by Paul Bowles
She laughed. But a cigarette’s not shameful.
Ah, so it’s not?
No. I thank Allah I don’t do anything worse than that.
My son is a decent boy, and we are a good family. I won’t have him living with a whore who smokes cigarettes.
Khemou looked at him. You know, sidi, you’re an old man, and you talk like the people of another century. Your words don’t mean anything now. You’re old. You should be praying to Allah, because you haven’t got much time left. You should be asking pardon for all the things you did years ago. But we’re still young. What we do can be forgiven.
No, lalla! he cried. I won’t have you smoking in front of me.
You’ve got to show respect.
You’re not a saint or a mosque, you know, she said. You’re just a man.
You say that? he cried. You tell me that?
Yes. And something else. I haven’t been a whore these seven years for nothing. I knew all about you the first week. And don’t try to change me, because it won’t work.
The old man ran out shouting for Larbi. Larbi was in the garden. He came running. What’s the matter, Baba? he cried.
Your wife is smoking!
Yes? Is that bad? She can smoke or drink for all I care. I love her anyway. You’re not married to her, Baba. If anyone’s going to stop her, it’s going to be me. But I buy the cigarettes for her myself. We smoke together. I want my wife to be free and enjoy herself. I don’t want a statue in front of me. This is our time now. Your time came and went long ago.
I see. You can move out of the house, then, said his father.
If you don’t want me here, then give me my share of the farm.
You have no share.
I have half, Larbi said.
Nothing. Just take your things and get out.
Larbi got his clothes together and put them onto a horse. Let’s go, he told Khemou.
His father came running. Where are you taking that horse? he cried.
I’ll bring it back when I’m finished with it. You’ve got dozens of horses. You won’t need this one for a day or so.
He lifted Khemou onto the horse, and he followed behind on foot, and they went without speaking, to Mohammed’s farm. He was there alone.
I’ve fought with my father and I have nowhere to go, Larbi told Mohammed. I’d like to stay here with you.
Of course.
For four months Larbi and Khemou lived at Mohammed’s farm, helping him with his work. One day Larbi’s brother Abdeltif arrived, saying that their father was very ill and wanted to see him.
Larbi set off up the valley with Abdeltif. When they got to the house they found it full of relatives. Larbi’s mother sat with the fqih and the moqqaddem.
Salaam aleikoum. Larbi went to his father and kissed his forehead.
Larbi, son. I’m sorry.
Everything’s all right, said Larbi. You called me to give me the share I asked you for?
The fqih and the relatives cried: You see your father dying in front of you, and you can say such a thing?
Larbi paid them no attention. Why did you send Abdeltif for me?
Because I’m very sick, said his father.
Allah will cure you, Larbi told him. Then he turned to the others. If he dies, Allah will see to it that he has a good death.
His father told the fqih: I want to give half to Larbi. The other half will be divided between Abdeltif and my wife.
They began to write this down. But suddenly Larbi interrupted them, crying: Forgive me, Baba! He leaned over his father, and the old man reached up and embraced him with both arms. And he died with his arms around Larbi, hugging him so tight that the relatives had to help release him.
Then the tolba came and began to chant, and they carried Larbi’s father to the cemetery.
Larbi took charge of the farm, and for the first time the men who worked there began to receive wages at the end of the month.
Khemou did not mind living in the country. Sometimes Larbi would look at her and think: They say that whores make the best wives, and I believe it.
THE WELL
I WAS NINE YEARS OLD, and we were living in Emsallah. My father did not like it there, because it was noisy and full of people, and there was no fresh air. And so he found a house in M’stakhoche, with a large orchard full of trees. Orange trees, pear trees, plum trees. And there were three wells. Two small ones and a big one.
One day I went with my mother, out to the big well, to help her draw water. As I was filling my pail a snake stuck its head out of the rocks in the side of the well. Its head came out, and it stayed there, watching us. And it made me happy to think that there was a snake living in the well.
My mother took her pail of water back to the house, but I stayed there. I picked up a few stones and tossed them into the well. The snake went between two rocks, into its hole.
After that I kept going back to the well. I would get up in the morning, have my breakfast, and run out into the orchard to sit by the edge, looking down into the water. I would see my face down there. The water was clear, and I could watch my reflection in it. I would drop pebbles to see my face begin to move back and forth. This was what I loved most of all.
Sometimes I would see the snake. It would come out from between the rocks and stay like that, half outside and half inside its hole. Once in a while it would come all the way out and swim around on top of the water.
One day when I was sitting there, it seemed to me that I heard a voice. It was saying: Look out, boy. Get away from that place.
What did I think? I said to myself: it must be a neighbor. Or it could be somebody else. But there was no one around. I began to play again and forgot about it.
The next morning I played by the well, and again in the afternoon. And then as I was sitting there I suddenly felt a blow in the face, as if someone had struck me. I turned my head around in every direction, and there was no one anywhere.
My head began to hurt, and my body felt heavy and soft, and I was cold. Then I started to sweat. I walked back to the house.
Mohammed! my mother said. What’s the matter?
Listen! I was sitting on the edge of the well, and somebody hit me. And nobody was there. I’m sick. I feel cold.
Come, she told me. I’ll put you to bed, and you can rest a little.
Yes. I got into bed and lay out flat. Cover me up, I kept saying. Cover me more. And she piled blankets over me.
After a while I began to feel hot, and I was talking to myself, like a man who has gone crazy. I did not know what I was saying, or what I was doing, or what was happening. I could not eat. All I wanted was to drink water, every little while another glass, another glass.
The next morning when I woke up my face was crooked. My mother began to cry and say: My son is going to die. His face has gone to one side. What shall we do?
My father picked me up in his arms and carried me out to the doctor’s house. The doctor tested my blood and found that it was healthy. He looked at my body, and it was strong.
The boy has nothing the matter with him, he told my father. I don’t understand where this trouble comes from.
He gave my father some pills for me, and then my father carried me back home.
Three or four days later a Djibli woman came to visit my mother. Lalla Khemou, she said. I’ve heard about a fqih. He lives in the Andjera country and he could cure your boy.
Yes, Lalla, my mother said. Tell me. That would be a great favor you would be doing me.
In the afternoon my father came home. Ya rajel, said my mother. A Djibli woman was here, and she told me about a fqih in the Andjera who can help the boy. What do you think? Can we take him there and put ourselves into Allah’s hands?
Yes. We can go, he said.
The next morning we got into a taxi and went, all four of us, the Djibli woman, my mother, my father and I, to the mountains. I was sitting on my father’s lap.
When we found the fqih’s house my father knocked on the doo
r. The fqih came to answer. Sidi, said my father, I have a boy who has been struck by a djinn.
Ouakha, sidi, said the fqih. Let us deliver ourselves into the hands of Allah. With his help perhaps he can be cured.
The fqih took me inside, and my parents stayed outside. He led me into a dark room, and put me down so that I was sitting in front of a brazier with a fire burning in it. He had holy books, and the Koran, lying open on the floor. He threw some bakhour on the fire. It was benzoin of two colors—white and black. As it burned it made a sweet smell.
The fqih begins to read. He reads. He reads. He reads.
And I can’t understand anything he is saying, and I don’t know what he is doing. I am just there, sitting like a stick or a stone. Or like an animal.
When he has finished saying everything, he lifts me and wraps me up in a white cloth, and carries me out of the room. My father takes me in his arms and goes with me to the taxi.
In two or three days I shall come to Tangier, the fqih tells my father, and finish my work on this boy.
Three days later he comes down to Tangier, and he has with him two black cocks. He comes to our house and spends the night, and in the morning, before the sun is up, he and my father take me out. The fqih holds the first cock over the well, cuts its throat, and lets the blood drip into the water. Then my father picks me up and holds me by the feet, head down, over the edge of the well. The fqih cuts the second cock’s throat, and all the blood runs into my mouth, and then falls into the well. While my father is holding me there, the fqih begins to read. Then they take me and carry me inside the house. After my father eats breakfast with the fqih, he pays him.
Let us ask Allah to help us cure this boy, says the fqih.
To me he says: Allah y chafih.
If it is Allah’s wish, he will be cured, my father says.
You must not be afraid. He will be healthy again. But keep him away from the well.
The fqih goes away. After four days, my face is straight again. My mother and father are happy and the family stops worrying about me.
A month or so later I was playing with some boys who lived in the neighborhood. Suddenly I said: Let’s all go and fill up that well with the rocks.
We began to bring rocks from everywhere, and throw them into the well. Day after day, for a long time we worked filling it, until the rocks were in it up to the top.
On the day of the Aid el Kbir everyone was busy getting ready for the feast. My father brought out the sheep that was going to be sacrificed. I stood there watching while it had its throat cut. The sheep began to shake and the blood came out, and I fell over onto the ground.
They picked me up and carried me inside. They dropped bakhour onto the coals of the fire and sprinkled water over my face. And they put a key in my hand. When I woke up I began to tremble.
Tremble. Tremble. Tremble.
For three days I was sick. After that I stopped trembling.
The next year on the Aid el Kbir I did not want to be there when they killed the sheep. I went out, and I stayed out until I knew the sacrifice was finished. Then I went back home.
Five or six years later, when I was much bigger, a neighbor of ours had a son born to him. And he bought a sheep to sacrifice, so he could give his son a name. Every man has to do this, so that at the moment he cuts the sheep’s throat he can say: Bismillah Allah aqbar ala Mohammed, or Mustafa, or whatever he names his son. But this poor man had no one to help him do this. And he came to me and he said: Mohammed, the only one I can find today to help me is you.
I said: Ouakha, Si Mokhtar. I’ll help you.
The idea that anything could happen did not come into my head. I thought that the trouble I had had when I was young would be gone by now. I went with him and held the sheep by the legs, tight, and with the other hand I took its head. The man picked up the knife, put the point on the sheep’s throat, and then he said: Bismillah Allah aqbar ala Mustafa. And he cut the sheep’s throat. He pushed the knife in front of him hard, and drew it back once. The blood came out and hit my arm. It felt hot. And it kept coming out, coming out. I felt dizzy, and I had a fog in front of my eyes. I was holding on to the horns, and then my head moved down to one side and I fell on top of the sheep. It was lucky that the man was beside me. He lifted me up quickly and carried me inside his house.
When I sat up I felt ill, but I knew it was just nerves. The neighbor said: Forgive me, Mohammed. I didn’t realize that you had trouble with blood. It must be from a djinn. Only djenoun can do that to you.
It’s nothing, I said. I’m all right, hamdoul’lah.
Some time went by. One day I was with six men who had decided to buy a sheep together. Each one would pay for a part of it, and it would come out cheaper and better for all of them than buying meat in the market.
They were holding the sheep, ready to kill it, and I was just standing there watching. I did not want to go near. But as soon as they cut its throat, down I fell.
One of the men was older than the others, and he knew what to do. When I fell down, he ran and got a cup. Then he filled it with blood that was coming out of the sheep’s neck, and when I woke up he gave it to me to drink. And I drank it, and I felt warm and happy inside, as though nothing had happened. I was not trembling. I stood up, and I was feeling very well. I was not even weak.
Are you all right?
I said: Yes, thanks to Allah.
My son, he said. Something must have happened to you before this.
Yes, sidi, something very bad happened to me once.
I know. From now on, whenever you are going to be in a place where there is blood, all you have to do is drink a little of it, and the djenoun will not be able to take hold of you. Because if you let them do that some day they can kill you. Or they will shrivel one of your arms, or let one side of your face drop, or leave you only one eye to see through, or make you go crazy. But now you know what to do. If it makes you sick to look at blood, the only thing to do is to drink it.
THE HUT
IN THE BENI OURIAGHEL COUNTRY lived a man who owned many cows and a vast tract of pasture land for them to graze on. His son Mohin took charge of the animals for him. The youth went out with the cattle in the morning and stayed with them until sunset. So that the hours he spent alone out on the hillside might pass more swiftly, he smoked kif throughout the day. His father would often say to him: The best thing for you is to go on living here at home. Take care of the cows for me, and I’ll give you something now and then.
To Mohin, watching cows was the worst sort of life any young man could have. He and his friends had built a shack outside the village where they all met each afternoon. When the day was finished, Mohin would drive all the cows back to their stalls, and hurry down to the cabin where the others were waiting for him.
The cabin was a place that only the boys knew about. There they could do whatever they pleased. There were mountains of kif lying on the floor, which they used both for smoking and for preparing hashish milk. This had a powerful effect for something so easy to make. They would heat the kif in an oven and then roll it into powder while it was still hot. Then they would mix milk with the powder and drink it. Once they had drunk hashish milk they were certain to laugh and sing for many hours. Here in the shack with his friends Mohin was able to forget that he spent his days sitting with the cows.
However, Mohin’s father had noticed the haste with which his son ran off down the hill each evening, and one day he determined to follow him and find out where he went. He kept a good distance behind the boy, and when he saw the cabin he stood still. He could hear the young men shouting and singing. Then he hurried back to the village to tell the other fathers.
You wanted to know where your sons go. I can tell you. They’ve built a shack down in the valley and they’re all there in it now.
Several of the men said they must go there right away. They went and got the moqaddem, and he said he would go with them. It was dark when they set out for the shack. Long before they got
there they saw a huge fire burning. As they drew nearer they heard the drums. Then they saw that some of the young men were dancing around the fire. The others sat in a circle playing drums and flutes. There was a sheep roasting on the fire. The men kept walking, until they were very close.
Suddenly the boys became aware of the men standing in the shadows watching them. They stopped, jumped up, and began to whisper to one another. What are we going to do?
The moqaddem walked over to the boys. Go on playing, he told them. Why did you stop? And so they sat down and began to play again, wondering what was going to happen.
They’re going to burn down the shack, thought Mohin. I can save it. He seized a bowl and filled it with the hashish milk. He carried it across to the moqaddem, and because he had the best voice of all the young men, he sang as he walked, and the words were: Who would make a slave of his son? The moqaddem, thinking that Mohin was offering him milk, drank half of what was in the bowl. Then Mohin refilled it, and went to each of the men with it, and each one followed the moqaddem’s example. When he came to his own father and held out the bowl to him, the man was so confused that he drained it without even drawing breath. Then Mohin took the bowl and sang a song which went: If only I’d known when I was still in my mother that you were the one I was going to call Father! From there I should have sent up a prayer to Allah: Let me die before I see the world! When he heard these words the man was too shocked to say anything. The youths looked at one another and smiled.
Then Mohin and a few friends went in search of wood, and brought back the trunks of trees and threw them onto the fire. They cut up the sheep, and all the boys began to eat. The hashish milk was starting to have its effect on the men. They merely stood and watched their sons eating by the light of the fire.
After the youths had finished the sheep, they sat back and took up their drums and flutes again. The flames blazed higher. Soon Mohin jumped up and began to dance. When he was ready he stepped into the fire and pulled out a large glowing ember. He rubbed it over his face, ripped off his clothes and seared his body with it, and then he fell to the ground.
