We Have Buried the Past

by Abdelkrim Ghallab

  Another woman told them all about the fierce degree of supervision that her mistress had imposed upon her since she joined the household, to such an extent that she would almost never let her be alone with the master, even if it were to provide some service for him.

  The third of them described how brutal the master was to her, punishing her for the most trivial mistake or the flimsiest rumour.

  The fourth woman spoke in a whisper, cackling gleefully as she did so. Her eyes gleamed and her body shook as she told them what had happened, but unfortunately she was whispering so quietly that Jawhara could not make out what it was she was saying.

  During these soirees Jawhara listened to many entertaining stories about the conflicts between masters and servants, hearing how servants would undertake to avenge themselves for their own honour and humanity. But eventually they would come back to the house of Ibn Kiran, from where they would be transferred into the hands of another master with whom (and with whose wife) they would play exactly the same role. It was always the same fate – one of them could count on her fingers the number of times she crossed the threshold of Ibn Kiran the slave dealer.

  During these sessions the words ‘love’ and ‘passion’ would be uttered by some of the women, and the others would laugh happily. The younger ones would lean coquettishly over and hug each other gently in their arms. These gestures would have an emotional effect on the assembly, and everyone would then laugh so loud that it almost echoed. Sly comments, which were incomprehensible unless they were accompanied by eye gestures and raised eyebrows, would follow. This particular topic might arouse the anger of some of the more elderly women present; they would scold the younger ones, accuse them of immodesty, and threaten to tell Ibn Kiran about it.

  From these conversations Jawhara learned a little about her own fate. The entire group occupied a single room, and the talk was all about masters and servants, buying and selling, the whip which would set on fire the back of any servant who was disobedient, and the revenge that would be wreaked on any servant-woman who tried to flirt with the master or whom the master himself found attractive.

  It was a world of misery, trial, and degradation, one where slave trading became a means of solving problems.

  Jawhara’s dreams became nightmares as she listened to these women sharing their stories in these evening sessions.

  From time to time she would hear a harsh yell from Ibn Kiran, as he summoned a servant-woman or maid. After putting herself to rights and maybe dressing herself in the best clothes she had, the woman would respond. The hearts and eyes of all the servant-women would now be focused on peeping through cracks in the door to find out what was going on. They would come back and whisper to each other about the new visitors. Jawhara would pick up bits of their conversation: ‘he’s a young man’, ‘he’s good-looking’, ‘he’s rich’, ‘if only I had your luck!’, and so on. She was not able to look through the cracks in the door herself and did not dare imitate their behaviour, so she had no idea what was actually happening with Ibn Kiran. Frequently one of the women would disappear and then come back after a few days because, after a period of trial, she did not satisfy the new master or mistress. Or she might disappear for good, to be replaced by another, indeed many others. In the space of a couple of weeks droves of women and girls passed through this incredible house, but only a few would stay there for long, and most of these would be elderly.

  One morning in the third week she heard a loud yell from the master.

  ‘Aisha, Aisha!’

  This was the name her father had given her before she was named Jawhara. She responded to the call in a panic and stood in front of the slave trader without noticing that there was another man sitting on the wooden bench beside him. The slave trader gave her an angry look as he told her to kiss the man’s hand. Turning in his direction, she kissed his hand bashfully, then stood there panting nervously, her head lowered. She was still shuddering from the shock of Ibn Kiran’s sudden summons, which had caught her unawares. She now turned and looked at the man who was examining her closely.

  ‘What’s your name, little girl?’ he asked.

  ‘Aisha, sir.’

  ‘What’s the name of your previous owner? Were you a servant in Fez, or somewhere else?’

  She obviously did not understand what he meant.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, unable to think of anything else to say. ‘I worked at home with my mother and looked after the sheep too.’

  The man laughed at her naivety, while Ibn Kiran explained, ‘She’s fresh. She was kidnapped from her village and brought to market. Believe me, Hajj, sir, she’s precious goods. Under your care and in your hands she will grow and develop. Your wife will be delighted with her. Give it a try, for just a few days. You’ll be helping me. She’s a simple girl, completely unspoiled.’

  Hajj Muhammad turned and examined her closely from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. Now he had an entirely different expression on his face. He kept smiling as he touched her face, shoulders, and hands, and looked at her chest, focusing with particular interest on her breasts. Grabbing hold of one of her hands, he turned her around roughly so he could look at her back and buttocks. All the while, Ibn Kiran was making comments and offering explanations, while Aisha had no idea of what was being said.

  Ibn Kiran signalled to Aisha to go back to the room. The girls and women who had been watching everything through the peephole now bombarded her with questions, but she had no idea how to respond to them.

  A few moments later she heard another summons from Ibn Kiran and stood in front of him again. He told her to get ready to depart immediately. Leaving this extraordinary place, she accompanied her new master to his house, the household of Hajj Muhammad al-Tihami.

  5

  Within the walls of the servants’ room in Hajj Muhammad’s house there were enjoyable sessions devoted to the topic of sex, and this was where the story of Yasmine was told for the first and last time.

  Yasmine was one of Hajj Muhammad’s slave-women whom he bought at the request of his wife, Khaduj. She had complained to him about the number of chores involved in running the household and the fact that Fatima – who had come as part of her dowry – was unable to do all that was required of her. Jawhara was too young to undertake such household needs, especially since such young children required a good deal of attention. Not only that, but the sheer size of the house demanded a larger number of servants.

  In Ibn Kiran’s household Hajj Muhammad discovered a young olive-skinned girl, youthful, pretty, and full of energy. She had been kidnapped in the Doukkala region, which is known for its wealth and fertility. He did not have to think about it for very long; indeed, he had no hesitation from the moment he saw her. The crafty slave trader was well aware of Yasmine’s charms, so he raised her price very high. There was no use haggling, and Hajj Muhammad could not help himself. So he paid the price for her on the spot without consulting anyone or even demanding a trial period.

  Yasmine could remember every detail of the day when she accompanied Hajj Muhammad back to his house. As she entered, she was dressed in her threadbare old wrap with a veil that revealed only her honey-coloured eyes. Once in the courtyard, he ordered her to go to the servants’ quarters, while he went to see Khaduj, his face wreathed in smiles. He spoke to his wife for several minutes, then summoned Yasmine in order to present her to Khaduj.

  ‘Here’s the new servant,’ he said.

  Yasmine removed the veil from her face and bent over to kiss Khaduj’s hand. Khaduj seized her hand somewhat haughtily and looked up at her with a frown. For several moments she stared fixedly at Yasmine’s face.

  ‘Why did your mistress sell you?’ she asked arrogantly.

  ‘It was fated, madam,’ Yasmine replied. ‘I couldn’t bear to leave her and the children; they loved me just as much as they did their mother. She couldn’t bear to part with me, but the devil… God curse him—’

  ‘That’s what you all say! I certainly don’t
want the devil who tempted you there to do the same thing here. What I want from you is loyalty, reliability, intelligence, and hard work.’

  Yasmine then withdrew to the servants’ room. Her wrap and veil were removed, and then she emerged with her svelte body and glowing features. Her olive complexion made her seem even lovelier and more radiant. Her jet-black hair, which she made every effort to hide beneath a scarf, refused to comply; such charms could not be hidden so easily.

  She made her way immediately to the kitchen, where Fatima was busy preparing the meal. Yasmine went over to her, using a phrase well beloved of serving women.

  ‘My sister!’

  The feelings of women like these differed from those of their mistresses. They all treated each other like sisters, each having sisterly rights over the others – hence the use of this phrase when addressing each other.

  Fatima gave the newcomer a genuine welcome. The hard chores which the household demanded were certainly in need of some more help, and now the master had obviously responded to the household’s needs by purchasing a new maid.

  However, the fact that Yasmine was so young and unusually attractive for a servant or maid certainly aroused Fatima’s interest, and maybe a bit of jealousy as well. But she also knew from experience that beauty in a maidservant was not necessarily important; energy and hard work were the gauge of success and the way to gain favour. Fatima herself had proof of this fact; there was no reason why Yasmine should be any different.

  Having entered the kitchen, Yasmine was settled into her new world. She started working hard and diligently; from now on she would be following the well-marked road as an obedient working servant.

  However, a significant incident interfered with this calm existence. In fact, Fatima was wrong in imagining that beauty was not an important factor when it came to maidservants. Without either intending or indeed wanting to do so, Yasmine managed to find particular favour with Hajj Muhammad. Whenever he summoned a servant-woman to perform a particular task, Yasmine’s name was always the first; occasionally he would deliberately ask her to help him when he actually did not need any help.

  Yasmine found herself favoured by Hajj Muhammad without Khaduj being aware that anything unusual was happening. She respected her husband and firmly believed in his probity and his love for her, which prevented her from ever questioning his behaviour.

  Hajj Muhammad considered the issue from a different point of view. He was devout and religious, and addressed all his problems in the context of religion as he understood it. As he thought about the problem of Yasmine, he reached a conclusion of ‘whatever your right hand possesses, God has declared lawful’, echoing the Qur’an’s statements on the subject.

  ‘My right hand now owns Yasmine, who is intended for favour and pleasure, not just for service and hardship,’ he assured himself. ‘Concubinage was never something that our pious ancestors chose to avoid, nor did our forefathers reject it. It would be narrow-minded and excessively pietistic of me to deprive myself of what God has declared lawful.’

  So here was Yasmine: a bounty from God, who had made taking her as a concubine entirely legal. Hajj Muhammad found himself yearning for her and was totally unable to resist the burning desire that surged inside him whenever she came to perform a service for him. He would feel her fire every time he summoned her to massage his body with her gentle hands; this would happen when he felt that particular ‘enervation’ after this gorgeous maidservant had taken possession of his mansion. He could recall one particular day when his nerves had been on edge and blood was surging through his veins, and she had given him a massage for the first time. It would have gone on longer if his wife had not been close by.

  ‘Enough, that’s enough!’ Khaduj yelled at the girl to put an end to this scene. ‘Go back to your quarters!’

  Life was no longer normal. The Hajj preferred to respond to the calls of nature and religion, rather than remain in a state of deprivation disapproved by God.

  ‘But what about your wife?’ – the question kept preying on his conscience, but he came up with a swift response: ‘She is my respected wife and mother of my children, someone with a particular place in my own heart and this household. She should be ready to accept a concubine if she does not wish to see another wife alongside her, someone who would challenge her status in the household, divide my heart and wealth between them, and split the running of the household and control of the family.’

  And yet, how was he going to face her and persuade her to accept the situation without raising a storm of criticism or defiance, not to mention anger and annoyance in the entire household? He was well aware of how sensitive and jealous Khaduj could be, and at the same time he realised how readily she obeyed him and believed him to be the master who had to be obeyed. There was no need for her to confront him or oppose his wishes. She was a perfect model of obedience and compliance, avoiding any desire that would not please her husband, and going along with the slightest wish or whim that he might display.

  So, he would lay the whole thing out to her just as it was. That was the method he had adopted in facing many of life’s problems, and household issues in particular, and it was obviously the best way of dealing with the issue of facing his wife with the decision he had made about Yasmine.

  Khaduj was currently away visiting her own family. They were all looking forward to a happy occasion, the marriage of her sister, Zaynab, which required that Khaduj be away from the house for two whole weeks; she would be seeing her husband and children only occasionally.

  Yasmine was then the member of the household who was closest to Hajj Muhammad and most involved in his daily life. She would help him take off his jallaba and burnous and massage his body and feet as he lay spreadeagled on his spacious bed. She would prepare his bed and stay ready to serve his every need, until he dismissed her so he could be alone with his dreams.

  But this time he did not dismiss her. She stayed by his side as he continued to give orders and instructions. It was obvious that everything about him – his behaviour, gestures, and conversation – pointed to a peculiar excitement that Yasmine was not used to in unnatural situations such as this particular night.

  With a climactic mixture of excitement and agitation Hajj Muhammad told Yasmine to close the door. She seemed not to understand him, so he repeated the order firmly: she was to close the door and join him in his bedroom.

  Yasmine was shocked. She moved back and slunk out carefully, hoping that it was not too provocative. Leaving the room, she headed for a distant part of this house with its maze of rooms.

  He waited for Yasmine to come back, and waited some more, his heart full of passionate desire. As the minutes ticked slowly by, seeming to him like hours, he found himself prey to conflicting ideas: had she run away from him and refused to obey his specific orders that she share his bedroom? Or was it that she had disappeared to preserve herself for her own wedding night?

  He stared at the light curtain covering the door, watching closely as it rustled quietly. It was moving… No, it was not. It was just that a slight breeze was toying with it on this spring night. How delightful and refreshingly peaceful it all felt!

  He started hoping again. ‘Wait, just a bit longer… She has only ever obeyed you.’

  The curtain moved again, except that this time it almost completely uncovered the door behind it. It must be her! He lost all control and would certainly have leaped out of bed if he had not then heard the miaowing of a large cat that was familiar with the mansion and its occupants, and saw no reason not to sneak around at night and intrude into Hajj Muhammad’s bedroom as it conducted its slow and methodical tour of the house.

  Hajj Muhammad was on the point of unleashing his pent-up fury on the prowling cat, but he made an effort to calm down and regain control of his nerves. He tried now to rationalise his passion.

  ‘Let’s forget about it till a more suitable occasion… But Khaduj’s absence gives me that suitable occasion. When will such an opportunity come
again? The crafty little girl has realised what’s afoot, so she wants to run away. Am I supposed to let her win? No, that way she’ll learn how to be disobedient. I’ll go looking for her and make her do as I say… But it’s night-time. Where am I supposed to find her if I go looking in every nook and cranny? No, she’s bound to come back. I’ll wait…’

  He pretended to be calm again and leaned over idly to grab his rosary, which he always kept beside his bed. His shaking hands began thumbing the beads, and a regular clacking sound reverberated in the quiet room, of which he was the sole occupant. The overall silence that shrouded the entire house after daily life had come to an end only served to increase the impact of the sound as the beads knocked against each other. His shaking fingers were unusually swift in the way they manipulated the rosary, but gradually they slowed down and eventually stopped. It was almost as though they were recording the aroused emotions of his heart without his even being aware of it. He put the rosary to one side so he could listen carefully.

  ‘Footsteps outside the room. Yasmine, no doubt…’

  He listened and waited, but in vain. Whatever it was that he had imagined to be footsteps vanished in the quiet of the night.

  ‘Oh dear, she’s run away.’

  How could his sense of pride allow her to run away? Wasn’t she just a maidservant, born to obey her master and not refuse his orders?

  Finally he got out of bed in order to restore that sense of pride. He paused for a while before putting his feet on the floor. He looked for his slippers, but his anxious eyes let him down. He gave up the search and walked barefoot towards the door, pulled the curtain back angrily, and looked outside at the wide courtyard. He was suddenly scared. He could not see anything; the entire house was still and dark. He stared very hard in the hope of seeing a glimmer of light through cracks in a door or a window, but all he could see was darkness. The more he stared, the darker it looked. He looked up to the second floor in case he might glimpse a light in one of the rooms or corridors, but once again he was disappointed. He was alarmed and could not bring himself to leave the bedroom. So he went back in and stood by the side of his bed, befuddled and hesitant.