathing. The little baby, your brother, wasn’t breathing. His body was cold, his eyes open wider than usual.

  I didn’t cry. Don’t judge me, please.

  I felt a sort of relief.

  All by himself that little child had understood the way things were. The world was already hurting him. Even I, without wanting to, had abandoned, killed him.

  I didn’t tell anyone.

  People didn’t really know me in Azemmour.

  Alone, I buried him in the cemetery of St. Moulay Bouchaïb. I didn’t pray for him. At the time, I too was somehow convinced that I was living in sin. This son, born out of wedlock, was the child of sin. One day, someone would spit in his face, make his life miserable with that insult, that narrow truth.

  I hadn’t even given him a name.

  God didn’t love him, of that I was sure.

  I gave him to Life to look after. To Nature. The World after the world. Black stars, dead and so bright.

  I put him in the ground without a shroud. I laid him in his grave with his baby clothes that still bore traces of me. Sweat, dried milk from my breasts. All I could give him was what I was, a shameful woman.

  But a mother all the same.

  Don’t judge me, my little daughter.

  It was night. I could only do it at night.

  I dug with my hands. He was so little. His grave was easy to dig.

  I laid him in that welcoming hole.

  Tears were coming. To keep them away, I sang a Berber song I didn’t understand. It came from another place, a life in the mountains I couldn’t remember.

  He was dead. But I was sure that he heard, was listening to me.

  I’d never sung to him before. It was the first and last time.

  A nocturnal lullaby.

  The words in Berber took the baby back to ancestors I knew nothing about who would teach him everything. Guide him. Take care of him for me. Heal him. Love him. Talk to him in the first language. Berber. Lost. Forgotten. Neglected. Crushed. Hidden. But always true.

  Before Arabic there is Berber. Before Morocco, Amazigh.

  I don’t remember covering the baby in earth. I was absent when it happened. It wasn’t me who did it. I’m sure. Sure.

  Forty days later, I returned to the cemetery at night. I built the tomb myself. And I painted it red.

  I didn’t write anything on the tombstone. I’m illiterate, my girl. And my baby had no name.

  Hence the idea of distinguishing his grave from others with red.

  You’ll see. When the red returns to that little tomb, you’ll be surprised and moved. You’ll understand. You’ll go to it naturally and sing for the little brother you never knew. The same Berber song. You haven’t heard it. I never taught it to you. In front of the little mausoleum, the baby, alive again, will whisper the words and tell you where I hid the treasure. Next to his body. On the right side.

  You will listen to him, Slima.

  You will follow his orders, my girl.

  And for once, you will open your mouth. You will speak. No. You’ll sing. You’ll travel along the same road, speak the same language as him, as me, as all of us.

  Berber. That’s what we are, Berbers. You’ll see. You’ll wake up. Berbers, always and forever.

  You’ll have two tombs at Azemmour. And the saint. Sidi Moulay Bouchaïb.

  They’ll be your family. Extended.

  Don’t forget to take care of us.

  Don’t forget the saint. Pay him a visit at least once every season. Give to the poor. To dishonored women.

  The little treasure I’m leaving you isn’t much. A belt. Ten louises. A chain and its khamsa. All gold. Do what you want with it. It will help you get settled, buy a little house in the old town. You’ll be protected for a while. A year. Two years, maybe.

  You are now sixteen.

  Very soon you’ll be eighteen.

  You’re not beautiful.

  In Azemmour you will be.

  I don’t want you to become a little housemaid, a slave, a beggar. You won’t need those people. Other people. They’ll come to you, seeking your knowledge, your skills, your blessings. No marriage will be sealed without you, my girl.

  You’ll be an introductrice, like me.

  Free, like me.

  A queen. Not in the eyes of others, who are ignorant and will always see you as a prostitute. A queen, because you’re the one who’s decided what you will be.

  You’ll do what I do. You’ll help both men and women. You’ll bring them together at last. You’ll introduce them into each other.

  I told you earlier.

  Men know nothing.

  Women are afraid, and people do everything to keep them that way. Submissive. Fearful. Nice little ladies.

  You will do good, my girl. They’ll give you money, smile at you, and as soon as you’re gone, they’ll curse you.

  It doesn’t matter.

  It really doesn’t matter.

  I will not die. Through you, I’ll still be here on earth.

  You’ll take cocks in your hands. You’ll open vaginas wide.

  And to do that, you’ll have to talk.

  Here’s how I did it.

  Here’s how you’ll do it.

  You’ll be the only person allowed in the bridal chamber. It is the wedding night. Outside, everyone is celebrating. Dancing, drinking, singing, they easily drift into a trance. Wine and emotion are overflowing. Almost nobody in the two families knows you’re there on the bed with the couple about to be joined. It is you who will unite them. Put one sex in the other. For the first time. He won’t be able to get hard. She’ll be petrified and won’t want to undress. The husband, you’ll have to arouse with filthy words, wild words from the street. You’ll have to remove the bride’s clothing yourself. You’ll be gentle, violent. You have to be quick. The newlyweds’ mothers are waiting anxiously behind the door. They’re not singing. They’re praying.

  The bride must be a virgin. That’s how it goes. This is no time for discussion. It’s not your role to ask questions. Blood must flow. That’s all anyone is waiting for, the proof of that fictitious purity.

  It’s up to you.

  You’ll have to cheat. Tell the husband to close his eyes. Explain that it’s very important. Promise him a thousand pleasures. It’s not the end of the world. Blood can flow from anywhere. Thighs, arms, calves. You have to be ready to cheat and be quick about it. And it will be necessary almost every time.

  First you’ll defend your sisters—women. Even when they declare war on you, you won’t betray them on their wedding night. Most arrive at this moment without being virgins. That’s how it goes. It’s your job to make sure blood flows onto the white sheet that will be proudly displayed for friends and enemies alike. You’ll see. You already know the earth will stop turning if we don’t give people the illusory proof that women are faithful, brainless, docile things who will never belong to themselves.

  You’ll carry each woman, support her and forgive her easy cruelty toward you. For the entire, endless wedding night, you’ll be her confidante, her fount and secret link with the invisible. Her advocate and tender mistress. Her soul set free. Her body that one day will radiate pleasure.

  Women are cruel. I know only too well. They never liked me. I helped them so many times. They always turned their backs on me, ignored and insulted me.<
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  It doesn’t matter. That’s how it is. But you shall be free. You’ll be above them. You’ll be like me. Me. The introductrice. Damned, and so very much in demand.

  Men can never get hard on that night. Don’t worry, whatever you do. I’ll give you a simple and effective technique to help them become more erect than they need to be to fulfill your mission. If sexual words aren’t enough, and your eyes and buttocks have no effect, then, brave girl, without asking, put your finger in the groom’s asshole.

  You’ll see, he won’t be surprised.

  Men love it. Love to be treated in a different way. Love for the tables to turn without warning. They like the asshole, their own, others people’s. They’re used to talking to other men’s asses, and those of little boys . . .

  Don’t be afraid. Push your finger in deep. The man will get hard right away. Gently pull your finger out and play with the rim for a minute or so. I warn you, no more than a minute. Some get so much pleasure from this little game that they faint dead away. Avoid that. If you see the man is passing out, slap him on both cheeks and remind him of his duty. “Sidi, it’s your turn, the path is this way, the perfumed garden is ready and waiting.”

  You must find me coarse. But I’m just telling you the way things are. I don’t want to waste time, I have none left. I’m not making light. I don’t have the strength. But I do want to define the world for you, sketch its outlines, its boundaries.

  A man doesn’t know his own cock, that extra limb that bewilders him, makes him burn and makes him yearn.

  The cock is a separate being. You have to strike up a conversation with it, and secretly exclude the man. For every cock you have to invent a new language, gestures, murmurs and gazes; ways to approach and win it over, seize and take it to the end of the night and the peak of its pleasures. Very often, the groom will be afraid too. Don’t forget to be tender. Look at him tenderly, but don’t be sentimental. He’ll be moved, grateful. He’ll let you take him, tame him, make him bigger, feed him, have him taste saliva, salt, sugar, honey, forest, blood. His own milk.

  I’m going. Slima. I’m leaving, I’m dying.

  But the future arrives quickly. It’s a happy idea, the future. Optimistic. Infinite.

  You’ll be there, in that blank time. You’re there. Whatever happens through me, you’ll be the one who sees up ahead. The lookout.

  A being apart. More than now. More than others.

  You will not speak. I know.

  Only the night will give you that power, that openness. That miracle.

  Use it for the good of others. Especially women. All they’ll have is you.

  In guiding, in dominating the man’s cock, you’ll be serving your own sex. You’ll have needs. You’ll know how to satisfy them. You’ll be bad in the eyes of others. And so deeply fulfilled. A sun. A moon. A star. The star.

  I wish it with all my heart.

  Life is treacherous, I know. There’s no God here, we both know it.

  Only she, She is real. The tall woman. The Berber. The warrior woman who fought the Arabs centuries ago, when they began to invade us and forced us to change. She was courage and cunning. Stubbornness. Freedom. Pride. Our goddess. Our true queen. Our Cleopatra. Our example. Do you know her? You know who she is, don’t you? No? No?

  You need to know. Ask around.

  Use her as inspiration—her actions and her loyalty to herself, her body, her instincts. Her sex.

  Her name is . . . Her name . . . I’m thirsty . . . Slima . . . I’m thirsty . . .

  Take my hand, Slima.

  I’m thirsty . . . I’m thirsty . . .

  Touch my feet. Squeeze them. Squeeze them.

  Water, now.

  No, my time’s run out.

  I’m trembling.

  It’s here. It’s come.

  Coiling itself around and around me. Big. Long. Climbing. Squeezing.

  Look into my eyes. I don’t want to go alone.

  Look at me.

  I’m afraid. I’m afraid.

  It’s squeezing hard. Hard. HARD.

  I’m leaving.

  I’m leaving.

  Kahina.

  The Berber goddess. Her name is Kahina. KA-HI-NA.

  Don’t betray us, my daughter.

  Be worthy.

  Let go of my hand.

  Let go Slima. Let go.

  3

  A man is cutting a tree. He’s striking the final blows, three, two, one. He stops. Steps away. The tree is big, very big. You see it. You couldn’t before, it was out of the camera’s field. You can see it now, this falling tree that will fall completely. But first it has to detach from itself, from the rest of its body, its roots deep, deep in the ground. It does. The tree decides to do it. To fall. It’s no longer standing. The long body with its roots in the sky, hurls itself and falls little by little, in slow motion, then very, very quickly. Separation occurs. Detachment. One body with two roots. An old body from long ago, which would have lived a long time more, hundreds of years, more than any man. An eternal body is dying, cut in two, divided, no longer in or of the earth. The tree collapses. The speed of the fall, at the very end, accelerates. It is violent, breathtaking. It doesn’t look like anything human, it is a speed outside of us in a reality unknown to us, black and strange.

  The tree is in pain. I ache for it. For its branches. Each time.

  I’m in front of the television set. I devour the images from the movie. My mother Slima is working. I hear her in the next room.

  I don’t know the name of the tree that just fell. What kind it is.

  It’s alone now. You know that by sight.

  Our tree is lying down, it is dying. Around it are other trees. They look like our tree. Not exactly, to tell the truth. They all have the same mother, probably. Not the same father. Anyway, fathers don’t count. Are they brothers? All brothers? Sisters? All sisters? Nephews? Nieces? We don’t know. But we see that all the trees on the screen are the same age as our tree on the ground, they have the same green in their branches, the same ocher color down the sides of the body. It’s obvious. It’s meant to be obvious, the separation and the resemblance. A tree was just cut from the earth. And sky. Its fall has caused a tremor of signs and stars. It is invisible. We imagine it. And it is very real.

  We’re not going to mourn this tree?

  Why not?

  What is the point of this murder? And what will become of its roots in the earth? Will they give life to another tree? Will they dare to betray our tree, its body still warm, not completely dead?

  And the man, cruel man, what is he doing?

  He saw the same thing as us, as me. He didn’t miss a moment of this scene, this degradation. He relished the tragic spectacle of his own cruelty. An ax in his hand, he recorded it all. He remained calm. Neutral. He said nothing, expressed nothing.

  The man is tall.

  He’s wearing jeans, a shirt, a belt, cowboy boots.

  He’s a cowboy.

  We’re sad.

  He’s not sad.

  It’s strange, he’s moving away. He doesn’t look at the tree. He doesn’t touch it. He leaves, just like that. He straightens up, keeps hold of the ax. And he leaves the frame.

  It’s cruel.

  It’s frightening.

  We don’t understand the man. We judge him. I judge him. Mercilessly.

  He’s a cold man. For the moment, let’s not make excuses for him.

  He leaves the scene.

  We’re with the tree. We’re on the ground with it. We look at it and don’t know what to do. The other trees turn away. They’re afraid to look. You can understand why. Death is hard to look at. We close our eyes. We see the trees all slowly closing their eyes. But we’re fascinated, enthralled, and we keep looking. Looking without knowing when we too should close our eyes.

&nb
sp; Sadness rules the world. The set. And yet the colors are warm, brilliant, violently alive. They always will be. Call it a scandal all you like, these colors won’t change, won’t vary. We know they are beautiful, a celebration of life. We know. We understand and we are sad. God hears us and joins us in our infinite sadness for this tree cut down, ripped out, its feet severed. God has mercy on us and the tree.

  The next three scenes show the beauty of the world’s grief for the tree that just departed. Forest. River. Mountain. Grandiose Space. Earth and Sky, united and singing.

  There are no men, there is only the world. Only sounds. Another language that we don’t understand.

  It lasts maybe a minute, the funeral. The world without the tree.

  And the man reappears in the middle of it all. He’s short and rides a beautiful horse. They both go. They go. They don’t explain anything for now. Will God punish the man? Judge him for this crime, for the sadness he’s caused? Punish him and throw him in hell for the soul he took in cold blood? Or at least ask him to justify what he did? For our sake, ask him why?

  The man and the horse ride away, dissolve into Nature. The credits roll.

  My mother’s alone in the next room now, resting between two tricks. I’m watching this movie for the tenth time. The credits scroll over music and a song. I don’t understand English, but I know almost all the words to the song, River of No Return.

  The whole movie is in French. Other voices take possession of the actors’ bodies, the characters’ bodies. It took a while to understand this. One of my mother Slima’s customers helped me. He gave me two tapes of the same movie, one in French and the other the original, in English. And he explained the title. River of No Return.

  Later, just before this customer left for the war, after he’d started calling me “son,” we studied all the words of the song together.

  Here it is:

  Ummmhhhhh

  If you listen, you can hear it call

  Wail-a-ree

  Wail-a-ree

  There’s a river called the River of No Return

  Sometimes it’s peaceful and sometimes wild and free