RETURN TO THE house. His apprehension is intact, and the state he finds his mother in is certainly not going to release his tension. At first, Ghita seems to be ignoring his presence. It then becomes clear she is just midstream in one of her memorable tirades, using the patio as her stage. Namouss, used to these performances, pricks up his ears, waiting to see what will come next. But what he hears astonishes him.
“Our religion sure is a fine thing! You have to spend all day chained up like a dog. Our throats parched and our bowels gurgling. Neither rest during the day nor sleep at night. And who – who’s left gathering the grievances? Ghita, that’s who, the servant of young and old – the orphan girl with no one to look after her. If only I had somewhere to go, I swear to God I wouldn’t stay here a moment longer. What is it that our ancestors used to say? ‘When your country humiliates you, leave it.’ It’s true, the world is vast. I can live anywhere, even in a nouala or a tent. I’m strong enough to look after myself. After all, bread and water will suit me just fine. I don’t need gold or caftans. I don’t need a man, or children, anything that will make my head ache. Head, oh head of mine, you’re going to explode. My head, my head, my head . . .”
On that note, she made an about-face and, finally noticing Namouss’s presence, she began to scold him.
“You’re just getting home now, you sinful son! Where have you been all day? Who have you been gallivanting with? Everyone was worried to death. Your father almost hired a street hawker to go around the city shouting your name.”
Namouss was seriously starting to panic, but then Ghita abruptly changed her tone.
“Come here! Now tell me first of all: You haven’t eaten a thing since yesterday, have you?”
“No,” Namouss hastened to answer, her question filling him with hope.
“Wili, wili!” Ghita exclaimed, suddenly moved to pity. The boy was dying of hunger and there was no one there to rescue him. “Come here, my poor little one, come here. You can start by tasting that damn harira to tell me if it’s salty enough. I never know how much salt to put in. That dates from the time when your father and I were newlyweds and lived at your uncle’s house. Well, would you believe that when it was my turn to cook, your aunt – may God punish her! – would wait until my back was turned to throw a handful of salt into the pot. When the tagine was served it was almost inedible. All of that just to sow discord between your father and me. I was still a little girl, but one day I woke up at dawn, packed my things, and gave your father a choice: Either he would find us a house of our own, or we would go pay a visit to the qadi –”
“Let me taste the harira,” Namouss implored, his stomach howling like a wolf.
Ghita filled half a bowl. Namouss gulped it down and asked for more.
“Fill the whole bowl.”
“So? Is it salty enough?”
Not paying any attention to these nuances, he dodged the question gracefully: “Your soup knows no rival.”
Flattered by the compliment, Ghita uncovered a dish filled with honey cakes and said, “Take as many as you like. Eat, eat. At least your life is carefree. What happiness!”
Pondering as he ate, Namouss felt reassured. If he was ever punished, it would be for running away rather than for the mischief he’d caused earlier in the morning; nevertheless, he wanted to make sure. Recklessly, he asked, “And the mice?”
“What mice?”
“The ones that came out of the cupboard this morning. Did you kill them?”
“Hush now! They managed to get away. Wanting to crush them with the cudgel, your father missed his mark and wound up almost breaking my leg. But how did you know they came out of the cupboard, where you there or what?”
“No, Yemma, I swear.”
“Don’t swear. If you lie, you’ll turn into a monkey. Watch yourself. Now finish your cake and go to the ovens to bring back the bread. There are five big loaves and a small one, which I seasoned with sesame and aniseed. You see, I was thinking about you. Here’s the money for the baker. Make sure you hold on to it tightly so it won’t drop or get stolen. Go on, get going. The men will be back and the Maghrib will soon be called.”
Namouss found the whole family around the table when he came back from the ovens. Ghita had already poured the soup and laid out various plates filled with honey cakes, dates, and dried figs. With only a few minutes to go before the announcement of the breaking of the fast, faces wore sullen looks. Everyone stared at the food in silence, ears open. Finally the cannon sounded and the call of the muezzin filled the air.
“Bismillah,” Driss began.
Everyone lapped up their first bowl of harira, grunting with pleasure and smacking their lips. By the time the second bowl was served, the atmosphere had relaxed noticeably. Namouss decided to take advantage of the lull to make his move. The idea he had devised to pull the rug out from under Driss’s feet was daring.
“I fasted today,” he declared in a cocky way.
“You did, well at least until the middle of the afternoon.” Ghita corrected him, a smile forming on the corner of her lips. “You’ll do better some other day.”
“And where were you until then?” Driss inquired, clearly irritated.
“I was playing outside with my friends,” Namouss replied foolishly.
“Since when did you play in the Sekkatine, and all by yourself? The watchman at the souk told me all about it. You’ve become a chitane – a devil – you have. So finish up and get out of my sight. The soles of your feet deserve a sound thrashing.”
Namouss kept quiet. He knew that Driss’s threats were not to be taken at face value. At most, they expressed an anger that would abate as soon as he had finished his meal. The nightmare had therefore come to an end, and all things considered, he hadn’t done too badly. He was the first to leave the table.
HE RAN INTO a few of his friends while out on the street: Hat Roho, his blond, blue-eyed classmate; Hammad, who was such a cranky, snot-nosed crybaby he was barely tolerated by the gang; Loudini, who had the look of an outlaw about him and was by far the most cunning and always had a devilish idea running through his mind; and finally, Belhaj, who with his milk-white skin looked like a little old man, and whose head was even rounder than the rag balls with which they played.
Emboldened by his earlier feats, Namouss suggested the gang play a match of taïba (blindman’s buff). But Loudini, who didn’t want anyone to steal his thunder, was in favor of a riskier game: tafriq Nsara (doing splits like the Nazarenes). Hammad, who was not suited for gymnastics, campaigned for something a little more conventional: seb sebbout (leapfrog). Not wanting to remain on the sidelines, Hat Roho suggested a whirligig tournament. The debate got heated and threatened to result in everyone going their separate ways, at which point Belhaj, who was usually shy, put forward a compromise: They would begin with a race and then proceed to the other games. The great overlord Loudini gave his consent, thereby ensuring the others would follow suit. Only Hammad complained, and though he began to snivel and did not want to participate in the race, he agreed to organize the teams. He suggested that Namouss, against whom he held a grudge, would face the formidable Loudini, which left Hat Roho to race against Belhaj. And of course it was only logical that Hammad also act as referee.
It was on. The starting line: the middle of the square in the Spring of Horses. The two runners stood back to back. When the referee waved them off, they would dash in opposite directions: one on the left, the other on the right. The one on the left would go down Aïn Allou, climb the Tamisiers hill, go down rue Bouaâqda, tear down rue Ben Debbouz, and once there make his entry into the neighborhood. The one on the right would follow the same course, except in the opposite direction. Cheating wasn’t an option because the adversaries had to cross paths eventually. It would also provide a good opportunity to determine whether one was ahead or lagging behind. The next step: a final that would pit the winner of the first race against the winner of the second.
One can easily guess that, on that evening, Namouss lost the first race. Thanks to his day’s wanderings around the Medina and his blitz through to the Jnan Sbil gardens – coupled with his opponent’s sturdiness – it couldn’t have ended any other way. After a decisive defeat over Namouss, Loudini didn’t have any trouble beating Hat Roho, who’d initially had it easy with Belhaj.
The night wore on. A great many people had left their houses and the neighborhood to see what was happening elsewhere. Driss had been among the first, heading toward the Sekkatine to get back to work and later to join a late-night card game. The workshops in the Spring of Horses came back to life. Those in Ahl Touat that belonged to fine-leather craftsmen originally from the Sahara reverberated with songs accompanied by clapping. Namouss had never dared venture into the area. People from Touat were generally considered foreigners and were therefore kept at arm’s length. Yet their songs, though different from those usually performed in Fez, were of a rare beauty.
Namouss’s gang had run out of games to play. They stumbled into a character who was particularly fond of their company. Si Abdeltif was one of the few adults in the neighborhood who didn’t look down on children and was always willing to exchange a few words with them. Even though he belonged to a large sharif family, he didn’t seem to share any of their traits and was quick to speak his mind. In terms of his physique, the man was visibly corpulent. His ample djellaba didn’t quite manage to conceal a belly that, considering he was barely in his forties, was exceptionally large and forced him to use a cane in order to get about. Perhaps that explained why he was so fond of sitting on that stone bench in the middle of the lane and holding court for hours on end. Si Abdeltif’s family was one the neighborhood’s most influential and owned a great number of properties in the area. They also owned vast stretches of land in the surrounding countryside. Donkeys bearing the produce of these estates would often show up in the neighborhood. Their panniers would be heaving with sacks of wheat, olives, figs, and grapes. Whenever the produce was being unloaded, Namouss and his gang would take advantage of the situation and pocket anything that fell to the wayside: a handful of fresh figs or a generous bunch of grapes. His family’s wealth hadn’t gone to Si Abdeltif’s head, and he seemed to prefer mixing with more humble people – completely unlike his arrogant elder brother, who terrified the children. As soon as this brother came into view, the children would break up their game to clear the way for him. If they happened to be playing soccer, they would quickly pick up the ball lest he confiscate it, deaf to all their entreaties. It was surely Si Abdeltif’s sense of humor that had saved him from winding up like his elder brother. And he would make the most of it. Whether he recounted anecdotes or put forward facetious interpretations of dreams, it was evident that he gave in to the lighter, rosier side of life. Whenever he arrived, panting, easing his bulk down onto the stone bench, the first words he uttered usually set the tone for what was to come.
“All these climbs and potholes are killing my knees!”
Following this first salvo came the day’s anecdote.
“This afternoon,” he began, “I headed toward Batha and walked up the Lion. The grand dame walking a few yards ahead of me was shamelessly ripping one fart after the other. She suddenly came to a stop, turned around, and nonchalantly asked, ‘Sidi, can you tell me if the evening prayer has been called?’ ‘It has, Lalla,’ I replied, ‘just when you farted for the third time.’ ”
Si Abdeltif continued in this lighter vein when it came to the interpretations of dreams. In the evenings, an adult would tell Si Abdeltif about his dreams in the most minute of details and with the utmost seriousness.
“I saw myself as clearly as I see you now, walking through a kitchen garden where all sorts of vegetables were growing. What struck me the most was that I was dressed in a red burnous whose hems were green. I racked my brains but couldn’t make sense of those mismatched colors. Let us pray to God that this isn’t a bad omen. So tell me, Si Abdeltif, what does this dream mean?”
Who, allowing the air of mystery to persist, replied, “It clearly represents a green-topped radish.”
“And?” the man insisted, intrigued.
“And it’s going to go straight up your ass!”
But Si Abdeltif was not particularly gifted when it came to the interpretation of dreams. In the company of children, however, he was careful to fill his stories with some educational content. When bringing an evening to a close, he would offer them riddles, like this one, which no one had ever deciphered.
“What is the name of the street in Fez where a camel can pass right under a minaret? Does anyone know? It’s clear you’re all blind. When you go through the arch that leads to Aïn Allou, lift your heads. What lies under that arch? The minaret of our mosque. The road I’m speaking of, you nincompoops, is our very own the Spring of Horses. Now scram. I’ve taught you enough for today.”
Si Abdeltif would then depart and the evening would carry on, even if less animatedly. The Touat people had stopped singing. There were few passersby in the street. Namouss’s gang was running low on ideas when they heard the sound of Chahmout’s voice coming from below Lalla Abla’s window. Of all that went on in the neighborhood, this ritual particularly intrigued the children. What was it all about? Chahmout was a distant cousin of Si Abdeltif’s. No one knew whether he was single or married. Lalla Abla, who was either a widow or a divorcée, was one of Namouss’s neighbors, and he knew her well. She was certainly good-looking and voluptuous. Were the stories behind these lovebirds known by the adults as well as the children, who were watching them at that late hour? The fact remains that Chahmout would stand beneath Lalla Abla’s window and, calling her by a man’s name, would bellow, “Abdeslam, oh Abdeslam!”
Lalla Abla would take a while to reply, and when she finally came to the window, would stand hidden behind the lace curtains and emit a barely audible coo.
Namouss, who was usually slow on the uptake about these things, finally wised up to what was going on. His heart racing wildly, he would hide under a nearby house’s vestibule so as not to bear witness to those illicit meetings verging on sin. He would wait until they had come to an end to leave his hiding place, at which point he would go elsewhere so he could clear his head.
He left his comrades behind, and breaking the promise he’d made to himself in the morning to go see Harrba perform that evening, he opted instead for the sanctuary of Moulay Idriss. Was it boredom or a crisis of faith? All bets are off.