The Bottom of the Jar (11 page)

Total change of scene. Having accomplished the most pleasant part of his quest, Namouss was frightened by this next part. But he had no choice. The blacksmith's forge was shrouded in darkness. The flames of the furnace barely lit the blackened faces of the master and the apprentice, who was blowing air into the fire with a bellow. The smell of burning was unbearable. The eyes of the blacksmith shone with a strange sparkle, and the smile out of the corner of his mouth froze Namouss
with fear. All's well that ends well. The iron tip was ready and it was then attached to the bottom of the whirligig, allowing Namouss to flee that dangerous situation.

Back out into the open air. Though he had his whirligig in his pocket, he didn't feel like playing. The trip to Sidi Harazem had inspired new feelings in him. That first voyage had filled him with a sense of pride. Many of the neighborhood children he played with had never lived what he considered a great adventure. That shift in time and space had opened a window onto the future, there, in a place where he had seen himself equipped with wings, flying above the city of Fez, embracing horizons both known and unknown. All of a sudden – and perhaps because he has just evaded a great peril – the desire to rediscover his town took hold of him. To rediscover it with eyes that had gone traveling, with the need to commit to memory what was at risk of being lost, if ever he should acquire those wings, which would whisk him so high and far away to the point of no return. Right up until that moment, he had lived inside the Medina as if it had been a cocoon. He had never before asked himself how that cocoon had come to be and who had made it. A pupa among pupae, he waited with a vague sense of consciousness for the moment when he might break through the soft pod and step out into the light.

And this is where the journey begins.

N
AMOUSS
'
S STOMPING GROUND
was the size of a handkerchief. He kept within the bounds of the Qarawiyyin neighborhood, if that. As for the other neighborhood, that of the Andalusians, Namouss had never, in a manner of speaking, set foot in it. For him, as for most of his friends, it was almost a foreign country, where one should never venture. Hostile children lived in those parts, with whom they never crossed paths aside from the occasional scuffle. When those took place, the battles were regulated by strict rules of engagement. An emissary was dispatched to the enemy camp to deliver the declaration of war, to put forward a date for the commencement of hostilities, as well as to agree on the weapons that were to be used – usually belts and/or stones – not to mention techniques of impromptu hand-to-hand combat, where direct blows to the head were deemed dangerous and only permitted under certain circumstances. The neighborhood's self-proclaimed Joint Chiefs of Staff then set to planning their strategy and
commenced their recruitment drive. Barely a flyweight, Namouss was not among the children called up for duty. Even though he was entrusted with some small tasks, when the hostilities began he'd had to content himself with watching from the sidelines.

Admittedly, he felt comfortable with this role. Was it a case of cowardice or rather a precocious adherence to the tenets of nonviolence? The question remains unresolved. In any event, those wars did not leave a significant mark on him. By the time he would remember a battle was due to take place in his neighborhood, it would already be over, the dust settling – according the “official” version of the events – in triumph over the foreign invaders. Victories aside, what Namouss had learned was that he should not cross into enemy territory on his own. His neighborhood was enough for him, since it was after all the most prestigious one, home to both of the city's leading mosques – the Qarawiyyin and the Moulay Idriss – and was also the liveliest, since the business activity of the city was concentrated there. Namouss knew his neighborhood souk by souk, square by square, street by street. He knew all the shortcuts to take through its alleys. More important, he knew how and when to meet the unusual characters that so fascinated him. Who were they? Angels or demons? Beggars or prophets? Who knows. Both the settings they were in and the way they spoke stood in sharp contrast to how demure most people usually were. The adults didn't hold them in high esteem. They would stop and listen with half-amused, half-reproachful looks on their faces and then continue on without a word. The children, however, were torn between a vague sort of admiration and an instinctive hostility against those poor outcasts. As for Namouss, he was pulled in by their eccentricity; they reminded him of his uncle Touissa. The words that came out of their mouths had the same effect on him as his uncle's stories. Through them, he discovered that words could be used in unconventional ways.
Not unlike his first day of school, when Mr. Benaïssa had begun to play his flute, Namouss understood that there were words and
words
, music and
music
.

Speaking of words and music, the first character that took his place in Namouss's pantheon was a rather gentle, taciturn man, and a regular feature in the Spring of Horses: Mikou. It was said he was a scion of a large family, which he had left behind in favor of a free, wandering lifestyle that had in turn led to his family disowning him. As a result, many homes opened their doors to him, where, depending on their mood, Mikou would be able to eat and sleep in exchange for a few chores: taking the bread to the oven, filling buckets of water at the public fountain, carrying heavy packages, or assisting with the spring cleaning. Somewhat simpleminded, Mikou had a glowing face and was particularly popular among the children, who occasionally paid him court throughout the course of his peregrinations. Mikou would then perk up and, surrounded by a small crowd of his followers, would use his beautiful voice to intone one of his own compositions:

Why did he address his song specifically to girls? Which Mikou was he singing about? Nobody asked themselves these sorts of questions. The song became a real hit among the children, who added it to their repertoire.

T
HERE WAS ANOTHER
way in which Mikou was looked after in the neighborhood. Even though he was able-bodied and in the prime of life, he was the only man who could mingle among women in their homes. The men looked on this as normal and the women were delighted with his presence. They could go around unveiled and adopt a casual air with someone unrelated to them. A game that seemed to excite them. They didn't hesitate to tease him about “below the belt” subjects, and poor Mikou, who had taken a vow of chastity, would blush a bright red right up to his ears.

Namouss tried to wrap his head around it. Mikou was a man, and yet he wasn't a man. Maybe he was a child that had grown up too quickly. And what about him – who never stopped mulling things over – was an adult trapped inside a child's body?

W
ITH THESE QUESTIONS
planted firmly in his mind, Namouss began making his rounds. On the right-hand side at the bottom of the street, in a place called Small Springs, there was a row of fine-leathers craftsmen, where he knew he would be able to observe another character in action. Unlike Mikou, whose renown did not extend beyond the neighborhood, this particular character, a woman, was known throughout the whole city. Her nickname Chiki Laqraâ (the bald spook) suited her well. Her skin was a shade whiter than most, while her head was almost completely bald, save for a few henna-colored tufts protruding from her forehead. This, coupled with the fact that she wore a simple dress and went about unveiled, meant she had everything she needed to draw
attention to herself. It was during the afternoon, at rush hour, that she began to work. She would go from neighborhood to neighborhood, stopping in places where she was guaranteed to harangue the maximum number of people. Small Springs was one of her favorite haunts.

Her ranting had already begun by the time Namouss arrived. Hands on hips, head thrown back, eyes bulging, she was cursing and threatening an invisible enemy, sometimes even directing her booming voice at nearby shopkeepers and bystanders. The filthy language she used and her tone was not too dissimilar from Ghita's litanies. Yet Chiki Laqraâ was clearly going much further. Moreover, while there was a coherent thread running through Ghita's ideas, Chiki was instead a devotee of the art of the non sequitur. Whenever the subject of sex arose, she accompanied her words with gestures, whereas those sorts of words only came out of Ghita's mouth inadvertently. How many times had Namouss overheard his mother shout “. . .
allocks
!”
⁵
whenever she blurted out something inappropriate.

Chiki was shouting herself hoarse in front of her dumbfounded audience.

“Who does that son of a bitch take me for? I am a woman, and the daughter of an honorable woman. My head is bare and I have nothing to hide. Let him come near me and I'll show him which hole the fish piss out of. She's got her eyes on him, that man.
There ya go!
I hope she gets hold of him and drags him down into the dankest depths of the planet. What good can come of man? He claims to act according to the laws of reason while his mind is actually governed by his balls. You're keeping quiet, eh, you riffraff! I'm just something else for you to watch. Very well then, I'll show you the henna on my hands. Look here” – lifting the hem of her dress and rocking her pelvis forward – “feast your eyes on that, and may you go blind! But you're already blind to everything except the shine of gold. You eat what rightfully belongs to the
orphans. You prize worthless coins above the lives of these innocents. Oh your hearts are made of stone! And that's all you'll be taking with you into the afterlife. In the meanwhile, try and stop me from speaking my mind, I dare you. Have me locked up in the Sidi Frej asylum. I don't know who is the craziest one among us. The maddest one is she who has been cursed by her parents. That twat of a mother of mine, she thinks she's got one over on me. She doesn't know who Chiki is. Those who don't know Chiki better watch out! Her curse is deadly. I am the black hen that will hound you until the day of Resurrection.”

Despite her threats and harsh accusations, some kind souls would slip a small coin into Chiki's hand, who, suddenly appeased, would smile and respond to their generosity.

“They are nothing but sons of bitches. Bless you my children.”

Then she would leave the place, followed by a swarm of children.

Slightly stunned by her speech, Namouss decided to join the crowd. He took a left and headed toward Nejjarine Square, where another spectacle lay in store for him. The man who presided over this ceremony was also there and had chosen a good spot. Nejjarine Square was the intersection of three particularly busy souks: that of the carpenters, which gave its name to the square; that of the saddlers, where Driss had his shop; and finally that of the potters. Not to mention the fountain in the middle of the square, where nearby residents came to fetch their water.

They called him Bou Tsabihate (rosary man), and he was certainly covered in rosaries. He wore many around his neck, which dangled down his large chest. Others were strung around his arms, which he always kept outstretched before beginning to preach his sermon. He was magnificent. Slender, with a strong constitution. A thick beard framing the entirety of his face. His head covered by a yellow turban, impeccably fitted.

Namouss had heard contradictory reports about the man. Some took him for a madman of God, or in other words, a saint. Others suspected him of being a proponent of a religious sect in cahoots with the colonial authorities. That he had chosen to preach in Nejjarine Square where there was a police station lent authority to the second theory. Could everything he was shouting so vehemently be genuine considering there was an abundance of attentive ears waiting to catch him out?

Namouss didn't know what to think. As it happens, he became indifferent to all this reasoning when Bou Tsabihate raised his voice and launched into his homily, making even all the unbelievers fall silent.

“Come back to God, oh slaves of God! Don't allow yourselves to be corrupted by this fleeting world. It's just another one of Satan's tricks, since he loves nothing better than pissing in your ear and diverting you from the path of righteousness. Faith and prayer are the only remedy. But what is that I see? The mosques empty when it's time to fill your stomachs. You are still snoring when the muezzin calls you to your duty. And what about orphans, what do you do for them? And what do you spare for beggars save crumbs and bones? And what about the hajj, how many among you hoarders of gold and silver have carried it out? Oh black sheep, you have been led astray, crossed into the land of the Pharaohs. Your children pay you in kind by forsaking all notions of decency and obedience. I say to you, the end of the world draws near. The goblins will soon come. They will come out of the basin in Moulay Idriss. Mules will conceive and give birth. The deluge will drown you. You will pay dearly for your sins when you stand naked before your Lord. Eternal hell will be your punishment. Come back to God, oh slaves of God!”