AFTER HAVING MANAGED our own move, we looked forward impatiently to installing the furniture and personal effects belonging to Lalla Zineb, which should have been on par with the dowry that Si Mohammed had paid in hard cash, an amount that Ghita had deemed extravagant once the sum had been disclosed.
“They want to strip us to the bone and reduce us to beggary!” she’d exclaimed. “Curse them, as if we were marrying the sultan’s daughter! She’s made of flesh and blood, not gold after all. She acts like her shit doesn’t stink.”
Yet as soon as Lalla Zineb’s belongings arrived and were unpacked and set up in her rooms, Ghita had to admit that the money spent hadn’t been thrown out the window. Lalla Zineb’s family had at least matched the money we had spent to furnish the new lodgings. The traditional mattress for the living room as well as the “arm and back” cushions – according to Ghita – were filled almost to bursting with wool, and the brocade that covered them was in the latest fashion. My father, who knew his fabrics, reckoned they were from Loondoon, as in Britain. The benches were simply marvelous. They were exquisitely sculpted, and the delicate layer of varnish that had been applied to them wasn’t lost on Driss, who knew how to spot fine workmanship when he saw it, and noted: “These are craftsmen who really know what they’re doing. There’s no doubt as to the quality of the merchandise.”
And what could one say about the fittings, the red-and-green velvet wall hangings that few families could afford to own outright and therefore contented themselves with borrowing them for special occasions, the hand-embroidered curtains, the machine-woven carpets covered with a transparent protective plastic coating?
Praise and admiration soon gave way to amazement when it came to inspecting the bedroom. The bride’s father, a cabinetmaker by trade, had outdone himself. The furniture was all European, which was one way of saying it was modern. There, our eyes fell on something unique: a wooden wardrobe with a lacquer finish and a huge mirror set in its middle. Ghita, who applied her makeup using nothing but a small, round looking glass the size of a douro, couldn’t resist the temptation of immediately rushing toward it to gaze at her reflection, at which point she burst out in a guffaw. Each time she laughed, she instinctively raised her hand to her mouth, as if to hide – or so I assumed – her rows of golden teeth. Visibly disappointed, she shrank away, remarking, “There’s not much worth looking at in that face. Oh fair days of my youth, where have you gone?”
We remained spellbound as we discovered the other pieces of furniture: a chest of drawers that matched the wardrobe, and above all a peculiar sort of bed, which was far lower than the four-poster beds we were used to. It was “naked,” and the headboard and legs were made of lacquered wood. Highly innovative, it was flanked by a pair of nightstands, the purpose of which eluded us, and on each nightstand was a lamp, whose shade diffused a warm, wan light. This novelty left us flabbergasted since, when it came to lights, we were used to the sixty-watt bulbs that hung starkly from the ceiling, and did not figure out until much later in life how to hook up the green or red little nightlights by tying the wire around a nail. There were two finely wrought chairs situated in front of the bed. Even though we were not oblivious to their purpose, we did not find those chairs alluring and deemed them particularly uncomfortable. On this subject, we would always poke fun at the outsiders who came to the house. Perched on those chairs, the poor things had no idea of the delights prompted by their choice of seat. Sharing our opinion on the matter, Ghita summed up the oddity of the situation fairly well.
“Just who are those chairs meant for?” she observed. “Spectators? It seems like a crazy extravagance to me . . .”
All in all, though everyone agreed that our family had made an advantageous and above all honorable match, our satisfaction came part and parcel with a certain apprehensiveness: Didn’t this flood of novelties betray a weakness on the bride’s part for liberties incongruous with our traditional way of life? We prayed for God’s protection from the devil’s works . . .
4
THE WEDDING NIGHT finally arrived.
Nothing will be gleaned here about the unfolding of the wedding ceremony and its various protocols. There are plenty of films for that, as they say, full of colorful descriptions left behind by colonial authors of the old guard, not to mention by the nationalists that followed in their wake, who while sharing their prejudices were perhaps even less talented.
We will therefore elide the following details.
On the bride’s side:
the scene involving the ritual waxing and grooming
the henna ceremony: its application and removal
descriptions of the dress, jewels, and assorted fineries
presentation and “exhibition” of the bride, as well as the collection of the wedding gifts, either in cash or in kind
the singing of the neggafate3 in honor of the bride, where the words are always the same, regardless of whether the woman in question is ugly or beautiful, tall or petite, skinny or rotund, clever or asinine
last but not least, the displaying of the sarouel splattered with the postcoital blood after the consummation (which is stipulated in the marriage contract)
On the groom’s side: nothing in particular. At most there is the night before the wedding, where it seems the groom is dragged by his friends to visit women of ill repute for a demonstration of their practical skills. Yet I never actually saw any of this – and like Ghita, I never speak simply on hearsay.
What I did see and hear, however, is this.
It had been two or three hours since the married couple had retreated to their bedroom, yet our pricked-up ears hadn’t detected any noises or reassuring cries. In the drawing room where we had all assembled, the tension had become unbearable. Ghita could no longer sit still.
“What are those kids up to?” she asked. “Playing leapfrog?”
Turning to one of the neggafa, she ordered: “Go and look in on them, Lalla, and see how they’re getting on.”
The kind lady did as she was told, and after a moment that seemed to last an eternity, she came back empty-handed, though optimistic.
“They are young, and the night is long. I made them drink some warm milk and gave them some walnut-stuffed dates to eat. The little one had forgotten to put a cushion under her pelvis like I’d recommended. As for the groom, he very much has his eyes on the prize but doesn’t dare take the initiative. We must empathize with them. But we should also do all that is necessary. All will go well, Lalla, I promise you.”
“Even so, it’s not that complicated,” Ghita remonstrated. “Even donkeys know how to do it.”
At the sound of this insolent remark, Driss nearly leapt out of his chair.
“Hush now! Children shouldn’t hear things like that.”
“Maybe it’s because they’re stifled by all this prudishness, cursed jinn! What the camel thinks he alone knows, the camel driver knows too.”
On the verge of turning sour, this exchange was happily interrupted by a series of moans, then an out-and-out cry coming from the direction of the bedroom. Before long, the door opened and Si Mohammed appeared, looking pale, confused, and out of breath.
“Fetch the tea,” Driss said in an attempt to create a diversion and liven up the atmosphere.
We surrounded Si Mohammed, who was catching his breath before launching into a bizarre narrative that felt like something between a sports commentary and a medical report. He bragged about gaining the upper hand after a veritable boxing bout. The frightened girl had at first put up a brave resistance. He then confessed that after he’d broken her resolve, his virility had failed him. It was only after the neggafa’s intervention that his senses came back to life. The light refreshments were most welcome, and the woman’s advice quite pertinent.
“Well then, why don’t you bring out the sarouel?” Ghita asked, since all this talk was making her very impatient.
“There’s nothing to show,” Si Mohammed answered sheepishly.
“H
ow can that be?” Ghita cried. “Do you want to make us into a laughingstock?”
“Turn to God woman,” my father said, “let the boy explain himself.”
Si Mohammed explained. Talking expertly, as if he actually knew something about it, he claimed that, anatomically speaking, he had found the hymen highly unusual. Stopping several times to pick up the threads of his tale, he said that though he had pushed as hard he could, he’d only been able to force a small opening. But a few drops of blood had fallen onto the sheet.
“That’s all that God has seen fit to give me,” he concluded, without seeming too sure of himself.
“You have to go back in there immediately and finish the job!” my mother thundered.
DESPITE THE RISING tension, I believe it was at this time that I received a visit from the sandman.
I must have felt quite nostalgic for our old home in the Spring of Horses, since that was the house upon which my eyes opened in my dream.
Some will cry foul. What? Could they be so unaware of similar cases in The Arabian Nights and various cinematographic efforts? That is unless they happen to be followers of the late Bourguiba,4 who, before being overthrown in a medical coup d’état, had been famous for his harebrained ideas. One of them being to ban filmmakers in his country from using the flashback technique, deeming that it seriously compromised the feeling of suspense and was detrimental to the intellectuals’ obligations to instruct the moviegoing masses.
THAT SHOULD BE taken as a warning since all it takes is the blink of an eye for a clumsy bombshell to come out of nowhere (according to Ghita) and for the narrative to slide to the earliest days of childhood. Once again, the following themes will be skipped over:
the Qur’anic school, which I didn’t frequent for very long
my circumcision, which didn’t unduly traumatize me
the Festival of the Sacrifice, where the blood of sheep freely flows and spurts
the hammam, where little boys are initiated into the great mysteries of women
the tyranny of the paterfamilias, since I am not exaggerating when I say that my own father, Driss, was as gentle as a lamb
I am now well within my rights to return to my dream . . . or rather my reverie – on that I will readily concede.
5
THE CHILD WHO opens his eyes on the house in the Spring of Horses must be around the age of six and has already been saddled with a nickname. His playmates called him Namouss (or Mosquito), not because he was smaller than the kids his age (Fezzis, people from Fez, generally have short legs) but because, aside from being rather frail, he was also a bit of a flighty creature who was unable to keep still. Bordering on recklessness, this sprightliness had earned him plenty of boo-boos (torn toenails, a head crisscrossed with scars) and was above all the reason Ghita had designated him as her emissary, charging him with relaying communications between her and Driss. Whenever the slightest problem arose – and something went wrong each God-given day – Ghita would bid him: “Namouss, go and tell your father to come daba daba” (immediately).
At the speed of lightning, Namouss would run straight through the Sekkatine souk, and once Driss had received the message, he would forget customers and merchandise, adjust his tarboosh, slip on his balghas, and head home pronto.
As far as Namouss’s sprightliness was concerned, the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. In another time or place, Driss might have been a track champion. His sure-footedness made each obstacle in his path a fait accompli. Catlike, Driss snaked through the crowd, dodging the heavily loaded donkeys and mules coming from the opposite direction, all without failing to stop and exchange pleasantries with the shopkeepers and passersby he was acquainted with.
Trying to keep pace, Namouss followed in his slipstream. Little by little, he began to acquire the same stride that would later make him such an experienced surveyor of that gigantic open-air theater that is the Medina.
THAT DAY, GHITA had gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. The previous day, she had dismissed the young girl who helped with the daily chores. When faced with the work that lay ahead of her, Ghita’s spirit had sunk.
Ghita’s track record with the help would make for an interminably long book and the conclusion of each chapter would come as no surprise. After a handful of incidents – always brief and stormy – the young girl or woman in question would be shown the door. The reasons for these terminations were always bountiful, as were the number of times Ghita contradicted herself. It was like squaring the circle, what else? Also the identikit of her ideal employee wasn’t easy to fulfill. The first criteria: age. The candidate in question shouldn’t be too young, as they would have to be taught from scratch; neither should they be too old, as they would lack the stamina to carry out their duties to Ghita’s satisfaction. The second criteria: physical appearance. Ghita didn’t want someone that “a brief glimpse of would cut one’s life short.” That meant no hunchbacks, eye patches, or skin infections, since any physical oddities were considered, according to widely held popular beliefs, retribution for past misdeeds. But neither should they be too good-looking, which might arouse the passions of Driss and the teenage boys whom Ghita kept under strict surveillance. “I can’t very well invite the devil into my own home. As soon as you introduced a piece of fresh meat, the men wouldn’t be able to keep their eyes off it.” The third criteria: manner of dress. Ghita wanted neither someone decked out in rags nor stylish flirts, who as Ghita put it, dressed like the dancers at the Circus Amar. The fourth criteria: honesty. That prerequisite proved impossible to fulfill since, according to deep-set beliefs found in modest and affluent families alike, by their very definition, servants were invariably thieves.
The result: Except for short periods of time, Ghita could therefore only count on herself, and – temporarily – on her daughter Zhor who, as she was well aware, would soon “run off” to her husband’s house to go “clean up after strangers.”
Before making a start on her day’s work, Ghita began by launching into one of her litanies, whose set themes were subject to periodic inflections.
“Oh dear Mother, my beloved, you have gone away to be with God now and I am bereft of everything. There’s no one now to push open my door and look in on me. I am alone, a stranger in my own family. Neither my husband nor my children take pity on me. I am everyone’s servant, a slave with scars carved into her cheeks. The housework is mine; the kneading of the bread, mine; the dishes and laundry, all mine. Even everyone else’s shit belongs to me, I’m the one who pushes it down the hole and rinses it with water. I feel like I might suffocate. The others come and go as they please, they’re off to the Kissarya, to Batha Square, to the Boujeloud cinema, while I remain a prisoner behind these four walls. I have to wait until my skin groans under the weight of its filth before I can go to the hammam. Have I ever stolen, murdered, or sinned? I am condemned to duck my head in shame, swallow my anxieties. Heart, oh heart of mine, you’re going to burst. Marriage is a cursed thing. Had I been an old maid, I might have at least had some peace. And who cares what they would have said. May those who know my father bring him to justice.
“But who’s going to listen to me? I’m talking to myself, as if I were a madwoman. Everything in the house is topsy-turvy. And that harlot maid of mine – whom I’ve treated like a daughter, and to whom I taught everything she knows – she couldn’t find her own ass with both hands! Couldn’t even tell the difference between an alif and a cudgel. A swindler, just like all the others. Shameless and from a shady background. A sinner through and through, always jiggling suggestively and emitting those peals of laughter when serving the men. Even Namouss isn’t safe from her covetous glances. Let her go ply her charms in the brothels of Moulay Abdallah! What takes her a whole day, I can do in the blink of an eye without hardly lifting a finger. I can only count on myself. My eldest daughter, the only one who doesn’t shirk her duties, is away all day at school. Big deal. What is she going to learn anyway? Magic tricks and little else aside from la
ziness. Oh dear Mother, my beloved, watch over me. I place my trust in God and our patron saint, Moulay Idriss. May he take pity on this small orphan girl, little bread crumb that I am, doomed to misfortune.
“All right, Ghita, you need to get going. Time flies and you haven’t even aired out the bedsheets yet.”
HAVING THUS EMPTIED her heart, she cheered up. Rolling up her sleeves and fixing them around her upper arms with an elastic band, and tucking the hem of her dress into her belt, she got down to work, from time to time cursing and ranting about invisible devils. She hung out the sheets, made the beds, beat the cushions, then swept the tiled floor before sloshing water over it and mopping three times rather than just one. Next, she moved on to the stairs, which she cleaned from top to bottom.
She’d barely had the time to take a breather when she heard a knock on the door. It was the porter Driss had sent with a basket full of the day’s provisions. “It’s about time!” she said before casting a suspicious glance over the contents: beef, cardoons, and watermelon. She sat on little stool and began peeling the spines off the cardoons, before chopping one stalk into chunks, and then a second. As she was about to cut into the third, she stopped and threw the knife on the floor.
“Is that all, cardoons? And to top it off they’re tough as wood, only fit for donkeys. Into the garbage, that’s where I’ll throw them, I swear to God. He calls himself a man and isn’t even capable of picking out a few vegetables! And just look at this meat, I knew it! It’s all fat, cartilage, and nerve endings glued to a piece of bone. That’s what I’m supposed to feed the barrack’s worth of soldiers that come swarming in here at lunchtime? Maybe he thinks that the watermelon’s going to fill them up! What’s in a watermelon anyway? Air and water – nothing else. By God, I can’t call myself a woman if I make a meal out of this chiata. And where is that little rascal Namouss? Namouss!”
The Bottom of the Jar Page 3
