Horses of God (3 page)

We had many rivals; every slum had a team. The “Chichane” (which means Chechnya) shantytown had its Lions; “Tqalia” (guts) its Eagles; “Toma”—named after a Frenchwoman who was said to have had coffee there once—had its Tomahawks; scariest of all were the players from the village of stones: the Serpents of Douar Lahjar, the only ones who had a hope against us. On Sundays we'd assemble at the dump for legendary matches that would usually end in gladiatorial combat: ruthless fights that left everyone pretty mashed up. Still, we couldn't stop ourselves going back for more the following week. We needed to square up to each other,
smash a ball, or someone's face. It gave us relief. Truth to tell, my brother Hamid was often waiting nearby. He'd protect me with a bicycle chain he wore as a belt, which he'd whip out in a flash if there was any trouble. If it did kick off, I'd hide behind him and nothing bad could happen to me; I'd emerge unscathed, apart from a few scratches or a black eye at worst. Hamid used to collect scars on my account, because other boys were frustrated and jealous of the way I played. My genius for stopping impossible balls earned me thundering applause. Countless Serpents, Eagles, and Tomahawks wanted me dead. Poor Fuad, though, had no one to defend him; he had nothing but his legs. He'd often get caught and seriously beaten up. Like Hamid, he'd amassed an impressive number of injuries. What he was most afraid of was the inevitable visit to the barber, who doubled as a bonesetter. That man was a nasty piece of work, who'd reset our bones with brute force. It was his way of punishing us. Most of the time we'd lose consciousness at some point. We could have wreaked revenge on that wild-eyed maniac, but we knew that sooner or later we'd be back in his dreaded grip . . . One day his shop was burnt to the ground; the culprit was never caught. Still, in Sidi Moumen, a hovel in flames isn't exactly the end of the world. It gets rebuilt the same day and people rally round, offering the victim mats, blankets, clothes, and stuff for the kitchen. And life carries on as normal.

The only deliberate fire I was lucky enough to witness from beginning to end was the police-station fire. After the police had left a young dealer for dead, the decision was unanimous. Boys brought gas cans and set fire to the building. They were raging against “the Doberman,” a corrupt detective, a brute, a piece of filth washed up among us, who bullied people and sucked their blood. That scumbag lorded it over the anthill of small-time dealers and other thieves who made their living in Sidi Moumen. No van filled with hashish or smuggled goods could get inside the wall without his taking a cut. He also had an efficient network of informers, so nothing escaped him. He knew the innards of all the shacks and had detailed files on all of us. If some poor wretch attempted to complain, he'd confront him with the crimes of his closest friends or family, because most of Sidi Moumen's inhabitants have skeletons in their cupboards. As the years went by, people's resentment grew fiercer, swelling like the waters of a stream about to burst its banks. So, that night, in a surge of anger, the street caught fire like a powder keg. Omar the coalman's son had got hold of the gas and the mob made its way to the police station, with Hamid my brother at its head: a procession of flaming torches snaked from the dump, chanting murderous threats, fulminating against “the Doberman.” Luckily for him, the creep was somewhere else and escaped the
conflagration, which we danced round like demons in a trance. Some boys threw stones or spat blasphemies into the air, while others pulled out their dicks and pissed at the flames; the spectacle was never to be forgotten. The caretaker was spared, because he was a local kid. All the same, he was stripped naked and his uniform suspended from a stick, which we hoisted like a macabre flag, uttering cries of victory before flinging it on the fire. If he'd been there, “the Doberman” would have been lynched. We'd have ripped his stinking fat belly to shreds. We'd have smashed the jaw that spewed such bullshit, releasing the aggression built up over a decade. Still, the outcome was decisive, since we never saw that bastard's sinister face again. Or, in fact, any uniforms at all. The police station never got rebuilt and no one was too bothered. From then on, differences between people were resolved either through the elders' mediation or by a fistfight at the dump. And by and large, life in Sidi Moumen picked up and carried on its own sweet way.

CONTRARY TO APPEARANCES
, Ali was white. Like his coalman father, he couldn't get rid of the dark complexion that went with the job. He'd grown used to it, and to the nickname “Blackie” he'd been saddled with from a young age—unjustly, given that he was only intermittently black. On Fridays, when he left the hammam, he'd cover up his temporary natural color, which he found almost shameful, since many people didn't recognize him. Of all my friends, Ali was Yemma's favorite—and for good reason. He'd hardly ever come round empty-handed: he always had a small bag of coal he'd swipe from the shop, claiming it was a present from his father. Which was a lie as fat as a watermelon. Knowing Omar the coalman, it was unlikely that that skinflint would do anyone a favor. He spent his life cloistered in his little booth, his shoulder bag tucked under an unflinching arm, guarding his
stash in the hollow of a damp, hot armpit. You scarcely knew he was there, so completely had he merged with the mountain of coal over which he reigned, a true king of the fire, as he was called. And don't imagine for a moment he'd add a little extra when it came to the weighing, as shopkeepers normally do. Omar monitored the balance of the scales as if he were selling gold nuggets. But people didn't hold it against him, and many found it funny. In any case, they didn't have much choice, since His Majesty was the only coal merchant in Sidi Moumen.

His son Ali was the bane of his life—a gaping wound he cursed morning and night. In his eyes, that spendthrift was only out to squander the family assets and had no other interests besides squelching around in the mud behind a ball. And he never missed a chance to tell him so. Yet Ali didn't suffer too much because, in time, he'd become used to his father's bombast; he no longer even heard him grumbling or endlessly lamenting his fate. Ali would slave from dawn till dusk, in silence, lifting twenty-kilo sacks, bringing meals from home, washing the dishes, scrubbing down the shop front, and performing a whole series of backbreaking jobs. He'd barely stop for breath before he had to jump up for the next chore. His only moments of respite were at prayer times, when his father would go to the mosque: a good half hour, during which Ali hurriedly did his deals on the side, thus ensuring he had his daily
pocket money. There were good days and bad days, but on average he'd get together about five dirhams, which earned him kudos in our group. Not counting my brother Hamid, he was the richest of us all. And the most generous, since his contribution to the team's coffers far outstripped ours. Omar the coalman's only means of controlling his son was to check the shopping of the people he passed in the street. If, unhappily, he spotted coal in someone's basket, he'd rush to check the books. At the least suspicion of theft, the situation took a dramatic turn: grabbing the braided ox's tail he used as a whip, he'd douse it in a bucket of water and crack it, ramping up the terror endured by Ali, who'd be crouching and shielding his face. He'd thrash him with all his might, until he drew blood. As a result, Ali would take serious precautions before doing any fiddling, making sure, for example, that a customer was going in the opposite direction from the mosque, or selling the coal half price to an accomplice. And if there'd been no customers while he was away, Omar would deliver a violent slap . . . just in case. Ali had adapted to this too, developing a surprising technique for evading slaps while seeming to take them: anticipating the hand's trajectory, he'd sink his neck between his shoulders at the crucial moment, letting out a yelp like a dog whose tail has been trodden on. Eventually, like many of us, he'd gotten used to these blows. Now
they were part and parcel of his life—like the bitterness of humiliation, the ugliness that pressed in on us from all sides, and the cursed fate that had delivered us, bound hand and foot, to this nameless rubble.

When he came over to our place, Ali would insist Yemma let him light the fire. Like a real magician, he'd place an oil-soaked rag on top of a pyramid of coal and, in next to no time, the brazier was aflame. Yemma would sing his praises, telling me: “You should be more like your friend, look how talented he is!” Then she'd offer us mint tea and those biscuits made with salty butter that we loved so much. Though she could seem blunt, and sometimes obdurate, Yemma had a big heart. She seemed to be carrying all of Sidi Moumen's distress on her shoulders. Never one to refuse food to a hungry friend, she'd always find him a little something: a bit of bread soaked in puréed broad beans, a bowl of soup, a hard-boiled egg, or anything else she could lay her hands on.

Yemma showed Ali such tenderness I'd sometimes be jealous, especially when I caught her stroking his hair or whispering in his ear. Also, she'd mischievously call him Yussef, which was not his name. Ali's face would instantly turn crimson and he'd look down to hide his eyes, which were filled with tears. I'd watch the two of them stupidly, unable to make sense of their closeness. It was a long time before I discovered the secret of
the painful story that made Yemma's heart bleed. She revealed it to me one morning to console me after Ali and I had argued. I'd come home annoyed, and had lain down on a mat, not saying a word. Sitting in the yard, her legs either side of a small table heaped with lentils she was sifting through, Yemma gave me a quick glance. That was enough for her to read my mood.

“Come here, my son, bring me your eyes, I can't see these damned stones anymore.”

I sat down beside her and began picking over the lentils too.

“You look so sad, what's happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on now, tell your old mother what's bothering you.”

“It doesn't matter. I had a fight with Ali.”

“Over nothing, I imagine!”

I kept quiet. Yemma paused before going on:

“Still, he's a good boy. He isn't bad.”

Then, fixing her attention on the pulses, she said in a hushed voice, as if fearing she'd be overheard: “You should be kind to him. That boy hasn't had much luck.”

I looked at her in astonishment.

“You know many round here who have?”

She smiled.

“But he's definitely had less luck than others. I'm going to tell you his story, but first you have to promise
me you won't repeat it . . . even though it's no secret to anyone!”

“Well, it is to me.”

“Your friend's name isn't really Ali.”

“Well, I know that much, Yemma. We call him Blackie.”

“Listen to me and stop interrupting. Your friend's birth name was Yussef. I know because I was there when he was baptized. I also know his poor mother, who I see at the hammam all the time. Ali is his brother's name.”

“You're wrong, Yemma. He doesn't have a brother.”

“That's true—not anymore. Ali was a lovely boy. I watched him grow, just as I have watched you.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's a tragic story, my son, one you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy.”

She cleared her throat, let out a deep sigh, and went on: “There was a heat wave that summer, it was one of the hottest we've ever known. People couldn't stay indoors because the zinc roofs, conspiring with the sun, turned homes into blazing furnaces. It was no better outside. The chergui was blowing clouds of dust and dirt from the east, making it impossible to breathe. The sky was heavy and low and constantly red; the atmosphere was stifling, a feeling of apocalypse hovered over Sidi Moumen. Yussef had dragged his younger brother,
Ali, down to the river, below the quarries. It hadn't yet dried up in those days. Although it was contaminated by the town sewers, that river attracted a good many kids who'd pour in from faraway slums to cool off. It was a real beach, my son. I'd sometimes take your older brothers there. They'd run riot, swimming from morning till night. I'd make tuna and tomato sandwiches and we'd get there early. The trees weren't burnt by the sun and clouds of birds would come to tickle the green leaves. I loved seeing your father stretched out on the grass, his transistor radio glued to his ear, thrilling to the sports commentators' wild outbursts. He'd make me laugh because if a Widad player happened to score, he'd suddenly jerk to his feet like a goat and dance a manic jig, then he'd throw himself on top of me and squeeze me tight. I protested, of course: ‘Magdul, what are you doing? People are watching!' But he paid no attention. He was like a kid . . .”

Yemma fell silent, she seemed to be in a dream. She'd forgotten her lentils and the story she was meant to be telling me. Her face glowed with light. I didn't make a sound, so as not to interrupt her reverie. I found it hard to imagine my father belonging to the world of the living, and Yemma a woman in love. After a while, she recovered herself.

“Your brother Hamid was uncontrollable, incorrigible, king of the mischief makers. That was why
I constantly kept my eye on the river. I'd catch him throwing himself off the bridge all the time. The water wasn't deep and there was every chance he'd hit his head on a rock. It was no good me shouting myself hoarse, or shaking my arms at him, he just ignored me. The little fiend did exactly as he pleased. Your father objected, telling me to let the boys be, but I couldn't stop worrying. Looking back on it, I don't think Yussef should have taken his little brother to the river. There was danger everywhere. Ali was just five and Yussef only slightly older. Omar the coalman's last-born was his pride and joy; he treated him like a prince, despite his miserly ways. He'd never come home at night without a little treat for him, chickpeas or sunflower seeds wrapped in newspaper. Inevitably, Yussef was jealous, but he loved his brother. He'd certainly have stopped him jumping off the bridge if he'd known he would disappear forever. It wasn't fair of Omar the coalman to call him a murderer. So many little kids flung themselves haphazardly off the bridge. I saw them with my own eyes. They'd resurface a little farther down, unharmed. But not Ali, the little devil. Keen to show how brave he was, he raced to hurl himself off first, with a roar. And then he didn't come back up. The river had just sucked up his shouts and his childish laughter. Forever. And yet the water wasn't deep. Maybe a little rough that day, but Ali could swim. It wasn't the first
time he'd followed his brother to the river. How could Omar the coalman, having just lost one son, annihilate the other with such lethal words? ‘Murderer!' he shouted, to anyone who'd listen. The many witnesses spoke of an accident, not a crime. A rock must have shattered the little one's skull and the current took care of the rest. At first Yussef thought it was a joke; Ali used to delight in scaring him. Then, with fear in his gut, a frenzied fear he'd never known before, he threw himself in too. He looked for his brother everywhere. Wide-eyed, he dived down into the cloudy water and dived again. Nothing. He stayed submerged in the water for hours, frozen and trembling. The little body had disappeared, as if swallowed by the shifting clay; the hungry, malicious clay had devoured the laughing little boy. Some local shepherds set to work, raking the river from bank to bank. The boy was nowhere to be found, it was as if he'd vanished. It took the men of Sidi Moumen several days before they fished out the corpse a mile away from the scene. It was not a pretty sight, he was all decomposed;
a fistful of mud
, his mother moaned, rolling herself in the dust, scratching and tearing at her face. ‘Give me back my mud,' she murmured, in a voice that gave you goose bumps. As for Yussef, he ran away, disappearing for a whole week because he knew how violent his father could be. He trailed around near Chichane and Toma, unable to
face the fury that he knew was unavoidable. In fact, he'd almost been forgotten, the grief-stricken household was in complete disarray, with people filing in and out from morning till night. If the imam had not intervened, his disappearance might have lasted for eternity. It was the imam, a man respected by everyone, who went to fetch Yussef from the other side of the dump, promising him his father would be merciful, and who made the coalman swear, with his hand on the Koran, to spare his son the punishment he felt he deserved a thousand times over . . .”