The Bottom of the Jar (18 page)

The unbridled, almost carnivalesque party taking place inside the large house they enter is a far cry from the intimate poetry and discreet melodies of that song. The crowd of spectators surrounding the Gnaoua is almost exclusively composed of women and children. The atmosphere is overheated. Clouds of incense smoke are rising from a number of braziers, gradually forming a thick fog where one can barely see anyone's face. Volleys of ululations are unleashed at regular intervals as the rattles and drums play on. In the midst of this hubbub, Ghita suddenly leaves her child behind and, as if moved by mysterious forces, elbows her way to the front of the crowd. Namouss tries to catch up, but having opened for her, the wall of bodies quickly closes ranks again. Panicking, he tries to come up with a solution. Lifting his eyes, he notices that a number of other spectators are following the ceremony from the floor above by leaning on the parapet. He runs up. Moved to pity by how frazzled Namouss seems, a woman makes a little room for him, but in doing so squashes up against him, overwhelming him with the heavy smell of her perfume. Braving these nuisances, Namouss's only desire is to find his mother again. He tries to make her out in the crowd by spotting the color of her djellaba. There's no point. The cloud of incense has thickened and turned opaque. His gaze is then drawn to a group of women dancing in the middle of the room. Dancing is not quite the word for it. Their agitation has nothing to do with swaying arms and hips or quivering bellies and shoulders, movements Namouss associated with dance as he knew it, the sort that women threw themselves into with a coquettish air at fêtes and festivities. Instead, the only movement these women are making is snapping their heads back and forth in an increasingly staccato rhythm. The rest of their bodies remain immobile, except for when one of them sinks to her knees and begins shaking her torso back and forth with extraordinary strength. Freed from her head scarf, her hair would fall free and toss back and
forth, then it began to fly around like a giant eagle experiencing turbulence in flight. Inspired by this ecstasy, the Gnaoua musicians play faster and faster, shouting hoarse sounds to egg the women on. The women reply by ululating in unison. At its climax, the ceremony takes an unexpected turn: A young female spectator leaps into the middle of the ring, and as if she's been bitten by a scorpion, collapses onto the ground. Gripped by convulsions, she starts rolling and wriggling every which way on the floor. At this sight, a few dancers who haven't yet lost all sense of reason run over to her, but instead of calming her down, they merely restrict her freedom of movement by surrounding her in a tighter circle. In doing so, these women look not only delighted but even envious of this “poor epileptic.” Moved to pity and racked by anxiety, Namouss pronounces the diagnosis. He knew all about epilepsy. Cases of it were not so rare in the Medina. Whenever they occurred, the first-aid workers immediately set to their principal aim: freeing these bodies of the evil spirits that had possessed them. They would put a large iron key in the victim's hand and sprinkle a little water in his face. Whereas here no one was doing anything to stop the attack. The young woman continued to writhe while the women around her ululated, taking the girl's affliction as a blessing.

And where was Ghita during all of this? She was nowhere to be seen. Namouss began to despair of ever finding her in this courtyard of miracles. He felt bound up and wanted to be sprung out of this cage. He decided to slip away and leave his mother to her stories of Lalla Mira.

This is how he blew his initiation.

T
HE BEGINNING OF
the new school year rescued Namouss from a state of despondency. At the end of a summer marked by peregrinations – where he had gone from frightening discoveries to questions that only led to more questions – he had come to an unsettling conclusion: he had taken stock of his life and not only found the results disappointing but also didn't have the vaguest notion as to what might constitute a better life – or a world without struggles or worries.

The big cloud of these heavy ideas burst while he was walking to school. The air on that October morning was bracing, the sun sparkling. After the climb of the Grenadiers, Namouss went down the rue El-Amer and walked alongside an orchard surrounded by a low wall topped with a hedge. The smell of caramel and musk invaded his nostrils. From inside the orchard came the aroma of freshly turned earth that had just been watered, of chopped cardoons, and of Seville orange blossoms. Among the intoxicating fragrances, a particularly enticing
one began to insinuate itself . . . something Namouss had forgotten but now quickly remembered. He picked up his pace and ran into the street vendor posted at the bottom of the staircase that led up to the school gates, which were already surrounded by a group of children. When his turn came, he didn't know whether he should go through the turnstile or leave that to the vendor. Given the stampede, he opted for the latter.

“One!” the street vendor cried. Then he lifted the lid of his tin and – surprisingly – pulled out two waffles, which he held out to Namouss and smiling, added: “Here you go, the second is in case luck betrays you.”

Such generosity was welcome. It brought comfort to Namouss, who was starting to become superstitious. Thanks to the street vendor's gesture, he cheered up.

Boy, were those waffles good! Leaning against the school gates, Namouss gobbled them up as fast as he could, partly because he couldn't resist and partly so no intruder would show up and ask for some. He swallowed the last bite, the most delicious, just as the bell was ringing. Then immediately, the gate opened onto other trials and tribulations.

T
HE YEAR STARTED
out auspiciously. The new teacher was French, a real Frenchman. He had a blond mop, a large mustache, and eyes so blue it hurt to look at them. Mr. Cousin, he was called. In his childish colonial mind-set, Namouss interpreted this as a setup. Here he was standing in front of a Nazarene, a mythical being with mysterious powers and the object of a confused fascination. Contrary to stereotypes, Mr. Cousin had a benevolent expression and from time to time a sincere smile formed on his lips. There he was, weighing his words carefully, walking around the classroom, going from one row of desks to the other, writing on the blackboard, and getting his fingers covered
in chalk, and he didn't mind wiping the board clean with a brush himself, once the students had copied the relevant parts of the lesson. The only thing that shocked Namouss was watching Mr. Cousin pull out a handkerchief from his pocket and blow his nose into it noisily. How to interpret this ill-bred behavior? Was this due to his coming from a different culture or was it a sign of the contempt in which he held his audience?

Despite this anomaly, the spell remained unbroken. As the weeks went by, Mr. Cousin proved himself worthy of the praise his coreligionists heaped upon him. He led the class into a whirlwind of knowledge and made everyone's head spin with vertigo. It all began on the day he brought a globe to class and solemnly placed it on top of his desk. Seeing this multicolored balloon fixed on a revolving axis, the students expected to be given a lesson on their favorite pastime. The teacher immediately disappointed them by giving them explanations that left them completely flabbergasted: The globe represented the earth on which we all lived. As we could see, it was round, and as we could also see, it turned on its axis. Namouss let himself be submerged in this avalanche of revelations and posed himself the same questions that must have been racking the minds of his fellow classmates. How could people live on the bottom part of the world without falling off? If the earth spun on its axis, why couldn't anyone feel the movement and why did everything remain fixed in its place? Mr. Cousin, however, seemed to be able to read their minds, and in order to convince his students of the validity of his theory, took out a bucket that he'd brought just for the occasion and began to give a presentation.

“Look, this bucket is two-thirds full of water. I'm going to spin it around as fast as I can and as you will see, not a single drop of water will fall to the floor.”

The demonstration was conclusive. What Namouss kept in mind –
following an adage often quoted by his father – was that science was an ocean and this ocean only obeyed those who knew it well. As such, Nazarene or not, Mr. Cousin should be taken at his word. How would he tell Ghita?
Taslim
!
Taslim
!

All went well until that fateful day when Mr. Cousin introduced a new subject: the life sciences. For this, he had brought along a poster that he unrolled and pinned to the blackboard. Namouss had never seen a dead body before, let alone one where only the bones were left and that was still standing up. He was afraid. His teacher's presence, however, did much to reassure him. Soon enough, Mr. Cousin's explanations allowed him to turn his thoughts away from death and toward a new skill: the acquisition of new words. By the end of the lesson, he experienced the pride of someone who'd taken a plunge into this ocean of knowledge and had brought back with him a number of rare pearls. Curiously, however, Mr. Cousin did not seem to partake in this euphoria. By way of conclusion, he complained about the lack of suitable equipment.

“If only we had a skeleton, a
real
skeleton, I would have less trouble teaching you stubborn mules!”

The week had come to an end, and on leaving school, the older kids in the class decided to meet in the Bab Guissa cemetery on Sunday afternoon to play soccer. Namouss asked to join them. After talking it over briefly, they consented. It seemed as if his position on the margin of the team was about to change. His responsibilities had hitherto been restricted to fetching the ball as and when needed. This was to be expected since he was one of the youngest in the class, which for the most part was composed of guys of about the same age as his older brothers. One of them, it seemed, was married, or was at least engaged. From time to time, Namouss had been allowed to become a substitute goalkeeper whenever an opposing team forfeited or the
regular goalkeeper didn't show up. This promotion made him happy since he naïvely believed they must have recognized some talent in him. Little did he know that as far as this half-baked crowd was concerned, the position of goalkeeper didn't mean much. The longer the score remained nil, the greater the chance there was of scoring. The matches took quite some time to kick off because the position of center forward was highly coveted and required lengthy discussions before being assigned. When there were two opposing teams, they would share one goal, so to speak. In absence of a net or goalposts, they got the job done using two stones as markers.

S
UNDAY AFTERNOON
. The Bab Guissa cemetery. A secluded corner, strewn with old tombstones whose topmost edges barely rise out of the earth. Worn down by time, by the sun, by inclement weather, but also by a herd of goats that regularly went there to graze. The field has therefore become flat and smooth for the players, who had to pay more attention to their shoes than their feet since here, just like in the Spring of Horses, they played barefoot. Shoes were considered a luxury item.

Turning to the highlights of the match, the arguments over hand balls and free kicks, or over whether the ball had been kicked too high above or too far to the side of the imaginary goalposts, or even over the purported laxness on the part of the goalkeeper, accused of being in cahoots with the opposing team. What was certainly true was that Namouss tried his hardest – in the spirit of justice and conciliation – to ensure there wasn't too great a gap between the opponents. Sometimes he was simply distracted – the matches often lasted two or three hours – and some balls would sneak past him. Then, when he would eventually wake from his stupor and make a surprising save, he would inevitably incur the wrath of the opposing team, who had blown their chance.

The final score, 18 to 12, provided a perfect portrait of the match.
Both winners and losers had scored their fair share. Namouss therefore didn't prove himself completely unworthy. He left hoping they would call on him again.

Peace and calm were restored. The sun was starting to set and its last rays were bathing places in a cold light. In this dimness, the forgotten, dusty tombstones – looking like the ruins of ships half buried in sand – came into view once more. Namouss was in the process of putting his shoes back on when he noticed that something was happening around him. A group of his older classmates were talking to one another. Though they were speaking in hushed voices, Namouss was able to make out one word they kept repeating: skeleton! He didn't immediately make the connection between that word and the life-science lesson Mr. Cousin had taught them a couple of days earlier. Yet he had the hunch that somewhere in a remote corner of the sky, his consciousness was taking a sinister shape, forming into a burning glacial cloud, equipped with an eye of fire, which was now starting to move toward him with the wild speed of raging elements. The wind reached and engulfed him soon enough, making his hair stand on end. The ember sparked in his troubled mind. Spotting his classmates around a tomb while one of them was kneeling with his hands deep inside it, he understood what was going on. He wanted to run away but his legs wouldn't respond to his commands, and neither would his heart, which had slowed down to a suffocating rhythm. He wanted to shut his eyes to avoid having to watch the scene, but even his eyelids weren't working anymore. It was as if someone had turned them inside out and glued them into place. Powerless, he watched the events unfold. His classmates were carrying out their task without any second thoughts whatsoever. The procedure was being executed as if it were a game, a game they had taken to with the utmost seriousness and concentration. The skeleton was pulled out of the tomb piece by piece, the skull last,
intact. Namouss couldn't help himself from comparing that skull to the one on Mr. Cousin's poster. They were frighteningly similar. This brief tangent helped bring him a little relief and turned his mind to more mundane thoughts. After all, Mr. Cousin was going to be pleased by all this, he thought, surprising himself. The presumption of the Master of the Ocean's consent did much to mitigate his distress.