Horses of God (6 page)

The crowd moved from my grave to my brother's. People formed a circle round my mother, her dead
child at her feet. The grave was already filled in, but Yemma moved her hands over the damp soil as if Hamid might still feel her caress. She leaned over to kiss the earth and her face was all streaked with dirt. Said, our eldest brother, took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped her face, and sat down beside her. As she didn't object, he edged his arm round her shoulders and pulled her toward him. Little by little she softened. My other brothers joined them. Scenting a tip, the blind beggar followed up with a sura from the Koran that told of the gates to paradise, open wide to the deceased, and the blessings that awaited him there: rivers of milk, wine, and honey; the virgin houris, eternally beautiful young men, and other marvels. He recited with such conviction that he almost made you want to stretch out next to the dead boy. The other beggars upped their game. And Hamid, too, was permitted an almost normal burial.

When Said helped Yemma to her feet and put his arms round her, she let him do it. She seemed so light. He stroked her hair and pressed her to his chest. He whispered something in her ear that spread a shiver of light over her mournful face. It wasn't, strictly speaking, a smile, but the glow that usually lies behind it. He slid her onto his back and carried her home as if she were a sleeping child.

NO, IT WASN'T
all darkness in Sidi Moumen. I had my share of happiness too. My love affair with Ghizlane, Fuad's younger sister, is proof of that. If there was one thing for which I'd have given up the whole idea of leaving, it was my love for Ghizlane. To think so many lives would have been spared if she'd held me back. Mine for a start, and other people's—people I didn't know, whom I carried off in my game bag like a poacher. I know she'd have stopped me going beyond the point of no return if only she'd taken me seriously. One night we met up outside her grandmother's house. We'd often meet in that blind alley where few people ventured. I tried to talk to her, hinting that it might be the last time we'd see each other. She laughed in my face sarcastically: “Watch you don't fall in the cesspools, they're crawling with snakes and scorpions!” I knew every nook
and cranny of Sidi Moumen, all the mounds of fresh or recently scavenged rubbish, down to the last square inch of muck; so if I was going to fall in a ditch, it would be because I'd been pushed. It was no good my trying to look stern and serious or explaining it to her, she just kept laughing. Ghizlane was the funniest, liveliest, most radiant girl I ever had the good fortune to meet. The least thing would set her off. She'd slap her knees, and her whole body was so eloquent, you'd never notice how tiny she was. Her presence was so cheering it was as if garlands had been hung all round her, the kind used to decorate the wall on the Feast of the Throne. Her hazel eyes always sparkled, lighting up her face and its oval mouth with an irresistible mixture of charm and innocence. Despite her exuberance, and her slightly affected manner, she was sensitive and deep. When I was alive, I wouldn't have been able to describe her as I can now. I wasn't taught the words to convey the beauty of people or things, the sensuality and harmony that make them so glorious. And now, as a lovelorn ghost, I feel the futile need to pour out my feelings and finally tell this story I've been turning over and over in my mind since the day of my death.

In the beginning was the dump, teeming with its colony of rascals. The cult of soccer; the incessant fighting; the shoplifting and frantic getaways; the ups and downs of trying to survive; hashish, glue, and the strange places
they took you; the black market and the small-time jobs; the repeated beatings; the sudden attempts at escape and their ransoms of rape and abuse . . . In the midst of all this chaos a glittering jewel had fallen from paradise: Ghizlane, my sweet and beautiful friend. No one knows how she landed in Sidi Moumen, but she was out of place in our filthy universe, a happy accident. I can still see her in the middle of her carrying hoop, a medium-sized rubber bucket on each side, going back and forth between the street pump and their home. In her long dress with wet patches, she seemed to glide over the loose stones and thistles on the path. The angel of grace had chosen this frail creature to blossom and live among us. If I wasn't helping Nabil at the dump, I'd offer to lend her a hand. She'd gladly accept and the mere sight of her white teeth made my heart quiver. We chatted as we walked. I'd sometimes do that journey several times in one morning, just as happily each time. I'd put up with my friends ribbing me, calling me a sissy, and with Hamid's jeers, if he happened to pass by. I loved being with her. Near the pump, we'd play at splashing each other, letting ourselves get soaked to the skin. We'd soon dry off in any case; Yemma would never notice a thing when I got home. Sometimes we'd stop near an isolated hut where, scorning the drought, a vine had clambered through the corrugated roof and reappeared through what must have once been windows. It was a shady
place that, miraculously, no one had yet reclaimed. We secretly dreamed of living there one day, but we were too young to contemplate that kind of adventure.

Ghizlane would tell me about the dreadful atmosphere at home since the death of her father, the muezzin, and the marriage of her mother to Uncle Mbark. She didn't like that man, that hermit crab, who'd taken her father's place, taken over his job, his bed, his whole life. She didn't understand how her mother had metamorphosed into a harridan, one of those wicked witches straight out of fairy tales. True, Halima had never been the maternal type, but to neglect her own children to that extent verged on insanity. Now she had eyes only for her new husband, who'd become her lord and master; this man who'd turned her head, for whom she was willing to abandon everything. Was this recent or had it predated her husband's demise? No one could say. Whatever the truth of it, she'd spend hours making herself beautiful for him. It was as if she'd erased twenty years of her life to become the young, coquettish girl of the past again. Before sunset, she'd settle herself on cushions in the yard and bring out her beauty paraphernalia: a tiny round mirror and a case containing all kinds of powders, creams, and unguents. She attempted to brighten her eyes with a thick line of kohl, dragged almost to the ears, and enhance the coming kisses with lipstick from Fez, then she'd
put on a delicately embroidered kaftan and sit herself on a kilim, like a young fiancée awaiting her suitor. When Mbark arrived, absinthe tea and dried fruits were produced, fresh candles were lit, and the transistor radio switched to the national channel, which broadcast popular tunes, patriotic songs to glorify the king, and official news bulletins. She hurried to bring him a basin of warm water with cooking salt for his foot massage. Soon after the radio soap opera, which the lovebirds wouldn't miss for anything in the world, Ghizlane would serve them supper, which they took à deux in their own room.

This was during the worst of Fuad's glue addiction, when he almost never came home, or if he did he was in a terrible state, his eyes rolled upward, red as two drops of blood. Ghizlane and I had made it our all but impossible mission to save him; she'd look after him indoors and outside it was up to me. She made him eat, wash, and change his clothes and would physically intervene when her mother, armed with a broad belt, came to give him a thrashing. “You're no longer part of this family!” Halima would say, summoning their uncle, who'd back her up with a verse from the Koran. Then she began to shriek: “That drug addict is driving me mad! What have I done to the good Lord to deserve such punishment?” Fuad was so far gone, he didn't even shield his face from the flailing blows.
Ghizlane caught a few in the cross fire, but still she put herself between them, defying her mother. Sometimes clumps of her hair were pulled out and she wouldn't make a sound. She'd get scratched, too, but she stood firm and waited for her mother to calm down before taking care of her brother, who'd be stretched out like a corpse on the palm mat. She took off his plastic sandals, slid a cushion under his head, and covered him with a blanket. She lay down next to him for a little while, to warm him up and comfort him, as her mother would have done had she not lost her mind.

Ghizlane's life was no fun—far from it. She didn't have any time to herself, she'd slave away all day long. She left the kitchen only to do the shopping, take the bread to the ovens, or fetch water from the pump. She'd make the meals, serve them, do the washing up, mop the cement section of the floor and sprinkle the rest. The afternoon was given over to laundry. She'd have to hang the washing on a line outside the house and, since they didn't have a terrace, she'd sit on a stool all afternoon to guard it, not just from thieves but in case the wind got up; then she had to take it down in a hurry, otherwise the clouds of dust would mean she had to start all over again. Meanwhile her mother, who'd taken early retirement, spent her days sipping tea with the neighbors, hanging around the souk as soon as a consignment of contraband was rumored to be arriving, or
keeping company with her oaf of a husband at mealtimes. The only contact she had with her daughter consisted of criticism and abuse, and usually ended in tears. Life might have gone on this way if Ghizlane hadn't rebelled. And I played a part in it too. Together we worked out a clever counterattack, an unexpected strategy from a couple of twelve-year-olds. The plan was for Ghizlane to fall asleep on the job and make a mess of anything she possibly could: add too much salt to the tagines, leave it out of the bread dough altogether, put a pinch of killer chilli in salads, sweep before damping down the floor so that dust spread right through the shack, leave stains in the laundry or make new ones . . . in short, as far as possible try to poison the sweet, peaceful life of her stepfather and her hag of a mother. In spite of the hell Ghizlane and Fuad were forced to endure for weeks on end, the plan paid off. They put up with the beatings, the humiliation and bullying. They were made to eat those revolting meals, the salads that were on fire with chilli, the gut-wrenching soups, while their mother and Uncle Mbark brought delicious sandwiches back from the market and shut themselves up in their room to eat them. This war of attrition might have gone on indefinitely had it not been for the intervention of Mi-Lalla, their paternal grandmother. Heaven had sent her to put an end to this situation, now become unbearable. She suggested to Halima and Uncle Mbark that the children
come to stay with her until things settled down, explaining that it was normal for them to be upset by their father's death, their mother's remarrying so soon, and all the rest. A few weeks at most and things would be back to normal. Mother and uncle were only too willing, and it was salvation for all concerned. Ghizlane and Fuad packed their bags the same night and went to live with Mi-Lalla in Douar Scouila, a shantytown half an hour's walk from ours.

The Stars of Sidi Moumen took the news badly, fearing Fuad would be tempted away by his new neighborhood's local team. But that didn't happen. Moreover, a little while later, he stopped sniffing glue and was back to his dazzling best as our center forward. A new life was beginning for Ghizlane, too, since Mi-Lalla had taken her under her wing. She banned her from setting foot in the kitchen and enrolled her in an embroidery school run by someone she knew. “You have to have a trade, child, it's the only way to be free.” Free: there was a word that resonated in Ghizlane's ears. It struck a chord, it consoled her. Yes, she would learn a trade and be free, vindicating the faith placed in her. She realized how lucky she was to have a grandmother like Mi-Lalla, who treated her so kindly, who fussed over her and spoke to her gently, who gave her the gold ring she'd been given by her own mother. She made her promise never to part with it. “You'll give it to your
own daughter one day!” she'd concluded. Ghizlane turned as red as a tomato.

Mi-Lalla belonged to what passed for aristocracy in Douar Scouila. The widow of a soldier who'd been killed in Indochina, she received a monthly pension, which, converted into dirhams, amounted to a tidy sum. And since she hadn't stopped working and didn't spend much, she'd managed to build up a decent nest egg. No one knew where she had stashed her money; her house, which was built of concrete, had been visited many times by burglars. One day she found her garden completely dug up, since the thieves believed she had buried her savings there. It was a waste of effort. Mi-Lalla's fortune lay in a safe place known only to herself and God. Fuad used to say he'd rather not find out, or it would be too tempting. That made Ghizlane laugh. She'd reply that he had many faults, but stealing wasn't one of them. And anyway, she was going to ask Grandma's permission to start making cakes, as she used to do, and he could sell them at the souk. That way, he wouldn't have to ask anyone for money. Now that he'd given up sniffing glue and had gone back to soccer, he didn't have as many needs.

Mi-Lalla's work, as unpopular here as anywhere else, made her a lot of enemies. She was a representative of the law. Since men weren't allowed to enter people's homes to make spot inventories of goods before they
were confiscated, it fell to mature women to do the job. It was a painful duty and the grandmother performed it reluctantly. She felt for these people who were about to have everything taken away because they were unable to pay their debts. Even after thirty years in the job, she still had scruples. Sometimes she'd send a messenger to warn her victims she'd be coming the next day. That way, they had time to move their most precious things during the night: their radio, television set, wool-filled mattresses . . . Even so, people avoided her like the plague. She was never invited to anyone's home, for fear she'd suddenly ask them to account for their furniture. People were too unkind, because Mi-Lalla had a big heart. It was true that she made her living from other people's misfortune, but it was a job, like any other. Gravediggers do the same, but they're still decent, honest people. I should know. As for me, I loved her as if she were a member of my family. She'd adopted me too, since I often came to play with her grandchildren. I called her Grandma like they did. She could see I was crazy about Ghizlane and it amused her. Coming across us sitting in a corner, she whispered: “One day, I'll marry the two of you.” But before that, we had to behave ourselves. “Don't get up to any mischief, I'm watching you!” she called out, laughing.