The Bottom of the Jar (14 page)

“Look at you, you look just like a newlywed!”

But bad memories of the Sekkatine were few and far between. The afternoons, for example, were splendid. Namouss used to love hoisting himself into his father's shop just before rush hour and resting his elbows on the workbench to watch him work. From these moments,
Namouss's olfactory memory stored a variety of smells: goatskin, calfskin, hemp yarn, wax, natural or colored wool, bits and stirrup irons, wood, some flour-based adhesive, and of course snuff, which Driss, like the majority of people in the Sekkatine, consumed vast quantities of. His father's smell was a subtle mix of all these odors. What fascinated him most, however, were Driss's hands, which were large for a man his size and so agile that they seemed to act independently of his body. He wore leather thimbles on his thumb and middle finger, making them appear unusually long in comparison to the others. The callused hand he slammed down on the saddle to reinforce the seams was as strong as a hammer. Namouss admired these displays of Driss's energy and ingenuity. He knew those hands were blessed, that they both fed and protected him.

When customers showed up, Namouss took a similar pleasure in following the minutiae of negotiations. Driss would begin by displaying the different types of saddles and explaining their specific uses. If the customer was a fantasia rider, Driss would show him the appropriate ceremonial saddle. The customer would then choose between the Fez style, with gold embroidery, or the Tlemcen style, with silver embroidery. If the saddle was meant for everyday use, then standard thread would suffice. The saddle would subsequently be fitted with a
tarchih
, composed of several layers of wool carpets sewn together, which would be placed directly on top of the horse's back, before being equipped with a harness, a pommel, a cantle, a crupper, a throatlatch, and reins. They finally came to the most delicate part of the negotiations: money. The customer would then transform into a humble beggar, swearing up and down that the harvest had been bad that year and that he was on the brink of utter ruin. He beseeched Driss to take pity on his children and help him through this difficult patch.

“Let me kiss your hands,
maâllem
, don't be so hard on me.”

This farce didn't fool Driss, who'd seen some performances in his time. But the man's speech seemed to have moved him, and he proposed, “All right, do you know what we're going to do? We'll leave the haggling to one side and concentrate on the profit margin. The base cost of what it is. Now what are you going to give me for my troubles?”

“A thousand,
maâllem
.”

“May Satan be cursed, my good man. Do you know how much work this is going to take?”

“Open your hand,
maâllem
, this is what I will give you: fifteen hundred and not a penny more. Were I to add even a penny more, my wife would throw me out.”

“Leave your wife out of this, my good man. Give me your money and take your saddle. Thanks be to God, oh He who looks after our needs and deals us our lot in life.”

On that note, Driss held out his hand and the customer pulled out a wad of bills and counted them: “One for God. Two” – and here he didn't add a qualifier – “Three . . .”

Namouss stared wide-eyed at the scene before him, rejoicing as each bill went into his father's hand. Come the following Friday, he thought to himself, I will be able to ask him for a hefty
tatriba
(allowance).

T
HE
S
EKKATINE GREW
more and more animated. The public auction had begun. The first items under the hammer were
lbadis
(small woolen carpets) handmade by the
maâllmate
, who entrusted their wares to hawkers like Ammour or Raïss, who went – carpets under their arms – from shop to shop to collect orders. The artisans paid close attention to the labels on each carpet; those made by Chérifa, the Berber woman Fdila, or Merqtani's daughters were prized above all the others. They had even come up with a secret code to indicate the quality of the wares. Namouss eventually managed to decipher it, too. He knew that those
marked
chorba
were of a poor quality while the opposite was true for those marked
jrih
.

After the woolen carpets, the secondhand saddles, stirrups, and moukhala guns made the rounds. It got to the point that items completely unrelated to saddlery were peddled: samovars, copperware, engraved daggers . . . But eventually business slowed down and the souk would recover a little tranquillity. The shopkeepers did their paperwork and the craftsmen went back to work, albeit less energetically than before. The local café was flooded with orders, people asking Krimou, the owner, for coffees or mint teas, which were served in
chebri
glasses. Out came the nuts or the snuffboxes and everyone gave themselves over to pleasure. This was also the time when passing visitors were welcomed and gossip was exchanged: weddings, divorces, deaths, houses that had gone on the market, inflation, new products, and – naturally – the arm wrestling between nationalists and the colonial authorities. People made hushed references to Allal al-Fassi, Belhassan Ouazzani,
⁷
Abdel el-Krim Khattabi,
⁸
the sultan (may God grant him victory), and the corrupt caids who blighted the countryside. They weighed up the relative strengths of the Americans and the Russians (the two leading powers) and their support for Egypt, and prayed to God to take pity on Muslims as a whole and deliver them from evil.

Namouss hung on every word, scraping bits of knowledge together. Matters to do with other countries simply went over his head and he put these down to the natural order of things. History had yet to knock at the door of his consciousness. He waited impatiently for these serious discussions to come to a fortuitous end. If only Abdeslam Laïrini would suddenly show up with a suitcase in each hand! The man in question was a dedicated traveler originally from the north of the country, specifically from the town of Larache. Once a month he would go back and forth between Fez and the Spanish Zone, where he made a number
of surprising purchases: soap bars in the shape of fruit (lemons, pears, bananas), Italian shoes, scarves and silk shirts, pajamas, bottles of Rêve d'Or and Tabu perfume, chocolate, tubes of toothpaste, toothbrushes, and – something that disconcerted Namouss – Spanish gargoulettes of unusual shapes and decoration. As soon as Abdeslam Laïrini entered the souk, many conversations came to an abrupt end. Everyone ran over to touch the merchandise, which for the most part sold out in a matter of minutes. For reasons unknown to Namouss, Driss rarely bought anything, so Namouss had to content himself with feasting his eyes. He was all ears too, since Abdeslam spoke with the singsong accent typical of the north. It was like hearing another language for Namouss, who had begun to develop a taste for new languages at school.

Yet there were days when nothing unexpected happened. The conversations dragged on. Becoming aware of how bored his son was, Driss would set him free.

“Go home,” he ordered him.

T
HE COMMAND JOLTED
Namouss up from his extended reverie. He looked around to make sure Driss wasn't anywhere in sight. A few shops had already opened. It was time to move on.

Where should he go now? It was barely noon, and he had to hold out until sundown. There was no choice but to continue on his peregrination. He left the Sekkatine souk, took a left, passed the Nejjarine fountain, and went down the alleyway that led to the rue des Pavés. Once there, he stopped in front of a shop that like the others was closed, though not for the same reason. In fact, the shop had been closed as long as anyone could remember and was shrouded in an aura of mystery. It was called the Prophet's Shop, and it was said that God's Beloved had once passed through there. The footprints he'd left behind were still etched in the ground. Namouss had often tried to peep inside
the shop through a crack to see what went on in there but had never been able to make out anything in the pitch-dark. But today, distressed as he was, he was hoping for a miracle. He leaned against the door and looked through the crack. His need to be rescued was akin to a breath of air coming from inside the shop. He was moved by it. “Oh emissary of God,” he surprised himself murmuring, “get me out of this bad patch.” At that moment, he felt himself being shoved and violently crushed against the door. Grasping for something with which to catch his balance, his hand gripped the tail of an animal that had come out of nowhere. He realized that he'd come upon a heavily burdened donkey that had slipped on the cobblestones and had almost fallen on top of him. Luckily the donkey driver was there. Using his cudgel, the driver beat the animal until it got back on its feet, freeing Namouss, who was frightened rather than hurt. The driver, a little groggy, continued on his way.

Namouss needed some fresh air, and it was only natural he should think of the Jnan Sbil gardens. Namouss had a long walk ahead of him in order to get there, including a good uphill stretch: the rue des Pavés, then the Talaa Seghira, right up to Bab Boujeloud. “All the better,” he said to himself, “that will take up a few hours until it's time for the Maghrib.” This new perspective invigorated him. He decided to stop loafing around and walk the distance to the gardens in a single go. Yet his overall vitality, though considerable, was now beginning to flag, standing in the way of his plan. At this time of day, thirst and hunger were making themselves painfully felt. Smokers and snuff-takers lose their patience when deprived of their vice. Their grouchiness becomes unbearable. They start to split hairs, fly off the handle at the slightest provocation, and vent their spleen. Altercations would break out here and there, which the idle followed with avid interest, idlers whose chief concern was to while away the hours until the breaking of the fast, an
approach Namouss was already familiar with. Any distraction – in the strongest sense of the word – was welcome. There were two categories of idlers. First came the jokers, who loved adding fuel to the fire and who generally stood to the side so as to make a clean getaway if one of their jibes backfired and stirred a bruiser's ire.

“Whose sebsi is this on the ground?”

“Whose snuffbox is this?”

“Light up and take a good drag.”

“The Maghrib is still far-far-far away and the maid is a piddling little child!”

The second category was made up of good souls who tended to break up fights and – thanks to copious quotations from the Qur'an – tried to bring the combatants back to reason. Although these mediators really did help keep the peace, this too was a means of whiling away the hours until the fast could be broken.

It was therefore curious to note the sudden interest a great number people took in being precise during this month when patience was celebrated as a virtue. From the time the sun passed its zenith, the questions people asked all circled the same pot.

“What time is it?”

“What time will Maghrib be today?”

“How long until the Maghrib?”

And, as if these weren't enough, others who were even more anxious, would ask, “Are you sure your watch is working properly?”

Namouss had a hard time moving through that feverish crowd. He took care not to bump into anyone to avoid attracting the wrath of those
mramden
– as those “Ramadan sufferers” were called. He finally arrived at Bab Boujeloud. The way was clear.

T
HE
J
NAN
S
BIL
gardens were a true haven of peace. The main avenue was lined with bushy Seville orange trees and flanked by two rows of basins where jets of water shot up and down, like dancers repeating an endless ballet choreographed by some invisible force. Namouss left the avenue behind and took a left. He crossed through a small forest of bamboo trees growing in the shadow of pines and giant palms. Here and there were some frail-looking datura sagging under the weight of their foul-smelling, bell-shaped flowers. A burbling brook could be heard, and at the end of the path, the garden's majestic waterwheel came into view. It was turning slowly, as if stroking the surface of the water. Namouss sat on a bench and gave himself over to its movements, which soothed his heart. Lulled by the water's swish, he wound up falling asleep. His dreams, alas, did not bring him any comfort, as they had little in common with the peace of his surroundings. An enormous weight pressed down on his chest while a series of images whirled through his head at breathtaking speed. Once again this nightmare.

This had happened a year ago. The episode had taken place in Aïn Allou, the road where the Small Springs were located. Unlike other times, he hadn't gone there to see Chiki Laqraâ shower her invisible rival and assorted stone-hearted miscreants with insults. He had wound up there purely by accident. All around him were seditious murmurs. The crowd that had gathered in this back alley blocked the traffic. Men, children, and even young girls were chanting slogans.

“Down with colonialism!”

“Long live independence!”

Then something unimaginable happened: A young, unveiled girl was hoisted high above the crowd by two fellow protesters. Sweeping all objections aside, the girl launched into a song, which the crowd quickly echoed:

The crowd grew larger and larger, and the excitement had reached its apogee when gunshots broke out from the top of the road.

“The goumiers! The goumiers!” someone shouted.

Panic ensued. Wave upon wave of protesters flooded the square, collapsing one after the other into a heap of bodies, crashing down like a house of cards. Trapped in a bottleneck, gesticulating wildly. Namouss felt the ground beneath his feet give away. The wave had overwhelmed him, swallowed him up, blowing him like a feather right into the thick of things. He reacted instinctively and did his best to neither move nor scream so he could concentrate on breathing. Keeping his mouth open, he tried to catch some air, but his lungs were being increasingly squashed and his heart started skipping beats. The thought that he might die crossed his mind, but strangely, this did not bother him much. Rather, he thought about how Ghita would throw a fit as soon as she heard the news – or about how Driss would be spared from having to give him his weekly allowance. But the more suffocating the situation got, the less he thought about these things. He was no longer able to breathe, and his throat only emitted a hoarse rattle. In a final burst of lucidity, he realized he was being pressed against a woman's inert body, and that the woman was jamming her hand into his face. Without knowing why, he took the woman's hand and, using all his remaining energy, bit down on it. He smelled blood. His or the woman's? He couldn't tell. The surrounding darkness gave way to a cold, white haze that worked its way into his brain and put him to sleep. All around him, the screaming and wailing began to fade away.