THREE DAYS PASS, allowing Namouss to acquaint himself with his surroundings to the extent that Ghita entrusts him with small errands: buying bread or charcoal – if it was beginning to run low – or, more important, going to tell the girls to end their bathing sessions and come home. He’d also learned the basics of swimming. Denied the ability to fly through the air, he’d begun to appreciate the possibilities afforded by this new element – even if his exploits were limited to a few strokes and never straying far from the edge of the pool. The little he’d learned about swimming came courtesy not of his brothers but of Driss, and he was not about to forget the circumstances in which this had occurred.
The day following their arrival in Sidi Harazem, the sun had barely risen when his father had woken him up to take him swimming in the Qobba pool, which was usually reserved for adults. At that time of day, while it was still cool, the tepid water was even more delightful and not as crowded with bathers. The place also doubled as a hammam. A haziness prevailed, accentuated by a dense fog of vapors rising from the water. In one of the alleys, two masseurs set themselves to scrubbing their clients as well as “stretching their bones” until they cracked. At regular intervals, hymns sung in praise of the Prophet bounced off the walls and reverberated throughout. Only a few of the people there would be swimming. Some had propped their backs against the edge of the pool and would talk to one another in hushed voices. Others devoted themselves to the minutiae of grooming, including the brushing of teeth. A claylike paste that clung to the walls served as toothpaste, while the index finger served as a toothbrush.
It was in this atmosphere of complex rituals that Namouss learned to move in the water. Driss guided him. Sometimes he would hold him, others he would let him go, and even though his movements often caused the other adults to be amused, Namouss didn’t give up. The ability to float freely in space for a few seconds made him feel empowered, as if he had broken through a boundary and acquired a new faculty. Where did this new power of his come from? From him or from Driss? He didn’t know the answer to that. He only felt his father hold him close, which happened seldom. Moreover, on that day, Driss held him close against his naked torso, thereby also imparting his warmth. The child could feel his father’s heartbeat as well as his own. A tender connection that even oblivion and time could do little to destroy. A timeless thread. A taste of the eternal. Its smell.
“Don’t be afraid,” Driss murmured. “Move your arms and legs at the same time. Don’t stiffen up. There you go.”
Namouss followed his instructions to the letter. He applied himself even more than he did at school. He knew he had already earned his gold star the moment he had his father all to himself, a moment that might never again come to pass.
ON THE FOURTH day, a minor incident disrupted the monotony. Except for the baths and the ritual walks in the countryside, Sidi Harazem offered no distractions. At nightfall, a sort of curfew reigned. One went to bed not long after dinner so as to wake up when the cock crowed. Sleep didn’t bring much rest with it since, as luck would have it, one had to spend much of the night battling minuscule yet formidable invaders. Drawn by the city slickers’ sweet skin, the fleas and bedbugs feasted to their hearts’ delight. Even Namouss, who by virtue of his nickname was related to these bloodsuckers, didn’t manage to escape their greed. At the risk of suffocating, he’d had to wrap himself in his blankets in order to defend himself against their traitorous attacks. It was already dawn by the time the insects left, their hunger sated.
When Abdelkader, Driss’s youngest brother, arrived unannounced that morning, he was greeted as a liberator, especially by the children. They knew that, thanks to him, the nights would take a very different turn, and the time after the evening meal would stretch into the small hours, since Abdelkader’s talents as a storyteller would keep them entertained, delaying as much as possible the dreaded moment when the insects would swing into action.
Uncle Abdelkader was a real character. In terms of physique, while Driss wasn’t exactly a giant, his little brother seemed like a dwarf beside him. He had a funny protuberance on his forehead, not in the middle, like the prayer bump that regular mosque-goers took pride in, but on the left side, which meant it’d been there from the time was he born. Furthermore, he was as deaf as a doorknob. How had that come about? It was just one of the many mysteries about him.
He had also been saddled with a nickname, to the point that most people who knew him had forgotten his real name was Abdelkader. To them, he was Touissa and nothing else. But why Touissa, diminutive of tassa (cup)? When one said tassa, the first thing that came to mind was the expression “hitting the cup,” which in popular parlance in Morocco was equivalent to draining a glass (or rather many), hitting the bottle, getting hammered, going on a bender, or to put it plainly, getting drunk. What? Did Uncle Abdelkader drink alcohol? Once the feeling of indignation had passed, we listened to Radio Medina, which let nothing slip past it and had the habit of making a mountain out of a molehill. They would tell of how people usually beyond all suspicion, whether or not they were of some standing, would find any pretext to slip out of the Medina and go to the mellah, where they would frequent cafés called “cantinas,” where they served kosher wine and mahia, which was made by Jews from the Sefrou or the Demnate. Besides the profits they were reaping, the publicans took pride – and delight – in seeing the faithful of the dominant religion partaking in the pleasures that were permitted under their own religion. The radio also said that one didn’t need to go as far as the mellah since there was a cantina in the immediate vicinity of the old city, not far from Bab Boujeloud, where very respectable fellow Muslims could “hit the tassa” with the most exquisite brews. Ah, those Nazarenes, taking over the country and running it as they liked wasn’t enough for them, they had to go ahead and corrupt the souls of the faithful and damn them to the torments of hell!
Was Touissa mixed up in all that? It was all well and good for those with full choukaras, for whom such extravagances were only a trifle. But how could Touissa, who was poorer than Job, afford it?
Another mystery surrounding this good-natured man was his eternal bachelorhood, which at his age – he was well into his thirties – stood out as an anomaly. Hence the stories about him circulating in the family. Though only God is all-knowing, it seemed Touissa had disappeared from Fez for more than a year. Some eyewitness accounts placed him in Marrakech, where he had gotten married and even fathered a child. Then one day he’d reappeared, empty-handed, filthy, dressed in rags, and infested with lice. When pressed on the subject of his adventures, he made out as if he hadn’t understood the question. Whenever someone wanted to extract some detail or other, Abdelkader broke out in hysterical laughter as if he’d just been tickled – he was extremely sensitive to tickling, and knowing his weak point, the children took great pleasure in exploiting it. Basically there was no pinning him down on the subject.
Afterward Abdelkader continued to run away, but for shorter periods at a time. He always came back in the same sorry state, at which point Ghita would look after him as if he were one of her children. She’d clean him up, clothe him, and let him stay at the house until he got on his feet and was ready to go back to work.
Touissa’s activities were yet another bizarre facet of his character. Unlike his two brothers, he hadn’t followed in his ancestors’ footsteps and become a saddlemaker, a trade that had been passed down from father to son for many generations. Instead, after who knows what byway, he had taken up the craft of making slippers. A profession he only practiced in an amateurish way since at any given time this champion of laziness contented himself with a small presence in the Sekkatine souk, and in exchange for some services, his brothers looked after his basic needs. Yet not strictly all of his needs, since our man had a penchant for smoking kif. In order to procure it, he was obliged to take up irregular employment at a workshop in the Bine Lemdoune neighborhood. Namouss had seen him there once or twice. Now and again, Touissa would set himself hard at work in that tiny dark hole that he shared with a number of other craftsmen. While he was completely deaf, he must have had eyes like a hawk in order to be able to sew by hand in such conditions, and he did so with such skill and dexterity that his babouches were put on sale even in the Sebbat souk, where I can assure you such fine workmanship was held in extremely high regard by the shopkeepers. On another occasion, Namouss had come across him absorbed in a ceremony that he had elevated into an art: the preparation of the kif. Touissa would put a bunch of the herb on a plank he’d placed level on the floor. He would pluck the leaves from the stalks one by one and throw out the seeds. A little mound would begin to pile up, which Touissa then would take to with an extremely sharp knife, chopping up the leaves and reducing them to tiny pieces, at which point he’d sprinkle a small quantity of tobacco on it. After which comes the fine-tuning as he’d sift the mix and eliminate the chaff. The finished product is then poured into a leather tobacco pouch, at which point the tasting begins. Touissa would fill up the bowl of his sebsi pipe, light it, and close his eyes, drawing in a deep lungful. Then he passed the pipe along to his nearest colleague, who would take a drag and pass it on to the next. The experiment seemed conclusive since the man who must have been the master craftsman sent an apprentice out to the café to fetch some tea. But Namouss couldn’t hold on for much longer. The smell of the kif mixed with the odor of the chemicals used to treat the products in the workshop was making his head spin. With a few hand gestures, he made clear he had to leave. Happy that Namouss had come to see him, Touissa pulled out a coin that shone in his hand.
“Take it,” he said, “and give my regards to the lady of the house.”
Uncle Abdelkader was the subject of so many stories. The latest, for instance – just to send a smile his way, where he now lies next to his brothers in the Bab Guissa cemetery – occurred when Uncle Si Mohammed’s family was celebrating a great occasion, to which Namouss’s family had been invited. After the meal, the help began to fidget in a most unusual way before being overwhelmed by an outbreak of hysterical laughter. Touissa, who started chuckling as soon as he was addressed, began rolling on the floor and almost chocked on his own giggles. He was forced to leave the house so he could calm down and catch his breath. As the night wore on, he had yet to return to the house. Everyone came to the conclusion that he had left for good and the gates of the house were shut. In the meantime, the mystery of the mad laughter had been solved. Namouss’s aunt, who was rather stuck-up, had chosen that night to reveal an unexpected character trait: her mischievousness. She had put some maâjoun, a powerful stimulant, in the food in order to – in her words – make the monkeys sing and laugh. Well, well, the prank provoked mixed responses from the monkeys. But what worried them the most was what had happened to Touissa. Where might he have wound up in his condition? The following morning, the whole affair came to a happy – and quite comical – conclusion. When the gates were opened, Touissa was found fast asleep on the threshold . . . with a large watermelon under his head. Why a watermelon, and how had he gotten his hands on one at such a late hour of the night? A small wonder that was added to the list of other larger wonders.
Ah, Touissa! The day he died, the family realized he didn’t have any identity papers on him, which meant a burial permit couldn’t be secured. Twelve witnesses were found to attest that the corpse that was to be put into the ground was in fact that of Abdelkader, the son of Haji Abdeslam bin Hammad Laâbi Rashidi and of Fatima bint Abderrahmane Shaqshaq, who it was presumed had been born in Fez in 1915.
This was how Abdelkader’s story came to an end. Touissa’s story, however, continues on.
TOUISSA HANDED OUT the presents he’d brought with him: jabane (nougat), sesame cake, dates, and walnuts for the children, and a yellow scarf for Ghita.
This time around, he had gotten back on his feet and was looking healthy and respectable. Namouss was struck by yet another detail: He was wearing shoes. In fact, he had always worn shoes, but it was the first time that Namouss had noticed them, amused by how paradoxical this was considering that Touissa made slippers. As one remark led to another, Namouss noticed that unlike his brothers – and here again there was nothing new – Touissa dressed in the European fashion. Trousers, a shirt, and over his shirt, even during the summer, a black overcoat that hung down to his ankles like a djellaba. People of Touissa’s ilk didn’t bother themselves about dressing elegantly, traditional clothes had become too onerous. They therefore made recourse to the American surplus stalls in Boujeloud’s Joutiya. In this flea market, which Namouss was well acquainted with, one rummaged through piles of clothes and usually found something you could be pleased with, and for a modest sum. This brings us to yet another bizarre enigma surrounding Touissa.
We celebrated the return of our prodigal uncle. The children were fascinated by his bohemian side. They could poke fun at him, outrageously so at times, without the threat of reprisals. Zhor, the eldest sister, took the initiative since she was better equipped to converse with Touissa. She’d learned the sign language used by the deaf and put it to wonderful use. One habitual game consisted in taking advantage of Touissa’s culinary phobias, since he was terrified of honey and okra. Zhor would therefore pretend to dip her index finger in a pot of honey and then place it in her mouth, accompanying the motion with a sucking sound while feigning delight. Even though she was only pretending, Touissa would begin shaking in fear. But Zhor would stay on the offensive. Pulling her finger out of her mouth, she would slap her forehead with the palm of her hand shouting: “Honey! Honey!” Touissa would then stamp his feet and shake even more, and attempt to escape. The children would then surround him and start to tickle him relentlessly, right up to the point where they feared he might start to suffocate. Giving him a little room to breathe and recover, they would then renew their assault, this time armed with okra. L-mloukhiya!
These games would last the whole day. Touissa was happy to spend time with Ghita and Driss, despite the fact that this intimacy would begin to wear thin the moment he felt the need to smoke his sebsi. He didn’t dare do it in front of Driss, since even though Driss wasn’t the eldest, he was nonetheless older than Touissa. He therefore owed him some respect. So he waited impatiently for Driss to leave so he could give free rein to his vice. Rather than getting offended, Ghita would encourage him.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Now that your belly is full, you can let your hair down!”
Night came and dinner was served. A simple meal of couscous flavored with sugar and cinnamon and accompanied by a glass of milk. Seeing the disappointment on the children’s faces, Ghita then announced there would be dessert – but only a chhioua (candy) – while winking in Touissa’s direction. The more cunning of the children sensed there was something fishy going on.
The sweets were brought out after the couscous. Ghita put a large raffia plate on the table, which was covered by a cone-shaped lid. Namouss didn’t get it at first. Zhor, one step ahead of him, had figured it out. Shouting in Touissa’s ear, she said, “Lift the lid!”
Touissa didn’t understand why Zhor had asked him of all people, but he did it anyway, and in uncovering the plate discovered there was a large rooster underneath the lid, which leaped on him, all the while beating its wings before flapping off to the other side of the room. This time Touissa wasn’t the only one who was laughing. Everyone in the room was in hysterics. Namouss’s clan certainly came up with some kooky ideas!
An hour after the meal, everyone moved to the couch. Driss lowered the flame on the gas lamp. A sense of peace reigned over the room, and Touissa knew the time had come for him to take center stage. He began by asking everyone to repeat some phrases that would serve as good omens, as well as inspire the storyteller.
“Curse you, Satan!”
“May you be cursed and cast down!”
“Blessed are you, oh Prophet of God!”
“Blessed are you,” the others chimed in.
“And again.”
“Blessed are you!”
“And again.”
“Blessed are you, oh Prophet of God!”
Then Touissa began: “It is told, ladies and gentlemen, that once upon a time, in a country blessed by the heavens, there was a king whose reign was just and compassionate. His fair-mindedness extended even to animals, so much so that the sheep got along with the wolves, and the lions and gazelles slept peacefully side by side . . .”
We will content ourselves with this little taste, since Touissa’s stories were long, in fact very long, and Namouss had never been able to follow them to the end. Each time, the delightful stories would deliver him into the embraces of sleep.
A question, however, begs to be asked: How did Uncle Touissa, who barely spoke during the day, transform into such a formidable bard thanks to the power of the word? How had a deaf – and illiterate to boot – man come to acquire such culture and the ability to impart it? Yet, after all, wasn’t Homer blind? Long after these events, Namouss would ask himself these questions and answer in all honesty: Touissa was my Homer.
GHITA, WHO ONLY a week earlier had waged a war to go on holiday, wound up finding it exhausting.
“We came here to feast our eyes on some greenery and to relax, and what did we get out of it? Excess flab and work. And the holy month of Ramadan is fast approaching and I know what’s waiting for me back at home.”
Taking advantage of the situation, Driss approved enthusiastically.
“Your mother is right. It’s time to go home.”
“Hmm,” Ghita remarked, “you were just waiting for me to open my mouth so you could use my own words against me. You’re so honey-tongued you’d think I’d been throwing sweets at you.”
On that bittersweet note, the decision was made to go home. In his hurry to get back to work, Driss arranged to travel back to Fez by bus, partially fulfilling Namouss’s dream.
The vehicle that was to transport them home was a beat-up old bus – so rusty that its original color was indiscernible. As far as its size was concerned, it was just as Namouss had imagined it, happily so considering the number of people and the mountains of baggage it would have to carry. It took almost an hour to load everything on the roof and another hour for the passengers to come to an agreement as to who should sit where – there weren’t many places available – and there was also the business of putting the hand luggage on the overhead rails: sacks heaving with fresh vegetables, baskets of eggs, oil drums that threatened to spill, chickens that had been bound by their feet, cackling and flapping their wings, even slices of mutton, still bloody, that had been wrapped in rags. Once the seats had been filled, the conductor allowed the few visibly less moneyed passengers to perch on the roof for half the going fare. Namouss would have loved to join them. From there, he would have had a better view of the landscape, and with nose to the wind, could kiss the sky and steer an imaginary wheel, feel as if he were the one in charge of that crazy, traveling band. He put the idea to Driss, who refused him outright.
“Up there is only good for the country bumpkins, plus it’s dangerous.”
On that note, the conductor yelled to the driver, “Yallah, drive!”
The bus left Sidi Harazem, descending a road filled with twists and turns. The bus snored and swayed like a live beast. The motor emitted a strong gassy odor that reminded Namouss of the stench he’d experienced during the departure: the foul farts that Abdelwahab the horse had let rip. Looking for someone to share this memory, he turned to Ghita, but she, who had reacted so stoically the first time around, was now looking ostensibly indisposed. Mixed with the swaying of the bus, the smell of gas was making Ghita’s stomach turn. To keep from vomiting, she was smelling a bit of orange peel and reciting the usual list of saints and relations she used whenever she felt in peril.
Having made its descent, the bus rolled through a level stretch of countryside and the driver stepped on the accelerator. The uneasy silence that had pervaded gave way to deep sighs of relief, then grew into a chorus of encouragement directed at the driver. All the children and the adults – except the women – joined in:
| Zid, zid, ya chefor | Go, go, driver |
| Zid nghiza fel-motor! | Step on the gas some more! |
Heeding the will of the people, the driver stepped on the accelerator until it was flat on the floor. The bus sped ahead, acquiring a velocity that made the male passengers even more excitable. Seeing the direction things were taking, Namouss, who had originally taken part in the chorus, now kept very still. Ghita was feeling even worse, and even Namouss was beginning to worry. He began to ask himself how a vehicle that was going this fast could ever come to a stop. Would it not instead continue on its trajectory until it lifted off the ground and took flight, slicing through the air to God knows where? As it happened, his anguish didn’t last much longer. Some signs began to emerge informing the travelers they were drawing near to Fez: The houses on the side of the road were now made of bricks. Cars and bicycles were coming from the other direction, and confusion began to grip the inside of the bus, as passengers started taking their hand luggage off the rails. When the bus came to a crossroad, Bab Ftouh came into sight. Coming back to its senses, the bus slowed down and came to a smooth stop at the foot of the city walls.
FEZ IN THE summer, at the beginning of Ramadan. A frenzy of activity. Craftsmen and shopkeepers double their efforts in advance of business slowing down during the holy month, as it usually does. It is also the time when households stock up on all essential goods – flour, oil, sugar, honey, clarified butter, spices, dried legumes, preserved meats – because this month of great abstinence also comes with great nocturnal feasts. The liveliness of the Medina is at its zenith. This suits the children just fine, who exploit the situation to their advantage. Parents reach into their wallets and the pocket money harvested is passed on immediately to the vendors of firecrackers, marbles, and whirligigs. The entire city resonates with the sound of crackling and explosions. The side streets next to the souks transform into the staging grounds of marble and whirligig tournaments, which the neighborhood kids follow attentively.
But things weren’t going so well for Namouss. Driss didn’t even want to hear about firecrackers, the sole object of Namouss’s desire since he wasn’t any good at the other games, which he limited himself to watching or on occasion to acting as a referee, a lackluster role in these circumstances. He was only able to get enough money from Driss to buy a whirligig. While he was at it, he decided to satisfy an old craving, since, when it came to whirligigs, Namouss wasn’t taken by the European varieties found in shops. Those factory-made whirligigs usually broke on first impact and their colors faded quickly. He preferred instead the handmade ones built by local artisans whom Namouss loved to watch while they worked.
The woodturner’s shop was located right at the end of Namouss’s street. The woodturner was always hard at work, with such . . . how to put it . . . loving devotion that nothing could distract him. Even when clients turned up with orders, they knew they would have to wait for the master craftsman to finish working on the piece he had in his hands. If the customer in question was a child, the wait became even longer. The craftsman had more important priorities, and when he eventually turned his attention to his young customer, it was more out of kindness than anything else, since making a whirligig wasn’t such a big deal. He would then take a piece of shapeless wood, sand it down, keep it in place with his toe, and start to chip away at it. The way he used his tools made him look like a violinist. His chisel flew through the air like a bow and – presto! – the whirligig began to take shape. The only thing left to do was to equip it with an iron tip. But that was not the woodturner’s job. For that, the child would have to go a stone’s throw away to the blacksmith in the El-Haddadine souk.
Total change of scene. Having accomplished the most pleasant part of his quest, Namouss was frightened by this next part. But he had no choice. The blacksmith’s forge was shrouded in darkness. The flames of the furnace barely lit the blackened faces of the master and the apprentice, who was blowing air into the fire with a bellow. The smell of burning was unbearable. The eyes of the blacksmith shone with a strange sparkle, and the smile out of the corner of his mouth froze Namouss with fear. All’s well that ends well. The iron tip was ready and it was then attached to the bottom of the whirligig, allowing Namouss to flee that dangerous situation.
Back out into the open air. Though he had his whirligig in his pocket, he didn’t feel like playing. The trip to Sidi Harazem had inspired new feelings in him. That first voyage had filled him with a sense of pride. Many of the neighborhood children he played with had never lived what he considered a great adventure. That shift in time and space had opened a window onto the future, there, in a place where he had seen himself equipped with wings, flying above the city of Fez, embracing horizons both known and unknown. All of a sudden – and perhaps because he has just evaded a great peril – the desire to rediscover his town took hold of him. To rediscover it with eyes that had gone traveling, with the need to commit to memory what was at risk of being lost, if ever he should acquire those wings, which would whisk him so high and far away to the point of no return. Right up until that moment, he had lived inside the Medina as if it had been a cocoon. He had never before asked himself how that cocoon had come to be and who had made it. A pupa among pupae, he waited with a vague sense of consciousness for the moment when he might break through the soft pod and step out into the light.
And this is where the journey begins.