But she was stern. ‘Please, Abd al-Rahman, leave me alone, and your father as well. God alone will cure him. If he knew you were going to call a doctor, he’d certainly stop you.’
Abd al-Rahman could not think of a way of arguing with his own mother, but, as he gave way to her, he felt a bitter sorrow. And as he left the house, he could not rid himself of the strong sense of something wrong that had overwhelmed him as he argued with his mother both silently and out loud. He began wandering aimlessly, letting the force of habit guide his steps.
‘We’re still a long way from being able to distinguish between modern medicine and hot drinks,’ he thought, ‘even though those drinks have done away with thousands of souls. They’re a generation with “the past” inscribed on their foreheads. But it’s a past that’s over, dead; we’ve buried it.’
As he came to himself again, another voice inside him said, ‘He’s my father… It’s my responsibility to save him. It may be the past with regard to the realities of life today, but I still have to devote my entire being, my whole existence, to my own present, using the seed of revolution that is growing inside my soul.’
‘But your responsibility’s over,’ the present came back to counter him. ‘You can’t transform the past into the future. You can’t bring a statue to life – unless you’re either a clown or an artist.’
‘But my father—’
‘What have fathers and sons to do with the law of life?’
‘It’s my task to change history.’
‘Your task is to stand facing the stream to make sure it doesn’t go straight from past to future.’
‘So, then, am I a nihilist…? Totally negative?’
‘No, you’re an existentialist, and positive. Your will is not conditioned by the past that is over, but rather by the future to come. So, respond to your will, and stop burning your energy trying to resurrect the past.’
This inner conversation was suddenly interrupted by a loud bray from a donkey that had collided with a Bedouin, earning a strong rap on its muzzle.
Hours later Abd al-Rahman went home again, feeling no need or desire to know how his father was. Nevertheless, he gave his mother an enquiring look, but failed to find any sign of the tragedy he had seen earlier in the day. Now her expression looked hopeful.
‘Is my father feeling better?’ he asked eagerly.
‘God be praised,’ she said, ‘he woke up and had something to eat.’
‘He ate something?’
‘Yes, eggs and yogurt.’
Abd al-Rahman looked surprised.
‘Yes, he was hungry, thank God!’ Khaduj went on. ‘I told you. Doctors, what do they know? God is the only doctor. How many times have we been sick, and God alone has cured us?’
‘No doctor, no medicines?’
‘We dealt with it ourselves. Lalla Fatima, the Prophet’s descendant, gave us a medicine she made from her own supply of herbs. Her hands are indeed blessed. God and her good fortune can cure us of any disease.’
Abd al-Rahman said nothing, but simply gave his mother a languid stare, as though a heavy weight prevented his eyelids from lifting. In his ears he heard a loud voice saying, ‘The past, the past, the past…’
By next morning, Hajj Muhammad was no longer feverish, but the illness had left its mark on his frail body and injured soul. When he greeted Abd al-Rahman that morning, he was eager to see his son. He felt the fever had put a distance between himself and his children, and that he had spent years and years away from his world, his home, and his family. He was especially keen to talk to Abd al-Rahman, being still fond of him in spite of their disagreements and the fundamental differences between them. He could not help admiring and respecting his son and harbouring a belief in the rightness of his son’s ideas, which he was incapable of shutting out.
He looked fit and well as he gave Abd al-Rahman a welcoming smile, as if he had never had a fever. Abd al-Rahman was filled with hope, a warm feeling he put into a fervent kiss that he planted on the feeble hand that the fever had left looking like a piece of torn cloth, devoid of life.
His father’s appearance spurred Abd al-Rahman to open his heart. ‘I was determined to call a doctor to treat you,’ he said.
Hajj Muhammad shuddered, as though the fever had returned. ‘Doctor?’ he said. ‘No doctor’s hand has ever touched me. How could you think of bringing in a Christian doctor to treat me? No, no, never think of such a thing again.’
Abd al-Rahman was crushed, and all hope vanished from his expression. Staring at the floor, he felt giddy. The colours of the mosaic on the walls seemed to dance before his eyes, the greens, blues, reds, and whites all blending with each other. Defeated, all he could think to do was utter some words of encouragement.
‘God be praised for your recovery,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘You’re fine now, and won’t need a doctor.’ Planting a cold kiss on the feeble hand, he left the room, as that same terrible voice echoed in his ears: ‘The past, the past, the past…’
38
When Abd al-Rahman entered the house, he was panting, his face ashen in the searing heat of the Fez summer. Sweat was dripping off him as though he had just emerged from a swimming pool. He was escaping from the air of the city streets, which the sky above had imprinted with its opaque colour, scorching the ground with its hellish heat and spreading it over the city’s lofty walls, which seemed to be hewn from hell’s own rocks.
Abd al-Rahman was sensitive to extreme heat, and it affected him badly. His nerves were on edge, and the process of outrunning the heat left him short of breath. Everything closed in around him, and the house was the only place he could find relief. Inside, the temperature was more moderate, and there was cool water and shade to protect him from the rays of the sun that went straight from his eyes to his nerves, upsetting him and making him lose patience.
As he entered the room, Abd al-Rahman heard Mahmud talking to Abd al-Ghani in a crowing tone.
‘He told them, “Everyone can sweep his own doorstep…”’
Abd al-Ghani was on the point of responding, but Abd al-Rahman’s abrupt entry surprised him, and he went back to chewing and making his popping noises as though he had not had the chewing gum in his mouth for some time.
Abd al-Rahman gave Mahmud an angry look, creasing his forehead into a frown. No one spoke, but the walls reflected the dagger looks exchanged between Abd al-Rahman and Mahmud.
Mahmud said nothing, but Abd al-Rahman could not let things go. ‘We’ll get him to sweep our doorstep for us,’ he said, throwing his jallaba angrily to one side. He stared at Mahmud. ‘Do you understand me?’
‘If he doesn’t sweep you off all the streets first,’ Mahmud replied with a smirk.
Abd al-Ghani stopped chewing, his eyes open wide. Mahmud’s answer was more forceful than he had expected. Abd al-Rahman’s eyes were aflame with fury, as though he had been slapped on the cheek. But then they too opened wide, as though to confront the challenge by enveloping the widest possible field of vision.
‘He may be able to wipe us off the streets for a while,’ he said, ‘but we’re going to wipe them out of Morocco forever.’
Mahmud’s laugh was loaded with all the scorn he could muster. ‘A midsummer night’s dream!’ he said. ‘One night seven years ago you dreamed that the world of the great powers was at an end. But, my dear brother, that same world has stood on its feet again. It’s the same France that was on its knees back then that now has its general issuing orders that everyone’s to sweep their own doorstep.’
‘And does that same logic apply to the courts and the judiciary?’
Mahmud was busy clipping his fingernails, but he looked up at Abd al-Rahman. ‘Being a judge demands the logic of reality,’ he replied. ‘Imagination is the realm of literary types.’
‘Using the same logic, Morocco is destined to follow the same path as it has for the last half-century.’
‘Hold it a minute – I wasn’t even born half a century ago,’ Mahmud replied with
a laugh, as though sensing an unexpected victory.
‘But you were there,’ Abd al-Rahman said, ‘in the minds of your forefathers and ancestors. They all regarded the world of those great dominating powers with the utmost admiration and respect, just as they did their own overlords. You’re still using the logic of slavery.’
The word ‘slavery’ escaped his lips without him even being aware of its implications. As Mahmud leapt to his feet, Abd al-Rahman suddenly realised what he had unwittingly implied. The image of Mahmud’s mother, Yasmine, floated in front of his eyes. Mahmud was about to respond in fury, but Abd al-Rahman tried to repair the damage caused by his unguarded comment.
‘You’re all free, the sons of free people, whether brown skinned or white,’ he explained. ‘But the logic you’re using is that of the people of olden times who used to cringe and look up to the people who were dominating them.’
‘So now you’ve turned into an orator,’ Mahmud commented. ‘Or is it a schoolteacher?’
‘It’s not an issue of orators or schoolteachers. It’s a basic question of understanding. When people can’t understand things for themselves, they need an orator or a teacher.’ Abd al-Rahman was well aware that he had insulted Mahmud by using the word ‘slavery’ in a fit of anger. ‘Young people are not lacking in understanding,’ he said, using a much softer tone, ‘but they don’t have to act like a mirror that reflects the mentality of the past.’
‘But, in the same way,’ Mahmud replied, ‘they shouldn’t ignore the present either by burying their heads in the sand so that they can’t see things as they really are.’
‘Both reality and the present confirm that we’re moving towards a future totally different from the one planned by those who order us to sweep our own doorsteps.’
‘But they’re the ones doing the planning. It’s their job to make people follow the plan they’ve devised.’
‘Firstly, don’t you believe that the era of outdated fantasies has passed?’
‘Firstly, don’t you believe that the era of dreams has passed?’
‘Dreams,’ Abd al-Rahman countered, ‘are a substitute in the unconscious world for failures in the conscious one. But we haven’t failed yet, so there’s no space for dreaming in our society. The reason is that our reality is too powerful to leave our internal mentality to fulfil itself in the world of the unconscious.’
Such philosophising annoyed Mahmud, and he needed to confront Abd al-Rahman to avenge his own sense of dignity. ‘Forget about the world of dreams and wakefulness,’ he replied. ‘Let’s go back to reality. Or is it that you feel able to face down the general when he threatens to fill your mouths with straw if he hears any outcry from now on?’
This made Abd al-Ghani laugh out loud, so that he almost lost the chewing gum in his mouth. He pushed the wad back in, like a runaway ball to its goal.
‘The marshals and the general have all started talking like shepherds,’ Abd al-Rahman retorted angrily. ‘Maybe we’re in an age in which classes don’t exist any more. Isn’t that so?!’
Mahmud gaped in amazement. ‘I can assure you you’re dreaming,’ he replied with a gulp. ‘You’d better bring that fairy tale to an end. If only you’d recognise the truth: France is stronger than you.’
‘Stronger or weaker, it doesn’t matter,’ said Abd al-Rahman. ‘We have no desire to engage in some kind of boxing match with France.’
‘So do you believe your quest for independence is actually a midget provoking a powerful boxer?’
‘Or, rather, do you believe that such a quest is my right, your right, and that of the entire Moroccan people?’
‘No, that’s not my right. I’m in no way bound to the quest for independence when it involves a country that’s not ready for it.’
Abd al-Rahman’s face darkened, as though Mahmud had impugned his honour. But, yet again, he managed to keep his anger under control. ‘Ready, you say?’ he replied. ‘What’s your gauge for readiness?’
‘Good sense. When people can’t manage their property themselves, a judge is appointed to take care of things.’
‘And who’s the judge who decided to put France in charge of things? Is it you, my dear honourable judge, sir?’
Mahmud blanched, but he was not prepared to admit defeat. ‘The judge is the people themselves. If the people weren’t incompetent, they wouldn’t need to leave things to the trustee in the first place.’
‘And what happens if the trustee is asked to give up his trusteeship?’
‘Merely asking for something,’ Mahmud replied with a shrug of his shoulders, ‘doesn’t imply that you’re ready to take it over.’
‘But I intend to do just that.’
‘I don’t believe it will happen.’
‘Your belief won’t stand in the way of the people who are marching forward.’
‘So, deluded youngsters are now claiming they’re marching forward!’
‘Yes, they’re marching forward, even if weary eyes can’t see them!’
‘Are you sure of what you’re saying?’ Mahmud asked, with another smirk.
‘You’ll see for yourself,’ Abd al-Rahman replied defiantly. ‘That is, if your eyes are not so tired that they can’t see.’
‘Whatever the case,’ Mahmud went on in the same caustic tone, ‘maybe you’ll stop the forward march from engulfing me. I’m your brother, after all.’
‘Noah didn’t save his own son from the flood.’
‘Is the age of the flood coming back then?’
‘A new kind of flood, one unknown to history.’
‘Ha, ha, ha! So, now you’re crafting a new world unknown to history!’
‘Those who crafted the world before us had minds no different from ours.’
‘And will your new world be as beautiful and prosperous as ours?’
‘Why should you worry about its beauty if you’re not part of it?’
‘Even for a simple judge like me?
‘The judges in this new world will not be simple. They will be shepherds of justice.’
‘Justice that you will define.’
‘No, justice as defined by the law.’
‘So, there’ll be idealist judges in a world—’
‘Idealist?’ Abd al-Rahman interrupted.
This angered Mahmud. ‘Listen, Abd al-Rahman,’ he yelled, ‘we used to be nationalists who loved our homeland.’
Abd al-Rahman gave a hearty laugh, which did not stop Mahmud.
‘But we’re not fanciful dreamers,’ Mahmud went on. ‘Nationalists should not be making such outrageous demands that they’re asking for something inconceivable.’
‘Love is an emotion that may be perfectly sound,’ Abd al-Rahman responded, as though giving a class at school. ‘And yet the love you have for your son means nothing if you can’t protect him from evil and help him in his need.’
‘Provided you’re capable of doing that.’
‘Being incapable is a sign of a lack of love. If you truly loved your country, you would keep on trying, and you wouldn’t be incapable.’
‘I will never attempt the impossible.’
‘The impossible is a mere invention of people who are ignorant and impotent.’
‘No,’ Mahmud scoffed, not a little amazed, ‘The impossible is something that doesn’t exist.’
‘It doesn’t exist, you mean, for those who have no backbone. When their minds, their consciences, their feelings render them incapable of action, that’s what they rely on.’
The word ‘conscience’ reverberated in Mahmud’s mind, even more than in his ears. ‘My brain won’t allow me to ask for the impossible,’ he replied.
‘That’s because it’s not enlightened.’
‘No, but it’s realistic.’
‘I’m afraid it has no reality to it.’
Mahmud stared at his brother in alarm, his nerves on edge. ‘If it’s a matter of conscience that I should be a nationalist like you,’ he replied, ‘then indeed it has no reality to it.’
‘Maybe you’ve finally discovered your own true self.’
‘No, it’s you who’s made that discovery.’
‘Both at once.’
‘What’s important is that I know what I have to do.’ And with that, Mahmud stood up, grabbing the edges of his jallaba with his fingers. Abd al-Ghani stood up as well, still chewing his gum and not saying a word. They both headed for the door, pursued by Abd al-Rahman’s angry gaze.
‘You’re going to follow your path to the very end,’ he said.
39
Abd al-Rahman was sitting in front of the radio, listening carefully. A soft voice was reading the breaking news in a monotonous tone, as though reciting a memorised text. The regular intonation made the information lose both its import and significance. The voice had none of the emotion that was affecting Abd al-Rahman’s nerves as he listened to the words loaded with anger and hatred.
When he switched off the radio, he just stood there, looking pale. His gaze wandered aimlessly, his nerves were shot, and his mind was at sixes and sevens. He roamed around the house, trying to sort out his thoughts – but about what? His eyes were opened wide, but precisely what were they looking for?
The lofty walls of the house got on his nerves, and he felt that something heavy was weighing on his chest. Putting his jallaba over his shoulder and grabbing his fez, he rushed out of the front door, as though out of prison.
In the wide space of Makhfiyya Square, he took deep breaths as though filling his congested lungs with the fresh air of life. He was still wandering aimlessly about when he bumped into Abd al-Aziz, who was walking fast as though he had a message to deliver.
After extending his hand to greet his friend, Abd al-Aziz paused for a moment. Both of them wanted to say something and were searching for the right words, but they failed. Finally it was Abd al-Aziz who withdrew his hand. ‘I told you the storm was close,’ he said. ‘Now the maelstrom is enveloping us once again. Didn’t I tell you?’
We Have Buried the Past Page 24
