We practically galloped back to the camp, my mother allowing no respite to the camels or their drivers, so eager was she to get home. I hid under my palanquin, shaken by the jolting, and covered my face to hide my tears. I’d left a little part of me behind, and Massouda too; I was separated from the sweet young fruit of my sin and from the old Imraguen who’d sheltered me with her compassion. I was lost to all joy, and I was going to have to lie if I was to continue living, under a sky that had disappeared. I did at least feel less anxious about my child’s future: I knew Massouda would take good care of him, would make sure he grew up healthy and strong. I hoped that, despite my mother’s instructions, she wouldn’t keep my memory from him forever. One day, perhaps… but I closed my eyes to the rays of hope that threatened to blind me. The path I would now have to walk was a rocky one, but I had no choice but to follow it.

As we prepared to mount our camels, my mother was still whispering in Massouda’s ear, ‘That child must be seen by everyone to be yours, you must see him that way yourself. He no longer has a mother, the name of my unworthy daughter must never be pronounced in his presence, not even when he grows up, nor my name, nor that of our family. That connection is a tree with no trunk or roots; it is dead to both of us and it should not exist for anyone else either. I will send enough money for you to live well, but I insist on absolute secrecy.’ Massouda agreed with a grave nod of the head. I knew she was pleased with the outcome, because it liberated me and saved the child’s life, but also because she herself had become attached to my son.

The excitement at our arrival caught me unawares. Women ululated, men placed their hands on their hearts to express their joy, a griot plucked his tidinitt21 and sang the praises of my mother and her ancestors, the blacksmiths and the slaves all applauded and gently nodded their heads. The tribal tobol even sounded. Our camels were taken by their reins and made to kneel so our things could be quickly unloaded. A crowd of people surrounded us, all asking the same questions, ‘Are you well? Did the Imraguens take good care of you? You weren’t too bothered by the fishy smells? How did you both get so beautiful?’ Behind my mother’s terse smile I recognised a deep wound, but also a secret pride, that of being seen to be celebrated on her return to her people, a testimony to her importance in the tribe. The whole camp had been waiting for us. Only the chief and the older noblemen were absent; they didn’t mix with the young people, the women and the rank and file. They were waiting until the excitement had passed, then they’d come one at a time to greet my mother. I was surrounded by girls of my own age, who exclaimed enthusiastically and cried with joy as they embraced me. People kept telling me how beautiful I looked. My friends’ glances were part admiring, part envious. They whispered in my ear, ‘You’ll make an excellent wife.’ I’d had no idea I was pretty; I didn’t know I’d soaked up the sun, put on weight, got new colour in my cheeks.

Our tent that night was the scene of endless bowing and scraping; you’d have thought we’d left the camp a century ago. My mother began to lose her voice, my muscles ached from jumping up all the time to embrace the women of our tribe.

Late at night, when we finally found ourselves alone, and despite our extreme fatigue, our pains, the shadows under our eyes, the yawns I could no longer suppress, my mother began to talk to me, in a low voice so that no one would overhear, ‘Now we’re back with our people, at home, surrounded by our tribe and our clan, this month of suffering must be buried, erased definitively from our minds and our memories. No one must learn of what we went through, not one single soul. Our tongues must never speak of it. You know that the ember you ignited in my heart and in my guts will continue to burn, and will cause me eternal suffering, but we must be silent and forget. We must let time pass. Perhaps one day our burden will feel less heavy.’ I didn’t answer her. I wrapped myself up tightly in a big burnous and cried all night.

I dreamed I was returning to the camp with my child in my arms. No one was waiting for us. We walked alone, under the moonlight, through a silent desert. The tent flaps stirred but no sound came from the flimsy dwellings that trembled in the wind. Even the night birds were hiding. I kept moving forward, my stride resolute, my little love in my arms, shouting, ‘Here it is – my sin, my pain! I want all of you to bless it, to forget shame and remember life! I want to see you welcome this little person just as you welcomed my mother. He’s mine, and hers too. He belongs to all of you. I want to see him running between your tents, and I want no one ever to point a finger at him!’ No voice responded. Suddenly an enormous jackal, as big as a lion, ran out of the chief’s tent, jaws bared. It reared up on its hind legs and howled. I could hear laughter in the distance, then I noticed the whole camp was watching, encouraging the beast. I stopped, laid the baby down, seized a spear and screamed at the top of my voice, ‘No one will devour my heart!’ I woke with a start, just as the jackal was preparing to leap at me.

For the first few days after we got back I didn’t leave the tent. My mother continued to receive visits from neighbours and relatives from other camps. They asked after my health, touched my head, lifted up my eyelids, thanked God for having cured me. Oumou was widely praised for having accurately diagnosed my illness and sent me to the Imraguens. Of course they all declared me pretty and advised my mother I should marry, ‘Such beauty demands a good husband. Every man in the Sahara dreams of such a well-born nymph.’ My mother always replied that she had her choice of suitors, that many offers had been made, but first I had to regain my health and then my father had to give his consent; my father who had not been seen at the camp since his departure and about whom no one knew a thing. Everyone knew that in fact it had all already been decided.

Nothing had changed at the camp except the teacher, who’d been sent back to town. The whole camp had turned against him. He’d committed the unpardonable sin of publicly contradicting the chief. The chief had called the nomadic members of our tribe across the whole region to come to our camp for the census, to try to convince the government to set up one or two voting booths amongst our tents. That way, he explained, the importance of our tribe would be affirmed, and we could also contribute to the victory of the current administration’s candidate, and so gain favour with them. Emissaries and gifts had been sent to all the clan chiefs, and the tribal drum had sounded every night.

The teacher disagreed with the initiative. After the Friday prayer at the mosque he announced that he considered it an impious act: it was deceitful and treasonous to seek to mobilise a mass of ignorant Bedouins to vote for a corrupt administration. His reaction offended the men of the camp, ‘Who does he think he is, this city man who seems to have discovered the Good Lord only yesterday, interfering when he isn’t even part of our tribe, or any of our clans? Doesn’t he know that this modern politics, these parties and elections, are the mere whims of people with nothing else to do? They’re not important, like rain, or wells, or camels! Doesn’t he know that only the government, whichever one it is, can dig our wells for us, deliver our provisions and the fodder for our animals? How dare he call us ignorant! He doesn’t even know how to read an animal’s tracks, get a camel to kneel, milk a goat or find his way in the dark in our vast Sahara. Is there anyone more ignorant than someone who can’t find their way?’ They reminded themselves of his tactlessness, the way he’d insulted the Sufi sheiks, the prayers he’d tried to force even the slaves to understand, his constant intrusions into everyone’s lives. The herdsmen added their opinion too: his red beard and booming voice frightened their camels.

Memed was suggested as a temporary replacement for the teacher, until the administration sent a new one. The chief agreed and everyone praised Memed, such a good son of the tribe, someone who’d been to town, who knew the world and even foreign languages, who’d never allowed his head to be turned by the bright mirages of the villainous city, who’d always respected his people and their traditions.

The camp had forgotten about the Nçaras. The land they’d occupied was bare and black. The Bedouins were convinced that djinns prowled around the former camp at night, that on the eve of Good Friday they met to dance a wild dance around the accumulated waste. Everyone avoided the place. Herdsmen called to nomads they saw in the distance who seemed to be passing too close to it, warning them that if their animals went there, they would come back with cracked feet, their women would lose their fertility, their men their virility. The former camp was marked with a black cross in people’s minds.

I looked at my camp with new eyes. Life seemed to drift along meaninglessly. There was a kind of languid vacancy in the air and on people’s faces. I tried to respond to the demands of my daily life: receiving visitors, listening to pointless gossip. I always had my responses ready: ‘Welcome! Well said! Wonderful! That’s very true! May Allah bless you! May the rain follow in your footsteps!’ I served them milk and prepared tea. I behaved like a virtuous and well brought up young woman.

My friends tried to drag me along to their evening gatherings on top of the highest dune. I came up with a thousand other things I had to do, but I resolved that one day I’d explain to them that I was now lost to their childish games and innocent flirtations. At night, I sometimes pressed my hands over my ears to stop the sound of their singing and their ringing laugher from opening old wounds.

Memed sacrificed a camel in our honour and came to see us. He didn’t say a word to me, but spoke for a long time with my mother. I knew it was about me, but I only caught a few snatches. My old resolution returned: I would belong to no one. I was lost to myself, so how could I give myself to anyone else? Memed could chase me all he liked, I would never belong to him. My destiny was mapped out: no one could be allowed to see my stain. I would kill myself if necessary, stick a dagger in my throat before compromising. I would refuse with all my strength to give myself over, and then maybe, one day, if I survived…

Memed’s mother came to see us too. She was the polar opposite of her son: a woman formed entirely of curves, with a pleasant face, who talked non-stop, laughed at nothing at all and had an opinion on everything. After speaking for some time with my mother, she called me to her side, pushed her elbow into my right leg and, uncovering her head, demanded I de-louse her. It was an old game played by future mother-inlaws to test the manners and patience of the potential spouse. I gritted my teeth and played along.

Things moved forward more quickly than I’d expected. One afternoon a whole crowd of women appeared at our tent and the griots began to sing and play their instruments. My mother simply whispered in my ear as she passed me on her way to welcome the guests, ‘You’re marrying Memed.’ I was struck dumb. My friends rushed to congratulate me. They pulled my veil, jostled me, those who weren’t married yet pressed their foreheads to mine so I could bring them good luck. I was expected to hide my face and show no pleasure, which wasn’t difficult. Soon, I was told, the men and the older women would go to my uncle to seal the marriage contract. Its clauses would be those demanded by our religion and our customs. I could already hear the stern voice of my mother reciting the old rules in a monotone, rules that were not always respected, ‘He should not be linked to any woman, he should not take another for as long as he does not renounce my daughter, he should respect her and her family, he should not hit her, or say hurtful words to her, he should not insult her tribe or her clan, he should support her as much as his means allow, and the day he breaches any of these conditions, she will consider herself free and de facto divorced.’ I saw my uncle nodding his head, Memed’s father vowing that his son would respect the conditions, saying they were honoured by the union.

Seven ululations announced the marriage, and the tribal drum sounded seven times to proclaim the event. There was commotion all over the camp. I was taken into a tent to have my hair braided and my hands and feet tinted with henna in preparation for the ceremony. Everything had happened so fast. I was appalled. I was surrounded by shouting and frenetic activity, gripped by a thousand different pains, pulled between the tribal artisans, one working on my left hand, another on my right, one loosening my hair, another uncovering my feet. My face was veiled, and on no account was I permitted to speak; I had to be mute and crying. I couldn’t laugh, or say the name of my husband or his family. It was tradition: virgins were meant to understand nothing, to submit passively to whatever happened to them. Women came in and out of the tent, chatting, sometimes dancing in rings around me. My friends acted as my guardians, surrounding me, pressing so close I felt suffocated. Old women kneeled in front of me, lifted the veil from my face, uncovered my chest and enthused, ‘Machallah, may God preserve these fine features, this well-shaped body, these breasts that will feed beautiful children!’ I was close to fainting. No one paid any attention to my suffering.

In the evening, Memed came, accompanied by the young men of the camp. He wore a white boubou and had a black turban around his neck. His face glowed with happiness. The women began to shout, dance and applaud. They congratulated and mocked him at the same time, calling him, ‘Monkey!’ and ‘Billy goat!’ That was tradition too: the bride was supposed to be beautiful and the groom ugly. They put him next to me and he draped his arm around my neck. I was shocked by this easy familiarity from someone usually so timid, then I remembered that in the last hour he had become my husband. I belonged to him now. A freed slave snatched a bracelet from my arm and started to dance around singing, displaying it to everyone, ‘I stole the bride’s bracelet, look at what I took from the bride!’ A friend of Memed’s gave her a bundle of notes and she lifted them high and waved them around like a trophy, shouting more loudly than ever, ‘We stole the bride’s bracelet, this is the ransom for the bride’s bracelet!’The tents heaved with people, their singing and laughter rising up to the sky. Memed’s friends made a circle around us, while my friends stuck to my side. After much forceful jostling, the men allowed just a few girls to stay with me. It was an old fight: the friends of the bride were meant to use all the tricks and wiles they could to keep her away from the groom, so the groom could demonstrate his love by fighting to get her back. The groom and his friends had to stay vigilant and not let the new bride fall into the hands of her friends. They were supposed to protect her using any means necessary, even violence. In the midst of all this hubbub, the bride had to remain unprotesting and unresisting; she represented innocence and ignorance, led one way then the other, a fragile object of love buffeted between the winds.

Tents had been erected at the edge of the camp. Griots had come from faraway. I heard the noise of the party and marvelled that it was for me, that they had all been planning and organising it for some time, without breathing a word. I was a puppet, an inert thing with no will of my own. My uncle, my mother, Memed and his family, had arranged it without talking to me, except to indicate that a new life was beginning for me, with new codes, new lies, endless new false nods and smiles.

They didn’t know I was spoiled for everything forever, that life had already dropped its wreath at my feet and departed, that I had bid farewell to all ambitions for a happy home, and that Memed would never find in me the wife he had the right to expect.

The henna session lasted for several hours. My whole body was stiff and aching, but the women of the camp were ecstatic at the result. I was decorated with figures, ellipses, smooth lines that met and then separated, resembling birds’ claws, or open mouths, or flowing water. My hands and feet showed a work of art that was doomed to fade and disappear. My hair was equally superb, piled high and glittering with all the jewels my mother had been able to borrow or buy. My locks were long, and the whole thing made my head heavy. Gems of every colour danced in front of my face and hung down over my chest.

At the party my head felt even heavier because of Memed’s arm around my neck. He murmured irritating pledges of love in my ear throughout the evening. All the young people in the camp paraded past us noisily. The tents were arranged in a semicircle in a large space. The crowd of people had come from all over; even, they told me, from the towns. The air was full of the sounds of the ardine and the tidinitt22. As we approached, cries burst forth, people ran to meet us, and in the midst of the crush, griots, their hands to their ears, sang a hymn in our honour. A small platform had been constructed for us and covered with red Moroccan rugs and soft cushions. As soon as we sat down on it, the griots began to intone their t’heydines, poems composed in honour of our tribe. The intoxication began: the women danced, the young men uncovered their heads, puffed out their chests and threw down everything they had on them: banknotes, watches, turbans, their boubous, locks of their hair… the t’heydine brings out the craziness in people. It glorifies the tribe’s history, reminds us of our ancient values and the heroism of the past. It goes to people’s heads. I’d never liked the t’heydine. Now it represented my uncle, my mother, the theft of my secret little soul, his handing over to Massouda, and I hated it more fiercely than ever. My uncle, the chief, was extolled, and there were songs dedicated to Memed’s father, who was surprised and flattered, and to Memed’s uncle, the richest man in the tribe, so generous, who, ‘Gives and gives and forgets he has given.’ None of it seemed relevant to me. I was dead, and no one even noticed.

A special newly-wed tent was erected for the two of us. It was woven from white wool and flooded with incense and myrrh. A horde of joyful people accompanied us to it. Memed enclosed me in his arms. The jeers about the ugly husband and the compliments to the bride accompanied the music of the griots. Memed’s friends stayed with us, while my companions tried thousands of ruses to steal me away, in full view of the crowd; they said we had to go and re-do our make-up, that my hair needed adjusting, which couldn’t be done in front of the men, that I needed air, that I would faint if I didn’t get some. Memed’s friends kept a close watch and thwarted all attempts at escape.

I was bounced between the machinations of my friends and the protective ardour of Memed’s. The singing, the shouts, the laughter, the play-acted rage was all intended for me. I, like all well-brought up new brides, allowed myself to be dragged around without uttering a word. I looked at the floor, a dumb, docile creature. The childish game held no amusement for me. I dreamed of disappearing, of being spirited away in the blink of an eye by some benign djinn, of rising up to the sky and landing in the place where Marvoud and Massouda were waiting. I saw myself as extinguished, annihilated, an object with no soul or volition. I was imprisoned, and the walls of my cell were impregnable. I cried with abandon. Everyone attributed it to my virgin modesty and praised my excellent upbringing.

When Memed and I were alone, I started to remove the gems encrusted in my hair that made my head so heavy. He came over to help me. I let him do it, but when he reached out a hand to caress me, I stopped him immediately, screaming, ‘Don’t touch me!’ At first he thought I was still following tradition: the young wife was supposed to be resistant to the first act of love, even to refuse it. It was up to the husband to overcome the distance between them, to quell her fears, to oblige the ignorant young girl to receive him. It was a rape of sorts, but it was tradition. So Memed tried to kiss me, and was horrified when I drew out the dagger I’d hidden beneath my clothes. I said, ‘You’re not touching me. You’ll never touch me. I’d rather kill myself!’ He jumped up, and was about to cry out.

I forced myself to stay calm. ‘Why call the others?’ I asked him. ‘They’ll blame me, of course, but they’ll also despise you, and it won’t change a thing. You will not touch me, Memed. You’ll never know how my body is made, you’ll never invade my privacy, you’ll never touch my breasts or my sex. I won’t give myself to you. I refuse you.’

‘You’ve gone crazy, Rayhana!’

‘Yes, I have.’

His face was filled with defeat. He couldn’t begin to understand what had happened to the Rayhana he thought he knew.

‘You’re my wife, before God and men,’ he managed to say.

‘Yes, but I’m a wife who rejects the husband who was chosen for her, who will not submit to him, or offer him her body.’

He said, ‘You know full well that our religion and our laws forbid that,’ but his head was already bowed.

‘Yes, I know that. You men love to evoke religion and law, especially when they suit your purposes. I accept the requirements of the law, and I will accept the fires of hell, but I won’t give myself to you!’

‘But you know I love you, you know I’ve always loved you!’

‘Your emotional declarations mean nothing to me!’

‘I’ll try to make you happy, I’ll obey you in everything, I’ll give you the most beautiful things. We’re rich.’

‘Your riches mean nothing to me!’

‘What will people say about me? What will they think of you?’

‘What people think means nothing to me!’

We didn’t sleep that night. Memed moved about ceaselessly, getting up, walking around the tent, swinging his arms, murmuring fragmented, incomprehensible words. I followed him with my eyes, ever-attentive, ready to pierce my own heart rather than be burned at the stake of ancient tradition. He waited, listened for my breathing, to assure himself I was sleeping, then cleared his throat and resumed his walking and his murmuring. I kept track of him: I was ready, dagger poised beneath my pillow. I knew many of our friends wouldn’t be sleeping either. They’d be waiting for what tradition demanded: the cries of the violated virgin, the young girl fighting to protect her treasure, her purity. The display represented innocence battling against the invasion of adult life, against the virility that, despite the screams, must always triumph. It was an eternal combat that ended with the grand finale and sacred accomplishment of the act of love, leading to children, family, the respect of others, a life. I didn’t want that life. I’d scrubbed my name from destiny’s scriptures. I was dead to all but one thing.

At dawn, Memed timidly touched my arm. His voice was hoarse, his features distorted, his eyes filled with pain. My heart was heavy, but there was nothing I could do. I had nothing to offer him. I knew what his friends would whisper, ‘A man who can’t dominate his wife on the first night will be dominated by her all his life.’ I knew Memed loved me, I knew I was breaking something inside him. But I too had been betrayed, shattered, torn… even if he had no idea about any of it.

We went to my mother’s tent. She was already awake, waiting. She asked no questions and didn’t speak to Memed. He went away again without a word. I slumped down on a mat and immediately fell asleep, the dagger still hidden beneath my veil. After a short time, I was woken by shouts. I watched, stunned, as my mother threw a pure white sheet spotted with fake blood out to my friends, who were gathered outside. They began to sing and dance around it. It was the blood of purity, the proof I was a virgin, that I’d been brought up well, that my honour had never been sullied.

It was another day of people parading into my mother’s tent. I had to keep my face hidden. My friends cooed softly and asked me how it had gone. ‘Paradise,’ whispered one who had recently married, and the others guffawed; the matrons gave them hard stares. I said nothing. I was elsewhere, marvelling at how ready my mother had been to lie, to create a new reality, at her relentless determination to make me appear respectable. She knew full well I was scarred for life and had no pretensions to happiness. All I wanted was to one day embrace the child I’d been forced to abandon. My mother and I swam in two separate seas: I didn’t think we’d ever meet again, ever tackle the same waves. Perhaps we would never even look each other in the eye again.

In the evening, Memed came back, surrounded by his friends. My mother had sacrificed a camel and laid on a great feast. Again the whole camp was invited. The griots intoned the most beautiful Saharan hymns. The girls abandoned modesty for an evening and let their hair down: they danced all night, making moves that at normal times would have been considered inappropriate. They winked cheekily at the young men, who, emboldened by the atmosphere, wheeled around doing guéras, fierce and virile dances, and threw their sweat-soaked turbans at the feet of their admirers. Memed was dragged into the middle of the crowd to join in the dance. I stole glances at him. He seemed distraught. His face was serene and smiling, his voice steady, but I knew it was an act: he was making a supreme effort to hide his pain.

My mother didn’t mix with the crowd, but she showed every woman who approached her the blood-stained sheet, the proof of my innocence. I didn’t dare look at her. Finally she called me to her, behind the tents.

‘You’re another woman, now,’ she told me. ‘You’re married to Memed. He has to stay quiet and accept the farce I’ve orchestrated, or he’ll lose face. The tribe will laugh at him, his honour will be stained. You can tell him you were born on a Friday evening and you never had a hymen, tell him whatever you like. If he wavers I’ll speak to him again, but I think he’ll stay silent. Personally, I feel liberated now. You were the halter at my throat. Tomorrow I’ll go and visit one of my cousins in town. She’s ill and I haven’t seen her for years. I’ll be gone for a few weeks. Attend to your husband, make sure he forgets about all this. Help him get his smile back, and give him a child, a proper one!’

I asked my mother no questions. I didn’t want to spend any more time than I had to in her presence.

When Memed and I were alone in our tent again, he did not hold back, ‘What your mother did today was a slap in the face that I alone feel, an insult that I alone am aware of. You refuse me, and your mother judges me incapable. She didn’t look at me once, she didn’t give me her hand like you would to a son. That whole insulting show! The blood that wasn’t yours! I might be weak, but I don’t deserve such contempt. What have I done for you and your mother to scorn me so?’

He kept repeating, ‘Why? Why?’Then he lowered his head and cried softly.

I didn’t know how to respond. My heart was heavy and I felt at fault. Memed had done nothing wrong and he was suffering, he was the inadvertent victim of a storm my mother had raised. He wasn’t a leading player, but he’d been dragged into her game. All he’d done was want to marry me. He thought he’d won me in love’s contest, thought the doors of happiness would now open for him, thought he’d gained love and a union that would ennoble him in the eyes of the tribe. He’d ended up lost, betrayed, suffering, and unable to understand why. He kept on crying, quietly. I’d never seen a man cry, I’d thought only women did it; our men didn’t express their feelings openly, didn’t allow their tears to flow or their hearts’ desires to show. They either kept it all inside, or they went faraway to swallow their pain. Memed didn’t hide. The tears flooded his face, his new turban and his boubou. In spite of myself, I felt the urge to comfort him, to pull him to me and hold his head, as you would a child. But he wasn’t a child. He calmed himself, tried to hold back his whimpers, to make his voice even.

I felt an enormous fatigue, the over-riding urge to vomit out my guts and my secret. I told Memed everything, ‘I’m lost to you, Memed. I am dead flesh that can no longer know happiness. I’ll never be able to give it either. I’m soiled for life. I crossed the wadi of suffering, the place from which you can never return. I’m lost, Memed, you must understand that, to you and to everyone else.’ Memed listened in silence, without interrupting me once or asking a single question. Only when the flow of my words slowed and I paused for a second, feeling choked, did he touch my arm. I took a deep breath, then continued. I no longer saw Memed in front of me but a procession of all my torments, my many hours of distress and fear during the time I’d lived by the sea with my mother shut off inside her own pain and sick pride, and with Massouda trying to stoke the weak flame of survival in me, and with the baby, wriggling in my arms and reaching out his little hands to seize the days and nights. How had I endured it? Why was I not already dead?

When I’d finished my story, I felt as if an immense burden had been lifted from me. The words had relieved some of my pain. I wasn’t free, but I’d been able to lick my wounds.

Memed was no longer crying, just trembling a little. He got up and went outside. I watched him through the gaps in the tent, pacing around, turning his head to the east, absorbed, asking counsel of the stars perhaps, or the light wind that caressed the tents, or the sleeping compound. Perhaps he was praying to God to show him the path. I knew he would speak to no one about it, that he would keep my secret, but now he was obliged to act. I awaited his verdict, which seemed a foregone conclusion to me. I’d been so clear, I’d said, ‘I don’t belong to you, I can’t belong to you, though I know you have good qualities. I won’t belong to you, because I don’t belong to myself and I don’t want to belong to anyone else.’ He would announce our divorce tomorrow, and I would have to return to my mother’s tent, to suffer her silence and her scorn. It wouldn’t kill me, I’d get through the long nights one by one, then one day the sun might shine again, I might see my lost flesh and blood again, I might learn to smile again… I was almost happy with the turn of events: it meant I could reclaim my solitude. Having already been married, no one could impose anything more on me. It’s all written, I thought, everything that has happened and everything still to come. I had always been at the mercy of fate, just a small atom, spinning inside the immense whirlwind of the Sahara.

Finally Memed returned. By the light of the moon that filtered into the tent, I saw a new resolution in his eyes. He said, ‘You’ve suffered greatly. You bled and you stayed silent, and none of us saw your hidden wounds. I understand everything now, and I want to heal your pain. I’ll go and find your child. I’ll bring him to the town first, then I’ll bring him here. I’ll say I found him abandoned and have decided to adopt him. That way he can live with us. I’ll love him as if he were my own son.’ I was stupefied. Memed came over and embraced me. I didn’t push him away. My heart beat hard, as if it was trying to escape. I felt the dampness of his tears, heard his breathing. My body was silent, but my heart spoke. My arms slowly opened to him. I let Memed take what he thought was his right.

Notes

21  Author’s note: Musical instrument.

22  Author’s note: Musical instruments played only by women.