The Bottom of the Jar (15 page)

That was when he felt the hold over him loosen. Someone was dragging him away. He opened one eye, first seeing a policeman's helmet, then a face and lips ordering: “Get the hell out of here!”

Freed from the vise, he landed, made his way to all fours before getting back on his feet as best he could – at which point his savior gave him a kick in the backside before he scuttled off.

“D
O YOU WANT
a drink?”

The boy yanking Namouss away from his agitated dreams was very small, in fact only knee-high to a grasshopper, and had hanging over his shoulder . . . a gargoulette! With his free hand, he held out a cup, insisting: “Do you want a drink?”

Waking up in a daze, Namouss looked at this apparition. Having just left a nightmare behind, here he was staring at his doppelgänger. Would his suffering never come to an end? What evil jinni was forcing him to remember that story, especially on a day like this, when everything was going wrong? Recovering a little, Namouss grabbed the cup and emptied it in a single gulp. The child was amused by such great thirst.

“Did you fast today?”

Wary, Namouss answered his question with another: “What about you? Did you fast?”

“No,” the child retorted. “I'm younger than you.”

“I am the youngest in my family,” Namouss added. “I won't be starting to fast anytime soon.”

The conversation went on like this.

“I don't have any brothers or sisters.”

“What about parents?”

“I don't have any.”

“Where do you live?”

“In New Fez.”

“In whose house?”

“Houses that belong to people. I work and give them money.”

“Did they find you here in the garden?”

“No, they said they got me in the countryside, but they're lying.”

“Who gave you the gargoulette?”

“I bought it with my money.”

“Do you sell water everywhere?”

“I sell it here during Ramadan, otherwise in the mellah.”

“So why are you here now?”

“I worked enough today. I came here to rest. The water that's left over I give away
fabor
.”

“Who drinks your water?”

“Kids, and women who are having their time of the month.”

“What's that?”

“You don't know?”

“No.”

“When they bleed.”

“From where?”

“From where you came out.”

“Why?”

“That's just the way it is. And so they have the right to eat and drink as they like.”

“Ah, so that's why my big sister eats from time to time.”

“You're a real
kanbou
. You don't know anything at all.”

“Yes, I do. I learn a lot at school.”

“I learn more from the streets.”

“Like what?”

“Tricks. Also, I know how to defend myself.”

“So do I.”

“Yeah, yeah. You wouldn't stand a chance against me.”

“Don't push it. I wouldn't hit you anyway because you're younger than me.”

“Feel my muscles.”

“It's true, they're hard as steel.”

“You've run away from home, haven't you?”

“How do you know?”

“You did something bad, I can tell just by looking at you.”

“I didn't do anything.”

I
T WAS TIME
for the evening prayer. Maghrib wasn't far off. Namouss decided to go home, reluctantly leaving his companion behind. The initial hostility had disappeared completely. The thought that he might never see the boy again even made Namouss sad. He turned around to look at him one last time. The water seller was perched on the bench with his gargoulette close beside him, his naked, dusty little feet dangling in the air. Framing him from behind, the waterwheel was spinning away. With a last look at this somewhat disquieting image, Namouss headed toward the exit.

R
ETURN TO THE
house. His apprehension is intact, and the state he finds his mother in is certainly not going to release his tension. At first, Ghita seems to be ignoring his presence. It then becomes clear she is just midstream in one of her memorable tirades, using the patio as her stage. Namouss, used to these performances, pricks up his ears, waiting to see what will come next. But what he hears astonishes him.

“Our religion sure is a fine thing! You have to spend all day chained up like a dog. Our throats parched and our bowels gurgling. Neither rest during the day nor sleep at night. And who – who's left gathering the grievances? Ghita, that's who, the servant of young and old – the orphan girl with no one to look after her. If only I had somewhere to go, I swear to God I wouldn't stay here a moment longer. What is it that our ancestors used to say? ‘When your country humiliates you, leave it.' It's true, the world is vast. I can live anywhere, even in a
nouala
or a tent. I'm strong enough to look after myself. After all, bread and water
will suit me just fine. I don't need gold or caftans. I don't need a man, or children, anything that will make my head ache. Head, oh head of mine, you're going to explode. My head, my head, my head . . .”

On that note, she made an about-face and, finally noticing Namouss's presence, she began to scold him.

“You're just getting home now, you sinful son! Where have you been all day? Who have you been gallivanting with? Everyone was worried to death. Your father almost hired a street hawker to go around the city shouting your name.”

Namouss was seriously starting to panic, but then Ghita abruptly changed her tone.

“Come here! Now tell me first of all: You haven't eaten a thing since yesterday, have you?”

“No,” Namouss hastened to answer, her question filling him with hope.

“
Wili
,
wili
!” Ghita exclaimed, suddenly moved to pity. The boy was dying of hunger and there was no one there to rescue him. “Come here, my poor little one, come here. You can start by tasting that damn harira to tell me if it's salty enough. I never know how much salt to put in. That dates from the time when your father and I were newlyweds and lived at your uncle's house. Well, would you believe that when it was my turn to cook, your aunt – may God punish her! – would wait until my back was turned to throw a handful of salt into the pot. When the tagine was served it was almost inedible. All of that just to sow discord between your father and me. I was still a little girl, but one day I woke up at dawn, packed my things, and gave your father a choice: Either he would find us a house of our own, or we would go pay a visit to the qadi –”

“Let me taste the harira,” Namouss implored, his stomach howling like a wolf.

Ghita filled half a bowl. Namouss gulped it down and asked for more.

“Fill the whole bowl.”

“So? Is it salty enough?”

Not paying any attention to these nuances, he dodged the question gracefully: “Your soup knows no rival.”

Flattered by the compliment, Ghita uncovered a dish filled with honey cakes and said, “Take as many as you like. Eat, eat. At least your life is carefree. What happiness!”

Pondering as he ate, Namouss felt reassured. If he was ever punished, it would be for running away rather than for the mischief he'd caused earlier in the morning; nevertheless, he wanted to make sure. Recklessly, he asked, “And the mice?”

“What mice?”

“The ones that came out of the cupboard this morning. Did you kill them?”

“Hush now! They managed to get away. Wanting to crush them with the cudgel, your father missed his mark and wound up almost breaking my leg. But how did you know they came out of the cupboard, where you there or what?”

“No, Yemma, I swear.”

“Don't swear. If you lie, you'll turn into a monkey. Watch yourself. Now finish your cake and go to the ovens to bring back the bread. There are five big loaves and a small one, which I seasoned with sesame and aniseed. You see, I was thinking about you. Here's the money for the baker. Make sure you hold on to it tightly so it won't drop or get stolen. Go on, get going. The men will be back and the Maghrib will soon be called.”

Namouss found the whole family around the table when he came back from the ovens. Ghita had already poured the soup and laid out
various plates filled with honey cakes, dates, and dried figs. With only a few minutes to go before the announcement of the breaking of the fast, faces wore sullen looks. Everyone stared at the food in silence, ears open. Finally the cannon sounded and the call of the muezzin filled the air.

“
Bismillah
,” Driss began.

Everyone lapped up their first bowl of harira, grunting with pleasure and smacking their lips. By the time the second bowl was served, the atmosphere had relaxed noticeably. Namouss decided to take advantage of the lull to make his move. The idea he had devised to pull the rug out from under Driss's feet was daring.

“I fasted today,” he declared in a cocky way.

“You did, well at least until the middle of the afternoon.” Ghita corrected him, a smile forming on the corner of her lips. “You'll do better some other day.”

“And where were you until then?” Driss inquired, clearly irritated.

“I was playing outside with my friends,” Namouss replied foolishly.

“Since when did you play in the Sekkatine, and all by yourself? The watchman at the souk told me all about it. You've become a
chitane
– a devil – you have. So finish up and get out of my sight. The soles of your feet deserve a sound thrashing.”

Namouss kept quiet. He knew that Driss's threats were not to be taken at face value. At most, they expressed an anger that would abate as soon as he had finished his meal. The nightmare had therefore come to an end, and all things considered, he hadn't done too badly. He was the first to leave the table.

H
E RAN INTO
a few of his friends while out on the street: Hat Roho, his blond, blue-eyed classmate; Hammad, who was such a cranky, snot-nosed crybaby he was barely tolerated by the gang; Loudini, who had
the look of an outlaw about him and was by far the most cunning and always had a devilish idea running through his mind; and finally, Belhaj, who with his milk-white skin looked like a little old man, and whose head was even rounder than the rag balls with which they played.

Emboldened by his earlier feats, Namouss suggested the gang play a match of
taïba
(blindman's buff). But Loudini, who didn't want anyone to steal his thunder, was in favor of a riskier game:
tafriq Nsara
(doing splits like the Nazarenes). Hammad, who was not suited for gymnastics, campaigned for something a little more conventional:
seb sebbout
(leapfrog). Not wanting to remain on the sidelines, Hat Roho suggested a whirligig tournament. The debate got heated and threatened to result in everyone going their separate ways, at which point Belhaj, who was usually shy, put forward a compromise: They would begin with a race and then proceed to the other games. The great overlord Loudini gave his consent, thereby ensuring the others would follow suit. Only Hammad complained, and though he began to snivel and did not want to participate in the race, he agreed to organize the teams. He suggested that Namouss, against whom he held a grudge, would face the formidable Loudini, which left Hat Roho to race against Belhaj. And of course it was only logical that Hammad also act as referee.

It was on. The starting line: the middle of the square in the Spring of Horses. The two runners stood back to back. When the referee waved them off, they would dash in opposite directions: one on the left, the other on the right. The one on the left would go down Aïn Allou, climb the Tamisiers hill, go down rue Bouaâqda, tear down rue Ben Debbouz, and once there make his entry into the neighborhood. The one on the right would follow the same course, except in the opposite direction. Cheating wasn't an option because the adversaries had to cross paths eventually. It would also provide a good opportunity to determine whether one was ahead or lagging behind. The next step: a
final that would pit the winner of the first race against the winner of the second.

One can easily guess that, on that evening, Namouss lost the first race. Thanks to his day's wanderings around the Medina and his blitz through to the Jnan Sbil gardens – coupled with his opponent's sturdiness – it couldn't have ended any other way. After a decisive defeat over Namouss, Loudini didn't have any trouble beating Hat Roho, who'd initially had it easy with Belhaj.

The night wore on. A great many people had left their houses and the neighborhood to see what was happening elsewhere. Driss had been among the first, heading toward the Sekkatine to get back to work and later to join a late-night card game. The workshops in the Spring of Horses came back to life. Those in Ahl Touat that belonged to fine-leather craftsmen originally from the Sahara reverberated with songs accompanied by clapping. Namouss had never dared venture into the area. People from Touat were generally considered foreigners and were therefore kept at arm's length. Yet their songs, though different from those usually performed in Fez, were of a rare beauty.