12

I KNOCKED ON THE PALACE door at ten in the morning, as I usually do, and the guard simply gestured for me to go away.

“No one is expecting me today? How strange. Have I become deaf without noticing? I heard of His Majesty’s arrival, which is why I came.”

The guard didn’t notice my joke and repeated the gesture, indicating I should go away. My problems with Aziza and her mother diminished a bit beneath the crush of black thoughts that were now descending on me. Those problems paled in comparison and more pressing questions took their place, eventually transforming into a single question: What’s going on inside the guard’s head? Did he really not recognize me? Does he want a bribe? Did the king not ask for me yet? For days I have been hearing on the radio about His Majesty’s inauguration of this or that school, and I’ve seen on television that His Majesty visited this orphanage, or that he welcomed some guest to his palace in Marrakech. I told myself that His Majesty was busy and when his tasks were all done, he’d call for me. I calmed myself with the notion that his mood would have improved since the last time, lulling myself to sleep with these comforting thoughts and waiting, but no one knocked on my door. And that morning, when I stood in front of the palace door, the guard shooed me away.

Aziza and her problems faded into the background. Her mother had taken up residence in our house weeks ago. She brought along her son, who had just gotten out of prison. New problems, to be sure, but they were obscured completely behind the clouds of much more serious concerns. The question hung above my head like a sword: Does he not need me anymore? This would be extremely unlikely. First of all, why would he not need me anymore? Zerwal has been away for a long time now. He might even have died, and no one cares about him, even enough to know the cause of his death. Second, I don’t recall ever hearing of a jester who was not needed. He remains sitting on his chair jesting and making a fool of himself and of all those around him until he dies. Third, is there another jester in this whole country so much better than I am that His Majesty would no longer need me? I look around me and count the faces that appear on TV—all types of faces, all types of expressions, all forms of eloquence that pass across the screen—and I don’t see anyone as gifted as I am. All of the images that go by and all of the words that are said don’t equal one iota of my silly antics that make even those in mourning laugh. If Zerwal were alive, I would have said that a trick was being played on me, but Zerwal is lying in his grave with his hump underneath him.

At the Café les Négociants, I sit watching the street. My mind is there, my whole being is there at the palace, or, rather, at its door. I wait for the person to appear who will take me by the hand and lead me there. People walk by in front of me, but I don’t see the person I’m waiting for. I don’t see anyone. I thought about Aziza’s mother. What would she say now? She’s mocking me deep down inside, I know it, or maybe she’s crying to herself now that she no longer has a son-in-law working in the palace. I’m sitting on the café’s terrace like an overly anxious adolescent. No one is coming today. I think of Aziza’s mom until I’m no longer thinking about the palace’s locked door. Something has gone terribly wrong. I don’t drink my coffee.

I can’t stand the atmosphere at home. There are too many of them now: the mother, her sons, her daughters. And Aziza has become silent. Her mother is the one who has decided on everything since settling into my house, since even before that.

I spent the evening and half the night in the garçonnière lying down, not moving at all. Will anyone knock on my door to deliver me from my thoughts? I go through all of the funny stories I’ve told and I think of others, but I don’t laugh. The king has forgotten me. After a week this has become all but certain. They have forgotten me and I don’t know why. Did I do or say something that angered His Majesty? I remember my last soiree at the palace as having gone well, although His Majesty was not present and all I gained from it was a suit that one of the businessmen gave to me as a present. What happened then? Did someone whisper some sort of scandalous words about me into His Majesty’s ear? What a black night, like being in a forest in the middle of the night, with all of its ghosts and nightmares.

The following morning I got on my bicycle and headed to the palace. This has been my place of work for more than fifteen years. Not counting the times I went to this wealthy person’s house or that politician’s or high-ranking officer’s place, I haven’t known another safe place. I have no refuge or calm, except for right here. It is my home and my Kaaba and I won’t leave it. I’m a jester, and the king himself is the one who made me a jester!

I had never considered becoming a jester before, and it only happened with the king’s intervention and divine providence, but where were they now? This was when I needed them most. The jester is allowed to do anything, even head to the palace in the morning unannounced. The proof of this was the bicycle parked in the square facing the large gate, waiting for an order to enter that would surely come at any moment now. But the gate remained closed. After waiting for a while I approached the guard like any other citizen requesting an interview with the king. The guard was new on the job and didn’t know me. It wasn’t the same guard who had been standing there a few days before. It was a guard who never in his life had heard that there were jesters in the palace. He was baffled as he looked through the small opening in the door and saw a man in full possession of his faculties submitting such a strange request. I imagined him thinking, “Is this man really asking for the king, or is he kidding?” The guard replied sarcastically, “Sure,” then retreated behind the gate and closed the little window. Perhaps he was smiling to himself and shaking his head, and perhaps he continued to laugh once he reached his little hiding spot behind the door.

What am I going to do at home? I won’t be able to face my loneliness, or my questions that don’t have clear answers. I no longer have the desire to see anyone. The only people I run into seem to be gloating. What will the barber say? Will he satisfy himself by laughing at me? I took a taxi and went to my unfinished house on the outskirts of the city. I would rather spend my time surrounded by plaster and concrete, isolated and not seeing or hearing about anyone. I won’t open my door to anyone who knocks, even if it’s someone the king has sent personally. Everyone has disappointed me, and from now on I don’t want to have any human contact. I’m just fine in my unfinished house. I’ll finish it when I’m done with all of this trouble, with Aziza and her mother, with the palace and its problems. I’m done with everyone. I have everything I need here and I no longer need anything else. I never needed anyone. On the contrary, they’re the ones who were following me around, seeking my company.

The guy digging the well on the plot of land that was to become my garden was more important than anyone else at that point, a simple man who knows what men are worth. I sat not too far from the well to exchange a few words with him while he was down in the hole swinging his pickax. I looked at him every once in a while, watching his sweaty back and his strong hands powerfully striking the dirt. Down below, four meters underground, he didn’t complain about anything. He knew neither king nor minister, and that didn’t concern him at all. With the same pickax and the same digging motion, he dug deeper into the depths of the earth, resigned to his fate. Six meters, then ten meters, he kept on digging, and after a little while, or after a few days, a spring would burst forth here. Yes, water would gush underfoot, as if it were a miracle. And what did the well digger hope for? His only hope was to finish his work early so he could attend a friend’s wedding where he’d eat, drink, sing, and dance until morning. Then the next day he’d return to his digging. His friend was marrying a co-worker of his from the olive-processing plant.

It was Saturday. Not so long ago all days were the same to me, to the point where I couldn’t distinguish Saturday from the other days. I listened for the digging, but didn’t hear him striking the earth anymore. I could no longer stand the silence. I asked the digger what he was doing. Had he reached the water? This digger is a better man than me. What am I doing? What’s my role? What useful work have I done other than make the king and his entourage laugh? And for what? Tomorrow I’d stand in front of the palace door, only to see the guard gesture for me to go away. I didn’t know what I was waiting for. The digger dug. He was waiting for the water that would flow out from under his sandals, whereas I was waiting for one person to remember me. I’d left his inner thoughts and there was no way to return. The digger was waiting for water to gush out from under him. His friend in the olive-processing plant moved olives from one barrel to another, waiting to take his bride, while his bride, for her part, had spent years in the plant next door, separating the olives from their pits and dreaming of the young man who would deflower her tonight. They would marry tonight. No one would be satisfied with them or dissatisfied with them. They were all happy and content. They’d sing and dance until morning, whereas I was truly the most miserable creature on the face of the earth. I don’t make water burst forth from the earth, nor do I remove the pits from olives. I’m just a jester, and what’s the use of a jester without his master?

I saw clearly how far I’d fallen when the digger came out of his hole, wiped off his sweat, washed his hands, and invited me to go with him to the wedding of his friend who worked in the olive-processing plant. This digger didn’t know me. He didn’t know anything about my recent past, nor did he know anything about the people I’d associated with. Perhaps it wouldn’t interest him at all that I was the king’s private jester. I found myself smiling as I thought about performing for the digger. This invitation showed me perfectly clearly how far I had fallen, in a way that no longer needed any explanation—from the palace to the wedding of an olive worker. Was there a downfall any greater than this?

I headed off to the house of Si Hussein the barber. Si Hussein was a childhood friend. I knew him and the cobbler he shared a house with. Two bachelors hanging out together singing, smoking kif, and laughing. This was what I was lacking. My gloomy face had a positive effect on them. They found my sullenness, which resembled the anger of a child who refuses to accompany his father to the hammam, hilarious and didn’t stop laughing until I got up and headed toward the door. What had gotten into them? I’d thought I would be able to relax in my friend the barber’s house. It was the kif smoke that finally refreshed me, not the laughter of Si Hussein or his friend the cobbler. I got up without fanfare so as not to give them another reason to laugh. I went down the stairs and listened. They hadn’t noticed that I had left. They were completely stoned. Well, they wouldn’t spend any more of their evening at my expense, these two dogs laughing inappropriately and for no reason.

I waited for a taxi but none came, so I walked home. I found it locked and my keys wouldn’t open it. The door finally opened and Aziza’s mother appeared. Next to her stood her son, the one who had just gotten out of prison two days before. She informed me that Aziza did not wish to see me. She disappeared for a moment behind the door and reappeared with my suitcase. She threw it at my feet and stood there waiting for my response. There was nothing on the woman’s face or on the face of her criminal son to indicate that she was kidding. The first thought that crossed my mind was that news of my supposed dismissal had reached her. I became aware of my profuse sweating, so I wiped my face with the sleeve of my djellaba. What am I to do with all of this nonsense? Am I to wipe it away too? And does my dear mother-in-law know where I’m supposed to go? No. No one is interested in this. I remained standing there staring at the door, half expecting Aziza to peer out from it.

“I take refuge in God from the accursed Satan.” I said these words as if to lessen the bad thoughts that had overwhelmed me, as if to find my way once again.