One game followed another, broken up by regular intervals when tea and coffee were served. Keeping to its schedule, the sun began its inexorable decline. It was starting to get windy. Soon it would be time to pack up and leave. The nzaha had come to an end.
With a growing perspicacity, Namouss noticed that his parents and the other grown-ups, the very ones who had come here claiming they needed to feast their eyes on some greenery and marvel at the heavens, hadn’t budged from their seats all day, not once lifting their gaze to the sky. He concluded that adults were worryingly fickle.
16
THE SEASONS ROLLED on unabated. Summer took over from spring. It was the moment when the soccer season reached its climax. Fez was abuzz with rumors, live commentaries, and predictions of scores. MAS, the city’s team, was well placed that year. It was only two points behind Marrakech’s Kawkab, the league leaders. The match they were due to play that Sunday against Casablanca’s Roches Noires would give them a fighting chance, provided that Kawkab lost against Rabat’s FUS, who were almost at the bottom of the league. Yet another question gave cause for concern: Would MAS field a better lineup? A real drama had taken place just three weeks earlier: Couscous, a center forward and one of the team’s pillars, had been injured during a match against Meknes’s CODM. Damned Meknes! They’d avenged their defeat by fouling Couscous even though he hadn’t been in possession of the ball at the time. That act of aggression had been etched into the collective consciousness. This only entrenched the already low opinion Fez had of Meknes, its closest neighbor – a reputation that Meknes lived up to.
The headquarters that housed these debates was a fine-leather workshop on the Ben Debbouz, just opposite a guardhouse where idle auxiliary troops whiled away their time playing cards. The shop was tiny and had only a few three-legged stools that were reserved for the patrons, one of whom was Abdel, one of Namouss’s older brothers, who had just started playing on a local third-division team. The walls were entirely plastered with photos, posters, and newspaper clippings depicting the twists and turns of MAS’s history: the evolution of the team, the trophies it had won, and the official events visited by some prince or high dignitary. In this pantheon set up in honor of MAS, the observant onlooker would be able to spot something out of place: a photograph of the MC Oujda lineup. But this was easily forgiven, when one took into account that the shop owner was, after all, originally from the eastern part of the country, and there was nothing wrong with one of Fez’s adopted sons remembering his origins. The very same observer would also not fail to notice different signs of the fellow’s open-mindedness: portraits of Marcel Cerdan, Zátopek, and Fausto Coppi attested to his all-encompassing passion for sports, his knowledge of which commanded a great deal of respect. The leatherworker was unbeatable when it came to the names of players, managers, the dates of major matches, championship rankings, cup winners, the whole shebang. Keeping his eyes glued to his work (leather wallets), his hands always busy, he would extract minute details with the ease and confidence of a schoolteacher. When it came to making predictions, however, he was careful not to dampen the enthusiasm and optimism of the people he spoke to. Coining a saying that later became part of popular parlance, he would warn: “A match is never won before it is played.”
His audience was less susceptible to this sort of analysis. They were seeking reassurances since the stakes for the coming match that Sunday were high. MAS would play host to Casablanca’s Roches Noires, one of the few teams composed almost entirely of Nazarenes. Victory was the only objective. The match would pit nationalists against foreigners, Islam against Christianity. It smacked of jihad. The true faith must prevail.
“Yes, yes,” the leatherworker would say in an attempt to temper expectations, “all this is true. But let’s not forget the opposing side’s strengths. Their players will enter the field having just dined on pork and wine. Heaven forbid! That said – believe me – they’ll have energy to spare. And what will our boys have had? Only a glass of whey and a bowl of bissara, fava bean purée. Truth be told, that’s not the sort of nourishment that’s going to help them fend off their opponent’s attacks. It will only make them feel bloated. Let us nevertheless invoke our city’s patron saint, so that he may come to our aid and strengthen our faith, darken our visitors’ path, and ‘turn their knees to jelly.’”
Namouss was there. His presence during these knowledgeable and passionate discussions was tolerated only on the condition that he remain outside the shop and run the occasional errand, such as going to fetch a pack of Casa Sports cigarettes for one of the honored guests or placing an order for tea at the local café, services he gladly performed since he was receiving an education in return. Though his interest in soccer was only moderate, the unanimous passion for the game he observed all around him pushed him against his will into a spiral of local patriotism, which came part and parcel with all its blind spots and prejudices. Which is why he found himself smack in the middle of that group of excited fans on that long-awaited Sunday as they were going through Dar Dbibagh, headed toward the new town where the stadium was located. The procession was led by Mohammed Marrakchi, an acquaintance who often acted as the referee in the tournaments where the neighborhood kids played. Regardless of whether he was on the job or not, Namouss always saw him with a whistle glued to his lips. It must be said that he was a good guy, who was both patient and reasonable. He would have made a good teacher. Marrakchi took it upon himself to keep an eye on the procession to ensure it was orderly. At its head was an advance party of men with bendirs and other percussion instruments, followed by horn players, with a horde of confused-looking men and children bringing up the rear. As long as they were in the Medina, the musicians restrained themselves, while the MAS supporters limited themselves to chanting the following anthem from time to time:
We’re going to the stadium
Oh champions of ours
Pass us the ball
Don’t forget about us . . .
Alongside everyone else, Namouss was shouting himself hoarse, filled with a sense of self-importance thanks to having made a common cause with them. He had no idea of the long walk that lay in store for him. Once they’d reached Bab Boujeloud, they would hit Bab Jdid, walk through the mellah, and still have a good deal of ground to cover before getting to the stadium. It didn’t cross anyone’s mind to take the bus or rent a horse-drawn carriage to save time. The walk to the stadium needed to be enthusiastic so as to send a message to all nearby inhabitants who might have been either indifferent or undecided. On reaching the gates of the municipal stadium, the crowd suddenly lost all discipline. It was every man for himself as people scrambled to buy tickets. There was nothing resembling a queue. People tried to slip around, above, and below one another. Elbows were employed, hips were used to create room, even the occasional punch when necessary. In that scramble for tickets, the strongest emerged victorious. As for the weaklings, the fainthearted, and those made effeminate by having been raised with good manners, they were left with no option but to deal with the scalpers, where they paid dearly for their ineptitude. It was a different story for children, who were divided into two categories. Those accompanied by their fathers or an older brother didn’t face any problems. Their entry was free as long as they were under ten. But this would give rise to issues with the ticket inspectors, who occasionally would turn a blind eye in exchange for a favor. As for those kids who weren’t accompanied, the feeling of suspense would last until the gates were finally shut. This would involve finding an adult on his own and then imploring him to take them by the hand so they could go in. It was the luck of the draw; one could chance upon a kind soul or a heart of stone. There was no way of knowing how it would turn out. The ones who got left behind were legion. They made do by following the match from afar, trying their best to interpret the booing, the cheering, the clapping, and the outbursts of music. Only when the second half of the game was well under way would the ticket inspector take pity on them and fling open the gates, a
llowing them to gather the crumbs of a mass that was nearing its end.
That day, fortunately, the ticket inspector was more than compassionate. The religious-nationalistic streak in him must have led him to a simple conclusion: The more Muslims there were to encourage the home team, the better. Namouss was admitted into the temple of temples without encountering any opposition: not into the grandstands, of course, but in the standing-only area, and not in the middle but at the very back, next to the woods. That’s where he followed the match from, looking through the wire fence surrounding the field, under the burning sun.
Following the referees, the players began to come out of the locker rooms. First came the Roches Noires players, who were greeted with timid catcalls. The players, however, did strike a fine appearance in their black-and-white-checked uniforms. They dispersed on one side of the field and started doing warm-ups. Their athletic build, suppleness, and imposing bulk were plain for all to see, inspiring an apprehensiveness that the spectators did their best to dispel. A sense of relief started to kick in once the first MAS players entered the field. Emotions were running high. It was a fateful moment. Had Couscous made the cut or not? Phew, there he was. He was greeted by thunderous applause followed by an uproar of bendirs and horns. The green-and-reds were all accounted for. MAS took possession of the remaining half of the field and gave a few acrobatic displays with their passing and dribbling, making the spectators even more enthusiastic. Zemmouri, who specialized in this sort of thing, and Cortès, who was renowned for his headers, took center field. Farina and Jamaï were puffing their chests and hot-footing it back and forth while hugging the sidelines. El-Manjra, the goalkeeper, who was idolized above everyone else, followed the display and scrupulously slipped on his gloves.
Only a few minutes after kickoff, something astonishing happened. An eerie silence descended over the grandstands and the standing-only area. The opposing team had gained the upper hand. What was more, the fact that the referee was both nit-picking and a Nazarene didn’t help things. He kept calling one penalty after the other, especially those committed by Couscous. The relentless persecution of a player who had just recovered from an injury provoked widespread anger. The catastrophe continued to unfold until Roches Noires succeeded in scoring a goal just before the end of the first half, despite a brilliant dive by El-Manjra. The crowd went into mourning. The musicians piped down. The halftime break saw analyses and counter-analyses made. The united front began to fall apart. Some stuck to their guns and fiercely defended their team and argued that the referee was biased and blamed the goal they’d suffered on bad luck. Others went over to the opposition and hurled torrents of grievous abuse. They were saying some pretty nasty things. Once the subject of adulation, Couscous was now considered the son of a slave – as if they’d just noticed that he was black. Thanks to having supposedly let the ball slip right between his legs, El-Manjra was called a pansy and a failure. While Cortès, the header virtuoso, was caricatured by the cartoonist as having a rotten melon instead of a head. Someone even ventured that the match had been fixed and that the MAS management had sold out to the enemy. The atmosphere was getting heated. Fights broke out. Mokhaznis armed with cudgels intervened to restore order. It was a bad day for people selling peanuts, chips, and fried sweets. They were forced to shout their heads off, and very few of their usual customers had the stomach for that sort of thing.
When the second half began, it was the home team’s turn to be greeted with boos and hisses, which were quickly drowned out by the applause of the loyalists, who were still in the majority. The second half started off with a surprise attack by MAS, allowing the public to see its team recover its proverbial punch. There was hope still, but time was quickly running out, and the Roches Noires defense seemed as impenetrable as a concrete wall. Then, during the last fifteen minutes, a MAS player was fouled right in the penalty area.
“Pinanti! Pinanti!” the crowd screamed.
The referee seemed to hesitate, but faced with the public outcry, he granted MAS the penalty kick. Couscous dashed up from the back of the field to transform it. And he scored.
So the match ended in a draw, the worst kind of outcome for the majority of the spectators, who saw no sense in a contest unless there were clear winners and losers. That was the law. The walk downhill back to the Medina was gloomy, and the post-match analysis that took place the following day in the fine-leather workshop was filled with dismay. Sticking to his guns, the leatherworker tried to reassure his audience with another dictum that ought to be etched in marble: “Up until the final match, a championship can be won or lost.”
Having been an honorary witness to the crazy events on that day and its mixed results, Namouss didn’t know what to make of it all. His knowledge of soccer was patchy. He still didn’t know the offside rule, for example. Why is a player, who manages to slip past the opposing team’s defense and take up the best position to score, sanctioned? These tricks were very much allowed during the matches they played in the Bab Guissa cemetery, so much the worse for anyone who got caught out by these wily tactics. Beyond these technical considerations, it was all too clear that Namouss’s interest in soccer remained lukewarm at best. Ever since the Small Springs incident, large crowds made him nervous. Especially when they shouted, shoved, and got all riled up for reasons that more or less eluded him. Sometimes, when he began to feel faint, he had the odd temptation to let himself be overrun and carried away by a black cloud right up to the point of losing all consciousness. What instinct, fascination, or denial was at play here? He was at a loss, and had yet to find his way within the dark forest of questions.
17
TIME WAS PASSING, and Namouss didn’t quite perceive it. He barely sensed the winds of change shyly blowing through his town, even though the signs were all there. What was happening to the Fezzis? Defying what people might say, some had recently started enrolling their daughters in school, even going so far as to allow the ones of marriageable age to go out in public without their head scarves and to dress in European-style clothes. Some married women also followed suit. They abandoned their head scarves, wore shoes with heels, and – scaling the heights of audacity – cut their hair short. Witnesses even reported seeing one of those Amazons behind the wheel of a car! An even more astounding rumor made the rounds regarding a young woman who had enrolled at a flight-training college and would soon qualify as a pilot.
This emancipatory momentum was accompanied by another phenomenon, which was considered more controversial for a different reason. Example: the sudden craze for imported household goods. Chinese ceramics began competing with traditional pottery. Bronze, silver, and copperware were progressively supplanted by plastics and tins. Namouss had witnessed this particular transformation when Driss decided one day to get rid of what he considered old junk: teapots, kettles, ewers, candlesticks, tea and sugar caddies, as well as antique trays. The whole lot was sold off to a shopkeeper in Nejjarine Square and replaced by newer items. While the proceeds of this transaction certainly added much-needed income to the meager family coffers, what was more astonishing was that Ghita raised no objections to this ransacking of her heirlooms.
Yet another change: While Radio Medina remained the preferred source of gossip and word-of-mouth news, many increasingly started turning to more reliable outlets. Once strictly reserved for the wealthy, radio sets began to grace most households, taking pride of place in the middle of the living room, and often decorated by beautiful embroidered cloths and crowned by a vase of artificial flowers. One steered clear of Radio Morocco, which was the colonial government’s mouthpiece, and instead tuned in to stations broadcast from Cairo or Moscow, as well as the BBC and Voice of America. People paid particularly close attention to the news but also took delight in listening to Oriental songs. Umm Kulthum, or the “Star of the East” as she was widely known, was already universally popular, but the radio facilitated the sensational rise of crooners such as Mohammed Abdel Wahab and Farid al-Atrash. It brought turmoil to f
ormerly peaceful households, pitting brother against sister, sundering long-standing friendships – basically, it split society into two rival camps: those fanatics who pledged their loyalty to the Son of the Pharaohs and those equally fanatic fans of the Lebanese Druze. So it was no coincidence that moviegoing became astonishingly popular, and Namouss plunged headfirst into this craze.
THREE CINEMAS VIED for the patronage of the people of Fez. The most popular ones by far were the one situated in the somewhat rural neighborhood of El-Achabine and the one way out toward Bab Ftouh. The third, in Boujeloud, was frequented by a more sophisticated clientele and allowed women to while away their afternoons there. The competition between cinemas was stirred by which films were being shown. The El-Achabine specialized in detective films, Bab Ftouh showed Westerns, and Boujeloud practically had a monopoly on Egyptian films. Namouss ran with the hares and hunted with the hounds. He needed his weekly fix on Friday afternoons, which demanded much effort on his part. He was now too old to get in free with one of his older brothers. Making himself small didn’t fool the ticket inspector either. He had to pay. But securing the money was never a sure thing since Driss was the only one he could go to. The waiting game would commence at the beginning of the week and last right up until an hour before the start of the film on Friday afternoon. During this time, Namouss was on the lookout for any sign as to whether Driss was or wasn’t favorably inclined. Everything would depend on how business had gone for him that week at the souk: whether enough orders had come in, whether he had paid his rent arrears for the shop, and whether the cost of his materials had gone up or down. These considerations were augmented by others, most notably the pressures Ghita faced in setting aside enough money each day for the family budget, pressures that understandably affected her mood whenever Namouss got too insistent. But most difficult of all was Driss’s habit of taking a siesta right after the midday meal on Fridays. Was this a ruse to avoid dipping into his choukara? Namouss was sure of it. He was left with no option but to make his request at the most unpropitious time, running the risk of receiving a flat refusal. As a result, he would pester Ghita to intercede on his behalf. She would begrudgingly consent but then pull out at the last minute. Namouss would be forced to approach the foot of the bed where his father was fast asleep. Driss would then sit up and, muttering some incomprehensible curses, would thrust his hand into his choukara and pull out a horribly crumpled ten-douro note, toss it on the ground, and immediately go back to sleep. Namouss would sheepishly pick it up and hightail it out of the house.
The Bottom of the Jar Page 15
