The Last Patriarch

by Najat El Hachmi

  There are various explanations of how he splattered himself in blood, but the one Mimoun himself recounts is notorious: he says he found a tortoise in the fields in front of the white house, took his shirt off and beheaded the poor animal on his shirt-front.

  Grandmother must have realised only someone who was really sick could do such a thing and she yielded to his blackmail, as she so often did in the course of her life. And that’s how the great patriarch got to know mother.

  13

  I can only tame you if you’re mine

  The two official versions have never accepted the idea that Mimoun and mother had seen each other before her hand was sought; both argue that chastity ruled out even premarital glances. On the other hand, my aunts’ version says they met several times before marrying and had plenty of cuddling sessions. We don’t know if they met, saw each other or took it further, they always said mother was too good a girl to flirt with a boy, even if he was going to be her future husband.

  Grandfather had asked for a loan to buy a splendid sack of sugar, biscuits, peanuts, mint and all kinds of vegetables, and had a number of chickens decapitated. He sent a messenger to inform second grandfather they were coming to ask for the hand of one of his daughters. They’d come on such and such a day, and for lunch. Second grandfather replied he would be honoured to welcome such an illustrious family into his house, the usual formula in the circumstances.

  So half the battle was won and Mimoun was readying himself for a great victory. That unknown man aroused a new feeling in him, a mixture of fear and respect. What would happen if he said no? He couldn’t bully a total stranger into giving in. If he threatened to kill himself, he’d certainly not be too worried, he’d be more anxious about the future safety of his daughter.

  Mimoun got up earlier than ever. He prayed conscientiously, even finishing a whole prayer, unable to recall the last time he’d done so. After bending down for the last time, he sat on his knees, clasped his hands together, looked blankly up at the sky and spoke to God directly in Rif, his own language, for the first time in his life. Please, my Lord, let her be my wife, my Lord.

  In the other bedroom grandmother must have been praying for exactly the opposite. She couldn’t imagine her sixteen-year-old son maintaining a wife, however strong and sturdy he’d grown, she couldn’t imagine him looking after a wife. Please, please, Lord, don’t give her to him.

  Mimoun donned the white Friday djellaba he’d not worn for a long time and his saffron-coloured slippers. He looked very serious in his traditional dress, and his collar was spotless. They took three donkeys and rode to the neighbouring village in two hours. Grandfather no doubt kept repeating: Above all, make sure you keep quiet.

  Mimoun thought that for once he should take note.

  When they arrived, the women went off together, while grandfather and Mimoun sat down with second grandfather and mother’s older brother. In that room smelling of incense Mimoun thought second grandfather looked a quiet man. He didn’t look at him too much because he was so embarrassed. He finally sat on one of the blankets placed either side of the room, very close to the door, in case he suddenly had to run out, and stared at the ground. Grandfather had never seen him behave like this before and second grandfather thought what a polite, peaceful, well brought up boy.

  The two grandfathers pitched into the litanies of mutual eulogies, that they’d heard so much about the family, that there was no one like them in the village, that people had held them in high esteem for generations and generations, that their honour was untarnished.

  Mimoun listened, not looking up and biting his lip, flexing the toes he was sitting on so they wouldn’t go to sleep. He didn’t even dare change his position. The two grandfathers must have been laughing quietly, while he could only think about the power that man wielded over his life and how he could do nothing if he decided he didn’t want him as a son-in-law.

  They served honey with a dab of butter in the middle, meat stew with plums and chicken with almonds, sweet couscous, fruit and little cakes, but Mimoun hardly ate a thing, despite second grandfather and mother’s older brother urging him on. No, no, I’m full. Go on, don’t be shy, we’re almost family, said second grandfather, and Mimoun’s heart leapt. Was that a yes or was it because he was the uncle of the wife of Mimoun’s second cousin? Yes, lad, yes, we’re family already, no need to stand on ceremony.

  As midday approached and you could hear the clatter of plates being washed in the yard, Mimoun’s wait became even more intolerable. That man seemed quieter than ever and now, when he looked at him, his presence seemed more powerful. He must have thought, bastard, you know you’re way above me, don’t you? Now let the tea brew, let’s talk about the present and how times have changed. The grandparents enjoyed conversing with the parsimony such occasions demand while Mimoun only wanted to shout: Will you give her to me or not?

  But he remembered what grandfather had said and remained silent.

  He was already half asleep when he heard him say: My friend, before it gets too late we ought to speak about the reason why we’ve come here. You must have already guessed we want you to give us the pleasure of being part of your family and for us to share our grandchildren. That’s why I ask the hand of your third daughter in marriage with my firstborn son Mimoun.

  Mimoun went red to the tips of his ears, even though his skin was dark.

  Second grandfather said his first two daughters were both deserving girls and he’d prefer the first to marry Mimoun. The latter suddenly turned to his father and grandfather must have given him a look that said wait, don’t rush.

  It’s an honour that you offer us the eldest of your daughters, but we’ve heard so much about your third daughter, her housekeeping skills, her obedient attitude, her excellent attitude, that my son and I think she is the right woman for him. You’ll have to let me consult the rest of the family, replied second grandfather.

  He left them and took a while to come back. Grandfather and Mimoun looked at each other and ran their eyes over the bumps on the whitewashed walls.

  The wait must have seemed eternal. Mimoun was thinking what he would do if second grandfather said no, I don’t want you for my daughter.

  They heard a woman let out a very loud you-you somewhere in the house and Mimoun couldn’t believe it.

  Second grandfather walked in and went straight over to shake first grandfather’s hand, all smiles. He offered his hand to Mimoun then, whose eyes were still glued to the wall and said congratulations.

  14

  I’m off

  God had listened to Mimoun and not his mother. That’s how it turned out, though nobody could believe it. Nobody. Even now no one can understand how that quiet man could give his daughter to that sixteen-year-old boy. If he’d been able to foresee the hard times awaiting his daughter with that innocent-seeming youngster he’d have kicked him out of his house there and then.

  The only way to explain it is to say that God listened to Mimoun rather than to his mother. And the fact is as soon as that word ‘congratulations’ left second grandfather’s lips the problems started.

  How would he pay for the engagement ceremony they’d fixed in six months’ time? And the rings? And how would they pay for the wedding two years later, when mother came of age?

  Nobody understood why the bride-to-be’s father, who was such a thoughtful man and a good father, hadn’t questioned Mimoun about these matters. Even today, if anyone asks, he shrugs his shoulders and looks bemused. I don’t know, I thought he looked a good lad.

  Nobody has ever said anything different, everyone has always said he’s a good lad with his heart in the right place.

  That’s why he spent the next six months at his older sister’s house–she was already married and lived in the city–working from dawn until dusk carrying sacks of cement, tiles and sand up and down. For the first time in his life Mimoun said yes to everything and did what he was told. He lived with auntie to save money on the journey from the city and back
.

  That way they enjoyed a break from him in the village and he enjoyed a break from them.

  He was so tired he stopped going out at night and chasing girls, and even refused an invitation from his brother-in-law to go to the house of a girlfriend who did you for a very good price.

  You need to get out more, Mimoun, auntie’s husband would say, you’re a young man and should be enjoying yourself. But Mimoun only thought of the money he had to get together for the ceremony, the clothes, the engagement ring and all the food they’d have to take. A sheep, chickens, etc. He’d have time enough later to think about sex; above all, he had to have her. He could have whores whenever he wanted, but he couldn’t let her escape. He didn’t know how, but he was sure that if he let him down, the bride’s father would change his life for good.

  So he loaded and unloaded endlessly, was coated in dust and sweated, certain he wasn’t destined to do this for long, only for the time being.

  Grandmother had accompanied Mimoun to the city, it must have been the second or third time she’d been. She smiled and looked around her at the constant to-ing and fro-ing of cars, alarmed by the klaxons and strident street sellers. She opened her eyes wide to capture every detail of the bustling and hassling, and dreaded being there with her son she still thought of as very young.

  Mimoun held her hand, nervous and happy to feel her so near, now he’d had time to miss her and knowing well that he’d soon miss her even more. Look, love, she’d say, standing in the middle of the pavement, not realising she was making life difficult for the other passers-by.

  Before going for lunch at auntie’s they went to all the shops selling gold along the corniche. Grandmother had never seen so many jewels together, piled up in shop windows. Thin bracelets in sets of seven, or thicker ones in threes was what people were wearing. And black pearl necklaces with gold coin medallions or gold Korans that opened and shut like real books. They must bear that in mind for the wedding two years hence, but now it was time to buy a good engagement ring.

  Grandmother’s eye would have been fascinated by one mounted with small precious stones, bunched together and all paste, of course, she wanted the biggest, so people would know which family was on the finger of that girl she’d had so little contact with. Mimoun kept saying no, mother, not this one, not that one either, or, why on earth do you like that one?

  But grandmother didn’t go out of her way to upset him, because she was pleased he’d finally worked hard to achieve his goal. Six months without Mimoun had meant six months of peace and quiet. She’d even put on weight, and the atmosphere at home was much more relaxed, as if it was less of an effort to smile or laugh.

  Nobody voiced this sentiment, but almost everyone felt relieved by the absence of the eldest son. Grandfather had nobody to grumble about, the older sisters didn’t suffer from his slightest whim, the young ones had more freedom and rival number two lived a slightly quieter life.

  And grandmother could be proud of him for the first time in her life. She’d go as far as her neighbour’s yard and chat to her when it was time to drink mid-afternoon tea and she couldn’t stop saying, thank you, God, because you’ve made my son finally see sense. I think that young woman must be blessed and she’ll change my poor boy’s life, which has been one long series of upsets. She didn’t remember her own that she hid so deep inside her. His suffering was over, she told herself. When he’s got his wife with him, he’ll be happy and won’t do any more crazy things.

  Her sister-in-law next-door said she was right, and regretted Mimoun hadn’t chosen one of her daughters for his wife. But you know what young people are like nowadays, they only want to do what suits them, what they think’s best, grandmother would have argued. We’re already family enough, aren’t we?

  The day for the engagement ceremony was almost upon them and Mimoun was determined to choose the best ring available. They finally agreed on one with three small stones, set next to each other, all different shades of green, and grandmother said, how pretty.

  As they were going to auntie’s house one day, Mimoun said, I’m off, mother, I can’t stay here any longer. And she laughed because she didn’t understand, where do you want to go now? I’m going abroad, to work until the day I get married. I’ll leave the day after the engagement ceremony. Grandmother’s smile cracked. Why did a son of hers have to go off to a foreign country?

  15

  Tying the knot

  That must still have been on her mind when she walked into auntie’s apartment and took her shoes off before entering the living room, where her daughter hugged her and said welcome, welcome, come in, I’m so pleased to see you.

  She’d be thinking about the strange remark Mimoun had made about going to another country when she dunked her bread in the veal stew and talked to his mother-in-law about the engagement and everything else.

  On the day of the ceremony one of those oppressive winds blew and an irritating drizzle fell. Around mid-morning everything was packed and on their mules, the saddlebags filled with the food they would offer to what was to be his new family, the sheep tied with a bit of string to one of the beasts of burden. Mimoun sat side-saddle and pulled on the reins now and then to steer his mule. The showers of rain got into the bones and he said, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t cope with all this. But his mount paid no heed and they were soon outside the house and being greeted by a chorus of you-yous and welcomes.

  They told them to come in as on the previous occasion, and when they unloaded all the food, they shouted, oh you shouldn’t have, as people are wont to do on these occasions. After the eternal succession of courses, second grandfather said it’s time, and led Mimoun into the yard with all the men who came with him.

  All the women were on the other side of the yard, covering their faces with their hands, or their lips with the edge of their dresses so strange men couldn’t see them. Mother was with them, a pure white kaftan covering her dark skin. A plaited belt round her waist, and she was very thin because of all the housework she did, and kept her eyes glued to the ground, according to official versions, although when drunk, Mimoun tells quite a different story.

  He must have seen her and trembled, and trembled even more to feel her so close, although the women sang, although everything centred on them, it was still an intimate encounter, their first, exposed to the public eye.

  It’s all very modern, grandfather told second grandfather, in our times seeing each other and putting the ring on her finger would have been out of the question: you didn’t know what your wives looked like until you got them home.

  And that was how Mimoun first touched mother, at least in the official version they both tell. He was all atremble when he touched her in front of men and women he’d known all his life and others he didn’t know at all. When he put the ring on her finger he must have shuddered, convinced he was at last beginning to create the bonds that would endure.

  16

  A suitcase with shiny locks

  Mimoun had queued from the crack of dawn in front of the office, as he’d been told to. He’d slept at his sister’s and got up earlier than any of the others waiting to get a passport.

  The functionary arrived late, strolling leisurely along, and didn’t even glance at the queue of people waiting. He had that kind of walrus moustache functionaries like to cultivate, and was chewing a toothpick he shifted from one side of his mouth to the other. What was he cleaning away at that time of the morning? Breakfast?

  After squatting and waiting for a good while, Walrus Man opened his office door, yawned and asked who was first. He looked at Mimoun’s birth certificate that had yellowed it had been stashed away so long, and began to read. So you’re from Beni Sidel, are you? Where the devil’s that? Blasted Rifs! Mimoun couldn’t fathom the insult, not because he didn’t understand Arabic, a language he’d been honing during his stay in the city, but because he couldn’t understand what harm Rifs had ever done to that hapless fellow. You’re sons of bitches, Mimoun must have thought, bu
t he said nothing.

  I can’t give you a passport, it’s not legal until you’re eighteen. Mimoun found it difficult to believe that fellow really cared whether something was legal or not. Is it legal for you to be such a lazy bastard? My boy, come back in a couple of years and we’ll see if you’ve grown up enough to be let out of the country.

  Mimoun left without being able to insult the functionary, and feeling like punching the first beggar he bumped into. The bureaucrat arrived late. Eventually he met his brother-in-law, who said, you’ve got no idea how these things work, have you? You want to travel the world but don’t even know how your own country works? That bastard only wanted a tip, you pay him something and he’ll issue you a passport even if you’re a baby on the tit. Don’t you know that’s how this country is?

  Mimoun went home without his passport and told grandmother: I’ve got to leave, mother, I’ve got to leave. Where are you going to go, love? Can’t you see crossing the sea is very dangerous, you could die trying and you wouldn’t be the first. Grandmother had always been scared of the sea. So much water all together can’t be a good thing, she’d say. Water’s for drinking, not for travelling over.

  Mimoun said, mother, I need money to go, I spent all of mine on the ceremony, and she said, where do you think I can get any? I need money, can’t you understand? I have to go and work for two years, and then I’ll come back and buy my own truck. Then you won’t need to worry about me ever again. Grandmother probably thought her worries were only starting and went to speak to her husband. He’s a man now, he said, let him make his own way. But he shook his head, thinking what blasted idea has he got into his brain now. He couldn’t imagine him with Spaniards, putting up with everything they’d call him, the way they usually insulted Arabs. He couldn’t imagine him kow-towing to a Spanish boss who’d always be telling him what to do and how he had to do it, even for a couple of years.