IT IS THE month of Ramadan, when the mornings are long and spent in total seclusion. There’s no point in going outdoors. The Medina is deserted. One has to be careful not to make any noise in the house so as to let those who were fasting sleep as much as they wanted. Even Driss, who was not usually temperamental, would get nasty whenever he was disturbed from his rest.
Having been awake for a good long while, Namouss was growing impatient. He was hungry and wanted Ghita to get up and look after him. Satan began to whisper naughty ideas into his ears. He discarded a few of them, but his hunger got the better of him in the end. It followed that he couldn’t expect to have warm milk with his breakfast. He would therefore have to make do with the leftovers from the previous evening’s meal. Rummaging in the cubbyhole that served as a kitchen, he managed to lay his hands on a partially eaten quarter-loaf of bread and a small piece of meat coated in congealed fat. He had just begun to devour his meager snack when he heard the squeaking of mice coming from behind a row of jars. Panicking, he jerked back and bumped into a rack containing of number of pots and saucepans. With a crash, the kitchen utensils came tumbling down, scattering as far as the courtyard in a deafening racket. And the mice, who were even more scared than Namouss, leaped out of their hiding place and, after racing around the courtyard in mad circles, headed straight for his parents’ bedroom.
Soon enough, the house is turned on its head. Ghita’s terrified shrieks. Driss comes out in his pajamas still wearing his nightcap. Noisily throwing open the bathroom door, he grabs hold of a club and, giving Namouss a dirty look, enters the field of battle. Woken from their slumber, Namouss’s brothers and sisters rush into the courtyard, each brandishing a weapon they’d brought out just in case: a slipper, a sandal, a palm broom. The atmosphere is charged. Namouss knows he will not be able to get off scot-free. Unless. He starts thinking, fast. After all, no one could be sure that he had been the one to knock over the pots and pans. Why couldn’t it have been the mice? This version of the events could hold water. In any case, it would be best to disappear for the moment and wait for the breaking of the fast to show his face again. By that time, there’s a good chance the whole affair will have been forgotten.
HE ROAMED THE streets like a lost soul. Empty of people, the Medina was unrecognizable. The few passersby he crossed paths with looked sullen. Hardly any shops were open and the craftsmen inside worked at a leisurely pace. Only a handful of grocers attracted a few customers: some young maids, whom one recognized because of their humble attire and, above all, their faded, ill-fitting head scarves, which made them look like elderly spinsters. There they were, sniffling, their eyes heavy with sleep, waiting for the grocer to deign to serve them.
It was then that Namouss realized the full extent of the calamity that he’d brought upon himself. Unless a miracle happened, he would have nothing to eat for the whole day, and since he couldn’t very well go home before sundown, what could he do to fill the interminable hours that lay ahead of him?
He began roaming the streets aimlessly again. After a while, the empty streets made him feel as if he were in a different town altogether. Devoid of crowds, the souks seemed larger. One could take his time, look around, lift one’s gaze to the sky, watch the flight path of a stork, and there, where some reeds had been braided into a sheltering roof, observe clusters of grapes hanging heavy as wax from their vines, or listen to the chirping of birds that had made their nest in that cool spot.
Namouss continued on his way, prompted by a sudden desire to revisit all his favorite haunts, taking advantage of the exceptional tranquillity. His steps led him to the Joutiya market, where on normal days the crowds were usually thickest. Starting early in the morning, people gathered around the stalls run by butchers, fishmongers, vegetable sellers, and in the middle of the square, surrounded the traders selling olives, snails, and salt, who, lacking proper shops or stalls, sold their wares out of large, wide baskets on the ground. The cheap eateries serving harira were never empty. Namouss would sometimes slip inside the one in Ba Allal, taking care not to be spotted by someone who might be tempted to report him to his mother. This was because Ghita thought that dining out on what she called “street food” was beneath one. It was only suitable for beggars, those without families, and bachelors. When he flouted this rule, Namouss would eat his soup so quickly that he’d scald his tongue and then leave the eatery, skulking away like a thief in the night.
Today, however, there was no sign of soup anywhere, not even its aroma. Damn! The deserted square instead smelled of dung and piss. Some donkeys were there, slumped, their eyes half shut, nonchalantly shooing away some extremely persistent flies with their tails. Looking at them, one would think they too were fasting. Namouss would have to wait until noon for the square to spring to life a little. But he was wrong to think that. Because it was Ramadan, this would happen only much later, close to nightfall. Joutiya Square would then transform, as if by a miracle. There would no longer be any buying or selling. Rope dancers and storytellers would divide the square between them and hold the high ground until the first flicker of dawn, vying to outdo each other with their juggling skills and eloquence. The crowds around them would be thick, flabbergasted, and friendly. There were also pickpockets lurking about. Hymns praising the Prophet would fill the air when the collection plate was passed around.
Of all those shows, Namouss’s absolute favorite was the one performed by a character whose reputation extended far and wide, a storyteller who went by the name of Harrba. Physically, he was not particularly striking: a small head set on a scrawny neck, bleary-eyed, and half his scalp eaten away by ringworm. Fact remains that this puny-looking man was a great showman, a peerless narrator who, thanks to his varied repertoire, knew how to keep his audience in suspense. Harrba would sometimes improvise sketches inspired by daily life that made light of his fellow worshippers; other times he told variations of widely known stories, which had never been heard before. A little tambourine perched on his shoulder, and he used it to punctuate his story or to break into drum solos, which he excelled at.
Namouss would go to hear him on his own or with a group of friends. He would lose himself in the flow of his voice, a voice that could mimic those of men and women, the rich and the poor, city slickers and country bumpkins, masters and servants, the hard of hearing and stammerers, corrupt qadis and phony imams, a beggar feigning blindness, a merchant cheating his customers, and a whole other plethora of crooks and fakes. Shifting register, Harrba would allow Namouss to travel back in time and marvel at the miracles performed by ancient saints and prophets, to suffer as they suffered, be swept away by the exploits of heroes waging a relentless struggle against the forces of evil, to watch dumbstruck as Harrba brought a princess’s charms to life: a perfectly placed beauty mark, hair that reached down to the ankles, tits like grenades, and a waist so slender a single hand could clasp it.
Harrba would jump and twirl and about. He would mimic the sound of waves, the wind, thunder, rain, animal calls, evoking sounds as varied as explosive farts to the silent ones weasels make, and would stop – all of a sudden and without warning – to allow the audience to give credit where credit was due.
“Would you like me to carry on?”
“Yes!” they would yell in unison.
“Very well then,” he would say, “the show isn’t free. Dig deep into your pockets and let me hear those coins.”
The show would last up until it was time for the s’hour, the last meal before resuming the fast. Neighboring streets would resound with the songs of the “door knockers,” those messengers of dawn making the rounds from house to house. Using a hammer made out of leather, they would give the doors a sharp blow to let the people inside know it was time to eat. The crowds would then disperse in the blink of an eye. The performers would gather their belongings and follow suit.
NAMOUSS WAS COUNTING on finding Harrba again that night. From where he stood, his fate remained uncertain, so he continued wandering in the hopes that it might drive those unpleasant thoughts away. He started thinking about Driss, and this drew him like a magnet to the souk where the saddlers’ guild was located.
The Sekkatine souk! It felt as if this place was his father’s real home, while their abode in the Spring of Horses indisputably fell under his mother’s jurisdiction. The idea of splitting his life between two homes troubled him. Which one drew him in and comforted him more? One the one hand, Ghita ran the family nest in an orderly and reassuring way; on the other, while his father’s place also had its constraints, it was vitally linked to the city, teeming with life and receptive to echoes from the outside world: the countryside, other cities, the world beyond. And Driss, a respected craftsman, was at the center of all that.
The Sekkatine souk was deserted and all the shops were locked up. Only the watchman was there, lying half asleep on a sack of jute in front of the entrance. Though the watchman eyed Namouss suspiciously at first, he realized he was Maâllem Driss’s son and so asked after him.
“Yak labass? How is your father?”
“Labass, labass,” Namouss replied, albeit begrudgingly, feeling as though he was being spied on. Namouss had wanted the place all to himself on this most unusual of visits, whose purposes were unknown even to himself.
Turning his back to the watchman, he pushed on through the souk. The row of shuttered shops made him uneasy. Usually he could walk through the market blindfolded and know which shop belonged to whom: his uncle Si Mohammed; the stirrup-maker Meslouhi; the craftsmen Berdaï, Chardane, Amine Rabiî; the shopkeeper Tahiri brothers: Sid Louadi and Sidi Hafid; the Sebtis: Mohammed Lehsiki and his son Haji Mohammed the Younger, a.k.a. the “Screw”; the guild master Haji Abderrahmane Sekkat; etc. His father’s shop was situated right in the middle of the market, just in front of Doukkali’s, the barber-circumciser. Namouss could fill a whole gallery with the portraits of these men. There were kind and not-so-kind men among them, loudmouths and diffident ones, greedy ones and those happy just to make a living, jokers and suckers, those green with envy and those blessed by luck, bashful and cheeky ones, slow and speedy ones, drudges and perfectionists. There was never a dull moment when the Sekkatine was in full swing.
Very early in the morning, it opens. Each shop has an elevated door, with one shutter on the top and one at the bottom. After the lower one is unlocked with a large key, the top shutter is pushed up and fixed in place with the help of a thick wooden stick. A rope hanging from the ceiling allows one to hoist oneself into the shop like an acrobat. The workbench is set at chest level. Only the barber has succumbed to the sirens of modernity. His shop doors open sideways and – the epitome of luxury – are accessed via a series of steps.
That was where Namouss sat to catch his breath and once more lose himself to daydreaming. A smile began to form on his lips. He remembered the mornings when business was slow in the souk – and especially the pleasantries exchanged with the craftsmen who turned up late to work, rosy-cheeked and still wrapped in a towel. That they had just come from the hammam did not escape their co-workers. Once the man in question had opened his shop and laid his towel on the stick that held up the canopy, the jokes were rattled out in quick succession.
“Aha! Someone’s sure taken his time over his major ablutions!”
“I hope the water was warm.”
“Did the masseur look after you well then?”
“La-di-da, maâllem.”
“He must have worn out the lady of the house this morning. How will she get through all the day’s chores now?”
“And the midday meal will surely be ample. These things usually awaken the appetite.”
“May God give us just a bit of your zeal.”
“You must look after your health, maâllem.”
“We should keep an eye out for a second wife for him, just in case the first one throws in the towel.”
The fellow would take the teasing in stride and with good humor, seeming to accept it as an homage to his virility. He knew that the joke would be on someone else the following day. That was how the working day started off in high spirits.
Namouss didn’t understand any of this secret language when he first started frequenting the souk. He didn’t get why paying a visit to the hammam and having a passion for cleanliness should be so embarrassing. He didn’t know the difference between major and minor ablutions,6 that is until Si Daoudi, the Arabic teacher, shed some light on the matter. The lesson broached the subject of prayers and the ritual purification they required. Minor ablutions would suffice in this case, unless the worshipper in question invalidated them by urinating or breaking wind immediately preceding the hour of prayer. Major ablutions were only necessary in cases of “extreme filthiness.” The dutiful Muslim would then have to go to the hammam to cleanse himself. The teacher had limited himself to these cryptic stock phrases, but when confronted by a bold student’s insistence that he elaborate, he explained further that this “filthiness” occurred when a man got together with a woman.
“One shouldn’t be ashamed when it comes to religious matters. You bunch of philistines should keep in mind that without this sort of lawful intercourse, none of you would have come into this world.”
Ever since, while Namouss didn’t know all the ins and outs of these lewd innuendos, he at least could gather what they were about, and above all dreaded the day when it would be Driss’s turn to become the butt of everyone’s jokes.
Namouss would only go to the souk in the morning on rare occasions. That would only happen if Ghita sent him on an errand, or when he finally consented – and only after putting up a struggle – to having his hair cut, leaving his precious locks behind in Doukkali’s shop. Namouss had a bone to pick with Doukkali. The memory of his circumcision was still fresh in his mind. Not that he resented the operation. He had, after all, longed to be like all the other children. In the months leading up to the operation, the friends of his who had already been through the procedure began teasing him about the end of his willy that hung down a bit too far. What he rebuked Doukkali for was his underhanded ways. When Namouss had finally decided to put a brave face to the operation, the barber had resorted to subterfuge.
“Look at the little green bird chirping away up there!” he’d said.
As soon as Namouss had lifted his gaze to look for the bird with the rare color, Doukkali swooped down with his scissors.
Namouss also resented him for more mundane reasons. Namouss almost had a heart attack each time Doukkali cut his hair. Using stubborn tufts of hair as an excuse, he wouldn’t stop shearing until Namouss was almost bald. Namouss didn’t dare utter an objection, and the moment he got out of there, he was mortified to catch sight of himself, having been shorn like a sheep. He also couldn’t stand the noxious smell emanating from the barber’s hands, the man clearly never washed his hands after going to the bathroom. It was tough going. Namouss had to hold his breath to the point of near suffocation. It was a real relief when the barber sprinkled talcum powder on his head and around his ears, before giving him a once-over with a soft brush and standing back to admire his handiwork.
“Look at you, you look just like a newlywed!”
But bad memories of the Sekkatine were few and far between. The afternoons, for example, were splendid. Namouss used to love hoisting himself into his father’s shop just before rush hour and resting his elbows on the workbench to watch him work. From these moments, Namouss’s olfactory memory stored a variety of smells: goatskin, calfskin, hemp yarn, wax, natural or colored wool, bits and stirrup irons, wood, some flour-based adhesive, and of course snuff, which Driss, like the majority of people in the Sekkatine, consumed vast quantities of. His father’s smell was a subtle mix of all these odors. What fascinated him most, however, were Driss’s hands, which were large for a man his size and so agile that they seemed to act independently of his body. He wore leather thimbles on his thumb and middle finger, making them appear unusually long in comparison to the others. The callused hand he slammed down on the saddle to reinforce the seams was as strong as a hammer. Namouss admired these displays of Driss’s energy and ingenuity. He knew those hands were blessed, that they both fed and protected him.
When customers showed up, Namouss took a similar pleasure in following the minutiae of negotiations. Driss would begin by displaying the different types of saddles and explaining their specific uses. If the customer was a fantasia rider, Driss would show him the appropriate ceremonial saddle. The customer would then choose between the Fez style, with gold embroidery, or the Tlemcen style, with silver embroidery. If the saddle was meant for everyday use, then standard thread would suffice. The saddle would subsequently be fitted with a tarchih, composed of several layers of wool carpets sewn together, which would be placed directly on top of the horse’s back, before being equipped with a harness, a pommel, a cantle, a crupper, a throatlatch, and reins. They finally came to the most delicate part of the negotiations: money. The customer would then transform into a humble beggar, swearing up and down that the harvest had been bad that year and that he was on the brink of utter ruin. He beseeched Driss to take pity on his children and help him through this difficult patch.
“Let me kiss your hands, maâllem, don’t be so hard on me.”
This farce didn’t fool Driss, who’d seen some performances in his time. But the man’s speech seemed to have moved him, and he proposed, “All right, do you know what we’re going to do? We’ll leave the haggling to one side and concentrate on the profit margin. The base cost of what it is. Now what are you going to give me for my troubles?”
“A thousand, maâllem.”
“May Satan be cursed, my good man. Do you know how much work this is going to take?”
“Open your hand, maâllem, this is what I will give you: fifteen hundred and not a penny more. Were I to add even a penny more, my wife would throw me out.”
“Leave your wife out of this, my good man. Give me your money and take your saddle. Thanks be to God, oh He who looks after our needs and deals us our lot in life.”
On that note, Driss held out his hand and the customer pulled out a wad of bills and counted them: “One for God. Two” – and here he didn’t add a qualifier – “Three . . .”
Namouss stared wide-eyed at the scene before him, rejoicing as each bill went into his father’s hand. Come the following Friday, he thought to himself, I will be able to ask him for a hefty tatriba (allowance).
THE SEKKATINE GREW more and more animated. The public auction had begun. The first items under the hammer were lbadis (small woolen carpets) handmade by the maâllmate, who entrusted their wares to hawkers like Ammour or Raïss, who went – carpets under their arms – from shop to shop to collect orders. The artisans paid close attention to the labels on each carpet; those made by Chérifa, the Berber woman Fdila, or Merqtani’s daughters were prized above all the others. They had even come up with a secret code to indicate the quality of the wares. Namouss eventually managed to decipher it, too. He knew that those marked chorba were of a poor quality while the opposite was true for those marked jrih.
After the woolen carpets, the secondhand saddles, stirrups, and moukhala guns made the rounds. It got to the point that items completely unrelated to saddlery were peddled: samovars, copperware, engraved daggers . . . But eventually business slowed down and the souk would recover a little tranquillity. The shopkeepers did their paperwork and the craftsmen went back to work, albeit less energetically than before. The local café was flooded with orders, people asking Krimou, the owner, for coffees or mint teas, which were served in chebri glasses. Out came the nuts or the snuffboxes and everyone gave themselves over to pleasure. This was also the time when passing visitors were welcomed and gossip was exchanged: weddings, divorces, deaths, houses that had gone on the market, inflation, new products, and – naturally – the arm wrestling between nationalists and the colonial authorities. People made hushed references to Allal al-Fassi, Belhassan Ouazzani,7 Abdel el-Krim Khattabi,8 the sultan (may God grant him victory), and the corrupt caids who blighted the countryside. They weighed up the relative strengths of the Americans and the Russians (the two leading powers) and their support for Egypt, and prayed to God to take pity on Muslims as a whole and deliver them from evil.
Namouss hung on every word, scraping bits of knowledge together. Matters to do with other countries simply went over his head and he put these down to the natural order of things. History had yet to knock at the door of his consciousness. He waited impatiently for these serious discussions to come to a fortuitous end. If only Abdeslam Laïrini would suddenly show up with a suitcase in each hand! The man in question was a dedicated traveler originally from the north of the country, specifically from the town of Larache. Once a month he would go back and forth between Fez and the Spanish Zone, where he made a number of surprising purchases: soap bars in the shape of fruit (lemons, pears, bananas), Italian shoes, scarves and silk shirts, pajamas, bottles of Rêve d’Or and Tabu perfume, chocolate, tubes of toothpaste, toothbrushes, and – something that disconcerted Namouss – Spanish gargoulettes of unusual shapes and decoration. As soon as Abdeslam Laïrini entered the souk, many conversations came to an abrupt end. Everyone ran over to touch the merchandise, which for the most part sold out in a matter of minutes. For reasons unknown to Namouss, Driss rarely bought anything, so Namouss had to content himself with feasting his eyes. He was all ears too, since Abdeslam spoke with the singsong accent typical of the north. It was like hearing another language for Namouss, who had begun to develop a taste for new languages at school.
Yet there were days when nothing unexpected happened. The conversations dragged on. Becoming aware of how bored his son was, Driss would set him free.
“Go home,” he ordered him.
THE COMMAND JOLTED Namouss up from his extended reverie. He looked around to make sure Driss wasn’t anywhere in sight. A few shops had already opened. It was time to move on.
Where should he go now? It was barely noon, and he had to hold out until sundown. There was no choice but to continue on his peregrination. He left the Sekkatine souk, took a left, passed the Nejjarine fountain, and went down the alleyway that led to the rue des Pavés. Once there, he stopped in front of a shop that like the others was closed, though not for the same reason. In fact, the shop had been closed as long as anyone could remember and was shrouded in an aura of mystery. It was called the Prophet’s Shop, and it was said that God’s Beloved had once passed through there. The footprints he’d left behind were still etched in the ground. Namouss had often tried to peep inside the shop through a crack to see what went on in there but had never been able to make out anything in the pitch-dark. But today, distressed as he was, he was hoping for a miracle. He leaned against the door and looked through the crack. His need to be rescued was akin to a breath of air coming from inside the shop. He was moved by it. “Oh emissary of God,” he surprised himself murmuring, “get me out of this bad patch.” At that moment, he felt himself being shoved and violently crushed against the door. Grasping for something with which to catch his balance, his hand gripped the tail of an animal that had come out of nowhere. He realized that he’d come upon a heavily burdened donkey that had slipped on the cobblestones and had almost fallen on top of him. Luckily the donkey driver was there. Using his cudgel, the driver beat the animal until it got back on its feet, freeing Namouss, who was frightened rather than hurt. The driver, a little groggy, continued on his way.
Namouss needed some fresh air, and it was only natural he should think of the Jnan Sbil gardens. Namouss had a long walk ahead of him in order to get there, including a good uphill stretch: the rue des Pavés, then the Talaa Seghira, right up to Bab Boujeloud. “All the better,” he said to himself, “that will take up a few hours until it’s time for the Maghrib.” This new perspective invigorated him. He decided to stop loafing around and walk the distance to the gardens in a single go. Yet his overall vitality, though considerable, was now beginning to flag, standing in the way of his plan. At this time of day, thirst and hunger were making themselves painfully felt. Smokers and snuff-takers lose their patience when deprived of their vice. Their grouchiness becomes unbearable. They start to split hairs, fly off the handle at the slightest provocation, and vent their spleen. Altercations would break out here and there, which the idle followed with avid interest, idlers whose chief concern was to while away the hours until the breaking of the fast, an approach Namouss was already familiar with. Any distraction – in the strongest sense of the word – was welcome. There were two categories of idlers. First came the jokers, who loved adding fuel to the fire and who generally stood to the side so as to make a clean getaway if one of their jibes backfired and stirred a bruiser’s ire.
“Whose sebsi is this on the ground?”
“Whose snuffbox is this?”
“Light up and take a good drag.”
“The Maghrib is still far-far-far away and the maid is a piddling little child!”
The second category was made up of good souls who tended to break up fights and – thanks to copious quotations from the Qur’an – tried to bring the combatants back to reason. Although these mediators really did help keep the peace, this too was a means of whiling away the hours until the fast could be broken.
It was therefore curious to note the sudden interest a great number people took in being precise during this month when patience was celebrated as a virtue. From the time the sun passed its zenith, the questions people asked all circled the same pot.
“What time is it?”
“What time will Maghrib be today?”
“How long until the Maghrib?”
And, as if these weren’t enough, others who were even more anxious, would ask, “Are you sure your watch is working properly?”
Namouss had a hard time moving through that feverish crowd. He took care not to bump into anyone to avoid attracting the wrath of those mramden – as those “Ramadan sufferers” were called. He finally arrived at Bab Boujeloud. The way was clear.
THE JNAN SBIL gardens were a true haven of peace. The main avenue was lined with bushy Seville orange trees and flanked by two rows of basins where jets of water shot up and down, like dancers repeating an endless ballet choreographed by some invisible force. Namouss left the avenue behind and took a left. He crossed through a small forest of bamboo trees growing in the shadow of pines and giant palms. Here and there were some frail-looking datura sagging under the weight of their foul-smelling, bell-shaped flowers. A burbling brook could be heard, and at the end of the path, the garden’s majestic waterwheel came into view. It was turning slowly, as if stroking the surface of the water. Namouss sat on a bench and gave himself over to its movements, which soothed his heart. Lulled by the water’s swish, he wound up falling asleep. His dreams, alas, did not bring him any comfort, as they had little in common with the peace of his surroundings. An enormous weight pressed down on his chest while a series of images whirled through his head at breathtaking speed. Once again this nightmare.
This had happened a year ago. The episode had taken place in Aïn Allou, the road where the Small Springs were located. Unlike other times, he hadn’t gone there to see Chiki Laqraâ shower her invisible rival and assorted stone-hearted miscreants with insults. He had wound up there purely by accident. All around him were seditious murmurs. The crowd that had gathered in this back alley blocked the traffic. Men, children, and even young girls were chanting slogans.
“Down with colonialism!”
“Long live independence!”
Then something unimaginable happened: A young, unveiled girl was hoisted high above the crowd by two fellow protesters. Sweeping all objections aside, the girl launched into a song, which the crowd quickly echoed:
I have made a gift of my soul
To Morocco, my homeland
And he who tramples its rights
Will be made to taste death . . .
The crowd grew larger and larger, and the excitement had reached its apogee when gunshots broke out from the top of the road.
“The goumiers! The goumiers!” someone shouted.
Panic ensued. Wave upon wave of protesters flooded the square, collapsing one after the other into a heap of bodies, crashing down like a house of cards. Trapped in a bottleneck, gesticulating wildly. Namouss felt the ground beneath his feet give away. The wave had overwhelmed him, swallowed him up, blowing him like a feather right into the thick of things. He reacted instinctively and did his best to neither move nor scream so he could concentrate on breathing. Keeping his mouth open, he tried to catch some air, but his lungs were being increasingly squashed and his heart started skipping beats. The thought that he might die crossed his mind, but strangely, this did not bother him much. Rather, he thought about how Ghita would throw a fit as soon as she heard the news – or about how Driss would be spared from having to give him his weekly allowance. But the more suffocating the situation got, the less he thought about these things. He was no longer able to breathe, and his throat only emitted a hoarse rattle. In a final burst of lucidity, he realized he was being pressed against a woman’s inert body, and that the woman was jamming her hand into his face. Without knowing why, he took the woman’s hand and, using all his remaining energy, bit down on it. He smelled blood. His or the woman’s? He couldn’t tell. The surrounding darkness gave way to a cold, white haze that worked its way into his brain and put him to sleep. All around him, the screaming and wailing began to fade away.
That was when he felt the hold over him loosen. Someone was dragging him away. He opened one eye, first seeing a policeman’s helmet, then a face and lips ordering: “Get the hell out of here!”
Freed from the vise, he landed, made his way to all fours before getting back on his feet as best he could – at which point his savior gave him a kick in the backside before he scuttled off.
“DO YOU WANT a drink?”
The boy yanking Namouss away from his agitated dreams was very small, in fact only knee-high to a grasshopper, and had hanging over his shoulder . . . a gargoulette! With his free hand, he held out a cup, insisting: “Do you want a drink?”
Waking up in a daze, Namouss looked at this apparition. Having just left a nightmare behind, here he was staring at his doppelgänger. Would his suffering never come to an end? What evil jinni was forcing him to remember that story, especially on a day like this, when everything was going wrong? Recovering a little, Namouss grabbed the cup and emptied it in a single gulp. The child was amused by such great thirst.
“Did you fast today?”
Wary, Namouss answered his question with another: “What about you? Did you fast?”
“No,” the child retorted. “I’m younger than you.”
“I am the youngest in my family,” Namouss added. “I won’t be starting to fast anytime soon.”
The conversation went on like this.
“I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”
“What about parents?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Where do you live?”
“In New Fez.”
“Houses that belong to people. I work and give them money.”
“Did they find you here in the garden?”
“No, they said they got me in the countryside, but they’re lying.”
“Who gave you the gargoulette?”
“I bought it with my money.”
“Do you sell water everywhere?”
“I sell it here during Ramadan, otherwise in the mellah.”
“So why are you here now?”
“I worked enough today. I came here to rest. The water that’s left over I give away fabor.”
“Who drinks your water?”
“Kids, and women who are having their time of the month.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“When they bleed.”
“From where?”
“From where you came out.”
“Why?”
“That’s just the way it is. And so they have the right to eat and drink as they like.”
“Ah, so that’s why my big sister eats from time to time.”
“You’re a real kanbou. You don’t know anything at all.”
“Yes, I do. I learn a lot at school.”
“I learn more from the streets.”
“Like what?”
“Tricks. Also, I know how to defend myself.”
“So do I.”
“Yeah, yeah. You wouldn’t stand a chance against me.”
“Don’t push it. I wouldn’t hit you anyway because you’re younger than me.”
“Feel my muscles.”
“It’s true, they’re hard as steel.”
“You’ve run away from home, haven’t you?”
“How do you know?”
“You did something bad, I can tell just by looking at you.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
IT WAS TIME for the evening prayer. Maghrib wasn’t far off. Namouss decided to go home, reluctantly leaving his companion behind. The initial hostility had disappeared completely. The thought that he might never see the boy again even made Namouss sad. He turned around to look at him one last time. The water seller was perched on the bench with his gargoulette close beside him, his naked, dusty little feet dangling in the air. Framing him from behind, the waterwheel was spinning away. With a last look at this somewhat disquieting image, Namouss headed toward the exit.