I was sure she’d calmed down when I left. Maybe she wasn’t thinking about him anymore, but of all the goodness before us. Her presence in the house was a good idea. When I got back, she was standing and getting ready to go somewhere. It seemed to me there wasn’t anything between me and her anymore. I came down to her from the sky to solve the problem that a man left her without a protector for twenty years. Who would provide for her? Who would protect her from the cold nights and the summer heat? It was as if God had put me here at the right time and place.
4
This was something that hadn’t happened before. I couldn’t find the girl who spent the night with my uncle to bring her back to her family. This was another job I had to do. Instead of her, I found big cars in front of the casbah gate. Tanks. Ambulances too. My uncle said a high-level American commission had come to get one of its citizens. And the commission said he was with the group of prisoners. His grandfather had traveled to America on a research trip and become intimate with an American woman and so he remained in their protection. Neither I nor my uncle understand the Americans. And you’d think the American commission would be made up of Americans, but they weren’t. The ones I saw in front of me were Moroccan. A group of officers and important officials, tall, with blond hair. In military uniforms and other things. As for the commission, as they call him, he was a short man, thin like a branch, whose face was covered with freckles like a sieve and whose thick glasses were like two jam jars. He wore khaki shorts and a khaki shirt as if he was going to hunt butterflies. It was a high-level American commission because the important Moroccan officers were surrounding the short man and raising their heads at every word and laughing at every sign. Was this the commission that was asking for the American?
My uncle said: “Do you know where the short man came from? From Congress or Conogress. It’s the equivalent of our parliament.” So it’s not equivalent to anything. We don’t have an American or even half an American prisoner. We don’t jail Americans. And the man, the commission, was sitting behind my uncle’s desk and joking with the American officers in American, and my uncle, who doesn’t understand American, was near the window moving his head as if he understood and was laughing and the American saw he didn’t understand so he spoke with him in Moroccan and this time my uncle moved his head as if he’d remembered he could understand. The officers suggested they make a visit to the casbah so the American Congress could see our magnificent heritage. I thought my role as guide had come. But the Congress apologized. It didn’t have any time to waste. My uncle came up to me and we went out to the roof.
We were alone now, and he asked me: “Where’s the notebook?
“What notebook, Uncle?”
“The commission’s been looking for it since they came.”
“What notebook, Uncle?”
“The notebook we’ve been registering the names of our prisoners in.”
“If my memory serves me, Uncle, we tore it up, so no trace remains of them.”
“Baba Ali was recording the names of the dead in a special notebook.”
“But Uncle, you tore it up. I’m a soldier. I don’t know how to write, I told you, Uncle. I agree with you. Since that day, we’ve been burying them, not writing them down. I never thought about them, dead or alive. Because since the first day, you told us, Uncle, these cursed ones have come here to die. Without a notebook or anything else. I only understand that.”
I also understand my uncle doesn’t buy food for them with the money from the state. Sometimes I don’t understand him because he builds houses with this money. He builds complete neighborhoods in Meknès and doesn’t give us anything from the state’s money, even though we’re in the same boat. Of course it’s not the same boat when it’s about money. I don’t like to think a lot about these things. I only enjoy the memories that will come. This woman who came at the exactly the right time to change my life. I hope what I’m thinking about is good. She’ll need a house to shelter her. The money I’ll earn will be enough to find an appropriate house in Midelt or El Hajib. And I’ll leave my uncle with the Americans and I hope they eat him alive. God willing, the Merciful and the Compassionate.
My uncle said: “Go bring them their American.” His face didn’t turn red or green, as I thought it would.
This wasn’t my uncle anymore, my uncle who didn’t open his casbah to the Minister of the Interior in its length and width because he only takes orders from the king and here he was opening it before a man who wasn’t more than a handspan high? Because he was an American and he came from Congress and he was wearing shorts? I didn’t tell him: There’s no trace of them, Uncle. I didn’t tell him they’re all dead. In the notebook or not. I went down to the courtyard to dig up the dirt. And that was how, for the first time since yesterday, I remembered the ring. I knew God had put in my path everything I needed. I also remembered I couldn’t get it off the dead man’s finger because of the night and the dog and Baba Ali who ran off and all the other things. I could sell it. I saw that God was looking at me with the eye of compassion. And Zina was waiting. I also saw I wouldn’t disappoint her. She’d see she’d done a good thing by coming. There is no power and no strength save in God.
The hole and the lime and the clay were dug up. There was no trace of him in the courtyard. God doesn’t close a door without opening others. The man was dead yesterday but here he was no longer dead or alive. And the hole with its soil overturned, that was how I found it in the courtyard with no trace of the dog. In the name of God, the Merciful and the Compassionate. Did the earth swallow him? Or did he move to another hole?
In the corridor, I lit the lamp so I could see him returned from his hole. With his lime and soil. The door was open. And he was sitting, alive. With his wife waiting for him at my house. Only yesterday he was dead, as he should be. But the morning dawned and here he was alive because his wife came asking about him. May God be praised. He wasn’t spread out on the slab. He was sitting, turning toward me with his disgusting eyes. I didn’t like his eyes. I put out the lamp and his eyes still shone like someone who didn’t realize he’d died a few hours ago. And his eye wasn’t worth more than four thousand dirhams in the market. The right or the left. Four thousand dirhams for a single eye. That was the price in the market. She was watching the TV show and waiting for him. My anger increased. This wasn’t the time to think about eyes. I didn’t have a ring or money or an eye and they weren’t grieving. The man seemed in perfect health after twenty years of torture. As if he’d repaired all his parts in half a night and sat resting. My heart started pounding.
All the hatred of the previous night froze in my heart with its heat and sweat and curses. There is no power and no strength save in God. How would I get the ring I left on him? I felt my nerves tense up as morning wouldn’t dawn until we’d rid ourselves of him. If I’d sold his eyes, he wouldn’t have the chance to see me. Four thousand dirhams for a single eye. A thousand dirhams for Baba Ali so that his other half would be paralyzed. A thousand dirhams for my uncle so he’d know he didn’t think badly about me, like I thought about him. And two thousand dirhams for the woman who came from Azrou on the night bus. In addition to the price of the ring. The delicious things that would come with it. All this causes happiness.
Would Baba Ali give me a thousand dirhams if he was the one who sold the eye? I’m the one who always gives him thousands upon thousands without him thanking me even once. And there he was in his house, paralyzed. His mouth was drooping toward his ear. God struck him with paralysis in his mouth because he’s an infidel. I won’t visit Baba Ali after today. He’ll die alone like a dog. Is he better than all the ones we, me and him, tossed into the pits in the courtyard?
Yesterday, I left him in his hole. And here he is with those eyes of his, full of impudence. I know this kind of person. My uncle told me not to trust them. I told him as I looked over the door: “The Americans are waiting for you.”
I opened the door completely. “Get up, Mr. Aziz.”
This time I addressed him politely so he’d understand there wasn’t any animosity between us. That we were brothers in religion and creed and lineage.
“Or do you want to die here in peace?” It would be better for him to die. It would be better for him to go to America or Brazil or to face some other calamity.
Then I remembered the ring. I saw it flash on his finger. The ring I left in his pocket as I was digging the hole. I heard him say: “Take it. The ring’s not mine. I found it in the wall. May God be praised.”
Here was the man who yesterday gave me the ring, but I didn’t take it. And here he was back in his cell, waiting for me to come take the ring, and this was a miracle. So I prostrated myself twice to thank God for this, as they say. We were like the rest of His servants. We live to wait for death. And I was expecting anything from this cursed one. Even that he’d get up again and go back to his hole. These devils are capable of anything. I didn’t go in to take the ring, even though it flashed on one of his fingers. So I didn’t fall into his trap. Or the Americans’. Or someone else’s trap. This was also a blessing. My life was upright from this perspective. I couldn’t be blamed for anything. I perform my five prayers at the right times. And I fast during Ramadan. And a part of the month of Shaaban. I observe the traditions. And soon I’ll pray every Thursday and Friday. When we’re in El Hajib, me and Zina. In our new house. If God wants to say something, let it be and it is so.
The Americans came all the way here to look for him so why doesn’t he go with them? No doubt he left his hole to go with them. Who’d take him except the Americans? That’s what I told my uncle. When I took the ring, I went out running so he didn’t go back on his word. I saw the short, small commission with the thick glasses shake its head and say in American: “Good. Very good.” I told the American we’ve found him and he’s as well as can be. He was only waiting for the order to leave, which my uncle will sign off on when the time comes. And other things like that.
5
This time I forgot too. Did I lock the door or leave it open? I always have a problem with the door. I always leave and come back to see if I’ve locked it or left it open. It’s a problem, I swear. I’m in the taxi heading to Midelt. With the numbers in my pocket. And all the horses in my head with their names and weights. After four hours, everything’s changed. I won’t go back to the casbah. Let my uncle do with his casbah and his prisoners whatever he wants. Because we won’t ever finish with this story. They kept coming for twenty years and they’ll keep coming for a hundred more. I won’t bear their sins after today. The day when man opens his eyes and sees has arrived. This is a great day. My heart is beating to a special rhythm for the first time. There’s no need to go to Mecca for God to pardon you. You say it with your heart and that’s it. In the upcoming long winter nights, Zina will be sitting with me and listening to my incredible, unbelievable stories. It’s not important anymore for my wife to give birth to a girl or boy. We’ve forgotten all this. I’ll tell her before I divorce her. Good men are for good women and wicked men for wicked women. For her to understand the meaning of producing something she doesn’t want from her womb. And afterward, I’ll go to the countryside because Zina loves the countryside. She likes the long winter nights in the countryside. There is no power and no strength save in God. In the taxi I remembered the door again. I can’t go back in any case because the Americans have come. And they’ll take their prisoner with them. And that’s it. And the lime we were tossing on them doesn’t have a role anymore. Because the last fear was carried out with the coming of the small American commission.
When I got out of the taxi. When I went into the barber’s and sat on the chair. Like that, without introductions, everything ended. In one fell swoop. Taf! The lights went out.
18
Aziz
12 p.m.
1
I SEE HER COMING DOWN with the waterfall of light, sneaking through the peephole, between the roots of the palms bracing the clay roof. As if she’s coming down with water. She waited long enough that night dissolved and darkness turned to light. Then, on what remains of the ceiling drowning in calm darkness, I see her moving. Or taking a stroll, as if in an airy courtyard. Her hair spread out, her hands isolated, flying. Her hair as it was, wheat colored. Surrounded by a halo of light she attracts from outside. Her thin body sways with the sway of the thin white cloth. I close my eyes. Her breasts under the cloth laugh. I reach out my hand to her but she doesn’t come down from her heavens as I expected. She sits down cross-legged above me, in the air. She’s looking over me. Or maybe she’s relaxing after the exhaustion of a long and tiring trip. I sit on the cement basin watching her. I watch her next steps. Zina didn’t like planes or flying in the high air. But she loved the big wheel at the fair that was once set up in the square. I took her to it and we took our seats in the incredible wheel. I didn’t pay attention to it as it was spinning around. When Zina was there, everything disappeared. Neither the wheel, nor the men flying with us, nor anyone else was able to turn my attention from her for a minute. I was looking at her hair flapping in the air. At her smile, her delight in the dizziness the wheel made as it spun around. She let out a cry between happiness and fear as the wheel dropped to the ground. I loved Zina. I loved everything about Zina. Her happiness was the happiness of a fifteen-year-old girl. I find myself smiling without realizing it as I tell myself I’m lucky because I met Zina at a time when I needed her. As if I’d lived in Stork Bar for months, only to find her there one morning. Having her next to me is enough. Zina was the first girl I knew. Another girl would never fill my eyes after her. I found what I was looking for. What I was looking for was something like the dizziness of the wheel. After the wheel made another turn, I saw I wasn’t the one who was smiling. It was her smile reflected onto my face and my lips whenever she beamed next to me. I carry in my heart a small paradise whose name is Zina. This is something that makes me sad too. I told her I’d buy her a gift when we left the fair. She didn’t hear me. Two nylon socks or a handbag from the bazaar. But she didn’t hear me that time either. Why don’t we go to the cinema to watch Abdel-Halim Hafez sing “Tell Me Something, Anything.” I yelled in my loudest voice: “I’ll buy you a bottle of Rêve d’Or perfume.” Finally, I told myself that what with the wind and the dizziness and the spinning wheel she couldn’t hear what I was telling her. I kept following her happiness.
Why doesn’t she come down from her heavens?
I go back to the roof. All of a sudden she disappears, only to reappear, this time near the door. With her two braids hanging down on her chest. Her two braids on her chest rise and fall calmly with the rhythm of her eager waiting. I don’t ask her to come in. She’s looking at the washbasin gravely. As if she’s thinking. I don’t see the expressions on her face because she’s in the darkness. I don’t move. I close my eyes. I pretend to sleep so she calms down and comes closer. This place and its stenches don’t have to disturb her. It’s better she stays at the door for a moment until she gets used to it. In this delicious slumber where I see for the first time beautiful things, I hear the voice say: “Get up. Get up. You’re free, you . . . The Americans have freed you, you son of a bitch. . . .”
2
They were all laughing in the snack bar because I don’t like landing. I hear their laughter in my ears spinning around.
“How do you do it, Aziz? You’re good at taking off but not at landing?”
I say nothing. I envy Captain Hammouda because he has an opinion about everything. How was he able to learn all these things? Where does he get all this information? Did I grow up in a well? Sometimes when I find something important in one of the newspapers, I memorize it to recite it to my colleagues. But when I’m among them, I discover that my attempts to memorize it were futile and it’s been wiped away like dust scattered by the wind. Even when I have an opinion I don’t express it for fear I’ll stir up the scorn and hatred of those around me. Because Captain Hammouda will object. He’ll ask me: “Where’d yo
u get that nonsense?”
Captain Hammouda’s my friend and he says what he likes. He speaks his mind without worry. He can turn white into black and black into white.
All this disappeared one day when the colonel put his hand on me gently. A number of times, the pilots saw me with him in the snack bar drinking coffee and chatting. The colonel asked me, as they were listening, about my family and if I was married. I told him I wasn’t. Then I told him I’d met a girl named Zina a few days ago. The colonel said he was happy to hear this news (as the other pilots listened) and asked me to introduce her to him. We then ate lunch, Zina and I, at his house. Yes, at the colonel’s house, the head of the airbase.
Once as we were drinking coffee, he told me he understood my misery and the wretchedness of young people like me because we live in a world where we have nothing. We’re miserable so others can be happy. Is that why God created humanity and exalted us? I didn’t understand much of what he was saying or what he was aiming at. But I was happy with him. In my bed, I cried from happiness and I hoped I was at the level of deserving his trust. He invited me to his house a number of times and I ate dinner with him among the members of his family.
I told the pilots in the snack bar: “The colonel’s the only person who opened his house and his heart to me and confided things to me.”
With mouths agape, they swallowed every word. Yes, he confided to me unsaid things, such as, for example, when he was a young man, he wanted to join the communist party. And that he went all the way to Vietnam after World War Two and met Ho Chi Minh personally. There are other things maybe I can’t say because they’re secrets between me and him.
A Rare Blue Bird Flies with Me Page 19