Mahmud perked up, as though he were about to express an opinion or respond to an objection. But, grabbing his notepad and pencil, he buried his head deep into his book, just as Abd al-Rahman was doing. The book, pencil, and notepad allowed him to avoid staring vacantly at his brother as his beloved hero.
The only thing that disturbed him was Abd al-Ghani, who slouched into the room in his normal fashion. His vacuous expression was that of a minor figure incapable of becoming a major one. He threw himself over the table like a sack of flour falling from an aged camel, then dug his knees into the couch, again like a camel on a mound of sand where it cannot get down if it does not first sink to its knees. He let out a sigh like an old sage sitting down to rest his weary body from the burden of time. Abd al-Rahman looked up for a moment in disapproval, then quickly went back to reading his book, as though to say, ‘This void in Abd al-Ghani’s life, with his increasingly flabby body, is almost killing him. What is he doing to himself ? Once he’s closed up his shop and taken the money he’s made, his day is over. That’s a life destined to be both short and limited. Why doesn’t he pick up a book, a piece of paper, or a pencil? If he felt like it, he could record his shop business on paper at least, in numbers.’ Scissors and chit-chat were all Abd al-Ghani thought about, along with the old woman who used to buy a few metres of cloth, the poor man who used to haggle over the price, and the flirtatious girl who would visit the Qaysariyya Market to quench her thirst by staring at the men and sharing lewd conversations with them.
For a moment Mahmud was taken up with his numbers again, and he forgot about Abd al-Ghani, almost as though he were not even there. But then his thoughts turned away from the book and back to his eldest brother. As he stared once again at his brother’s face, his physique, and his ever-widening bulk, he was distracted by further thoughts: ‘My dear elder brother – and that’s what he actually is – has become a man who can conduct himself as he pleases. Every morning he sets out for his shop. Once there, he deals with money, selling things and making more money. He counts it all and stares at the dirhams with a steady gaze; his eyes wander as he puts the money in a drawer, one coin on top of another, clinking as they come into contact. From morning till sunset the money grows. He’s wealthy, rich; he can feel the money in his hands, how pure it is and how it jingles. He’s free to spend it and can buy things. His shoes are brand new, and his jallaba is fresh, clean, and pristine. He even buys halva and laudanum. If he needs a notebook, a pencil, or a book, he doesn’t have to send intermediaries to ask his father. He can use a key to open a box that he owns himself and feel the coins in his hands. He can take out whatever he wants, reclose the box, and spend the money as he wishes.’
When Mahmud came to himself again, Abd al-Rahman was asking him what he was supposed to be doing. Mahmud found that he was staring at Abd al-Ghani, his mouth agape, with a smile on his lips that managed to combine admiration, awe, and curiosity. He snapped out of it, reminding himself of what Abd al-Rahman would ask him from time to time: ‘Why is your mouth gaping open like an idiot? Have you discovered something new about him you haven’t seen before?’
He tried to concentrate on his notepad again, but that word ‘new’ made him look at Abd al-Ghani again. Before today he had not felt the need to think about how rich his brother was. What motivated this line of thinking was that Mahmud could only purchase the notepads, pencils, and books he needed in school if he managed to persuade Abd al-Rahman to act as his intermediary, or if Khaduj was willing to ask Hajj Muhammad for the cost of them.
Once again he made up his mind to rid himself of this infantile sense of awe with which he enveloped Abd al-Ghani, like a kind of halo whose light was reflected upon his own ambitious soul with all its naive innocence.
‘So, who is Abd al-Ghani?’ he asked himself. ‘Isn’t he Khaduj’s son, not Yasmine’s? Khaduj and Yasmine – two names that never stop cropping up in our family life, like some sort of fate that’s preoccupied with organising our world for us. No, no, I’m approaching manhood now. So be it: Khaduj isn’t my mother, and Yasmine is. And I am Hajj Muhammad al-Tihami’s son. From now on, nobody’s going to ask me about my mother. In school, on the street, with students and teachers, with books, notepads, and pencils, this thing in my life about ‘Yasmine or Khaduj’ is over and done with – a household matter perhaps, but street- and school-life will have nothing to do with the household. Isn’t it your complexion that makes you different from your brothers?’
This question lingered deep down in his consciousness. What wrenched him out of his internal monologue was the sound of Khaduj’s voice yelling to Yasmine.
‘Bring in the dinner! It’s time for your master to come home.’
Khaduj would be sitting in her usual indolent fashion, wearing her favourite clothes and staving off the boredom which coloured her entire life by repairing some of her children’s clothes as a diversion. Yasmine, meanwhile, would be buzzing like a bee in her non-stop activity, running between different rooms and the kitchen to set everything up for dinner. She would continuously clean things and wait for instructions from Khaduj, like any maid who devotes her life to service, obedience, and accepting orders from someone else.
Only when he heard one giving orders to the other did Mahmud gain a sense of the differences that separated one woman living a life of idle luxury and another living for work and service. It was his new awareness of his own self and its essence that made him sensitive to the issue. Now his eyes were open to the realities of the household, with a mistress and a servant-woman.
He went on living his usual life in the household without asking any questions – almost in spite of himself, as though some new element had entered the picture, or he had gone through a transformation that was forcing him to think in a new way, in which the words ‘Khaduj’ and ‘Yasmine’ weighed heavily, with all their import, difference, and distinction.
The entire issue continued to nag at him, and he dearly wished to respond to it by changing the situation. Instead, he found himself still unable even to get the notepad and pencil he needed, unless he won Khaduj’s affectionate sympathy and she managed to convince Hajj Muhammad to give him some money to buy them. He made an effort to find something else to think about, but the only solution was to bury himself once again in the notepad he was holding.
20
Night-time, and a moderate breeze from the west wafted over the burning-hot city; the sun had set, leaving space for a quiet night replete with sweet hopes. When the summer heat was at its height, night-time in Fez was a serene moment; it descended from on high, and the people waited for it just as they did for the delights of Ramadan. They removed their jallabas and kaftans and, liberated from the constraints of walled rooms and high roofs, sat in the open-air central courtyards, where wafts of breeze from every direction came together to blow away the awful traces of daytime.
The evening group broke up, and Hajj Muhammad found himself alone with Khaduj in their wide room. He had already rid himself of the burdens and clothes of the day. A thin curtain was pulled over the doorway; it could block out shapes but still allowed wafts of breeze to pass through it and reach those who were longing for such relief.
When Hajj Muhammad was feeling relaxed and his mood was favourable, he would usually start talking amiably to his wife. This allowed her to gauge his frame of mind, and she had learned how to save up her requests and suggestions until the moment was right; that precise time occurred when there were no unpleasant circumstances and no material or psychological worries to roil his temper.
On that night, Hajj Muhammad spent a good deal of time talking about the wedding celebration at the home of the family of al-Hilw, a friend Hajj Muhammad had known for a long time. He was aware of all the little details that women’s customs dictated for such events, the things they loved to relate along with plentiful observations and diverting titbits – not to mention the criticism which inevitably had to accompany such public celebrations and ceremonies.
Hajj Mu
hammad looked delighted as he told Khaduj that the bride had come down from the upper floor in al-Hilw’s house to the lower one because she was the groom’s cousin and had grown up with him in the same household. The groom’s father had encountered no difficulty in selecting a bride for his son.
Khaduj seized on this information to propose something that had been preying on her mind. ‘I wonder, does your brother, Sidi al-Tayyib, have a daughter about Abd al-Ghani’s age?’
The impact of this idea could be read on Hajj Muhammad’s face, but all he did was give a smile. ‘If only…’ was all he would say.
He made a point of returning to his previous comments, as though Khaduj had not interrupted him. She realised that this opportunity was slipping away and that such moments as this occurred only very occasionally. After listening until he had finished what he was saying, she decided to tackle the subject head on.
‘And what about us? When are we going to celebrate Abd al-Ghani’s wedding?’
Hajj Muhammad thought for a long time, staring hard at the floor, which was decorated with a colourful mosaic in blue, red, green, white, and black chips. Looking at his expression at that particular moment, one might have assumed that he was either counting the colours or seeking inspiration from one of them as to how to respond to his own self, which had been rattled by this abrupt question.
Khaduj said nothing more, as though her very silence were intended to hem him in, and she was not about to let him wriggle out of a response to her question.
Hajj Muhammad looked straight at Khaduj. ‘Abd al-Ghani’s still young,’ he replied, feigning a sense of calm deliberation.
‘Young?’
Her response showed obvious disagreement, but she said it in a gentle voice, so as not to make Hajj Muhammad lose his temper. It was clearly not a good idea to get him annoyed at the precise moment when she was making her requests and suggestions.
‘He’s not young,’ she continued. ‘He’s twenty. Did you wait till you were over twenty to get married?’
Her question triggered memories, and he was able to reminisce about some of the sweetest days in his life, taking him back to his youth. His lips formed into a smile that did not reveal its sources but nevertheless spoke of pleasurable things. He was happy, and he understood Khaduj’s point. But then he recalled that Abd al-Ghani was actually not yet twenty, and countered Khaduj’s argument with a more forceful one.
‘Abd al-Ghani’s still just eighteen. Not only that, he’s still not fully settled into his job in the shop. Let’s allow him to become a full man.’
Khaduj now realised that her argument was not a strong one. At the same time she understood that this was an appropriate time to get Hajj Muhammad to agree with her suggestion in principle. ‘God preserve you and grant you all felicity!’ she replied affectionately. ‘Marriage will get him to settle down. Like you, I want our house to be full of children. Ah, how I long to have brides sitting beside me and to see their small children here. What do you think? Which do you want, boys or girls?’
Hajj Muhammad looked vaguely happy. ‘Do you want to be a grandmother that soon?’ he asked her, with a guarded smile. As he looked at her face and body, he felt aroused, a feeling that was only amplified by the fact that he had taken off his outer clothes. As he stretched out his hand, his eyes were devouring her curvaceous body. ‘You’re still a young bride yourself,’ he said, ‘and you’re already wanting grandchildren!’
Khaduj let out a little laugh. ‘Haven’t you ever seen a young grandmother?’ she replied. Giving him a seductive glance, she went on, ‘Or a young grandfather?’
Hajj Muhammad appreciated this gesture, which he sensed was a pleasant kind of flattery. ‘Even so,’ he replied without objecting, ‘grandchildren give people the impression that grandfathers and grandmothers have reached a great age.’
‘“Grandfather dear” is an expression that suits you, Hajj.’
‘The reason you want to see Abd al-Ghani married is that you want to have a bride calling you “Lalla” and a little child babbling “Lalla”! Isn’t that right?’
Khaduj laughed. ‘God preserve you for all of us,’ she said, ‘so we can hear “Lalla” and “Grandfather dear”!’
Hajj Muhammad now thought for a long time about the project that Khaduj had proposed. In such matters he consulted nobody but himself. Khaduj nagged him for several nights, to know what his response was to her suggestion, but he asked her to leave the subject until he had time to think and make a decision, and he cautioned her not to breathe a word of it to anyone, especially Abd al-Ghani.
Eventually he concluded that the time was indeed right for Abd al-Ghani to marry, but the key issue was to identify the prospective in-laws whose family background conformed with the social and financial status of the Tihami family.
He thought for a long time and considered the various families that he knew – Barrada, al-Hilw, Ibn Kiran, and al-Siqilli – but he always came to a dead end when it came to their wealth.
‘When the son of a wealthy family gets married,’ he told himself, ‘the wife needs to be richer. Richer? The husband doesn’t have to exploit his wife’s wealth, but he can’t live with a woman who doesn’t have money at her disposal… Money’s a matter of security and must protect the family as much from the mother’s side as from the father’s. What’s really important is social standing, good reputation, and the bride’s honour and reputation. But what’s even more important is the land, property, and commercial interests the father owns. As yet Abd al-Ghani doesn’t own anything like that. I own a lot, but Abd al-Ghani is still a child, on the threshold of his life. I’m the real guarantor of what he’ll own in the future.’
This internal debate kept Hajj Muhammad preoccupied. He was already aware of families and family groups with girls who were over fourteen, but he wanted to conduct a genuine enquiry into which of them was wealthiest and which one’s wealth was backed up by land and property. Commerce was significant, but provided no guarantee for the future.
He took his thoughts with him and disappeared, even from Khaduj. He had no intention of either seeking advice or listening to the opinions of anyone else. What he wanted was to make enquiries, draw up a plan, and then announce his decision.
Meanwhile, Khaduj grew tired of waiting for him to make up his mind. She tried several times to ask him how it was all going, but he gently repelled all her approaches without giving her the chance to ask or insist. She had to wait a long time for a suitable moment. On a night with hopes blooming, Khaduj managed to edge Hajj Muhammad towards the topic without making her purpose obvious. Having tempted him thus far, she was ready to hear the joyous news. But when Hajj Muhammad revealed his decision, it was a great surprise.
‘I’ve chosen Hajj Abd al-Latif al-Tazi’s daughter for Abd al-Ghani!’
Khaduj looked completely taken aback. While she had been waiting for so long, she had surveyed many families and family groupings. But her ambitions had never gone so high as to even think of the al-Tazi family, because it was so immensely wealthy and prestigious.
She burst into tears. So great was her delight that she could not keep her inner self under control. Quite unable to express her thanks, she leaned over in all modesty and fervently kissed Hajj Muhammad’s hands and feet. Gratitude now blended with temptation and seduction, and Hajj Muhammad proceeded to slake his thirst. The occasion of this final answer was to keep them both secluded beneath its shroud.
21
Khaduj found it difficult to contain her joy at the news of Abd al-Ghani’s engagement, although she did the best she could. Her delight made itself felt throughout the house and its household. However, she only gave small hints as to what lay behind her excitement. Everyone in the house, from the servants to Hajj Muhammad’s own sister, realised that the family was about to celebrate a happy event, but no one knew exactly what it was, and nobody asked Khaduj to reveal her secret. That would have to wait for Hajj Muhammad; everyone knew that, when the day came that he allowed the ne
ws to come out, Khaduj would not be one to keep it hidden. So, the women did not pester Khaduj with questions, although they did allow themselves to express their joy by reciting prayers in which they asked God to extend His blessings on Hajj Muhammad and his happy household.
Khaduj now started thinking about the forthcoming wedding, about the string of events that would have to be held, from the engagement announcement through to the dowry presentation and the eventual ceremony itself, and about the room that the new bride would occupy in the house. As she thought about the preparations, she was delighted by the idea that, once the new bride started addressing her as ‘Lalla’, her own status within the household would be further enhanced.
At first Khaduj could not think what it was that was bothering her from time to time and spoiling her joy, but then she asked herself a pertinent series of questions: ‘What about this bride? What does she look like? How beautiful is she? What’s her name?’
She realised she had no answer to any of them, and yet she could not ask Hajj Muhammad, because she was aware that he could not answer them either. He did not know, and in any case he would certainly not let her ask him such questions because Hajj Abd al-Latif al-Tazi’s daughter must of course be beautiful. And if she were not, then she was still the daughter of a man with both money and status.
We Have Buried the Past Page 13
