The Bottom of the Jar

by Abdellatif Laabi

  The particulars of those days were glossed over by the tragic outcome that severely affected us. The predators had made their move under the cover of night. Unable to break the strike, they resorted to attacking the properties of the strikers. We learned the news early in the morning. My father almost rushed out of the house barefoot. He ran to the Sekkatine souk and discovered that the shop had been broken into and its contents looted. Every shop in the souk – as well as those in neighboring souks – had met with the same fate.

  On his return, and after he had given his account of the disaster that had befallen us, we felt the ground was being yanked from under our feet. The door of the future was slammed in our faces. How could we comfort one another? Each of us retreated into silence, and Driss’s was by far the loudest.

  20

  THE SKY WAS never quiet for long in Fez. You only had to bother looking at it. Why did it fascinate me so much, since I had never even heard the word “poetry” and could only muster “stars” to describe the myriad celestial bodies glittering in the night heavens?

  My word-hoard was a meager, meager affair. The inability to pin down the objects in my mind and say “you are called this, and you that” infuriated me. And since I have recognized you and named you with my own mouth, come now, stop being so mysterious, follow me. Jump into my pocket and let’s go! You will be companions during my journey, my confidantes, and should we encounter danger along the road, you will become the tongue of my cry and the instruments of my courage.

  The terrace of our home in the Siaj neighborhood was gargantuan in comparison to the Lilliputian one of our Egyptian in the Spring of Horses. The tiny theater of my first reveries had given way to a vast hanging amphitheater. From there I could behold the entire Medina, from the top of its head to the tip of its toes. Did the Medina reflect the sky, or was it the other way around? My eyes couldn’t make up their mind. They lost themselves in that mirror game and reveled in the feeling of loss. My city knew how to leave its mark on its patch of sky and my sky was the most eloquent poet of its city. I was the passive, diligent scribe of this learned discourse. I transcribed its music and gave myself over to it so as to get to know myself. My body rid itself of the ballast of its weight and for a while I felt I was capable of flying without wings.

  A good thing no one ever saw me or heard the rosary of my ramblings click its beads inside my head. Because of the nature of the time we were living in, I would have been accused of being indifferent to the suffering that was being inflicted on us and labeled a defeatist. Ideas needed to be clear, practical, and put to the service of a decisive battle. That said, I had no idea the sky was about to deliver a wholly different message.

  It was toward the end of July and there was a full moon on the rise. It had been a year since the king of the country had been forced to abdicate the throne and sent into exile. He was now living under house arrest in a distant African island that Driss insisted on calling Madame Cascar. Alongside everyone else in the family who was educated, I was amused by this eccentric way of pronouncing it. We had long since located the big island on the map of the dark continent and started to study it. We were less interested in Antananarivo, the capital, than we were in the more modestly sized city of Antsiranana, where Ben Youssef had been banished. There were numerous parallels between the histories of our countries. Both were protectorates. Once upon a time, the queen of the empire had also been made to abdicate and sent into exile. It was clear that our colonial masters didn’t like monarchs. It’s to be expected, one of the more erudite among us said, it’s been quite a while since they cut off their own king’s head.

  “Who rules them then?”

  “A leader that they choose every seven years. At which point it’s someone else’s turn.”

  “Who picks him?”

  “Everyone, men and women.”

  “Even porters?”

  “If they lived over there even Aâssala, Mikou, or Chiki Laqraâ would be able to choose.”

  “And what do the ulama18 think about that?”

  “The ulama in France don’t concern themselves with these matters.”

  “Who concerns himself with these matters then?”

  “People like Belhassan Ouazzani.”

  “Does he agree with the people who cut the kings’ heads off?”

  “Not at all. He and the sultan go hand in hand.”

  “What about Allal?”

  “Him too. Even more so.”

  “More than what?”

  “You’re making my head ache with all your questions. Wait until you’ve grown up, then you’ll understand.”

  It can’t be said that I didn’t make an effort.

  BEN YOUSSEF HAD come back!

  The rumor swept over our city like a gigantic wave rising from a raging inner sea. Since we weren’t experienced mariners, we were dragged to its depths and swept away by the current. We didn’t know what to clutch on to in order to welcome the good tidings without losing our minds. From the four corners of the city, clusters of human beings in every house formed chains to buffer the shock and begin to react. When we had finally recovered the ability to speak, all we could do was stutter our way through questions like excited birds: What, what, what? When? Where? With whom? How? By sea or by air? By a car or on horseback? Is it really him or is it a clone? Has he given a speech? Has anyone seen him with their own eyes or heard him with their own ears? What is the radio saying? Where can we find out more?

  The wave continued to sweep over us and little by little Fez transformed into a sort of Noah’s ark. Belief won out and soothed our hearts. Having remained blue throughout the storm, the sky comes to mind as a happy memory. It saw to it that the sun offered us a glorious sunset. Its face blushed a deep crimson, with gentle fire. When the muezzins sang their call to prayer, their voices had such a sweet languor it was as if the words had transformed. All of a sudden, the swell receded. We continued floating in our ark, rocked by the lyrical call to prayer and the graceful light.

  Did we dine that evening? There’s no way to be sure. We needed to talk, to pay visits to one another, to touch one another, to add to one another’s happiness, and to plan, to plan for our future with our pens and our ink, our own colors.

  We rediscovered our hands, hands that had never stopped painting, writing, drawing, sculpting, engraving, illustrating, weaving, braiding, embroidering, hammering, sewing, gluing, paving, grinding, plastering, distilling, molding clay, iron, silver, leather, bronze, feeding children, the poor, orphans, guests, and God’s madmen. Our hands that we had doubted and that were now opening up, palms to the sky, so that it could bless them and bestow its manna upon them.

  Upon that, night fell. We felt happiness glow within to the point that we didn’t need to switch on many lights. That was when we heard the first ululations. Others rose up in reply, then the trilling intensified, amplifying to the point that the walls began to tremble. Ghita gave vent to her frustration and joined the fray. My sister Zhor immediately replied in kind. At that moment, someone knocked on our door and gave this astonishing piece of news: Ben Youssef appeared on the moon!

  “Let’s go up to the terrace!” Driss yelled.

  We rushed up the stairs. The farther we climbed, the more the concert tore at our hearts. Once in the open air, we bumped into our first-floor neighbors. In the rush, none of the women had slipped into their djellabas or covered their faces. They were in house clothes. The men didn’t notice anything amiss. They were distracted, their necks craned toward the sky. The neighboring terraces were also crowded with people. It seemed like all of the city’s inhabitants were gathered on the rooftops to observe the phenomenon. Wave after wave of ululations rose, punctuated by invocations that had some trouble finding their tempo at first, before melting into a single mold and agreeing on a common slogan:

  Moulana ya doul-jalal

  Ben Youssef wa-l-istiqlal!

  Oh Lord of glory

  Ben Youssef and independence!

  As t
his was happening around me, the moon-gazing produced several wholly different interpretations. Ghita, whose sight was deteriorating, asked whether the sultan was standing up or on horseback.

  “What horse?” Driss scoffed. “Open your eyes, you can only see his face.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to teach me how to look? I tell you there’s a horse up there. I’m absolutely certain of it.”

  “Return to God woman. It’s just the shadow of his djellaba’s hood. Can’t you see the sultan’s eyes, his nose?”

  “What about his mouth, where is that then?”

  “Where do you think it is? On his forehead?”

  Employing her renowned gift for pedagogy, Zhor cut in and pointed at the moon.

  “Let me show you, dear Mother. The face is right in the middle. Follow my finger.”

  “Where is your finger? Think I’ve got cat’s eyes?”

  “Here it is, hold on to it, and follow me as I show you. There, that’s the outline of the djellaba’s hood. There’s his round face, and here are his lips.”

  “Ah yes, dear, it seems you’re right. Now I can see his mouth, and it’s as if it were getting ready to talk.”

  While everyone was reaching a consensus, I tried my best to determine what I was looking at. Alas, even though I really applied myself – the moon as my witness – the results were hardly conclusive. It was certainly shining more than usual and some unrecognizable shapes could be glimpsed. Yet I could see nothing resembling a clearly defined face, regardless of whether it looked anything like the sultan’s. In any case, the portrait of his that I was familiar with – which my father had destroyed in his moment of panic – depicted him in profile, with a watani on his head, and everyone around me was speaking of a head rather than a face, and that it was covered with a hood. That said, how could I possibly doubt, even for a single moment, the reality of what everyone unanimously agreed they could see, a vision that was becoming increasingly detailed, and which they were waving at with great joy and devotion? I could only put my inability to see the sultan down to poor eyesight and other infirmities connected to my age. Adults had faculties that I clearly lacked. The simplest option was to blindly believe them. From there I’d be only a step away from a true leap of faith, and wanting to dispel my doubts, I took the plunge. I surprised myself by poking fun at Ghita, who was guilty of having dragged her feet before accepting the official interpretation.

  “I guess your horse flew away, huh?”

  “May he trample you under his hoofs and make mincemeat out of you!” she retorted.

  Faced with that less-than-enviable fate, the solution I found was to shout myself hoarse, joining with the chorus of invocations: Oh Lord of glory, Moulana ya doul-jalal . . .

  Was it the meager contribution I spilled into the communal emotion that brought on the steel bird? I was so naïve I actually believed that. Announced by a frightening roar, the helicopter sprang out of nowhere, lit up the star-studded sky with red and green flashes, and began spinning above our heads. A short silence followed, after which people let out a flood of hostile rebukes and angry gestures at the helicopter’s occupants. Disappointed by the negative reception, the helicopter rose straight up and flew past the moon, “on the double” one would have said, so as to obscure the sultan’s face, and then disappeared into the distance. The people clapped, drunk with victory. It didn’t last long. The helicopter announced its return. It reappeared and some believed they’d seen flashing lights leave its cockpit, accompanied by sharp explosions. Driss, an expert in this field by virtue of having handled fantasia rifles, cried out: “They’re bringing out the big guns!”

  Panic ensued. For once playing the role of mother hen, Ghita fussed over her chicks: “This isn’t a game anymore children. Go on, scram, kids, go downstairs.”

  We resolved not to budge, especially since we really hadn’t seen or heard anything this time. The helicopter had gone away once more, giving us a reprieve. People let out a sigh of relief and went back to the object of their fascination. A thin veil covered the moon. Yet this mist didn’t impede the conversation that was dissecting each and every detail. Our neighbor’s wife raved about how handsome the king was.

  “He is blessed by God,” she said, “an artist’s hand has drawn his eyebrows and endowed his eyes with the roundness of a crystal glass.”

  “His face shines with the light of Mecca,” Ghita added. “Even the moon must be jealous of it.”

  “Have you noticed how straight his nose is, how it’s neither turned up nor hooked?”

  “Is that a beauty spot on his cheek?”

  “Beauty spot or not, he has a rosy complexion. It’s as if blood were about to spurt from his cheeks.”

  Zhor made a bizarre remark: “Happy is the woman who enjoys her baraka day after day!”

  Faced with these tributes praising Ben Youssef’s physical charms, I would have expected the men to feel somewhat jealous. There wasn’t a bit of that. Leaving the women to their hackneyed attempts at poetry, the men brainstormed with the aim of producing some solid ideas. Our neighbor, who was keen on economics, came up with an analysis that made our mouths water.

  “Are you aware that when the French leave, we’ll be left with enough phosphates to cover a family’s needs for three months without having to work?”

  “It’s a steamed chicken served with its own cumin,” Driss exulted.

  “I’m afraid so, Sidi, and as for the lands that belong to the colonial settlers, we will repossess them and use them to grow enough wheat to feed every single Muslim on Earth.”

  “Barley will become something fit only for animal feed.”

  “We won’t have sent our children to school in vain. It won’t be long before they will become administrators and distribute what needs to be distributed.”

  “You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.”

  “Why not? We have emptied our choukaras so that they could become educated and climb to the top of the ladder. Now it’s time for us to put up our feet and relax.”

  “We certainly deserve to. We’ve slaved away our whole lives and worn out our hands and eyes. It is time to rest our heads on a pillow and retire in comfort.”

  “Istiqlal is a great thing,” our neighbor concluded emphatically.

  The celebrations died down only very late when the crowds on the terraces started to thin out. We followed suit. Once we’d gone downstairs, I noted with bitterness that we had skipped dinner. Ghita must have thought that we’d eaten enough with our eyes, and after all, inshallah, thanks to independence, we would soon feast to our heart’s content. Less susceptible to these arguments than my head, my stomach started to grumble. But I didn’t have a choice. I was therefore forced to avail myself of the only refreshment that was readily available: sleep.

  WHAT DID I dream of that night? Tales of gluttony, of course. It was a nzaha in the Bab Lahdid orchard. As with the previous occasion, the whole family was there, including Touissa, who was an early riser. The order of the day: a great feast. Ghita had secured the services of a caterer. There was the smell of barbecue in the air, as well as roast chicken, tagines, and the inevitable couscous. What was all this in honor of? It was twofold: We were celebrating Driss’s return from his pilgrimage to Mecca, and at the same time, we were waiting for a distinguished guest to make his appearance.

  The images rolled on, too jumpy for my taste. Driss was seated at the place of honor in the middle of the garden. He was wearing traditional garb and emanating an air of self-importance out of keeping with his character. He was holding his hands out in a dramatic way. Each of us then presented ourselves in front of him and congratulated him on his journey by loudly pronouncing his new title of haji and then kissing both sides of his hands. Ghita did the same and then seized the opportunity to slip in a humble request: “What about me, haji? When will you send me to see the Prophet’s grave?”

  “Soon, soon,” Driss replied in a lordly tone. “I won’t forget you.”

 
All this unfolded under the brightness of a . . . lune de plomb. The image was fleeting but its materiality left not a shadow of a doubt in the dreamer’s mind.

  Click click. The master of visions proceeded to the next slide. The whole gathering was seized with hysterical laughter. The reason? Me, sitting on a table with a watani on my head, reciting in an affected manner the nursery rhyme I had been taught by my brother Si Mohammed:

  Tonio and Cabeza

  And their accomplice, the bald one

  Surrounded by woods . . .

  Click click. A bunch of us were shaking the branches of a tree. Heavy golden fruit fell down. I tried to bite into one, and my teeth encountered nothing but metal.

  Click click. Ghita dashed toward the corner where the food was being prepared, shouting, “I smell something burning. What is that cook up to? May fever strike her down!”

  Click Click. The khatib who had been murdered in front of our house was there, as if he’d been invited, and he addressed us: “I have brought you a sugarloaf and some good Meknes mint.”

  Click click and knock knock. Someone knocked at the door of the garden. A commotion stirred outside, and Ben Youssef himself came in, flanked by two rows of dignitaries. His face looked exactly like it had on the moon. He stepped forward and we rushed over to kiss his hand. He took his seat at the place of honor and leaned over to Driss, asking him with a lisp: “Lithen up and tell me vere have I come from?”

  “From Madame Cascar, Sidi, and Moulay.”

  Ben Youssef broke into heartfelt laughter, and we joined in. My chuckle rose above all the others.

  It was the laughter that woke me up in a start. Alas, the only thing I’d savored at the zerda were the enticing smells in the air.

  THE SUN HAD risen on our city, which was in the grips of an altogether different dream. Dispatched by Ghita to buy some fritters – she made up for dinner by preparing us a kingly breakfast – I found everyone out on the street. People kept stopping – trying to outdo one another with eloquent greetings – to reminisce and delight in the vision they’d witnessed the previous night. Their faces were beaming, their breasts filled with a newfound pride. There was a crowd in front of the fritter vendor. Ghita hadn’t been the only one to have such an idea. I had to elbow my way through a little and stay alert so I wouldn’t miss my turn, while trying not to forget the orders I’d been given. I was to ask for a kilo of regular-size fritters, half a kilo of smaller ones, and three kilos of the ones glazed with eggs. It was all getting muddled up in my head when two kids approached the crowd and announced to whoever could hear: “Buy Ben Youssef on the moon!”