The Spider's House (52 page)

The fresh twilight breeze was beginning to move across the plain from the mountains; it came through the open window and touched Amar’s cheek. If Moulay Ali had really intended to play the game of innocence with him, he would not have told him what he had just told him about Rabat. “I don’t know,” he said simply. “I suppose the French would like to catch you. Wouldn’t they like to catch everyone who works for freedom?”

Moulay Ali narrowed his eyes. “I think you’re right,” he said, gazing out across the countryside. “I think they would like to catch me. That’s why it’s not good to have people know where I live.” He turned back and looked thoughtfully at Amar.

Amar was silent, wondering whether he should explain to him now why he had come, or wait a bit. So long as they spoke at cross purposes, he decided, with Moulay Ali wondering how much he knew, and he wondering what Moulay Ali was suspecting about him, it was hopeless. And he had an uncomfortable feeling that each minute which passed without the situation’s being clarified held the danger of bringing forth some irreparable decision on Moulay Ali’s part.

“I saw Benani,” he said suddenly.

“I see,” replied Moulay Ali; he seemed to be waiting for Amar to go on. (At least he had not said: “Who’s Benani?”)

After a pause, Moulay Ali said evenly: “Who else did you see?”

“I don’t know their names, the ones who were with him.”

“I’m not talking about them,” Moulay Ali said quietly. “I know who they were. I meant who else have you seen since you were here three days ago?”

Only three days, thought Amar; it seemed a month. In the pink light that came from the setting sun a large round sore on Lahcen’s leg looked as though it were full of fire. He sighed. This was going to be like Benani’s grilling, all over again. “I saw my family, and Mohammed Lalami.”

“Who?” said Moulay Ali sharply. Amar repeated the name. “Who’s that?” he wanted to know. “A
derri
who lives in the Medina. The one who hit me in the nose the other day,” he added brightly. “Who went to Aïn Malqa with me.”

“Who else?” pursued Moulay Ali.

It simply did not occur to Amar to mention the two tourists; they and the time he had spent with them were part of another world far away, that had nothing to do with the world they were living in and discussing at the moment. “Well, I didn’t see anybody else,” he said.

“I see.” All at once Moulay Ali’s face became extremely unpleasant to look at. It twisted itself up into a knot and twitched, like a snake that is dying, and then for the fraction of an instant he seemed to be about to shed tears, but instead he took a deep breath and his eyes opened very wide, and Amar was frightened, because he realized that Moulay Ali was exceedingly angry. He exploded into a yell of rage, jumped to his feet, and began to talk very fast.

“Why haven’t you any respect for me?” he shouted. “Respect! Respect! Just simple respect! Only a little respect would put enough sense into your donkey’s head so you’d know you can’t lie to me. Where’d you sleep last night?”

He towered above Amar, his body shaking slightly as he spoke. Instinctively Amar got to his feet and stood a little further away on the other side of the hassock.

“I didn’t sleep at all,” he said with an air of wounded dignity. “I was at Sidi Bou Chta watching the
fraja.”

Moulay Ali looked to the ceiling for support; the thought passed through Amar’s head that the angrier he got, the less respect
he inspired, because he became just like any other man. “The master of lies! Listen to him!” He turned and thrust his head forward at Amar. “Do you want to know where you slept?” he roared. “You slept at the
Commissariat de Police.
That’s where you slept; I can tell you, since you’ve got such a bad memory.” He reached out and yanked Amar roughly to him, felt in his pockets until he had found all his money; then he let go of him, and with the packet of banknotes slapped his cheek smartly. It certainly did not hurt, but as an insult it was unbearable. Without any regard for the possible consequences Amar drew back and delivered a good blow with his fist to Moulay Ali’s prominent chin. Lahcen was on his feet; the pistol was suddenly waving in front of Amar’s face, and at that moment Moulay Ali dealt him a blow which sent him to the floor. Now he sprawled there, leaning obliquely against the hassock where he had been sitting, and rubbing his face automatically, but watching Lahcen.

Moulay Ali counted the money, threw it on the table. The handkerchief with Amar’s own money in it he still held in his hand, winging it around and around.

“Nine thousand francs! I didn’t know I was worth so much to them,” he said with quiet sarcasm and a faint air of surprise.

Amar was beside himself. To be innocent and to be treated as though he were guilty, that was something he could not accept. This man was not his father; he owed him nothing. Lahcen could shoot if he wanted. It did not matter. “You mean you didn’t know I was worth so much to them!” he cried.

Lahcen growled menacingly, but Moulay Ali pushed him back toward the door. “Sit down,” he said. “I can manage this
ouild.
He’s very interesting. I’ve never seen an animal quite like him.” He began to walk back and forth, a few steps one way and a few the other.

“I’ve seen a lot of
chkama
in my life, practically nothing but
chkama.
Most of the
drari
like you end up by turning informer; that’s not unusual,” he added with a short laugh. “But I admit I’ve never yet seen one anything like you.”

“Then look carefully,” Amar retorted, nearly weeping with emotion (what emotion he did not know); “because you’ll
never see another. A man like you who’s used to blacksmiths doesn’t meet spice-sellers. May Allah give you some brains. I swear I’m sorry for you.”

Moulay Ali snorted, turned to Lahcen. “But listen to him!” he shouted, astounded. “Have you ever heard anything like that?” To Amar he said: “I think I can manage with the brains I have, without Allah’s further help.”

These last words were sheer blasphemy. Amar looked at Moulay Ali, turned his head away and spat ferociously. Then he turned back and spoke in a low, intense voice. “I came here happy in my head to see you, even though I know you’re not a Moslem.” Moulay Ali opened his mouth, closed it again. “I did have respect for you, much respect, because I thought you had a head and were working for the Moslems. But whatever you make for us will be a spiderweb, an
ankabutz
, and may God who forgives all hear my words, because it’s the truth.” He sobbed, and having done it that once, buried his face in the hassock and continued.

At one point Moulay Ali had ceased pacing the floor, to stand merely looking at Amar in fascination; now he resumed walking back and forth, perplexedly rubbing his chin. The sunset was over; the light in the room was swiftly fading. “Tell Mahmoud to bring a lamp,” he said to Lahcen, who rose and handed him the revolver before he went out. Moulay Ali laid it quietly on the table beside the typewriter and stood watching Amar. He picked up the money and flicked it several times with his fingernails. Then, apparently having made a decision, he crossed to where Amar was, knelt, and touched his shoulder. Amar lifted his head, but turned away miserably and remained silent.

“When you feel like talking,” Moulay Ali told him gently, “tell me the whole story.”

Amar sighed deeply and shook his head. “What good will it do?” he murmured.

“That’s for me to decide when I hear it,” said Moulay Ali somewhat less gently. “I want to hear everything, everything you’ve done since you left my house.”

Still sighing, Amar picked himself off the floor and sat again
on the hassock. He described his trip back to the Ville Nouvelle, the storm, the bus ride, the fair, the sailor doll, and all the other details of that evening. Once or twice he heard Moulay Ali chuckle; this gave him a little incentive to continue. The part about his meeting with the two tourists seemed to interest his listener considerably; he asked a good many questions about them, but finally let the story get on to hearing Benani’s voice behind him in the street when he was walking with the tourists and the police. At this point the door opened, and Mahmoud came in carrying a large oil lamp which he set on the table. He was about to go out again, but Moulay Ali stopped him.

The light of the lamp shone into Amar’s face. “I think you want something to eat,” said Moulay Ali, looking at him carefully. To Amar it seemed a long time ago that hunger, and even thirst, had existed in the world. And so if he said yes, it was only out of politeness toward his host.

Mahmoud shut the door behind him. “Go on,” prompted Moulay Ali. “Did you know Benani thought you had been arrested, or didn’t you?”

“Yes, I knew it,” Amar answered, and he went on with his recital, too tired to choose between relevant and extraneous detail and thus including everything that came into his head—the carving on the beams in the tourist’s room, the lady’s loquaciousness, the mechanism of the flush toilet, the fat French waiter who, once the tourist was out of the room, would keep bringing him more food every two minutes and pinch his cheek while he ate it, how he had manged to persuade Mohammed Lalami to go with him to Sidi Bou Chta by telling him the Nazarene lady was eager for love and had slept with him the night before, and how Mohammed, once he was alone with her, had been so nervous that he had said all the wrong things. “And then we watched the Aïssaoua and the Haddaoua and the Jilala and the Hamacha and the Derqaoua and the Guennaoua and all that filth, because the Nazarene liked to see the dancing.” He made a wry face at the memory. “It makes you sick to your stomach to look at it, all those people jumping up and down like monkeys.”

“Yes,” agreed Moulay Ali. “And then?”

“Then I heard what they were all saying about the partisans in the Medina, and I wanted to go home.”

“So you came to me instead. Why? Did you think I could get you into the Medina?”

Amar admitted he had thought that, and Moulay Ali laughed, amused and a little flattered by his ingenuousness. “My friend,” he told him, “if I could get you into the Medina I could make every Frenchman leave Morocco tomorrow morning. Go on.”

But Amar seemed not to hear. The full import of what the other had said was only now reaching him; he looked into Moulay Ali’s face desperately. It was useless to say: “My sister, my mother.” There were thousands of sisters and mothers. But he said it anyway. Moulay Ali smiled sadly.

The tray that Mahmoud brought had bread and soup on it.
“Bismil’lah
,” murmured Amar, and he began to chew a piece of bread mechanically. Moulay Ali, his bowl of soup tilted in front of his face, observed him carefully over its rim, saw hunger slowly fill the boy’s consciousness as he tasted food. He said nothing until Mahmoud had returned with a second tray, this time with a large earthenware
tajine
of lamb, eggplant and noodles.

“Perhaps I can help you,” he said finally. “I have a few contacts at different spots. I might be able to get news from your house.”

Amar stared. The idea of finding out about his family without going home himself had not occurred to him.

“Would you like that?” said Moulay Ali. Amar did not answer. What good was hearing about his family if he could not be there to see them with his own eyes? And how could he believe whatever news came to him, good or bad? But he saw that Moulay Ali was doing his best, was trying to be helpful, and so he said: “I’d be very happy, Sidi.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Now tell me the rest.”

There was not very much more to tell, said Amar. Mohammed and the lady had been talking in French about the fighting in the Medina. He had been too unhappy to listen to what they were saying. The lady had waited until Mohammed had stepped
outside, and then she had called Amar over to her, opened her pocketbook and, making sure that no one was looking, put the folded bills into his hand. When he described the gestures she made to indicate an imaginary gun, Moulay Ali interrupted, exclaiming delightedly: “Ah, a woman with a head!” And when he came to the episode of the buses and the carrying off to jail of all the mountain men, Moulay Ali, looking very grim, said: “Good! Good! The more the better.” Amar was startled, because he had expected quite the opposite reaction from him. Perhaps his mystification showed in his face, for a moment later Moulay Ali elaborated. “When they get back to the mountains not one of them will be able to hear the word
France
without feeling his heart ready to burst with hatred.” Amar thought a bit. “That’s true,” he agreed. “But some of them were killed.”

“They died for freedom,” said Moulay Ali shortly. “Remember that.”

They did not speak for a moment. Through the open windows, along with the constantly increasing night wind, came the sound of a dog howling, from some distance away. Amar looked up, and saw in the shining glass panes distorted reflections of their movements against the blackness beyond. Mahmoud had brought a big bowl of sliced oranges prepared with strips of cinnamon bark and rose water. When they had finished Moulay Ali sat back, wiped his face with his napkin, and said: “Yes. They died for freedom. And that’s why I’m not going to ask your pardon for being rough with you. It would be an insult to them. I was suspicious, and I was wrong, but I wasn’t wrong to be suspicious. Do you understand? At first I thought: No, he couldn’t have gone to the French, because if he had, he certainly wouldn’t come back here.”

“Ah, you see?” Amar said, pleased.

“But then I thought: Wait. They’ve used him as a guide, and sent him in alone, and they’re outside waiting.”

“Oh!” said Amar. He was thinking that now if by some terrible misfortune the French did manage to find Moulay Ali, he would be certain to suspect that Amar had had something to do with it; he decided to let Moulay Ali know what was in his mind.

“No, no, no,” replied Moulay Ali consolingly. “They’d have been in the house long before this if they’d come with you. The day a Frenchman learns patience the camels will pray in the Karouine.”

These reassuring words set off a whole series of mechanisms inside Amar which resulted almost immediately in an overpowering desire to close his eyes; he could feel his head being turned to stone, and his body being rapidly immured in the paralysis of sleep. Moulay Ali was talking, but he heard only the sound of his voice.