8

THE IMPORTANT GUEST LEFT, BUT the celebrations continued for a number of days. The whole country is in nonstop celebration. I have never seen people in such a state of joy and happiness. Everything has gone well and everyone is optimistic and wishing each other the best. Crystal chandeliers sparkle above us, casting pure light over the vast palace hall. It is a great day that no one will ever forget. Invited guests hover around tables and are served a variety of food and drink—pigeons stuffed with almonds, plates of gazelle and ostrich meat. The guests stuff themselves as if they are starving, and they squirrel away pieces of meat in their pockets as good-luck charms from the royal dinner. Afterward they’ll hang them in their homes as amulets and precious souvenirs. Some of them speak with long pieces of meat dangling from their mouths that resemble tongues. Their talking in the great hall is like a roar as jaws and teeth tear at their prey. You can hear bones snapping. Then the national orchestra occupies the podium in their solemn black clothing and the singers begin to sing anthems praising the dams that have been built, the sugar refineries that have been erected, and the rugs that have been manufactured.

His Majesty appears in the small window that looks out over the hall, and calls of “Long live the king!” rise up. He greets everyone and begins to throw coins. The singing stops and an indescribable chaos ensues. Some of the adulators throw themselves on the coins, exaggerating their movements so His Majesty can see what they’re doing. Others, when they grab a coin, turn toward him and kiss it with tears in their eyes. The king comes down from his perch, approaches the singer, and throws his coat over his shoulders. There isn’t a dry eye in the place. The singer shakes with fear. Perhaps he is remembering what had happened to his colleague when he had his shoes taken from him in front of the important guest. Trembling, he grabs his oud and begins to sing a song they say the king himself had stayed up all night writing the words and music to.

Ministers in their fancy suits walk in and out of the great hall drinking tea and loudly exchanging news as if they were the ones staying up all night planning our next victory. No doubt they are completely ignorant of His Majesty’s intentions, and this is for the best. Why should they be privy to the secrets they haven’t participated in planning? The officers also don’t know a thing. As a result they are relaxed, in their somber suits and with their official manner of standing. His Majesty decided all by himself to bring this affair to a definitive end. He’s a genius and doesn’t need anyone. They say that the important guest encouraged him to follow his plan, that the guest’s encouragement for his initiative gave him a new momentum. Everyone expects that the problem will soon be solved, although they don’t know exactly how. Perhaps General Bouricha knows the details of the plan, or at least some of them, but he doesn’t reveal a thing. This, too, is good.

I hadn’t seen the Sahara before, nor had I ever seen someone from the Sahara—a Sahrawi—in my life. I was picturing it as an endless expanse of sand, with snakes and turtles and a lingering sun capable of melting rocks. There’s no doubt that the days are longer and that stones have been melting there for ages, and there’s no such thing as a desert without sand. This is why there would be no battle. If there even is an enemy, the poor guy will only have his own shadow to hide behind. I hope to accompany His Majesty there to see the sunsets that the foreigners talk about with such enthusiasm. They say that the world stops for a few minutes at that moment because it’s so close to the sun. I’ll see it for myself when I go there with His Majesty. I’ll also see the enemy’s final evacuation from our land. Unfortunately, Zerwal won’t accompany us on our trip because his illness has crippled him.

 

His Majesty remained in the palace for a few more weeks. General Bouricha is the one now shuttling between Marrakech and the capital where the military headquarters are. For a number of days now he has seemed extremely energetic, as if additional hands and legs had been added to his body. The general’s face is thin and harsh, with eyes that are always concealed behind his dark glasses. I’ve never seen him without his uniform. I imagine that he doesn’t take it off except to sleep. This has caused me to change my opinion of him. Is this to say that I was wrong about what I had thought of him? Yes it is. The general is an important man. Weeks ago he was transferred to the theater of operations and soon he will bring to light all that he learned in French military schools. For the first time since his participation in the Indochina War, since which he has been unemployed, the opportunity to display his talents had arrived. For this reason his enthusiasm was redoubled. Like anyone else, he doesn’t want to dash the hopes that have been placed in him. The mission that he was charged with brought back his previous seriousness. He became distracted, like someone who could think of nothing else, like someone about to undertake the greatest mission of his life. What could he possibly be thinking about so much if not the Sahara crisis? Surely he’s thinking about the Sahara the same way the king is. He puts his head on his right hand and looks grave for a while, exactly as the king does.

The important guest returned to his country and the preparations for war were completed quite a while ago now. The army moved in with its ordnance and deadly weapons and the people cheered because they wished to migrate there after the end of the war, to acquire apartments and stores there in order to live easier lives.

 

In the month of January Marrakech is flooded with light, but it doesn’t seem like a lot of light. It’s as if it has passed through a sieve. As I like to say, there are mornings when the light heals. The general has left for the Sahara. From there we receive nothing but good news. All the newspapers talk about him and his victories. Here in the palace, the slaves circulate this news and even exaggerate it a little. This makes sense, considering he is a man they had known only as someone living in the shadows—whether out of shyness or fear nobody knows—and whose star rose so suddenly and resoundingly.

The general’s status has improved considerably. The king shares his table with him between deployments, and this has never happened before. They talk nonstop, and when he returns to the battlefield, the king continues to talk about him and his life. I don’t understand this surprising passion His Majesty shows toward his general. Here in the palace they say that a previous general had had the same status and inspired the same awe, and he met his end when the king strangled him with his own two hands. I wasn’t there at the time so I can’t compare the two men. All I can say is that they both carried the same name, an ordinary name that doesn’t betray any superhuman gifts. I don’t read into people’s names. I’m waiting to see what happens for myself, but I can say that I don’t trust him, that I don’t trust people in general. Based on my experience, when someone sits down next to you, the first thought that comes to his mind is how he can take your place. Ask anyone out there in the street. Ask any rookie cop or aimless beggar and they’ll tell you the same thing. Perhaps I’m wrong, in which case I’ll need to reassess how good my intuition is in the upcoming days.

The general has three daughters and two sons. The oldest daughter is unmarried. She lives in Paris and says she won’t be a slave to any man. The other daughter, after having been married to a lawyer from Marrakech for two months, left him and joined her sister. The two sons are continuing their education in America. As for Joumana, the youngest of his daughters, they say that he spoils her rotten. He gives her a new BMW every month because he’s the one who markets these cars here in this country, and also because whenever she gets drunk she slams into the first wall blocking her way, or she hits the first man not paying attention to her passing by. Then, usually what happens is that the family of the crushed man comes to apologize to the general.

She has a dog that sleeps with her in bed and bathes with her in the same tub. These aren’t just stories or exaggerations. This Joumana is never seen without her dog. A lowly little black dog whose eyes, nose, ears, and mouth are indistinguishable. A mass of black wool between her hands as she strokes it tenderly with her slender fingers, even when she’s behind the wheel, not paying attention to the road. They say that when the accidents began to add up, and the apologies from victims’ families who had died under her car’s wheels began to multiply, the general told her that he would take her to the Sahara. They also say that it was her decision to accompany him to the desert so she could take pictures of the sunset that the foreigners talk so much about. So far, though, all this is just hearsay.

She’s not ugly or wicked, but she is a bit dim. I notice that in her laugh and in the way she walks. She drinks a lot—she’s eighteen years old—and it may be that spending all of her time with her dog has affected her behavior. I don’t like dogs, especially this little puny type she carries in her arms, never separating herself from it day or night. There’s no doubt that the general plans to get rid of her the first chance he gets. No matter how high a rank he holds in the army, and no matter how many victories he has achieved, he is a human being before anything else, and seeing that his two older daughters aren’t married, how could he leave his youngest daughter to remain unmarried too? This subject doesn’t concern me, but this is my opinion on it. And I don’t like dogs, any dogs. They’re dirty and forbidden from entering heaven. When they enter a house, the angels leave. This is why Joumana is so flighty.

The general is someone who, in my opinion, is of no importance, even if the consensus these days suggests the opposite. I have said this before and I still hold it to be true: the general is a person of no consequence, and any interest His Majesty shows in him is merely a temporary strategy adopted in a time of war. He has no choice but to flatter him pending the end of this matter. In reality, the king pays him no mind at all. He’s just holding on to him because he inherited him from his father.

They chat for a long time with the map between them. His Majesty finds the time to think about and plan for the next and final step to disperse the enemy and root out traitors. His Majesty explains his plan in detail to his officer. I have never seen him ask his opinion on anything before. Has he been waiting for the general’s approval for this campaign? I don’t believe so. Then why does he invite him to come in alone, and why does he deal with him differently than he did before? Now, all of a sudden he is interested in his opinions and nods approvingly at his suggestions. There is no doubt that General Bouricha is an important person and that he understands matters of war, so I see why His Majesty has changed his behavior toward him so suddenly. However, all of this is temporary, as I explained before.

So, the critical hour has struck. The crowds who rushed toward the gates of the Sahara in order to occupy an apartment or a store or to get a job will gain their booty after this lightning-quick attack. For this reason he needs a general who is an expert in military planning to lead his campaign in the best possible way. Bouricha is, after all, the king’s officer, and what is an officer’s role? What is his role if he is incapable of leading a campaign as simple as this?

When the secret discussions are done, the map disappears under the general’s jacket and the two of them approach me. I know what it means when His Majesty approaches me—the time for seriousness has ended and the time for joking has begun. This time is necessary for providing comfort and relaxation to His Majesty after a day weighted with the worries of planning for war. After the tiresome business of thinking and planning, the time for diversion has come.