by Paul Bowles
Why, Ramadan?
The kif does it.
Does what, Ramadan?
It goes into my head and comes out my ears. And my eyes turn red. I’m not inside myself. I’m outside looking in, and my heart has been scraped. No, no, no, no, no, no, no! Leave me my own dreams and my own luck.
The friend went out again, and Ramadan stayed where he was on the platform, smoking his narghile and talking to himself. At times foam would bubble out of his mouth. Soon another man came into the café, greeted the men, and then climbed up onto the soudda where Ramadan sat. And he said to Ramadan: Salaam aleikoum.
Now it’s the time for salaaming and talking, said Ramadan. Aleikoum salaam. Sit down.
The man sat down. Then Ramadan lighted his narghile and handed it to his friend, saying: Smoke my pipe and call my loved one.
The man took a great puff. I’ve smoked your narghile and called your loved one, he told him.
Allah, Allah, Allah! cried Ramadan. No one can forget me! My name is Ramadan, and Ramadan is a long way off. But the one I love is very near.
As they went out, each one of his friends passed by him and gave him a few coins. And someone would always pay for the glasses of tea that he had drunk. He could drink as many as twenty glasses while he sat there.
When evening came he left the café and went home to his shack in the canebrake. There he spread a sheepskin on the ground and sat down in the moonlight. And he brought his teapot out and set it in front of him, and began to smoke. And he said: I’m all alone! I’m all alone! Who’ll go with me? I know who’ll go with me. My darling narghile, my love. But I’m afraid! I’m afraid!
He was looking up at the moon far above his head. My enemy is burned! he cried. I burned him.
And he went on lighting the narghile and smoking it, so that he spent the whole night out there among the canes, lying on the sheepskin.
In the morning he went into his shack, took out of his pouch all the money his friends had given him and tossed it onto the floor. He sat counting it for a long time. Then he washed his face, slung the strap of the pouch over his shoulder, and set out on foot for the city. There he went to an eating-stall owned by a man named El Berraq.
Give me a bowl of baisar with extra olive oil and red pepper and cumin, he told El Berraq. And a loaf of whole wheat bread to go with it.
And he ate all the bread and the baisar, and afterward he drank a liter of water. Then he took out his narghile and said to it: Good morning, darling! When evening comes, I’ll say good-night to you. He stuffed the kif in, and everyone in the eating-stall was watching him, and laughing. He sucked on the tube. Allah! Allah! You hurt me! he cried. Why did you do that?
He smoked some more. There! That puff was very sweet. Wait a minute. Let me take another puff.
He sucked on the tube, shut his eyes, and murmured: Allah! That time you didn’t hurt me, darling. I smoke, and you watch. I blow the smoke out, and you smell it.
Ramadan sat smoking while the others laughed. After a while he got up and tried to pay, but El Berraq told him: That’s all right. Everything’s taken care of.
Thank you. Allah be with you. And Ramadan went on his way down the street, until he came to Dar Debbagh. There he went into the café where the fishermen sit. At the sight of him they all began to call out: Ramadan!
Good morning to you and to me, too! he cried. And to my narghile, and to the heart of my loved one!
Yes, Ramadan. Sit down. Have a glass of tea with us.
Ramadan climbed onto the platform and joined his friends. Fill me a whole mug of it.
The qahaouaji made five glasses of tea and filled a mug. Ramadan began to puff on his narghile and sip his tea. I’m going on a trip, he told them. And it’s going to be a long trip. I couldn’t make it a short one.
What do you mean, Ramadan?
And a dangerous trip, too. It’s far and it’s near, and it’s dangerous.
How, Ramadan?
Be quiet. She’s listening, Ramadan whispered. She’s moving. Don’t talk. Don’t ask questions.
What, Ramadan?
She’s bad. She’s very bad. She has no shame.
But who is she, Ramadan?
Death, he said.
What?
Death. She’s waiting. She’s here with us, moving in the room. Don’t make me talk. I want to be quiet, so she won’t come to me.
Then Ramadan sat quietly, merely smoking his narghile and passing it to the others. In this way they all finished by being full of kif, and each fisherman before he went out of the café gave money to Ramadan.
After a while he began again to say: I’m going on a trip. He spread out a large handkerchief with patches in it, and they threw their coins onto it. I’m going away, he said. Did you know that?
The more often he said the words, the more they gave. Some of them paid for several of his teas. At midday the fishermen cooked a tajine and invited Ramadan to eat with them. They gave him a little fresh kif, and he cut it and put it into a bladder.
Now I’ve got to go, he told them.
No. Stay with us a while longer. It’s still early in the afternoon.
By then Ramadan had collected a good quantity of money in the handkerchief. He sat in front of them counting it. When he had finished, he said: It’s enough, thanks to Allah.
He put the money into his pouch, picked up his handkerchief and his narghile, and went to the qahaouaji. I’m going on a trip, he said. I want something from you. The qahaouaji took out fifty pesetas and handed them to Ramadan.
I’ll give them back to you along with many favors, he told the qahaouaji. May Allah help you! And Ramadan went out of the café.
First he went back to his shack in the canebrake and put on another djellaba over the one he was wearing. He packed his clothing, a sheepskin, some blankets, his teapot and a glass. Then he locked the shack and started walking along the road.
Night came, and he arrived at Fnidaq. He went into the woods and lay down under the trees. The jackals were howling as he fell asleep. Very early in the morning he got up and started again to walk. And he came to Tetuan, and went into a café owned by a man from Tangier.
Salaamou aleikoum!
The qahaouaji cried: Ah, Si Ramadan! Welcome! Come in. And Ramadan went in, climbed up onto the platform and sat down. He took out his teapot and handed it to the qahouaji. Fill it fast! he cried. And the man filled it for him and gave it to him, along with a plate of pastries. Ramadan ate them all and drank the pot of tea. Fill it again! he told him.
He took out his narghile and spoke to it: Good morning, narghile. And when night comes I’ll stay to you: Sleep well. Ah, narghilti, you’re my darling!
And he filled it with kif, lighted it, and set to work smoking. Allah! Allah! he cried.
He continued to smoke. The men of Tetuan who sat in the café looked at him, and one young man said to another: The poor man’s crazy.
Ramadan heard him and burst out laughing. I’m not crazy, he said. But it might be that you are. I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to my narghile. I smoke, and then I smoke some more, and then I can see what’s going on. And all that’s none of your business. Yes, you may be crazy, but you’re a very good-looking boy. Why don’t you come and live with me?
The young man jumped up, and Ramadan laughed harder. If your grandfather had only been a man, your father might have been one, he told him. And if your father had been a man, maybe you would have been, too. But I doubt it.
The young man went out of the café very angry, because everyone was laughing. Ramadan turned to the other men. I’m very well-known, he said. And you’re all very well-known. But there are many who aren’t. Speak to me, narghilti, my baby! And he sucked on the pipe and blew into it, so that it bubbled, and smoke came out at the top.
Am I right or wrong? he cried to the pipe. And the water in it bubbled. What’s that? I’m right? Ah, thank you! You can tell real men by their faces, and you can tell false ones by their faces. Narghilti, did you he
ar what the zamel said? If he’d been a man, he wouldn’t have turned to his friend and said I was crazy. I was talking to you, narghilti, not to him, and he had no reason to interrupt, did he?
And Ramadan continued to smoke, and the qahouaji went on filling his pot with tea. Then Ramadan spread out his handkerchief on the platform. In the meantime he kept the men laughing, and each one left some money on the handkerchief before he went out. Then others came in, and they too began to laugh. Every so often he told them: I’m going on a trip.
About half past four in the afternoon the café was full of men from Tangier. The people of the city know each other, Ramadan said. It’s too bad they’ve forgotten me. And why have they forgotten? Because now they have money. Money makes people forget everything. They can even forget their religion. They can forget Allah. They can forget their children. But a poor man can’t forget anything. When he stops being poor he begins to rot, and he doesn’t know his friends, and his heart is empty. Then it fills up with hatred. I came here to see you, and not one of you pretended you didn’t know me, did you?
Si Ramadan, we’re listening to you, they said.
That’s what I want, said Ramadan. Who wants to smoke my narghile? Who wants to call my loved one?
Two young men got up and went to sit by him. They began to smoke the pipe. Smoke, and hold the smoke, he told them. Puff, swallow, hold the smoke. I saw a train going by, and if you don’t believe me, here’s its smoke. He blew out a great puff.
Ramadan went on smoking, and the men went on giving money. Finally he set to work counting it. He poured it all into his pouch and slung the pouch over his shoulder. Then he got up.
Salaamou aleikoum, he said to the men. He went to the qahouaji, who gave him money too. And he set out on the road.
By the time night came he had gone a long way, but he continued to walk half the night. Then he found an empty space between two large rocks. Here he spread his blankets and his sheepskin on the ground and slept.
In the morning he started out again through the mountains and up the valley, until he came to a village. In a field some men were sitting around a fire where a cauldron boiled. He walked over and peered into the cauldron. It was full of oats.
The men came up to him and he greeted them. I haven’t eaten yet, he told them.
Yes, yes. We’ll give you something, they said.
Ah, Sidi Hiddi! sighed Ramadan. Enemy of my heart! He sat down and began to eat oatmeal. And he went on eating until he had finished four bowls of it. He smoked a bit and got up. Good-bye, and may Allah help you.
He plodded on through the mountains. It was nine o’clock in the evening when he arrived at Sidi Hiddi. He walked inside the building of the shrine where the men were sitting, and said: Salaamou aleikoum, men.
Aleikoum salaam, ya Ramadan, they replied.
When was the last time I came here? he asked them.
You were here two years ago, Ramadan.
And what have you been keeping for me?
Nothing, Ramadan.
Before I sit down, let me tell you, you’re going to have to give me something, because I’m going on a trip.
He sat down. The last time he had been in Sidi Hiddi there had been only ten women in the sanctuary, and now there were more than thirty. And there were more Haddaoua. Si Ramadan was a Haddaoui himself, but he did not like what had been happening at the shrine during the past few years. The Haddaoua captured the women and forced them to work for them. They also allowed criminals to hide there from the police. Many of the men who had lived there for years could not go outside the shrine without fear of being captured.
Ramadan said to the chief: This is fine, what you’re doing here. You’re not afraid? Soon Allah will strike you from the earth. The Haddaoua here now are nothing but thieves and cutthroats. You’re all criminals and slave-dealers!
The Haddaoua gave him what they said was his share, and he put the money into his pouch. Then they brought couscous, and he ate with them. When they had finished eating they brought out drums and began to beat them, and as they danced they pounded their bellies with rocks.
Yes, yes, said Ramadan. Your bellies are full of couscous, and you pound them to empty them again. Sin is ready for you. Listen, narghilti, and hear what they’re doing. Don’t think all this is theirs. It’s all stolen.
One of the Haddaoua cried: Quiet, Ramadan! We’ve heard enough out of you.
Ramadan stared at him. Ah, so you’re the king of the Haddaoua? You’re the chief son of a whore? Do you hear, narghilti, this one is their chief now!
They stopped the music and said to him: You’ve got your money and you’ve eaten. Now you go.
You’re putting me out, I see. All right. I’ll go. We’ll take care of this later.
Ramadan went out and started walking once more through the mountains. But two of the Haddaoua had gone out after him, and were following him. Soon he came to a river and stopped. He saw the men far behind him on the road, and put his pouch and valise down on the ground under a tree, and hid from them. When they came to the river they separated, and began to look for him. He sprang out of the bushes at one of them and knocked him into the river. When the other came running, Ramadan seized him and knocked him down. Then he bit him in the throat until the man was dead. He washed the blood from his face in the river, picked up his things, and set off again.
In the morning some Djebala passed by the river and found the drowned Haddaoui, and pulled him out of the water. Later they came across the other with his throat torn out. They carried the two bodies back to Sidi Hiddi.
No, no. It couldn’t have been Ramadan, said the Haddaoua. He could never kill anyone. Some wild animal came by, and one of them saw it and jumped into the river. The other didn’t see it in time, and it caught him.
All night and all the next morning Ramadan kept walking, until he came to Beni Aros. As he went into the town he noticed people whispering to each other about him. This displeased him, and so he walked through the town and went on to Beni Guerfat. There he sat down in the doorway of a café in the souk.
Soon a Spanish captain came along with four of his soldiers. As they went by, Ramadan said: Yes, yes, the Spanish do whatever they please, and our people do nothing. I wonder why that is.
The captain heard him and said to his soldiers: What’s that maniac talking about?
The maniac is your grandfather. The idiot is your father, said Ramadan.
The captain tried to kick him, but Ramadan seized his leg and pushed. He toppled over, along with two of the soldiers who were trying to help the captain.
Ramadan stood up. The five of you can’t do it, he said. Maybe the battalion could.
Instead of getting up off the ground, the Spanish captain drew his pistol. He tried to fire, but his finger did not move the trigger. This frightened him. When Ramadan saw it, he spat in his direction. Then he took up his things and went on his way. On the road he met some Djebala who had been in the souk and had seen everything that had happened. They gave him a donkey to ride.
When they arrived at their village, Ramadan said to the Djebala: Here’s your donkey.
No, Si Ramadan, they said. It’s a gift for you. He was very pleased. And he continued to ride on the donkey, until he arrived in Tangier. After that he was never seen without it. He would take his teapot and his glass and his narghile, and pile them all onto the donkey. Then he would get on, and lie on his side along the donkey’s back instead of sitting astride it. As he rode through the streets he would smoke the narghile. He liked to get the donkey into the middle of the Boulevard and stop. Then he would cry out: Sidi Hiddi! You are my first love! And those who are living there with you will be destroyed! Help me, Sidi Hiddi! And he would puff harder. Speak to me, narghilti! If you don’t speak, I’ll know you’re not mine.
And the narghile would answer: Khlukhlukhlukhlukh! The people walking along the Boulevard would laugh, and even the traffic police would laugh. Finally he would kick the donkey and go on.
Next door to Ramadan lived a very poor family. One day he went to their house and said to them: Come with me. He got on his donkey, and the family walked along behind. They went down to the Zoco Chico and into the courtyard of Dar Niaba, Ramadan still on the donkey. He tied it to the post at the bottom of the stairs and climbed up to see the notaries.
The piece of land and the shack that belongs to Ramadan of the Narghile, do you know them?
Yes, the notary said.
I want you to put the property in the name of these people I have with me. The donkey too. I want them to have everything.
The people signed the papers. Ramadan pulled out his keys. Here are the keys. You can go and live there. If you don’t see me tomorrow, come to the shrine of Bou Araqia.
Ouakha, they said. Ramadan got onto his donkey and rode off. As the donkey was walking through the Zoco de Fuera, he began to cry out: Listen, people! Ramadan is leaving. Soon.
He stopped at all the cafés, including the one at Dar Debbagh, where he went into the patio. His friends looked at him and said to each other that he was very much changed.
What’s the matter, Ramadan? they asked him.
I’m leaving soon. Soon. Give me a little water.
They gave him water.
Give me some tea.
They gave him tea, and he began to smoke. At nightfall he said: I’m hungry. And they brought him food, and he ate it.
Then he said: Who likes my narghile?
A young man got up. I like it, Si Ramadan.
It’s for you. Take care of it, because it has great power. And when you smoke it, you’ll always have good luck.
He excused himself to the others. I must go, he said.
Yes, Si Ramadan.
He went from the café to the hammam, and bathed for a long time. Then he went to the shrine of Bou Araqia. When he was alone inside, he began to talk and cry out to the shadows. He lay down beside the tomb and slept.
In the morning when the moqqadem arrived to awaken him and give him breakfast, he found him laughing. But as he came closer to him he saw that Ramadan was dead.
They buried him inside Bou Araqia, and built him a little qoubba. The poor family came the following day and took his donkey and his pouch and his clothing. And they went to his shack and lived in it, because it was better than the one where they had been living.
