We Have Buried the Past

by Abdelkrim Ghallab

  It seemed that the jinni monarchs were bestowing their favour on the troupe and those who were participating in the night’s celebrations. After the moment of revelation the general atmosphere was calm, as the herald of dawn joined in the mood. People relaxed, and the harsh sounds of cymbals and drums diminished. The chanting was now more muted, and the members of the troupe performed their roles seated. Smiles were again to be seen on the lips of the women involved, and they all resumed their normal behaviour, laughing and sharing jokes. The assembly welcomed the advent of morning in an atmosphere replete with pleasure and tranquillity.

  With the arrival of morning the maidservants from Hajj Muhammad’s household slunk back to the house with all due caution, worried in case the master had already woken, looked for them all, and discovered that they had not yet returned. The master actually turned a blind eye to the fact that they were not there and was aware that they had only come back at dawn, but even so he held them to account. They swore they had come back early in the night, and the mistress of the household was willing to believe them. It was as though the entire household was reconciled to playing this game of subterfuge.

  8

  Yasmine was not happy about her position in Hajj Muhammad’s household.

  She was not a mere housemaid any longer, living a life of work and deprivation with all of them. Nor had she risen to the ranks of the ladies of the household, living a life of work and enjoyment, of complete control and entry to their private gatherings through wide-open doors. She was ‘property owned by the right hand’ (to cite the Qur’an), bought by Hajj Muhammad from Ibn Kiran’s house.

  The society in which she was currently living would not be one to forget that reality. Her master could not ignore what his hand had wrought, quite apart from the fact that she had borne Hajj Muhammad a son. She was still his concubine, someone for him to bed whenever the fancy took him. He had basically withdrawn from his wife, and habit and familiarity had both tamed her anger. As a result she no longer flared up every time Hajj Muhammad yearned for Yasmine.

  Yasmine was in effect a wife, but neither a canonical nor an official one. For that reason she lived neither a wife’s life nor a housemaid’s; instead, it was that of a concubine. There was no finery such as wives wear, nor could she attend receptions as the head of the other women of the household. She had no authority like other female heads of household, and yet her status was higher than that of the other maidservants.

  She never raised any objections to this position. The environment within which she was living had social conditions that were not drawn by the people living under them but had been for the most part inherited from past tradition. The master of the household – the only one with the authority to demand obedience – defined every single detail and particular.

  She was unhappy, but not because of her social position inside the house or because of certain rights that she aspired to but was denied. No, she was unhappy as the mother of Mahmud.

  She could tolerate the fine distinction between being a wife and at the same time not a wife. What she could not endure was when that distinction affected her son. He was Hajj Muhammad’s son. The social situation inside the house would not allow Mahmud’s father to lower him to some secondary rank among his sons, even though they were not all from the same mother, and in fact there was also a further distinction, namely in their skin colour (since Mahmud’s edged a little toward olive).

  When Mahmud was very young he received plenty of affection, mercy, and love, just like any of Hajj Muhammad’s sons, including from Khaduj, the primary mistress of the household. She used to like watching him gurgle, then crawl, before he started tottering along. How she rejoiced when she heard him say his very first words, mispronouncing them in an endearing way. When he was little, she would lavish affection on him just as she would have done with any of her own children. She did not mind if he imitated her other children and called her ‘Mama’. That is how it came to be that, as he grew up, he knew Khaduj as ‘Mama’ and called his real mother ‘Dada’, as if she were his nursemaid.

  Yasmine felt free to enjoy this kind of equality, which she herself lacked in her own life. So she used her little son as a means of compensation.

  Mahmud grew up and became a teenager. The first things that a child loses at that stage are natural love, affection, praise, and admiration. He no longer aroused Khaduj’s love and sympathy; she started being annoyed by him in a way that she had not felt toward any of her own children. His movements around the house got on her nerves, and she would regularly yell at him and hit him. She complained about him to Hajj Muhammad and would be very happy when the boy’s father punished him.

  Mahmud started to feel discriminated against. His brothers hardly ever let him join in their games and activities, and his father hardly paid any attention to him, while he would regularly spoil his other children, giving them clothes, games, and other children’s toys. Mahmud missed out on all of that. When he found himself among his brothers, he would raise a fuss whenever he thought he was being excluded, but Yasmine knew how to calm his temper and teach him how to put up with the hurt and exclusion, and all without making him feel humiliated or despicable.

  Mahmud began hearing some new words from his brothers and sisters: ‘black eyed’ and ‘maid’s boy’. These words all fused into some disturbing ideas, but he was too young to understand them clearly. Even so, the words themselves suggested that they were linked to something shameful, although he had no idea what that was.

  He was not black-skinned, though his colouring was somewhat different from that of his brothers, but almost none of them called him anything but ‘black eyed’, to such an extent that the word did not offend him any more. Once he tried to join a game that his brothers were playing, and Abd al-Rahman gave him a slap that really shocked him. He ran in tears to tell Khaduj.

  ‘Mama, mama!’

  Khaduj’s nerves were on edge, and she was agitated. ‘Get out of here!’ she yelled at him. ‘I’m not your mother. From now on, don’t call me Mama. Your mother’s that other woman… Yasmine.’

  The young boy recoiled in shock. The way Khaduj had just yelled at him dispelled all thoughts of the slap he had received on his cheek from Abd al-Rahman. He did not cry, but his young mind started thinking, ‘She said “I’m not your mother.” But isn’t she the mother of Abd al-Ghani, Abd al-Rahman, Abd al-Latif, and Aisha? “Your mother is Yasmine.” Yasmine Dada. She’s not my mother. How can brothers have a number of mothers?

  ‘Black eyed, servant’s boy… So, those words were actually true. “Servant”? What does that mean? All I know is my father, mother, brother, sister, and Dada. What does “servant” mean?’

  Mahmud could not answer all the questions that his young mind was asking, but they still kept his tears dry and left him wandering in a kind of wilderness, in which he resorted to Yasmine.

  As Yasmine clutched her son, she dried her own tears. She was feeling more affection for him than ever before; she gave him the kind of hug a mother gives when she has dearly missed her only child for most of his life. This marked the return of Yasmine’s feelings for her son, now that Khaduj had rejected him. She would give him just as much as he gave her; what he gave her was the love of a son, and she in return was giving him mothering, with all the love, affection, and sympathy she could convey. Mahmud recognised her love and affection, but he was not fully aware of the real extent of the feelings that Yasmine was having for the first time; he assumed that she was just trying to make up for his real mother’s angry confrontation with him.

  Yasmine strove to put an end to the mental and emotional turmoil that had Mahmud swirling in its clutches. She did her best to remain strong, but her tears let her down. With tears pouring down her cheeks, she gave Mahmud an affectionate look and spoke to him in a barely audible voice.

  ‘My darling, you’re a big boy now, and you need to understand.’

  ‘Understand? Understand what, Dada? Abd al-Rahman hit me on the face. You ca
n still see the marks on my cheek!’

  ‘Don’t worry about that; it’s over. You’ll make it up with each other.’

  ‘I will if he doesn’t do it again!’

  Yasmine tried to bring Mahmud back to the main subject. Drying her tears, she put on a serious expression.

  ‘Mahmud,’ she said, ‘you can understand now, and you have to know the truth.’

  Saying ‘Not a word!’ she cut off any attempt on Mahmud’s part to ask for an explanation.

  ‘You’re not one of Lalla Khaduj’s sons,’ she went on.

  ‘Lalla Khaduj? You mean my mother.’

  ‘It’s true: you’re not one of her sons. You’re my son. I’m your mother.’

  ‘But you’re Dada!’

  ‘I’m not your dada; I’m your mother.’

  ‘My mother? So are you the mother of Abd al-Ghani, Abd al-Rahman, Abd al-Latif, and Aisha as well?’

  ‘My dear boy, you must understand. I’m your mother, only yours. The others have Khaduj as their mother. She’s the one they call “Mother”. From now on, don’t call her that.’

  ‘What should I call her?’

  ‘Call her… call her… “Aunt”, “Auntie”, whatever you like, but—’

  ‘I’ll call her “Lalla”, as you and Dada Fatima do.’

  Yasmine let out a sob that surprised Mahmud.

  ‘He’s going to call her “Lalla”,’ she thought to herself, ‘as though he were a mere slave like his mother and Fatima. Is that going to be his fate now that his father has started ignoring him and Khaduj is fed up hearing him call her “Mother”?’

  She talked to Mahmud again. ‘Don’t call her “Lalla”. It’s enough to say…’

  She almost said ‘Father’s Wife’, but then she thought, ‘That might offend Khaduj and make her yell at him again. Her pride is such that she’ll never lower herself so far as to acknowledge that her husband has a child by another woman; not only that, she’ll never accept hearing the shocking truth whenever the words “Father’s Wife” are used.’

  ‘It’s enough just to say “Auntie”,’ she went on.

  ‘But Dada, I mean Mama, why isn’t she my mother when she’s mother to all the other children in the house?’

  Yasmine became annoyed. ‘Because I’m your mother,’ she said impatiently. ‘I’m your mother! Aren’t you happy too that I’m your mother?’

  Mahmud could not understand why she was so angry, so he decided not to argue about it. ‘Yes, you’re my mother. I understand that now. It’s just that—’

  ‘You’re still being stubborn. Forget about “it’s just that”!’

  ‘Explain to me, Mama. Is my father my father?’

  Faced with this invocation of doubt on Mahmud’s part, Yasmine’s mind was a blur when it came to the truth. She decided to erase any shadow of doubt in Mahmud’s mind.

  ‘Listen, my son. Your father is your father – Hajj Muhammad.’

  ‘So, he’s my father,’ Mahmud mumbled, not understanding, ‘and he’s Abd al-Rahman’s father too. But Abd al-Rahman’s mother is not mine?’

  Now Aisha surprised them both while they were talking. Mahmud went over to her, hoping to get her to help him understand what Yasmine had been telling him.

  ‘Aren’t I your brother, Aisha?’ he asked her.

  ‘You? Yes, you’re my brother. But you’re the one who attacked Abd al-Rahman.’

  ‘He hit me without me even going after him. But never mind. God is forgiving.’

  ‘My mother has forbidden us to play with you again, otherwise—’

  ‘I’ll play with Abd al-Latif then,’ Mahmud replied.

  ‘He won’t play with you either, because our mother has forbidden it.’

  ‘So even you believe that she isn’t my mother?’

  ‘You’re the servant’s boy.’

  Here was another blow to rock Mahmud’s existence. Yasmine turned away so her tears would not give her away. However, Mahmud was curious, so he questioned Aisha.

  ‘Servant’s boy? What do you mean by “servant’s boy”?’

  ‘I don’t know. But all my brothers say that you’re the servant’s boy.’

  By now Yasmine had dried her tears. ‘Don’t keep saying those words,’ she interrupted. ‘Mahmud’s your brother. That’s enough.’

  ‘But he’s not our mother’s son.’

  ‘Who told you that, young lady?’

  ‘My mother. And my brother Abd al-Ghani told Abd al-Rahman.’

  ‘Mahmud’s my son,’ Yasmine yelled as though to defend her own motherhood. ‘My son!’

  ‘But you’re a dada, and Dada Fatima doesn’t have any children.’

  ‘But Dada Yasmine does have children. This is my son. Does that make you happy?’

  ‘So Mahmud is not the servant’s son?’

  ‘That’s right, I’m not the servant’s son,’ Mahmud interrupted, directing his words at Aisha. ‘My father is your father.’

  ‘That’s what Dada says…’

  Yasmine grew tired of this conversation, every word of which opened festering wounds in her heart.

  ‘That’s enough of this chatter. Can’t the two of you find something else to talk about?’

  ‘But Dada, how can Mahmud be our brother when he isn’t Mama’s son?’

  Yasmine lost her temper and decided to clarify the lesson they were not understanding.

  ‘Listen, you two! A man of a certain age, like my master, can have two, three, or even four wives. He can have children with any of them. They’re all brothers and sisters through their father, but each one may have a different mother. Do you understand?’

  The two of them clearly did not understand. They dropped the whole issue, although Mahmud’s young mind was still swirling as he thought about the problem.

  9

  ‘Why were you so late yesterday?’

  ‘I’ve told you a thousand times: don’t meddle in my business.’

  Thus began a fierce argument between Abd al-Ghani and his brother Abd al-Rahman.

  ‘If you’re that late again, I’ll complain to your father. Then you’ll see how he’ll punish you.’

  ‘Sneaking and complaining is all you’re good at! Isn’t there something else you could be doing?’

  ‘Your tongue needs cutting out. You’ve started defying even those who are older than you.’

  ‘If you’re older than me,’ Abd al-Rahman answered angrily, ‘then you should have more respect for yourself and stop harassing me.’

  ‘I’m older than you, and it’s my job to keep you in line.’

  ‘You’re always giving yourself responsibilities that aren’t yours. You’re my brother, not my father.’

  ‘Your elder brother is like your father. You should do what he says.’

  ‘Do what he says?’

  Abd al-Rahman’s guffaw was both sarcastic and defiant. Abd al-Ghani could not stand his younger brother’s insolence; he saw himself as the eldest brother and the most sensible, thus regarding himself as his father’s deputy with regard to all his responsibilities.

  Abd al-Rahman made a threatening gesture, and his brother raised both hands as he confronted him. Abd al-Latif, their younger brother, who was watching the squabble with a certain amount of curiosity and sympathy, let out a loud laugh. Whenever one of them threatened the other, he was delighted by the thought that he could be about to witness a major or minor fight. What made him even happier was the idea that Abd al-Rahman was able to demolish the superiority that his eldest brother was claiming for himself, something that he tried to exploit to lord it over his younger brothers.

  Abd al-Ghani had inherited his father’s domineering personality. Ever since he had been aware, his entire mental outlook had been focused on Hajj Muhammad. Since his early teenage years his father’s august demeanour, remarkable piety, and infinite influence had dazzled him, and he looked up in awe at the face of a hero who managed to combine heroism, audacity, and manliness.

  That explains why he decided to e
xert the paternal role in those areas where his own authority might be effective. However, in doing so, he clashed with a stubborn brother, someone who was delighted to pose a challenge.

  Abd al-Ghani felt that his sense of honour had been insulted by Abd al-Rahman’s scorn, not to mention the obvious malicious pleasure that Abd al-Latif had shown. He was anxious now to reestablish his status and dignity.

  ‘You’ve turned into a vagrant!’ he yelled at Abd al-Rahman. ‘I’m going to see how to put an end to this behaviour.’

  ‘You’ve turned into an old man,’ Abd al-Rahman scoffed. ‘We’re going to see how to bring you back to your youth!’

  Abd al-Ghani started yelling even louder, and this attracted Khaduj’s attention. She was worried and wanted to know what the argument was about. Bitter experience had taught her that it was yet another disagreement between Abd al-Ghani and Abd al-Rahman.

  ‘Again!’ she shouted, totally out of patience. ‘You’re having another fight, as though you were enemies!’

  Abd al-Rahman was keen to dispel any accusation of enmity. ‘He’s been hounding me again, spying on me, and threatening to betray my secrets.’

  ‘You need to know the reason,’ said Abd al-Ghani. ‘He was out late last night—’

  ‘I was out with my old friends in Makhfiyya Square.’

  ‘And who gave you permission to mingle with those types?’

  While they were arguing like this, Khaduj looked from one to the other.

  ‘I don’t need your permission. I’ll tell you yet again that you’re not my father.’

  ‘And I’ve told you that I’m just like your father.’

  At this point their mother ran out of patience, like a judge when confronted with two opposing parties.