Before touching her own brush, Farah sat down to watch me and what I was doing. I wasn’t drawing circles this time. I was struggling to draw her into the world that I loved, one that had dominated my thoughts ever since I was little, when I would run through the thicket of wood in our old house. I brushed the colors I had just prepared—blue, yellow, orange—over the piece of wood. Farah loves the color blue. Red doesn’t make her think of anything pleasant. Farah turned toward the pieces of wood and picked up the brush. Contrary to what I thought she would do, she plunged the brush into the red paint, as if to try her luck with this color I had talked with her about for so long. Maybe ten minutes went by before I went up to her again after having left her with her pieces of wood, along with pictures and images that might inspire her, although I hadn’t left her completely. A bell inside me rang to the rhythm of my newfound excitement. I was with a young woman for the first time in my life. A young woman made of living flesh and blood. Her name was Farah. A real name. She moved like someone who was used to places like this. She was meandering her way closer to me. I sensed this in the way she looked around. My proof was that she was moving closer to the color I loved.
So I drew closer. I didn’t have to tiptoe. That’s because Farah was completely immersed in drawing whatever she was assembling in her head, crouching in front of the vibrant colors, her bright smile shining in the darkness of the workshop. She hadn’t yet drawn a single line. But she was ready. I sat down next to her. Then I remembered the golden spotlight that had fallen onto her rounded breasts that night when we were at the cabaret as I sat next to her without the need to speak at all. I smelled the scent of cloves in her hair and said to myself, “This time she’s come to stay.” Then she said she’d draw a cat. “In mosques and mausoleums, they don’t draw living things, Farah. They only draw things that are dead. Like letters, shells, circles, and squares. They don’t draw humans or animals.” But Farah insisted on drawing a cat. A red cat. “In mosques and mausoleums, they don’t draw living things.” She replied that her cat wasn’t alive. That it was neither living nor dead. A red cat doesn’t even exist. It only existed in her head and in her hand, and it wouldn’t become any more alive once it was transferred to the wood’s surface. Farah is beautiful, with her Asian-like eyes—amber, almond-shaped, narrow, and cheerful. Here she was, having brought back her laugh and her vigor. Here was Farah, just as I’d like her to be, always. Farah was beautiful, with or without her red cat. I watched as she drew her first lines on the wood panels.
I brought her food from Mother’s house. Or I stole it from the big restaurants that run the length of Boulevard de la Résistance. When Farah showed up, my enthusiasm for bringing tasty treats like the ones Kika and I used to steal was renewed. Even more, I wanted to surprise her every day with a new story. Even if it was only a story I had made up so she wouldn’t get bored. I also brought her a book I bought in the flea market—How to Preserve Your Beauty. Then I took her out to look at the luxury car of one of the tourists who had stopped there to check out the nearly completed mosque. I opened the door for her. My excited mind had cooked up this idea too. Farah looked pleased as she sat in the back seat. Thin and fragile as a twelve-year-old girl. She loves everything she touches and lays her eyes on. I don’t know how long she has loved cars. Farah didn’t strike me as the car-loving type. But she loved them as something that went perfectly with singing, as she once said. As if she couldn’t picture singing without all of the pomp that went along with it. Her laugh was resplendent. The imaginary hum of the car swallowed her laughter. Her hair laughed too because of the imaginary wind that reached us, even inside the car. Farah’s confidence and vitality had returned to her. And next to her I was happy, filled with joy. We got out of the car and I offered her an imaginary flower. She asked what it was called. I didn’t know. She didn’t know what it was called either. It wasn’t important that this flower have a specific name. We called it an iris, or a water lily, or a red cat. Delightful days, during which I came to love the mosque and yearned to see it every day because Farah loved the mosque. When the sun went down and its rays reflected off the floor mosaic, spraying a joyous celebration of colors everywhere, she loved to walk between the mosque’s pillars at dusk while she hummed her special tunes. And I came to love the workshop because Farah said she loved her new home. Sometimes, when there wasn’t any work to do, we’d walk around the mosque. Farah and I would dress like the tourists who came after the dedication, and we’d strut around, amazed by the height of the structure, gaping at the ceiling decoration, pausing for a long time under Father’s ceiling. The guide (who wasn’t there) would ask us if we knew the artist who had created all of this magnificence, and we’d reply that we didn’t know who he was, but no doubt he was a great artist. We’d laugh loudly. We’d continue our tour, amazed at the beauty of the zellij tiles on the walls and the rows of pillars. At the end of our visit we’d go out and pretend to stand in front of the imaginary ticket seller to buy a small replica of the mosque, which we’d hang on the keychain that held the keys to our big black car, a grand memento of our visit to this historic site. Then there were those Friday afternoons when the mosque was empty and the few workers who remained had gone to the hammam or the movies. We’d sit in the main plaza listening to the crash of the ocean as it echoed throughout the mosque. As if we were sailing on an enormous ship taking us across the ocean. There was no night, no day. There was no need for food or drink. We were full. Satisfied. Overflowing with calm. A fountain burbled someplace in the mosque. Its music added to the overall rhythm of the place. Or we’d stand on a hill to look at the mosque from another angle. The mosque towered over the ocean. It seemed to glide across the water with an unparalleled loftiness. Rising above the minaret were the three spheres of the jamour. They had completely changed the look of the minaret, giving it a rare dignity. They gave it the life it was missing. It didn’t look like any minaret we had seen before. In the fading light of the evening, the mosque was transformed. As if renewing its own shape. A sailboat was visible on the ocean’s surface, its towering mast piercing the sky’s vault, and when night fell, the stars came right up to the edge of the minaret and stayed there for the entire night. Farah said that she had loved the mosque from day one. That she came from Azemmour to sing. She didn’t sing that day, but she did see the mosque. Perhaps she had only come to see the mosque (it seemed that way to her now in the magic of that moment), and to forget what had happened with the lawyer. She loved to watch the changes that happened to it throughout the day. In the evening, when the sun touched the surface of the water and what looked like mist rose up from the ocean, the mosque appeared to be floating in a translucent purple mantle of light, while the top of the minaret disappeared in a light cloak of azure and orange fog. These were moments when the building was like a dream. Yes, they were pleasant days.
We considered ourselves lucky—Farah and I—being so captivatingly close to the mosque. Except for the days when I brought food from Mother’s house or from the restaurants on Boulevard de la Résistance (when I earned some money selling pieces of metal and cardboard left behind by the workers, or Father’s wood that was no longer of any use), we had bread and tea, and sometimes eggs. At night we put cardboard underneath the blanket to keep the dampness out, or at least to keep some of it out. We dreamed of the mosque rising high into the air with its tall minaret, its green zellij, its wide doors, its ceilings, chandeliers, and mirrors. The unique green light of its minaret that would guide those passing by on land and by sea, that would guide passing ships to the far corners of the world so sailors wouldn’t get lost at sea. And its numerous fountains with water that sang. As we slept deeply, we heard the muezzin raise his gorgeous voice calling out the prayer. Even those who had died as a result of their overenthusiasm, those who fell into a hole or from way up high—we started to see them rising from their graves so as not to miss such a blessed prayer. Glory be to God! It was truly a gift from God to be so close to such a grand mosque. There were other nights when we didn’t sleep at all. We lay down next to one another, my hand in hers, without any need for words. The only sound was that of the crashing waves that sang out down below. And when she was happy—for no apparent reason—she got up humming melodies, and drew what she believed to be her red cats on the wooden boards.
I took a chair and pulled it over next to her, our shadows becoming one. She wasn’t smiling. She was serious about what she was doing. I asked her to get up on the chair to grab a brush from the shelf. She laughed, then got up and lifted her dress a little bit. In those moments I examined her white legs and her perfectly arranged toes. We painted and painted and painted. Each one in their own square. Each one with their own colors, their own ideas, and their own unspoken desires. A moonbeam slipped in through the window. It landed on her face. I felt it on my face before seeing it settle on hers. It gave the impression that we were on the verge of a clear night, the likes of which we hadn’t seen for a while. A feeling of optimism swept over me, like a rest after feeling tired. I said to myself that tomorrow was going to be a beautiful day. Exceptional. No workers banging their hammers or dragging pieces of metal large enough to cause the ground to shake. No bosses barking at their employees. Her shadow danced in the candlelight. Then her smile returned to dance around us once again, shining in the workshop’s darkness as she got up and stared at the color-spattered fingers, her fingers. She said she had only pretended to drown that night so I wouldn’t be too sad for her. A few hours or days of sadness, and she’d be counted among the unknown dead. She also talked about how the lawyer knew how to corrupt her soul because she thought so much about the happy life that singers lead. She thought about singing first—because she always loved to sing—then about herself and her future, and about the money she took from her father’s pillow. It was her right to think as other people do. Her spirit was just like theirs, easily corruptible. Then it was as if she had entered a period of quiet reflection as she moved away from the window, as if the moonbeam that had settled in her square was pulling her, just like Father when a thought eluded him. I was amazed that, at that moment, I was thinking about the future. Our future. This was something completely new to me. I forgot about the Gulf and my brother Suleiman’s promises. Azemmour is a small city, but it would be enough. Down alongside its walls there’s a river called the Oum Errabia. Farah’s face was bathed in the purple moonlight, weaving her small desires into mine. Her father, the retired solider who, once upon a time, had been preparing her for the life of a soldier so people would respect her, was now sapped of all strength. He walked on one leg so people would respect what he had gone through. In our imaginations we saw that we respected him because of how much he did for his daughters. Despite this, he ended up on a riverbank waiting for a fish that had gone extinct decades ago, stretching his one remaining leg out in front of the doorstep. We would jump over it and go inside.
Marriage isn’t a good idea. Marriage in general. Because the married man forgets all about the desire he once felt—the passion, the sleepless nights. He no longer waits impatiently for that appointed time that comes around every day or week when he’ll see his beloved’s face. He no longer waits for anything. That possibility has disappeared from his life altogether. He won’t be going to the hammam, putting on cologne, and donning his finest clothes. He won’t be watching the clock hands, which seem to stand still rather than move toward that appointed hour, because the face of the woman he will have been waiting for has now become familiar. In front of his face when he opens his eyes in the morning, and there when he closes them at night. He might even start looking for another woman as soon as he gets married. No sooner does a man sleep with his wife than his respect for her diminishes. He no longer cares whether she stays or goes. She becomes extraneous. A hidden tingling sensation (like that of creeping ants) shamefully struck the lower part of my body as I thought about all of this. Other than Azemmour, what more was there for us? If only a person were like a mountain goat in the forest, waiting for spring to come and spark his appetite. Once a year. One time. Satisfied. Enough, and then some. Afterward he roams around the forest filling his time by climbing trees and diving into lakes, rolling around on his horns (rather than walking around on two legs) until the following year, and then, at the end of his life, climbing a mountain to die there. With peace of mind. No scars. No missing leg. No funeral or mourners. No crying or weeping. No mourners faking their sadness. Why don’t we do as doves or cats do? Life would be less tiring. I saw her grab a piece of cloth as if getting ready to wash the floor. I tried to prevent her from doing so, but she ran away with the cloth in her hand, and I ran after her. We ran as far as the beach. She stopped for a moment, panting as I approached. Our breaths mingled and she asked me whether her breath smelled bad. I laughed because I hadn’t thought about it before. She blew into my face and ran off, while I remained standing there thinking about the stolen kiss she had planted on my lower lip. I stood there thinking about the scent of that kiss, wondering how I hadn’t yet tasted the scent of her mouth! Then we came to do something else impulsive, not knowing how we found ourselves rolling around in the sand, her grabbing my head and putting it on her chest. I imagined rather than actually saw her chest. Two ripe oranges rising up underneath my head. A delicious dizziness seized me. She pressed down on my head and let out her resplendent laugh, insisting I listen to her heartbeats. “Do you hear it?” But up until that moment I could only hear the beating of my own excited heart. Then my head started to pound violently, so I went back to where I had been lying before. I didn’t like playing around like this. I lay down on the sand. She seized the opportunity to run away again. I let her run away toward the mosque so that I’d miss her. I wasn’t missing anything, now. Now that I’d found her. Farah whom I loved. Just as she was, and just as I had wanted her to be since the first day. Exuberant—exuberant in the way she lived, drunk with life, light as a butterfly. Then I heard the singing. By the time I heard it, it may have been wafting over me for a long time while I was stretched out on the sand. Her voice. I lifted my head a little and turned around. The voice was coming from the direction of the mosque, pure and trembling and wounding, filling the night, flooding it.
There’s no one there
Don’t call out
There’s no one there
There’s only darkness, and a road, and a bird that quietly flies . . .
Never in my life had I heard a voice like the one I was hearing now. Sure, I had heard her sing before—singing that wasn’t too exciting. Closer to humming. Now all of my extremities trembled. My blood roiled and a deliciously intense tingling washed over my skin as I watched her in her white dress sway under the beams of light shining in through small openings in the ceiling.
Who do you want to return with in the darkness of the road?
You haven’t lit a fire and you don’t have a friend . . .
She was like something not of this time, surrounded by her purple flowers. I know the voices of many singers—Oum Kulthoum, Muhammad Abdel-Wahhab, Najat al-Saghira, but that’s not what I was hearing now. Not even close. I even knew the voice of Fairouz. But Fairouz at this range? Open and closed at the same time, between the marble columns, under the silver moonlight coming in from the dome and the sides of the mosque, all of which enriched and infused the voice with a magical echo. I felt nothing except for my eyes filling with tears.
I wish we could have lit the old lamp in El Kantara
Maybe someone would have found their way.
I knelt and remained frozen there.
Two wings fluttered above us, causing her to jump in fright. She came close to me, her face having changed color. “We’re not alone.” “It’s just us, you and I.” “No, we aren’t alone. There’s someone watching us.” Why someone would be watching us, I didn’t know, but some person or people were watching us. The magic was gone. The sweetness of the song evaporated. Two kids were standing outside the mosque. In the courtyard. Under the light of the moon. You could only tell that they were children by their shapes. I walked toward them and saw that I didn’t know them. Perhaps they were children of one of the families that hadn’t left the old city. That was my guess. They hadn’t found me in the workshop. What did the two kids want? A man came asking for Mother. Where is he? Carrying a letter for her. Where is he? He asked for her at the old address.
“We have a new address.”
“He doesn’t know it. He only knows the old address.”
“Where is he?”
“The man? He left.” But, before leaving, he said that my brother Suleiman was on his way, but that he didn’t know our address in the new neighborhood.
“Suleiman?”
“No, the man.”