Jade put down the knife and slipped her slender fingers into the bottom pouch. “I can feel at least five coins in here.” She withdrew a solid gold Roman coin. “Septimus Severus,” she said as she read the inscription. She tipped the bag and let the other four coins spill out.
“What’s in the side pockets?” asked Inez. “More gold?” She reached for the coins and inspected them.
Jade felt inside the narrow pouch. “Not gold, but something else that might be worth killing for.” She pulled out a small paper bundle and sliced it open, exposing a dark reddish-brown brick. “Monsieur Deschamp claims you’ve been smuggling hashish, Mother. I think I found it.”
CHAPTER 15
Amazigh life has a rhythm and structure to it. There is order in irrigating
the field, a job regulated by the village sheik who knows the landholdings
of each family. There is similar harmony and order within the house,
women generally ruling the domestic arena. This structure is mirrored
by the loom and the rhythm is echoed by the act of weaving.
—The Traveler
IF JADE HAD ANY HESITATION about assisting the Berbers before, it vanished when she saw the hashish. Their fates were somehow bound together. She didn’t know who Patrido de Portillo worked for, but he was involved. It was a start. Talking about it wouldn’t make her mother happy, but Jade couldn’t let that stop her.
“I’ll leave tomorrow morning,” Jade said first in Arabic, then in English for her mother’s benefit. Immediately both Zoulikha and Inez protested her decision, the old kahina for practical reasons.
“You are not ready, Jade,” Zoulikha said. “Your mules must rest. Bachir must rest. You must rest. You have baraka, but it is not enough. There is much I must teach you.” She motioned to her daughter to serve some food. Yamna, who had just resumed her weaving at the great loom, rose and filled two bowls with steamed couscous topped with chunks of onions and cucumbers and something that looked like eggplant seasoned with cumin. She handed the first bowl to Inez.
“How do I tell her thank you?” asked Inez.
“In Arabic, you say shukran.” Jade repeated the word to Yamna as she took the second bowl.
“Shukran,” said Inez. She looked at the bowl in confusion, uncertain how she should eat this. “There’s no fork,” she whispered to Jade.
“Use your right hand, Mother. Never use your left. It’s considered unclean. And remember to say besmellāh before you begin.” Jade had only had a little practice herself with this style of eating, but she managed to roll a bit of vegetable into a ball of couscous and pop it into her mouth after first saying the blessing word. Her mother, to Jade’s surprise, deftly rolled up a tidy ball of the steamed grains as if she’d done so all her life.
“It’s very good,” said Inez. Jade agreed and passed on their praises to Yamna. “Are you not eating?”
Yamna explained that they would all share in a large meal that evening, but knew their guests would be hungry now. Then, satisfied that everyone was well served with more hot mint tea, she returned to her loom, her daughter now asleep at her feet.
Jade watched the younger woman pass the wool by hand through the warp strands. Then she raised the heddle, a rod balanced on stones on either side of the loom, to raise the alternate warp threads, and passed the wool through in the opposite direction. Her dexterity spoke of long practice from an early age, the rhythm second nature. Most of the strands were brown and white, but now Yamna began to run a red stripe through them. Jade recalled the stripes she’d seen on Bachir’s cloak and the eyelike design in the center back.
Zoulikha looked up from her spinning and studied Jade’s interest. “Weaving is our life,” she said. “We have a saying: Life is a loom, and God holds the threads. And when a woman has a baby, we tell her that her weaving has been granted happiness.”
“What is the symbol on the back of your cloaks?” asked Jade.
Yamna nodded to the bird sitting in the cage nearby. “It is the eye of the partridge. It keeps watch against evil.” She pointed towards some designs on the grain bin. “The sheaves of grain represent fertility. The design from the kasbah roof means ‘fortress,’ or ‘strength.’ ” She looked across to her mother and smiled.
Jade caught the glance exchanged between them as she ate another ball of couscous and onion. Looks like my education has already begun.
“Finish eating,” Zoulikha said, “and we will walk.”
Jade quickly downed her food, licked her fingers clean, and rose. Her mother, not knowing what had been said since Jade hadn’t translated, did the same. From the look on her face, Jade could see she had no intention of letting her daughter out of her sight.
“What are we doing?” asked Inez.
“Taking a walk, Mother. Care to join us?” It was a rhetorical question at best, and Jade didn’t wait for the obvious answer. Instead she gave a hand to Inez before she crossed over to Zoulikha and assisted the old woman to her feet.
Outside, Jade was once again struck by the efficiency with which the village scaled the rocky mountainside, making use of unfarmable land. Now from this height, she also noted the breathtaking beauty of their valley. A stream wended its way a hundred feet below, carrying snowmelt from the higher peaks. As it meandered in the more level plain, it watered their flocks and crops. As far as there was a water channel, there grew a verdant belt like a living green ribbon.
An orchard of date palms and olive trees flourished on the near bank next to the rocky slope. Silver birch shimmered in between, forming a barrier against icy blasts. Across the water grew more crops, barley and corn among them, right up to the twisted and faulted layers of rock. Narrow irrigation channels cut across the fields at each level, ready to service even the higher terraces. She couldn’t imagine what life was like here in the harshness of winter, but right now, it seemed to be a garden spot.
“Come,” said Zoulikha. She led the way along a dirt path to the village center. They stopped first in a small, sheltered courtyard where a woman sat on the ground next to a long coil of clay. The new pot grew as she added coil upon coil, like a snake winding around on itself. Next to one bare foot sat a fired length of clay, painted to resemble a snake. Jade noticed the snake’s tail was broken. “This lady is Fatma,” said Zoulikha.
Zoulikha greeted Fatma in their native language. The woman immediately got up and hurried inside her house, emerging with a teapot and the ingredients for mint-flavored tea. “The snake,” explained Zoulikha while the potter fetched cups, “keeps watch against evil. It protects her pots so they do not break when they are fired.” She motioned to the ground. “Let us sit.”
Fatma returned and poured hot water into a beautifully crafted pot and added the usual handful of tea leaves, a huge dollop of honey, and several sprigs of mint. She did not look up at any of her guests, even when Zoulikha introduced them and inquired about her pottery making, translating everything for Jade’s benefit. Jade, in turn, translated into English for her mother, and so the conversation progressed slowly.
“I am worried about these pots,” said Fatma. “I think they might break when I fire them. Already the people who fear salt are making mischief. My snake lost his tail last week.”
“It is not his tail that strikes at evil,” replied Zoulikha. “Do not fear.”
They sipped tea for a while, and Jade twice caught the potter’s sidewise looks at her and her mother; curious but afraid to make eye contact. Afraid I might have the evil eye, I suppose. Towards the end of the visit, the old kahina spoke softly to Fatma and the potter relaxed, then nodded emphatically.
“I have told her you are here to help us,” Zoulikha explained. “I said we will hold a haïdous for you tomorrow. It is a creation dance.”
They made their good-byes and walked farther down to another house. Zoulikha announced herself at the door and ushered Jade and Inez inside. Once again, a pot of mint tea, the mark of good manners in any household, came out. This time the c
onversation dwelt on the spinning and the innumerable knots that showed up in the wool.
They went from house to house, each place with its own concerns. The flat loaves of bread burnt too quickly, or a nanny goat gave less milk than before. Jade drank so much tea, she didn’t think she could face another cup no matter how much honey or loaf sugar was put in it.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” she whispered to her mother after her eleventh cup, “if I don’t explode first.”
“You don’t need to drink all of it to be polite,” replied Inez. “Our hostess, Zoulikha, only takes a sip, but I’ve noticed it’s polite to slurp it and make noise. You should have done that.”
Jade groaned and excused herself to find a secluded rock pile outside of the village. Leave it to her mother to catch all the nuances of polite society even in the mountains.
“You will sleep tonight, Jade,” said Zoulikha when Jade returned. “Tomorrow we will show you the springs.”
They returned to Yamna’s home, where she was getting ready to serve a tajine, a traditional stew named for the pot it was cooked in. Her husband, Mohan, had returned from the fields and sat outside the door. Jade noticed that most of the village men left much of the village, especially the hearth and the town’s well, as the women’s domain, preferring instead to sit together in a sort of central plaza when their work in the fields was done. She wondered why Mohan didn’t join the men, but assumed he preferred his own threshold and knew his meal would soon be ready.
Zoulikha led Jade and Inez to the well where she drew a bucket of water from its depth, and ladled some over their hands before doing the same to her own. “Come,” she said as she gazed at the setting sun slipping behind the western wall of their valley. “We will eat and talk of unimportant things so as not to disturb our digestion.”
They returned to find another, much older man talking to Mohan. The newcomer wore a white turban that matched his short, snowy beard.
“This is my husband, Izemrasen,” said Zoulikha. “We often join Yamna for our meals. My husband wants to see his granddaughter, Lallah.”
They sat on woven rugs around a central platter of flatbread and a large but shallow clay dish with a tall conical lid. Yamna removed the lid to reveal a delicious-smelling concoction of lamb, onion, apricots, and dates. Once again, the scent of cumin tickled Jade’s nose. Everyone took chunks of flatbread in their right hand and used it to scoop out portions of the stew to eat. Izemrasen offered choice bits to little Lallah, who sat in her grandfather’s lap. The little girl ate very daintily while her large blue eyes took in everything Jade did.
“Your daughter is beautiful,” said Jade to Yamna and Mohan.
Mohan called to the child, who toddled quickly around to her papa, arms outstretched. He sat her on his lap with her back to Jade and fed her. His affection for the little girl was evident, and Jade smiled. For some reason, she’d assumed a girl child would not be as welcome as a boy. This was one time she was glad to be wrong.
As Zoulikha promised, they spoke only of insignificant things: the food, Jade and Inez’s clothing, the weather. No mention was made of Inez’s or Jade’s recent imprisonments, the mysterious leather pouch with gold and drugs, or the kahina’s missing amulet. After they finished the tajine and several cups of mint tea, Yamna served a platter of sugared almonds and dates. As soon as she set it out, a familiar voice called from without. Bachir.
“God’s blessings on this house,” he said in Tashelhit as Yamna translated into Arabic for Jade’s benefit. Izemrasen welcomed Bachir and bade him enter and sit down. “We will speak French again?” Bachir said, this time in French. Jade saw that he wore a fresh, clean djellaba under his striped robe, and he smelled of fresh spices and cedarwood. He smiled briefly, almost shyly, at everyone in the room except for Yamna and Mohan. He avoided looking directly at the former and nodded only perfunctorily to the latter.
Lallah giggled and squirmed in her father’s lap. Zoulikha also welcomed Bachir inside and made room for him between herself and her husband, but the old sheik excused himself to return to his own home, motioning to Zoulikha to stay longer. Yamna handed Bachir a cup of mint tea while Mohan scowled.
“Do you speak French every night?” Jade asked in French after Izemrasen had gone.
Yamna took over as spokesperson for the household and answered in Arabic, giving a nod to her mother. “Mother does not often have time to learn. But my husband and I try to learn as often as we can, with Bachir’s help.”
Bachir explained. “I fought in the war with a Moroccan regiment. We fought in the Sus,” he added, using the term for the area south of the Atlas Mountains. He pulled aside his outer robe and revealed a Croix de Guerre pinned underneath on his knee-length, homespun djellaba.
“It looks like your medal, Jade,” remarked Inez. While no one understood her English, both Zoulikha and Bachir caught the implications in Inez’s gestures as she pointed first to the medal, then to Jade.
“I, too, served with the French in the War,” said Jade. “I drove an ambulance for the wounded in France.”
Bachir translated for everyone, and Zoulikha smiled. “Ah, this is where death visited you,” she said.
“Bonjour,” piped Lallah during the ensuing silence. Mohan kissed his daughter and fed her another sugared date as a reward for her cleverness.
“Blessings on this house,” called a woman from outside. “Zoulikha kahina, I need your help. My son is sick. There is a jinn in his stomach and it has entered my head.”
Zoulikha struggled to her feet, Jade and Yamna assisting her. “Yamna, you stay here and learn,” said her mother. “You already know the cures for this trouble. Jade will come with me.”
The old woman gathered up a bag woven in myriad designs from finely spun wool. Jade recognized the partridge eye, the zigzagging snake, and the handprint, but the central print grabbed her attention. It resembled a stick woman made of a triangle for the body with her arms upraised and a horn or crescent moon on her circular head. Jade had seen it before in a study of ancient history in college. It was a symbol for Astarte, a key goddess of the Phoenicians. Suddenly several similar lessons flashed into her mind. Dido supposedly became a goddess after her death, one closely associated with Astarte. It made sense. A culture that honored this ancient queen would honor even the symbols tied to her. Just who were these Imazighen? Was the speculation that they were the remains of ancient Phoenicians true? Or had they simply lived in close enough contact with the Phoenicians, trading together, that they exchanged cultural ideas as well as goods?
The woman with the sick child glanced sideways at Jade. She remembered not to make direct eye contact until Zoulikha explained her presence. This was not a woman that Jade had met during her afternoon tour. A few “ahs” and nods from the woman told Jade that she’d be tolerated at least, if not openly accepted. She followed the two Berber women through the quiet streets to a home at the far end and down one terrace. The boy lay on a sleeping mat in a corner, moaning and gripping his stomach.
As Zoulikha questioned the mother and then translated both the questions and the responses into Arabic for Jade, Jade managed to pick up a few snippets of Tashelhit, words like “husband,” “son,” and “dates.” Jade surmised that the boy suffered primarily from stuffing himself with too many dates. Zoulikha made a brew of mostly mint leaves and gave it to the boy to drink. Then she turned her attention to the mother’s headache.
From her pouch she took out a small square of cloth and poured a handful of eucalyptus seeds into it. She brought the four corners together and twisted the cloth until she made a tight ball. Next she rubbed the ball of seeds into the woman’s hand, releasing the seeds’ essential oils. Finally, after pouring the seeds back into a jar and returning them to her pouch, she handed the cloth to the woman and instructed her to inhale the fragrance on the cloth and in her hands.
By the time Jade returned with Zoulikha, Bachir had gone. Yamna offered more tea, but Jade declined, feeling she’d float a
way if she drank more. Zoulikha came to her rescue. “Our guests must sleep now. Tomorrow will be full of many preparations.”
Zoulikha kissed her daughter and granddaughter good-bye and led Jade and Inez through the village to the kasbah. While this four-turreted building lacked the size and majesty of a great city’s kasbah, which might house an entire village, its stark severity carried its own dignity. They passed through a smaller portal in the closed wooden gate and made the usual set of turns, which made the fortress more defensible.
“The village stores its grain here,” explained Zoulikha.
Once past the twists, they crossed through a narrow alley and another gateway into an open courtyard the size of a moderately large dance hall. An upraised platform ran the length of one inner wall. At the far end of the courtyard, Zoulikha turned right to lead them up a flight of stairs, but Inez stopped her with a respectful touch on the old woman’s arm.
“Jade, please tell our hostess that I can find my way now. I’d hate for her to stay away from her husband any longer on our account.”
Zoulikha smiled, her wrinkles creasing up as Jade translated. “Shukran,” she said.
“Do you and your husband live here all alone?” asked Jade. “Why don’t Yamna and Mohan join you? Then your husband could see Lallah more often.”
Zoulikha shook her head. “But then he’d also see Mohan more often.” With that, she wished God’s blessing on them for the night, turned, and went to her own quarters to the left of the courtyard.
Now Inez took over as guide and led Jade up a narrow flight of steps. The stairs went straight, turned a sharp left, and went up three more steps to a short landing and a T junction. From there one could either go down three steps and proceed ahead to a suite of rooms, or turn left again and continue up. Inez went down the steps and ahead into a receiving room off which was a corner closet-sized room and three larger chambers.
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