The Bottom of the Jar (5 page)

“What are those kids up to?” she asked. “Playing leapfrog?”

Turning to one of the
neggafa
, she ordered: “Go and look in on them, Lalla, and see how they're getting on.”

The kind lady did as she was told, and after a moment that seemed to last an eternity, she came back empty-handed, though optimistic.

“They are young, and the night is long. I made them drink some warm milk and gave them some walnut-stuffed dates to eat. The little one had forgotten to put a cushion under her pelvis like I'd recommended. As for the groom, he very much has his eyes on the prize but doesn't dare take the initiative. We must empathize with them. But we should also do all that is necessary. All will go well, Lalla, I promise you.”

“Even so, it's not that complicated,” Ghita remonstrated. “Even donkeys know how to do it.”

At the sound of this insolent remark, Driss nearly leapt out of his chair.

“Hush now! Children shouldn't hear things like that.”

“Maybe it's because they're stifled by all this prudishness, cursed jinn! What the camel thinks he alone knows, the camel driver knows too.”

On the verge of turning sour, this exchange was happily interrupted by a series of moans, then an out-and-out cry coming from the direction of the bedroom. Before long, the door opened and Si Mohammed appeared, looking pale, confused, and out of breath.

“Fetch the tea,” Driss said in an attempt to create a diversion and liven up the atmosphere.

We surrounded Si Mohammed, who was catching his breath before launching into a bizarre narrative that felt like something between a sports commentary and a medical report. He bragged about gaining the upper hand after a veritable boxing bout. The frightened girl had at first put up a brave resistance. He then confessed that after he'd broken her resolve, his virility had failed him. It was only after the
neggafa
's intervention that his senses came back to life. The light refreshments were most welcome, and the woman's advice quite pertinent.

“Well then, why don't you bring out the sarouel?” Ghita asked, since all this talk was making her very impatient.

“There's nothing to show,” Si Mohammed answered sheepishly.

“How can that be?” Ghita cried. “Do you want to make us into a laughingstock?”

“Turn to God woman,” my father said, “let the boy explain himself.”

Si Mohammed explained. Talking expertly, as if he actually knew something about it, he claimed that, anatomically speaking, he had found the hymen highly unusual. Stopping several times to pick up the threads of his tale, he said that though he had pushed as hard he
could, he'd only been able to force a small opening. But a few drops of blood had fallen onto the sheet.

“That's all that God has seen fit to give me,” he concluded, without seeming too sure of himself.

“You have to go back in there immediately and finish the job!” my mother thundered.

D
ESPITE THE RISING
tension, I believe it was at this time that I received a visit from the sandman.

I must have felt quite nostalgic for our old home in the Spring of Horses, since that was the house upon which my eyes opened in my dream.

Some will cry foul. What? Could they be so unaware of similar cases in
The Arabian Nights
and various cinematographic efforts? That is unless they happen to be followers of the late Bourguiba,
⁴
who, before being overthrown in a medical coup d'état, had been famous for his harebrained ideas. One of them being to ban filmmakers in his country from using the flashback technique, deeming that it seriously compromised the feeling of suspense and was detrimental to the intellectuals' obligations to instruct the moviegoing masses.

T
HAT SHOULD BE
taken as a warning since all it takes is the blink of an eye for a clumsy bombshell to come out of nowhere (according to Ghita) and for the narrative to slide to the earliest days of childhood. Once again, the following themes will be skipped over:

the Qur'anic school, which I didn't frequent for very long

my circumcision, which didn't unduly traumatize me

the Festival of the Sacrifice, where the blood of sheep freely flows and spurts

the hammam, where little boys are initiated into the great mysteries of women

the tyranny of the paterfamilias, since I am not exaggerating when I say that my own father, Driss, was as gentle as a lamb

I am now well within my rights to return to my dream . . . or rather my reverie – on that I will readily concede.

T
HE CHILD WHO
opens his eyes on the house in the Spring of Horses must be around the age of six and has already been saddled with a nickname. His playmates called him Namouss (or Mosquito), not because he was smaller than the kids his age (Fezzis, people from Fez, generally have short legs) but because, aside from being rather frail, he was also a bit of a flighty creature who was unable to keep still. Bordering on recklessness, this sprightliness had earned him plenty of boo-boos (torn toenails, a head crisscrossed with scars) and was above all the reason Ghita had designated him as her emissary, charging him with relaying communications between her and Driss. Whenever the slightest problem arose – and something went wrong each God-given day – Ghita would bid him: “Namouss, go and tell your father to come
daba daba
” (immediately).

At the speed of lightning, Namouss would run straight through the Sekkatine souk, and once Driss had received the message, he would
forget customers and merchandise, adjust his tarboosh, slip on his balghas, and head home pronto.

As far as Namouss's sprightliness was concerned, the apple hadn't fallen far from the tree. In another time or place, Driss might have been a track champion. His sure-footedness made each obstacle in his path a fait accompli. Catlike, Driss snaked through the crowd, dodging the heavily loaded donkeys and mules coming from the opposite direction, all without failing to stop and exchange pleasantries with the shopkeepers and passersby he was acquainted with.

Trying to keep pace, Namouss followed in his slipstream. Little by little, he began to acquire the same stride that would later make him such an experienced surveyor of that gigantic open-air theater that is the Medina.

T
HAT DAY
, G
HITA
had gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. The previous day, she had dismissed the young girl who helped with the daily chores. When faced with the work that lay ahead of her, Ghita's spirit had sunk.

Ghita's track record with the help would make for an interminably long book and the conclusion of each chapter would come as no surprise. After a handful of incidents – always brief and stormy – the young girl or woman in question would be shown the door. The reasons for these terminations were always bountiful, as were the number of times Ghita contradicted herself. It was like squaring the circle, what else? Also the identikit of her ideal employee wasn't easy to fulfill. The first criteria: age. The candidate in question shouldn't be too young, as they would have to be taught from scratch; neither should they be too old, as they would lack the stamina to carry out their duties to Ghita's satisfaction. The second criteria: physical appearance. Ghita didn't want someone that “a brief glimpse of would cut one's life short.” That meant no
hunchbacks, eye patches, or skin infections, since any physical oddities were considered, according to widely held popular beliefs, retribution for past misdeeds. But neither should they be too good-looking, which might arouse the passions of Driss and the teenage boys whom Ghita kept under strict surveillance. “I can't very well invite the devil into my own home. As soon as you introduced a piece of fresh meat, the men wouldn't be able to keep their eyes off it.” The third criteria: manner of dress. Ghita wanted neither someone decked out in rags nor stylish flirts, who as Ghita put it, dressed like the dancers at the Circus Amar. The fourth criteria: honesty. That prerequisite proved impossible to fulfill since, according to deep-set beliefs found in modest and affluent families alike, by their very definition, servants were invariably thieves.