The Spider's House

by Paul Bowles

  It was as if they were making a slow descent down one side of a gigantic funnel. The sloping ground beneath the trees was brown with a deep mass of the dried long leaves from other years; the light, a constantly shifting mixture of filtered sun and shade, had become gray. The grove was completely silent, save for the sound of the wheels on the fine gravel.

  When they arrived at the bottom, they got down and walked, for the ground was soft. Through the willows ahead they could see the still surface of the tiny lake.

  “Ah,” said Mohammed with satisfaction. “This is paradise.”

  There was no one in sight. He propped his bicycle against a tree and before Amar had even arrived at the spot, he had stripped off his shirt and serrouelle. He had no underwear.

  “You’re going to swim like that?” said Amar, surprised. Since he had been working with the potter he had bought himself two pairs of cotton shorts, one of which he was now wearing under his trousers.

  Mohammed was hopping up and down, first on one foot and then on the other, in his eagerness to get into the water. He laughed. “Just like this,” he said.

  “But suppose someone comes? Suppose women come, or some French?”

  Mohammed was not concerned. “You can come and get my trousers for me.”

  It did not seem like a very practical arrangement to Amar, but there was nothing else to do; if Mohammed were going to swim at all he would have to swim naked. Together they ran out into the sheet of icy water, splashing ahead until it was up to their shoulders. Then they swam back and forth violently, exaggerating each gesture because öf the cold. When they had used up their first spurt of energy they climbed onto a small concrete dam that had been built at one end of the lake, and rested in the sun on the dry part of the construction that was above the spillway. Here they told jokes and chuckled until the sun became so hot on their bodies that the dark world beneath the surface of the water again began to seem a desirable place to be. However, it appeared to have been tacitly agreed that they would wrestle to keep from being the first one to go in. They soon stopped, because they had both realized simultaneously that the drop from the dam’s far side down onto the dry rocks below was a good deal too high to risk in case one of them slipped. Standing up, they caught their breath, and as if at a signal, dove into the water. By this time Amar had only one thing in his mind, and that was his breakfast. In the middle of a series of gasps, bubbles and flying water-drops he announced the fact to Mohammed; the shoreward trip became a race.

  Amar arrived at the muddy bank first, loped under the willows to where his bicycle was, and unstrapped the parcel tied to the back of it. They took the food to a rock up the shore a bit and sat there in the sun eating. It was while they were sitting here that they became aware of the presence, among the rocks on the opposite shore, of another boy, who was carefully washing his clothes and spreading them on the rocks to dry. Shading his eyes with his hand, Mohammed watched for a while. “Djibli,” he announced presently. It was of no interest to Amar whether the boy was from the mountains or the city, and he continued to munch on his dates and bread, looking out over the water, around at the small cactus-studded hills that ringed the lake basin, and occasionally up at the sky, where at one point a hawk came sailing into the range of his vision, plunged, glided, and moved off behind the high curved horizon.

  “Where are you working now?” asked Mohammed. Amar told him. “How much?” Amar cut the true figure in half. “How is it? Good maallem?” Amar shrugged. The shrug and the grimace that went with it meant: Is anything good now? and the other understood and agreed. Mohammed, Amar knew, worked on and off in one or another of his father’s shops. He settled back; his position on the rock was comfortable, and all he wanted was to recline there for a few minutes in the sun and enjoy the feeling of having eaten. But Mohammed was fidgety and kept shifting around and talking; Amar found himself wishing that he had come alone.

  “Another big fire near Ras el Ma last night,” said Mohammed. “Eighteen hectares.”

  “When the summer’s over, there won’t be any wheat left in Morocco,” Amar remarked.

  “Hope not.”

  “What’ll we do for bread next winter?”

  “There won’t be any,” said Mohammed flatly.

  “And what’ll we eat?”

  “Leave that to the French. They’ll send wheat from France.”

  Amar was not so sure. “Maybe,” he said.

  “Better if they don’t. The trouble will start sooner if people are hungry.”

  It was easy for Mohammed to talk that way, because he was reasonably certain that he himself would not ever be in need of food. His father was a merchant, and probably had enough flour and oil and chickpeas stored in the house to last for two years if the need should arise. The middle-class and wealthy Fassi always had enormous private provisions to draw on in the event of emergency. To be able to weather a siege was part of the city’s tradition; there had been several such situations even since the French occupation.

  “Is that what the Istiqlal says?” Amar asked.

  “What?” Mohammed was staring across at the country boy, who had finished his laundering and now was squatting naked atop a large rock, waiting for the garments to dry.

  “That people should be hungry?”

  “You can see that yourself, can’t you? If people are living the same as always, with their bellies full of food, they’ll just go on the same way. If they get hungry and unhappy enough, something happens.”

  “But who wants to be hungry and unhappy?” said Amar.

  “Are you crazy?” Mohammed demanded. “Or don’t you want to see the French get out?”

  Amar had not intended to get caught this way on the wrong side of the conversation. “May the dogs burn in Hell,” he said. That was one of the troubles with the Istiqlal, with all politics: you talked about people as though they were not really people, as though they were only things, numbers, animals, perhaps, but not really people.

  “Have you been in the Zekak er Roumane this week?” Mohammed asked.

  “No.”

  “When you go through, look up at the roofs. Some of the houses there have tons of rocks. Ayayay! You can see them. They have them piled so they look like walls, but they’re all loose, ready to throw.”

  Amar felt his heart beat faster. ‘Ouallah?”

  “Go and look,” said Mohammed.

  Amar was silent a moment. Then he said: “Something big’s going to happen, right?”

  “B’d draa. It’s got to,” Mohammed said casually.

  Suddenly Amar remembered something he had been told about the Lalami family. Mohammed’s father, having discovered that Mohammed’s elder brother was a member of the Istiqlal, had put him out of the house, and the brother had gone off to Casablanca and been caught by the police. He was now in prison, awaiting trial along with some twenty other youths who had been apprehended at the same time for their activity in terrorist work, particularly in smuggling crates of hand grenades over the frontier from Spanish Morocco. He was something of a hero, because people said that he and another Fassi had been singled out by the French press as being particularly dastardly and brutal in certain of the murders they had committed. Then probably Mohammed knew a good deal more than he would say, and he could not even be asked whether the story about the brother were true or false; etiquette forbade it.

  “What are you going to do when the day comes?” he finally said.

  “What are you going to do?” countered Mohammed.

  “And,? I don’t know.”

  Mohammed smiled pityingly. Amar looked at the shape of his mouth and felt a wave of dislike for him.

  “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” Mohammed said firmly. “I’m going to do what I’m told.”

  Amar was impressed in spite of himself. “Then; you’re a—”

  Mohammed interrupted. “I’m not a member of anything. When the day comes everybody will take orders. Majabekfina.”

  Amar tried not to th
ink of the scene that would ensue were he to say what was on the tip of his tongue at the moment. This was: “Including rich men, like your father?” It was too much of an insult to utter, even in fun. Then for a moment, like a true Moslem, he contemplated the beauties of military discipline. There could be nothing, he reflected, to equal a government which was simply the honest enforcement, by means of the sword, of the laws of Islam. Perhaps the Istiqlal, if it were successful, could bring back that glorious era. But if the party wanted that, why had it never mentioned it in its propaganda? While the true Sultan had been in power the party had talked about the rich and the poor, and complained about not being able to print its newspaper the way it wanted to, and indirectly criticized the monarch for little things he had done and other little things he ought to have done. But ever since the French had taken the Sultan away, the party had spoken of nothing but bringing him back. If he returned, everything would be the same as it had been before, and the Istiqlal had certainly not been pleased with the state of affairs then.

  “Yah, Mohammed,” said Amar presently. “Why does the party want to see Sidi Mohammed Khamis back on the throne?”

  Mohammed looked at him incredulously, and spat over the edge of the rock into the water. “Enta rrìdouagh,” he said with disgust. “The Sultan will never come back, and the party doesn’t want to see him back.”

  “But—”

  “It’s not the party’s fault, is it, if all the people in Morocco are hemir, donkeys? If you can’t understand that, then you’d better begin eating a different kind of hay yourself.”

  Mohammed’s head was tilted far back, his eyes were closed; he looked very pleased with himself. Amar felt his own heart suddenly become pointed in his chest. It was fortunate, he thought, that Mohammed could not see his expression at that moment, as he looked at him, for he surely would not have liked it. Some of his anger was personal, but most of it was resentment at having been allowed a sudden unexpected glimpse of what was wrong with his native land, of what had made it possible for a few Nazarene swine to come in and rule over his countrymen. In a situation where there was everything to be gained by agreement and friendliness there could be nothing but suspicion, hostility and bickering. It was always that way; it would go on being that way. He sighed, and got to his feet.

  Mohammed sat up and looked across the water. The country boy was wandering among the rocks over which he had spread his pieces of clothing, feeling them to see if they were dry. Mohammed went on looking, his eyes very narrow. Finally he glanced up at Amar.

  “Let’s swim across and have some fun with him,” he suggested. And as Amar did not respond, he continued: “If you’ll hold him for me I’ll hold him for you.”

  The words that came out escaped from Amar’s lips before he had formed them in his mind. “I’ll hold your mother for you,” he said viciously, without looking down at him.

  Mohammed leapt to his feet. “Kifach?” he cried. “What was that?” His eyes were rolling; he looked like a maniac.

  Now Amar looked at him, calmly, although his heart had more sharp points than ever, and he was breathing fast. “I said I’d hold your mother for you. But only if you’ll hold your sister for me.”

  Mohammed could not believe his ears. And even when he reminded himself that Amar had said it twice, so that there could be no doubt, he still had no immediate reflex. There seemed to be no possible gesture to make: they were standing too close together, their faces and bodies almost touching. Accordingly Mohammed stepped backward, but lost his balance, and fell into the shallow water at the foot of the rocks. Amar sprang after him, conscious of being still in the air as Mohammed’s back hit the surface of the water, and conscious, an instant later, of having landed more or less astride Mohammed’s belly, which was only slightly submerged. Mohammed was bubbling and groaning, trying to lift his head above the water; the water was so shallow that he had hit the stones. Amar stood up; Mohammed staggered to his feet, covered with mud, and still wailing. Then with a savage cry he lunged at Amar, and the two fell together back into the water. This time it was Amar’s turn to have his head pounded upon the bed of the lake. Pebbles, stiff, slippery leaves and rotten sticks were ground against his face; the world was a chaotic churning of air and water, light and darkness. He felt Mohammed’s hard weight pushing him down—an elbow here, a knee there, a hand on his throat. He relaxed a second, then put all his effort into a rebound which partially dislodged Mohammed’s grip. Twice he drove his fist up into Mohammed’s belly as hard as he could, managing to lift his head above the water and breathe once. Drawing his leg back, he delivered a kick which reached a soft part of Mohammed’s body. A second later they were both on their feet, each one conscious only of the eyes, nose and mouth of the other. Now it was merely a matter of perseverance. Amar’s fist went well into the socket of Mohammed’s left eye. “Son of gonorrhea!” Mohammed bellowed. Almost at the same instant Amar had the impression that he had run headlong into a wall of rocks. The pain was just below the bridge of his nose. He choked, knew it was blood running down his throat, recoiled and spat what he had collected of it into Mohammed’s face, hitting him just below the nose. Then he rammed his head into Mohammed’s stomach, knocking him backwards, and following through with another, better planned blow with the top of his head which sent Mohammed sprawling on the muddy ground of the shore. He leapt, sat once more astride him and pounded his face with all his might. At first Mohammed made powerful efforts to rise, then his resistence lessened, until eventually he was merely groaning. Still Amar did not stop. The blood that poured from his nose had run down his own body onto Mohammed’s head and chest.

  When he was positive that Mohammed was not merely playing a trick in order to lunge at him unexpectedly, he got unsteadily to his feet and gave the boy’s head a terrific kick with his bare heel. He had to keep sniffing to keep the blood from coming out his nostrils; the thought came to him that he had better wash himself.

  He squatted a few meters out from the shore and bathed hurriedly, constantly glancing back to be sure that Mohammed was still lying in the same position. The cold water seemed to be stanching the bleeding, and he continued to splash handfuls of it into his face, snuffing it up his nose. When he went back to dress he stopped and knelt down beside Mohammed. Seen this way, his features in repose, the downy tan skin of his face looking very soft where it showed among the smears of blood and dirt, he was not hateful. But what a difference there was between what Amar could see now of Mohammed and what Mohammed was like inside! It was a mystery. He had been going to bang his head against the ground, but now he no longer wanted to, because Mohammed was not there; it was a stranger lying naked before him. He got up and went to dress. Without looking back again, he led his bicycle out to the road, got on, and rode away. When the gradient got too steep he had to walk.

  The eucalyptus grove seemed even more silent than it had a while ago. At the top, as he was about to emerge onto the long straight road across the plain, he imagined he heard a voice calling from below. It was hard to tell; what would Mohammed be calling him for? He stood still and listened. Certainly someone was shouting in the grove, but far away. The voice sounded hollow and distorted. And he still would have said that it was saying his name, save that it was inconceivable under the circumstances that Mohammed should do such a thing. Or perhaps not; perhaps he had no money and was more frightened of facing the Frenchman in the bicycle shop than he was ashamed of calling out to Amar. In any case, Amar was not going to wait and see. Feeling perverse and unhappy, he mounted the bicycle again and sped off under the noonday sun, back toward the city.

  CHAPTER 7

  Like most of the boys and younger men who had been born in Fez since the French had set up their rival Fez only a few kilometers outside the walls, Amar had never formed the habit of going to a mosque and praying. For all but the well-to-do, life had become an anarchic, helter-skelter business, with people leaving their families and going off to other cities to work, or entering the army where th
ey were sure to eat. Since it is far more sinful to pray irregularly than not to pray at all, they had merely abandoned the idea of attempting to live like their elders, and trusted that in His all-embracing wisdom Allah would understand and forgive. But often Amar was not sure; perhaps the French had been sent as a test of the Moslems’ faith, like a plague or a famine, and Allah was watching each man’s heart closely, to see whether he was truly keeping the faith. In that case, he told himself, how irate He must be by this time, seeing into what evil ways His people had fallen. There were moments when he felt very far from Allah’s grace, and this was one of them, as he pedaled at top speed through the dried-up fields, with the huge sun above his head sending down its deadly heat upon him.

  He knew that Mohammed had been at fault, but only in a way he could not help—only for being Mohammed; whereas he himself was truly to blame for wanting Mohammed to be something other than what it had been written that he must be. He knew that no man could be changed by anyone but Allah, yet he could not prevent himself from feeling resentful that Mohammed had not turned out to be the possible friend he was looking for, in whom he could confide, who could understand him.

  Djebel Zalagh was there ahead of him, behind the invisible Medina, looking not very imposing from this angle—merely a higher part of the long ridge that seemed to continue indefinitely from one side of the horizon to the other. And in the heat haze today, it had no color but gray, a dead color, like ashes. The Arab city of course could not be seen because it was built in what was really a wide crevasse below the plateau of the plain; its position made it warmer in the winter, because it was sheltered from the icy winds that swept across the plain, and cooler in summer, because the merciless rays of the sun did not strike it with quite so much force. Then, too, the river coursed in countless channels through the ravine on whose slopes the Medina was built, and that helped to cool the air. The inhabitants were fond of pointing out to one another, as well as to visitors, the insufferable climate of the Ville Nouvelle, for the French had built their city squarely in the plain, and as a consequence it was open to all the excesses of the intemperate Moroccan weather. Amar could not understand how anyone, even the French, could be so stupid as to waste so much money building so large a city when it could never be any good, since the land on which it was built was worthless in the beginning. He had been there in the winter and felt the blasts of bitterly cold wind that rushed through the wide streets; nowhere in the world, he was sure, could the air be more inhospitable and unsuited for human beings to live in. “It’s poison,” he would report when he returned to the Medina from a trip to the Ville Nouvelle. And in the summer, in spite of the trees they had planted along their avenues, the air was still and breathless, and at the end of each street you saw the dead plain there, baking in the terrible sunlight.