The Second Marriage

He was worn out. Beneath his wool jallaba he was feeling extremely hot. Some of his clothes felt damp, particularly his shirt; against his skin it felt alternately hot and cold. His feet were feeling tired, as well.

He decided to sit down and lean his back against a tree trunk. Taking a cigarette out of the pack and lighting it, he inhaled deeply. He let his eyes wander over the open space in front of him, with its smattering of trees and houses, some clustered together, others scattered, all in a completely disorganized fashion. Close in front of him he noticed some donkeys and mules; further away, sheep and cows with heads lowered, grazing. Some of them were lying down in the shade.

By now he’d been searching for half a day in three different districts. Eventually he was bound to find her, unless, of course, some unmarried layabout had decided to hide her in a well or haystack. This time, if he didn’t find her, he’d buy a pitchfork and stick it in every haystack or pile of firewood, even if that should prove fatal.

“She only did it because she loves you,” ‘Abdi had said. “She wants you for herself. Women are all the same. Then there is the jealousy factor; women never like having fellow-wives.”

“But I’m going to marry a third and fourth. A virile man like me shouldn’t have to live with just one woman.”

“Do you think you’re the only virile man in Awlad Ghayat?”

“I don’t care if other men are impotent. But, as far as I’m concerned, no one can stop me from getting married again.”

“What that crazy girl did is a disgrace!” her mother said. “My first husband had four wives at seventy-five, and we were all quite happy with him. We can say exactly the same thing about women as men. After my first husband died, I myself married five more times. When you catch her, teach her how to respect her husband. I don’t like having such a girl for a daughter. It seems as though the time when men alone could think of such things is long gone.”

“I’ll tie her up,” Qarqouri said, “and leave her with no food or water for seven days and nights.”

“Do with her as you please. Even if she’s my daughter, she’s still your wife.”

He took a final drag on his cigarette. By now he was feeling more relaxed as he leaned against the tree trunk. He had to concentrate really hard in order to overcome the drowsiness that was weighing down his eyelids. He was well aware that he had to keep looking for her. She’d find out that he wasn’t impotent. She already knew that, but this time she’d ignored it. Here she was, a mother of three children, running away from her husband simply because he’d taken as a second wife a young girl who was just two years older than his elder daughter!

It was still very hot. In front of him the animals were flagging in the scorching sunshine. Some of them kept lifting their heads and shaking off insects from their ears and eyes; others were clustered at a spot where there were a few short plants here and there.

The last district he was going to was about two kilometers away; it was there that the search for her would come to an end. If he didn’t find her, he still wouldn’t despair. She had somewhere to go, the home of a cousin in Casablanca who was married to a soldier. He shook off his jallaba between his outstretched legs, then stood under the tree and savored the shade. But he still insisted on walking those remaining kilometers.

“You whip her,” her mother had said, “and I’ll tie her up. She’s blackened my reputation in Awlad Ghayat. She deserves to be stoned to death in public.”

“How long-suffering we women were in our day,” a neighbor had commented. “Now it’s the TV era. Women are influenced by the actresses they see on the screen.”

Her husband had poked her. “You, old woman!” he’d said. “When have you ever seen a TV? Here, get your donkey moving and shut up!”

The woman had shut up and hit the donkey with a cane. The saddlebag was almost falling off the donkey’s back, so she adjusted it.

“No woman in Awlad Ghayat has ever behaved like your daughter,” Qarqouri said.

“I know. It’s all because of Crédit Agricole’s wheat. If she’d been hungry, she would never have done this.”

“What are you talking about? The Crédit Agricole office takes more from us than it provides. Your daughter’s run away because I’ve spoiled her and provided too much for her. I spend all my time working the land, plowing and sowing, with no respite.”

“Forgive me, my son. She’s your wife, so do whatever you want with her.”

The tents seemed nearer now, scattered over a plain fenced in with bushes and thorny plants. In the distance he could see a group of men clustered in the shade of a tree. He imagined they were either playing cards or dama, or else scooping from a bowl of cold saykouk as a way of countering the excessive heat. Dragging his tired feet, he walked toward them, assuming that they would have the latest news about her. If he found her, she would pay the price for the entire distance he had had to walk through all the different districts. His left foot stumbled into a small hole, and he fell to the ground. He stood up, shook the dust off his shoulders, and continued walking toward the men.

They noticed that he was a stranger, and one of them came over. They had a conversation that the other men couldn’t hear; both of them kept raising their hands, opening and closing their mouths, and nodding their heads. Then Qarqouri walked off in a specific direction, while the other man returned to the group.

“He’s looking for his wife,” he told them with a smile. “He said he’s walked from Awlad Ghayat.”

“That far?!”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him that a woman from Awlad Ghayat arrived here yesterday. I told him to go to Al-Daoudiya’s house. That’s where she’s staying.”

“That old shaikha?! Now she’s failed with the women of this district, she’s trying to make money off a married woman.”

“That woman’s too old. She’s good for nothing!”

“Anyway, she’s better than a she-ass.”

“How do you know?”

(“You whip her, and I’ll tie her up.”) “I’m going to whip her and tie her up myself,” Qarqouri told himself. “I don’t need anyone’s help. Any wife who deserts her husband deserves worse than that.”

“She shouldn’t have done that,” one of his neighbors had said. “All men marry more than one woman, unless they can’t afford it.”

“That bitch ate her fill. Starve your dog, and it’ll follow you.”

Qarqouri now found himself in a ditch-filled square. Women were staring at him from behind the scarves draped over their eyes. “There’s a strange man in the district,” one of them commented.

“He might be a thief!”

“How do you know?” said another one. “He could be someone from the district who emigrated as a child. He’s come back to look for his family.”

Qarqouri sensed an unusual movement going on all around him. He could imagine women and children talking about him, and about her as well. He stood where he was, looking all around. The women pretended not to care. He walked over toward one of them, but she ran away. However, another woman came up to him.

“Why are you running away?” she asked her friend. “Does he have scabies? He’s a virile-looking man”

She came closer. Qarqouri plucked up the courage to ask her where Al-Daoudiya’s house was. Now the woman understood everything.

“Do you know her?”

“No”

“So why are you looking for her? Don’t you realize what a bad reputation she has in this district?”

“No, I didn’t know that. I’m looking for my wife. She’s left me with three children and run away.”

“Good grief! And she’s chosen to live with a prostitute like Al-Daoudiya?”

She pointed out the house to him. He walked toward it, and she went back to tell the women the story. They all ran off. A woman with children running away from her husband’s house? Clearly some powerful sorcerer had made her do it.

“Only a fool or a bewitched woman would ever think of doing such a thing,” one of the women said.

“Or else a woman who’s been struck by a jinni or demon.”

“Magic can do worse things than that.”

“It’s a disgrace, sister. Even if my soul were infected by Shamharush himself, I would still never abandon my children and leave my husband!”

“God’s mercy!”

“God’s mercy and protection! No woman would do such a thing, no matter what her husband may have done.”

“It’s probably Al-Daoudiya who’s bewitched her,” another woman said. “She’s planning to sell her to another man. All she has to do these days is to fill the brazier with incense and hang amulets in her house. She was eager enough to ensnare one of us.”

“She’s an evil woman. Instead of turning to God, she’s persisted in her depravity.”

“If only we could convince our own husbands to burn her house down!” a young woman said.

The children were listening in on the conversation. They were aware that Al-Daoudiya had a very bad reputation, but they didn’t realize how bad. She was an old woman, a shaikha who used to sing, dance, and do other things as well. But no one knew for sure how she earned a living, except, that is, for a few men. The whole thing didn’t bother the children so much as keep them amused. Deep down, even the women needed to have a woman like Al-Daoudiya in the district so she could serve as their one ongoing daily concern.

Everyone waited to see what would happen. Al-Daoudiya’s end would come about at the hands of this stranger. Her sorcery would work against her. After all, magic can sometimes cause dire consequences for its practitioners. She had tried to destroy families, but now magic was going to destroy her life.

(“You whip her, and I’ll tie her up.”)

Now Qarqouri was grabbing his wife by the hair. Once the women saw that, they started screaming, but then they covered their mouths with their hands so as to muffle their screams. Some of the children were scared, but others didn’t seem to care. Qarqouri began yanking his wife’s hair, pummeling her in the face and on the back of the neck, and kicking her. Some blows landed, but others missed. She was in agony. At times she let out a scream, but she kept trying to keep her pain to herself.

He started dragging her into the middle of the square. At this point Al-Daoudiya could be seen behind the line of women; she looked terrified as she stood there by herself near a shack. She rapidly went back to her own house. Meanwhile mouths were still chattering.

By this time, Qarqouri was tired of beating his wife, but he still kept pulling her hair, clinging to it so that she couldn’t escape. He wasn’t listening to what she was saying, but he did hear her say one thing.

“So you’ve married again! So what am I supposed to be good for?”

He hit her again till blood gushed from her mouth. She fell silent. She assumed that her eventual fate was going to be much worse, so she decided to give up without any further resistance. She also thought about the distance she would have to walk to get back to Awlad Ghayat. Qarqouri still wasn’t satisfied, so he took off her shoes. She didn’t try to stop him.

“You’re going to walk barefoot on thorns all the way back to Awlad Ghayat. You’ll see. Even if the Caid intervenes, he won’t be able to rescue you from me.”

“Poor woman!” said an old crone. “It’s all Al-Daoudiya’s fault. She tried to separate a wife from her husband.”

“Hit her!” a child yelled. “She deserves worse than that.”

“Shut up, you little bastard!” his mother said. “You don’t understand things like this.”