The Bottom of the Jar (19 page)

The older kids must have planned the skeleton heist in advance. One of them had brought along a jute sack, while the one who seemed to be in charge filled the sack with the bones, making sure they were all accounted for. The sack was tied with a bit of string, and the order to move out was given alongside strict instructions: The secret must be kept. Not a word of it should reach their families or any of the other classmates. The skeleton would be delivered the following day to Mr. Cousin.

Namouss went home in a rush, making sure to avoid being seen by the rest of the household. There was no doubt in his mind that his crime was engraved on his face: an indelible cross etched in the middle of his forehead, scars on his cheeks, or pimples emerging on his nose. Above all, he must not look at himself in the mirror. He went to bed without dinner, pulled the sheet over his head, and tried to go to sleep. All in vain. The night was long and when he managed to doze off, the images of the skeleton being pulled out of the tomb flashed past him in scenes that were alternatively gloomy and comical. Stirred from his sleep, the skeleton came back to life, stood up, and brandishing a golden-yellow sword, cut off the heads of everyone around him. Their heads toppled from their bodies and rolled along the ground, which was swarmed by a throng of people that, mistaking the heads for balls, started knocking them about and scoring goal after goal. In another scene, the awakened skeleton wasn't only made of bones but was also covered
in flesh. He wore a beautiful djellaba and a black burnous, as well as a spotless turban. He resembled Si Daoudi, the Arabic teacher. As soon as he got up, a winged horse in a magnificent harness landed in front of him. He mounted the horse in a single leap and rode off toward . . . the Sekkatine. Driss was waiting for him. Si Daoudi got off the horse and said, “I have come to speak to you about your son.” “Yes, Sidi, I know.” “So what are we going to do about it?” “You cut his throat Sidi, while I scalp him.”

The most grueling version of this dream was the one where Namouss pictured himself in the tomb. He and the skeleton were one and the same. He was dead without being dead. After a moment, he began to hear the confab of kids – who'd come to disturb his eternal sleep. He was unable to address them, to dissuade them from their mission, which he believed would be fatal for all parties. As they began to pull out his bones, he felt as if his soul was still hovering above the grave and was about to take flight and disappear forever. Nothing will remain of me, he told himself. They will forget about me – and, God forbid, I will be absent on Resurrection Day.

Early in the morning, Namouss was awoken by the sound of thunder and the heavy splatter of rain falling in the courtyard. The fury of the sky brought back to mind the nightmarish visions he'd experienced, and above all the anguish he felt at the thought of what might happen at school if the episode of the skeleton were to turn out badly. Who could he turn to in order to prevent dire consequences from arising? Whom could he speak with about the unspeakable?

Ghita was already up on her feet, or rather bent over double sweeping away the water that had accumulated in the courtyard and threatened to flood the bedrooms. Glancing at Namouss, she didn't seem to read anything out of the ordinary on his face. She even smiled at him
and prompted him to go wash up while she prepared his breakfast. Blessings upon you, Ghita, you who brings sunshine to bear on rainy days! Hope returns.

T
WO DAYS WENT
by at school without anything arising from the skeleton episode. Mr. Cousin had started up the life-science lessons once more. The new poster he'd brought to class depicted a man who'd been flayed, revealing the vivid, red surface of his muscles. Names even more complicated than those linked to the skeleton rained down on Namouss. He raked them in avidly. Words became a sort of drug that helped chase away the images of the cemetery, whether real or nightmare-induced. He nevertheless sometimes lost his train of thought and lapsed into those visions. A chill ran through his spine and made him want to shout: “It wasn't me, sir! I swear, it wasn't me!”

The reprieve was short-lived. On the third day, it was battle stations from the get-go. Mr. Cousin announced that Mr. Fournier, the headmaster, would be visiting the class. The latter arrived soon after, followed by Si Daoudi and another Arabic teacher who looked after the higher grades: Si Ben Jebbour. They had somber, menacing expressions on their faces. It was Si Ben Jebbour, whom the students didn't know from Adam, who first addressed them, in Arabic to boot, thus letting the Nazarenes that were present off the hook and allowing them to leave while the going was good. The speech began, and it was harsh.

“I want to tell you little savages that you clearly lack any notion of faith or religion. You belong to the most vile and evil category of miscreants. Know that there are three sins that God cannot forgive his creatures: lying with one's mother, doubting His existence, and desecrating the dead. Know that even in hell, your place will be in the seventh circle, the last, where no one will save you from everlasting suffering. Nothing will save a desecrater from his fate, not even if he
prays and fasts for a century, nor if he distributes piles of gold to the poor. And if he thinks he shall cleanse his soul with a pilgrimage, he is bound to burst into flames before he can even reach the sacred Kaaba. We belong to God and to Him shall we return. If I have come here, it is to remind you of the tenets of our religion and to warn about God's coming judgment. As for earthly judgment, this falls to the headmaster, who will soon inform your parents of the sanctions that will be taken against the culprits. My greetings to those of you who have followed the right path. Amen!”

Once the visitors had left, and after a heavy silence, Mr. Cousin wrapped up the episode by emitting an odd “Well, there we have it” and then smiling half in jest, half in earnest. Thanks to his reaction, Namouss concluded that once more he had been saved, even if he didn't know why.

The sentence was passed the following day. Three students were handed a fifteen-day suspension, a punishment Namouss couldn't find fault with. Among the three students was the presumed leader of the perpetrators and the one who had carried out the desecration. The third student was the one who had slung the bag of bones over his shoulder and carried it off. Had one of them willingly confessed or had one of the other boys who had been with them let the cat out of the bag? One thing was certain, it hadn't been Namouss.

I
T TOOK QUITE
some time to get over the horrors of that misadventure. But the stream of life eventually got back on course, toward the new lands of the future, ensuring the growth of bones and desires, loosening the tongue and the spirit, pushing toward the discovery of what would be etched in the heart like the score of the music of being. Bouncing back, Namouss was now ready to explore new realms and continue on his way.

It wasn't that school had lost the allure of its early days. Even though he'd occasionally landed himself in hot water, he still took much delight in that universe where knowledge remained an object of desire, despite unforeseen hazards. He had simply become a little skeptical. This distancing led him to getting back into the swing of life as it unfolded in his household, his neighborhood, and his city. He had a renewed taste for these places after having unjustly neglected them, he thought to
himself. Fez hadn't changed one bit and neither had his family, and he found the company of his friends soothing. He just had to let himself flow into the waiting mold. What tranquillity!

It's springtime in Fez. We can dwell a little on this without sliding into lyricisms to describe its splendor. The sky opens its dance card, flips through its pages of fluid blue, its openness a purveyor of dew that invites the light to a dance where only the fingertips touch. The music is the work of the master of silence, skilled in the art of proportions and using only the lightest of touches, letting out only a few sounds and voices – happy harmonies that flow into the city to compose the eternal symphony of a world tightly wrapped in its own secrets.

It is the time when Fezzis – those incorrigible city dwellers – feel the need to air themselves, reconnect with nature, feast their eyes on something green, and gaze at God's sky. They call this the
nzaha
. There were orchards to be found in the immediate vicinity of the Medina, where they could give themselves over to rustic pleasures without going out into the countryside. If someone didn't happen to own such an orchard, there would surely be a friend who might lend them the use of one for a day. One had to take advantage of one's extended family. Early in the morning, a donkey would be loaded with all the essentials – a mattress, blankets, provisions – and the whole family would head to the orchard.

The orchard Namouss discovered that particular spring could be found at the exit of Bab Lahdid, down the slope that led to Bab Jdid. It was a walled-off vegetable garden dotted with a number of fruit trees that were watered by the irrigation channels snaking alongside them, and it also had a well with stone foundations. In the shadiest spot was a spacious
nouala
, which resembled the one Driss had rented in Sidi Harazem. The entire family was there. Making an extremely rare
appearance was Uncle Si Mohammed, along with his wife and children. Uncle Touissa was expected to arrive toward the end of the morning, when he would rouse from his kif-induced stupor.

Ghita's mood, always unpredictable, on that day was particularly colorful. Abruptly deciding “not to get her hands dirty,” she folded her arms and assigned all her chores to Zhor, her eldest daughter, and to Zhor's cousins.

“Why,” she asked, “should my shoulders bear all the burden? Am I not also a Muslim? At least for once in my life I have the right to sit and scratch my head and ‘heed my bones.' Anyhow, it's not like there's much to do! The kofta and the kebabs are seasoned already. There's nothing left to do but stick them on skewers and fire up the barbecue.”

Having said her fill, she stretched out on the mattress inside the
nouala
, indifferent to the commotion taking place around her and the bewitching spectacle of nature outside.

Namouss knew his mother's sulk wouldn't last long. Sooner or later her hands or tongue would get itchy. Eventually she would involve herself in this or that, discharge the girls from their duties, and take over the preparations of the lunch. Namouss knew Ghita like the back of his hand. Her behavior that day had a simple explanation: the presence of his aunt, with whom Ghita had never settled the score since their disastrous cohabitation many years earlier when she and Driss were newlyweds. Faced with the woman who had assumed the role of stepmother and had always treated her like a servant, Ghita now needed to make a show of the skills she had acquired and the independence she had won for herself. So there!

After formulating this diabolical analysis, Namouss decided to let go of his mother's skirt and wandered off into the garden. Not far from the well, he stumbled on the spot where the men had assembled around his uncle, basking in the glow of his words while they waited to sip their
tea. He stopped, out of politeness. Having noted his presence, Driss invited Namouss to sit down.

“Come listen to what the haji, your uncle, has to say about Mecca and Medina, my son, and may God not deny us the chance to visit these holy places.”

Haji Uncle Mohammed had actually just returned from his pilgrimage. Namouss knew all about it. He'd seen the gifts Uncle Mohammed had brought back for his parents. Ghita had received a vial containing holy water from the well of Zamzam. Driss was given a . . . burial shroud. What a bizarre present, Namouss thought, on seeing that ordinary-looking piece of white cloth, exact replicas of which were to be found on sale every day at the Kissarya. But Driss, ecstatic, insisted it was the best present one could bring back from over there. So there you have it!

Haji Mohammed weighed his words carefully and intoned them with a baritone that came deep from within his chest. There was a catch in his throat as he spoke.

“If you have never gone near these blessed places, rest assured you've seen nothing yet. Over there, the heart opens so that it may be washed clean of earthly sins. The light of faith floods over it. You no longer suffer from heat, hunger, or thirst. That was when we'd left the valley of Mina heading toward Mount Arafat. We had passed through Muzdalifa and around noon were in sight of the Mount of Mercy. When we got there, we began to pray and to recite the Qur'an, carrying on until sunset. How can I express what we felt at this stage in our pilgrimage? Yes, dear ones, we had come closer to God and were surrounded by His glory, which in turn surrounded the whole world wherever Muslims would be found. After that, we quickly made our way back to Muzdalifa, where we camped out waiting for dawn. We no longer felt the need for sleep. On the following day, when we set out for Mina, we felt
refreshed, as if we'd had a good night's sleep. It was the tenth day of Dhu al-Hijjah, the Feast of the Sacrifice. We had carried out the stoning of the devil earlier that morning. With each stone cast against Satan, his oldest and youngest son, we freed ourselves of our sins and shielded ourselves from the ruses the devil and his descendants had in store for us. Then we all lined up to pray in unison, as if we were one. The songs of angels reached our ears, blending with the chorus of blessings our loved ones were sending us from the beyond. At that moment – and pay close attention to what I'm about to tell you – I raised my eyes to the sky and the face of Haji Abdeslam, my departed father, came before me, aglow in light. From his murmurs I understood he was calling for me to follow him. I felt very grateful toward him. My immediate and dearest wish was to prostrate myself and recite the Shahada and never get up again. Could a believer wish for anything greater than to bring peace to his soul and be buried in the land that had been privileged to see the birth of our Beloved, and which at the end of His life had welcomed His perfumed body?”