Chapter 10

We raced through the streets of Bin Qurdan as they fluttered with flags and were soon heading across country, via Qabis and Sfax, where we stopped for lunch. Through the rain, we glimpsed police cars, stationed at cross roads and in front of municipal buildings. At sunset, we arrived in downtown Tunis and immediately asked for the Alhalfa Hostel where we had been recommended to stay because of its complete disregard for documentation, identification and registration. We had been told to ask for its elderly owner, Si Najih.

On our way, we were soon hailed down by another migrant, walking alone through the streets. Surmising that we must be new arrivals, he welcomed us warmly and guided us to the hostel, bringing us up to speed on the local situation. In about four days, a boat would set sail, followed by a second one a few days later. In general, the situation was not promising, however, and arrests were taking place every day.

The hostel was a popular tourist spot and, following our new friend’s advice, we entered cautiously, in pairs, heading straight to the reception, which was manned by a cheery old fellow who always seemed to have a drink in hand. The owner, Si Najih, then took over, escorting us to our rooms without once bringing up the tricky question of passports. He was used to welcoming guests like us and asked only for one night’s payment in advance.

‘One day at a time,’ he said gently, ‘Just one day at a time.’

‘You’re rather famous, Si Najih!’ I smiled as we headed down the corridor.

‘For what?’ he demanded, perplexed.

‘For your understanding. For not demanding the impossible.’

‘You lot have enough to deal with as it is.’

‘May God make many more like you, Si Najih!’

‘And you, my boy.’

‘I’m afraid there’re enough migrants as it is.’

‘I meant good folk. Don’t muddle my words.’ He swung open the door to the women’s dormitory and several rats scurried out of an air conditioning unit lying abandoned on the floor. We were hit by a powerful stench of rotting food and alcohol, and the bed sheets were stained with sweat and urine. Terhas entered reluctantly, and we headed to the next door down.

‘I could murder a glass of wine,’ I turned to Si Najih, ‘I don’t suppose … ?’

‘Afraid not, my son. It’s past midnight and no bar or supermarket will be open in all of Tunis.’

‘Even something small? My head’s pounding.’

‘Let me check,’ he said, and returned a few minutes later with a bottle of wine wrapped in newspaper. ‘Cheers!’ he beamed, handing it over, ‘And don’t forget to read the paper.’ He pointed to a report on the front page, surrounded by photos of what I assumed were migrants from sub-Saharan Africa. The headlines read: ‘Thirty Arrested’ and ‘Local Smugglers Busted.’

‘Are we safe here?’ I asked quickly.

‘It’s all nonsense, my boy.’

‘But are we at risk? How can we protect ourselves?’ Alarmed by my agitated tone, Malouk insisted I translate. ‘Basically, we’re not safe,’ I summarised. He urged me to tell more and I simply handed him the newspaper. The photos didn’t need any commentary. He contemplated them for several moments.

‘They’re all in prison?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Avoid public places,’ Si Najih nodded, ‘like streets, squares and gardens. And don’t walk around in groups.’

‘So, in other words, find yourself a hole, curl up in it, and hope for the best,’ Malouk muttered after I had translated Si Najih’s words.

‘Sounds like we’d be lucky to find a hole like that,’ I replied grimly, going to pay Si Najih for the wine. As he left, adamantly refusing my tip, I saw his eyes filled with regret and pity for our bleak fate. Malouk went to bed after only one glass of wine, handing me a bundle of papers.

‘A bedtime story,’ he smiled. The text was entitled Malouk the Second. I settled down and began to read.

Malouk the Second was still a babe in the cradle when pirates kidnapped his mother. His father, preoccupied with his ship, would visit him sporadically, bringing cups of milk and water and chatting to him as though he were a grown man, telling him of his plans to bring his mother home. From his cradle, the little child listened earnestly, absorbing his every word. Eventually, he began to crawl around and discovered the miraculous world which lay outside the hut, full of animals, birds, plants and honey-sweet fruit to be plucked from the ground. Some time later, he pulled himself shakily up onto his little legs and remained clinging to the doorpost until he heard a great shout of joy from the man who brought him milk and water. As he tottered towards him, filled with courage, he stumbled and was immediately swept into a pair of strong arms. For the first time, his father took him to see the ship, which stood at bay, its main frame almost complete.

When he grew older, he began telling stories about his mother. He swore he could remember her perfectly, and that her image was tattooed forever on his soul. The old village folk, however, insisted that his eyes had barely opened by the time she disappeared. This did not deter him, though, and he only grew more passionate, to the point of becoming obsessed with weaving tales about her. He soon became a great storyteller, known throughout the land and, in that distant time, the world witnessed heated contests between him and another story-teller of equal prowess, Sheikh Iybwa Nafi, an ancient, hoary-headed old man. In accordance with the competition rules, the stories had never before been narrated or heard by anyone and were told to a panel of Sheikhs, the oldest of whom, it is said, was the first baby born after the flood.

As long as their stories had never been told before, the pair were free to narrate whatever they wanted, even if it came to them in a spontaneous burst of genius. They simply had to declare that they were original creations so that the venerable members of the committee could make their judgement – for they were not prepared to waste their time listening to what was unconvincing.

Sheikh Iybwa Nafi – who was in fact a relative of the Malouk family, as all people were related to one another at that time – was a stubborn opponent who excelled in devising stories. Whenever he felt pleased with himself and his stories, he would break into hearty laughter, until tears streamed lavishly down his cheeks. One day, however, during a local festival, Malouk the Second told his masterpiece and the sheikh gracefully surrendered. No story could better it, he proclaimed. And perhaps, in that, he was telling the truth. Malouk the Second’s masterpiece, which had come to him in a flash of insight, was entitled The Stone That Only Spoke Once.

At the beginning of the tale, Malouk made it clear that the events took place in the future and would enlighten the old men of the judging panel and the large circle of listeners about the strange and wondrous events that awaited their descendants. With the power of his imagination, he had travelled into the future and brought prophecies back with him. In the briefest of terms, his story went as follows: one day, in a far-off time, a stone experiences a terrible surge of pity for the oppression people suffer at the hands of their rulers. So it begins to speak out against the oppression, putting its proud, stony self at the disposal of the downtrodden.

According to the myth, however, the people do not appreciate being pitied by a stone and immediately bury it in a pit a thousand feet deep, piling other mute stones into a great pile on top of it, so high it becomes a mountain. Thus, the poor stone is unable to resume what the people consider its harmful and deceitful work.

The judges and audience were amazed by the tale – this type of narration was called a tale at that point and would not adopt the garb of a myth for many more years – and because of their excessive admiration for Malouk the Second, some of the audience even tried to kill him. This was a widespread custom at the time, similar to our practice of clapping. Fortunately, the human gene that leads to killing out of love or admiration now remains only as a shadow of its former self, limited to stuffing the carcases of beloved birds and gazelles.

In addition to being a great storyteller, Malouk was also deeply reverent, both towards his ancestors and the totems and deities that they had worshipped. He spent his long life collecting statues of all the gods known on earth – which people did not quite realise the extent of back then! He worshipped them fervently and cared for them diligently and they bestowed their blessings upon him. From generation to generation, my family passed them down and eventually we inherited them. As a child I watched them in fascination as they gazed benignly down at me from behind their masks. Whenever he was in good spirits, my father would take the gods from their case and arrange them lovingly in our courtyard where he made fervent offerings, amidst a fog of smoke from the incense burner. He paid his respects to each one in turn, neglecting none, even the ancient goddess of the swamps, with her wide eyes and delicate mask. She had been one of the first deities to appear on Earth but her services had become redundant now that fickle travellers could guide themselves to safety without her assistance.

Row upon row of gods and deities, each one with a splendid mask! The stories go that some of them worked dark magic against Malouk the Second – I remember one in particular whose gruesome visage always terrified our visitors, appearing as though he were about to pounce on their necks. Bakanita, our beautiful neighbour, would scurry nervously past, and never tired of whispering anxiously into my mother’s ear: ‘What are all these dolls? Is one God not enough?’

‘No, my dear disbeliever!’ my mother would fondly respond. The god of rain, meanwhile, never grew old and, in spite of his gaunt, gangly frame, his sly mask and his upside-down head, my father lived in respectful awe of him, too afraid to look directly into his eyes. He would humbly beg him to stay eternally young and forever able to send the lean, drought-ridden years far from our land, with a single swipe of his powerful arm.

I, of course, didn’t set much store by these ancient idols, but I did love watching the ceremony, particularly when my mother joined in, becoming so absorbed in the mantras and rituals that she soon forgot to nag and quarrel with my father, who lavished more love and affection on her than any woman could possibly hope for.

After finishing Malouk’s bedtime story, I found a bit of paper of a different colour lying on the floor with a poem called ‘Crossing’ on it. He must have started it just before going to bed, and was perhaps finishing it in his dreams.

Without an amulet
I slid through the guarded gates
Crawling like a worm
Through barbs and wire
Swallowed by salty swamps
Surrounded by desert dogs
I ran on
Between wicked trees
Clawing at my clothes
While rain lashed me
I watched my legs
Sink into graves of clay
Dissolving into watery floods
I crossed
But now I must find an amulet
To cross
Straits of fire
Towards continents of snow