by Joelle Stolz
“And what if he doesn't regain consciousness?” asks Bilkisu, who has come nearer.
Aïshatou opens her powerful hands, palms facing upward. “It will be God's will.”
“I hope you understand …,” says my mother hesitantly.
“Don't worry,” says Aïshatou. “I won't tell a soul about his presence here. It will be a well-kept secret. But beware too, Meriem!”
“What do you mean?” my mother asks, troubled. “You will be tested,” says Aïshatou in her deep voice, looking at my mother as if she could see through her. “But you have no reason to be afraid.”
With those obscure words, she takes leave and walks away. I watch her silhouette for a long time, gliding from rooftop to rooftop, becoming smaller and smaller on the horizon, until it disappears behind a wall.
The wounded man regains consciousness before sunset. I am the first to notice because I am in charge of watching over him. My mother and Bilkisu rush in from the kitchen as quietly as possible, careful not to attract the attention of the neighboring women at the hour when they are preparing the evening meal.
He finally opens his eyes —his very dark eyes—and looks around in vain for something familiar. But all he sees are three strange women in a room cluttered with earthenware jars, baskets and food supplies.
He tries to speak but is too weak; no sound comes out of his mouth.
“I am the one who found you last night in the passageway,” says Bilkisu. “Don't worry, nothing bad will happen to you so long as you're in our house.”
The young man nods, looking exhausted. He shuts his eyes once again.
“We'll let you sleep, but first you must drink this medicine,” Bilkisu says firmly, pressing a cup against his lips. It contains some of the liquid prepared by Aïshatou.
He closes his lips tightly and opens his eyes again. What if this were poison? What if we wanted to kill him? His eyes roam over us anxiously, then settle on me. I smile at him encouragingly, and suddenly he relaxes, drinking from the cup Bilkisu is holding. He seems to have decided to put his fate entirely in our hands.
t is true that the stranger's fate is in our hands. The Aïssaouïa men are on the lookout for him. They don't believe he disappeared into thin air and wonder who helped him escape. This is what our uncle, an influential member of the brotherhood, tells us when he accompanies Jasim home that evening.
We did not expect his visit. Usually when someone is traveling, even the men of his own family refrain from entering his home when the women are by themselves. But this uncle is my father's eldest brother. He has authority over our entire family, and, because of his age, his presence here will not give rise to gossip.
My mother and Bilkisu lead him into the reception room, the most beautiful room; the cupboards are decorated, the floor is covered with rugs and pillows, the mirrors have vermilion designs around them. We are especially proud of our brass vases; we have dozens of vases with long necks that are lined up on shelves, extending nearly all around the room. When the morning sun lights up the walls, the vases shine like gold. When their surfaces tarnish, it's like a lamp turning off. The women spend hours polishing them! These brass vases represent the fortune of every self-respecting family, and we would have to be reduced to dire poverty before ever selling them.
My uncle accepts the lemonade we serve him, and then launches into the usual subjects of conversation: births, marriages, funerals, the next date harvest and the price of camels. My mother and Bilkisu listen to him with respect, sitting unobtrusively off to the side. They are both dressed simply, unadorned of any jewelry, as is proper for women of Ghadames whose husbands are far from home. In a word, they are irreproachable.
We sense that Uncle has something to tell us but does not quite know how to broach the subject. He beats around the bush for a while, praising Jasim, a good boy who shows an aptitude for commerce.
“He helped me at the store all day, and I really have no complaints,” Uncle says. “Jasim knows how to read and count, and soon my ledgers will hold no secrets for him. Mahmud can be pleased to have such a son.”
My brother puffs up with pride on hearing this praise. Uncle sighs.
“Oh, some families would be happy and thankful to have a son like him, thankful instead of being ashamed …” he says.
My mother arches her beautiful black eyebrows. “Whose family are you thinking of, Uncle?”
Uncle turns glum. “Don't you know what happened last night?” he asks. “The whole city is talking about it. And you women, up there on the rooftops, are usually the first to spread the news. You usually know everything well before we do!” He looks at the stairway as though expecting to see someone suddenly appear there. “Well before we do!” he repeats.
Bilkisu puts on her most innocent air. “Actually we don't know much. We were told that there had been a chase in the city, and in fact I was woken up, as was Malika, by all the noise they made down in the street. What exactly happened, Uncle? Whom were they chasing?”
“A man called Abdelkarim, a no-good son from the Beni Ulid clan whose parents died many years ago,” Uncle explains. “When the boy was orphaned, he was sent for his education to a distant relative who lives in Cyrenaica. Since he showed an interest in religious matters, they thought he should become a taleb, a learned man who would open a good school here. But he fell into the clutches of the Senussiya, the brotherhood that wants to conquer the Sahara just as it has conquered Cyrenaica. According to them, we must return to the purity of Islam at the time of the Prophet and fight against superstitions! What they call superstitions are simply our traditions, as old and respectable as our city. These young people lack piety and respect; they think they can teach us lessons. But we immediately made it clear to him that he wasn't going to lay down the law here. Let him go preach elsewhere!”
“You mean he came back here to preach?” asks my mother softly.
“He came back a month ago and turned down his cousins' hospitality,” replies Uncle. “Instead, he went to live in a little room outside the city walls, where servants and visiting strangers stay. Disgraceful behavior! He started stirring up young people against their elders, explaining that the true meaning of religion had been forgotten and that they alone had the energy to restore it. But I am keeping you for too long talking about things that don't interest women.” He looks at each of us. “So you say you saw nothing last night? Because we lost his trail not very far from here, and though we've searched high and low, we haven't found him. No one knocked at your door last night?”
“No, Uncle, no one knocked at our door last night,” says Bilkisu quietly.
All three of us know that she is telling the truth. Even if it isn't the whole truth, of course.
Having apparently put his mind at rest, Uncle is about to rise from his seat. Then Bilkisu brings up something else.
“Since you're here, Uncle,” she begins, “I'd like you to know of a change concerning Jasim. He's grown up now, and it really isn't appropriate for him to continue coming to the baths with me, or to play on the rooftops in the company of women. That time is over. He showed you today that he is becoming a man, you said so yourself a minute ago. Since his father is away, for the time being Jasim will have to go to the baths with you. Do you approve of this decision?”
The old man has no choice but to agree. Yet he seems annoyed. Perhaps he had asked my brother to look around the rooftop to make sure the fugitive wasn't hiding there? Now there is no way of checking, and he has to take our word for it. Bilkisu's decision is final and he knows it; any boy who would disregard it would bring on himself the censure of all the women of Ghadames.
Just then I look at my brother. He has tears in his eyes and is trying very hard not to cry. It is all over for him. No more games of leapfrog on the rooftop, no more hours spent watching the flight of birds, or crouching behind the pointy horns of the roof and gaping at the neighbors' daughters! No more naps in the shade of the dresses drying on the clothesline. No more laughing fits at
the baths, or sheen of naked skin as the women wash each other. No more wild races along the edge of the roof! Our race the other day will have been the last one …
Just as there is an age at which girls have to give up the amusements of the street and the palm grove, there comes a day when boys have to give up the pleasures of the rooftop. For Jasim, that day has come. Yesterday I was fuming about being confined to a tiny world; now I suddenly realize that for my brother, the rooftop will always be a lost paradise.
After accompanying our uncle down the stairs, Bilkisu takes pity on Jasim, who looks sullen and lies prostrate on the cushions. She opens a cupboard, the one where we put away the pastries until evening during the Ramadan fast.
“Here, I baked some almond horns for you, to celebrate your first day working in your uncle's store,” says Bilkisu. “I knew he would be pleased with you. That's why I also asked your father to bring back a nice present for you from Tripoli. I won't tell you what it is. I'll let it be a surprise.”
Upon seeing the delicate cakes coated with shiny honey, Jasim's face lights up with a smile. His sorrow vanishes instantly. After all, life has many exciting things in store for a boy.
“Oh, I wish Papa were back!” he says with a sigh.
“Me too!” I echo.
My thoughts are with the wounded man and I am full of anxiety. What will we do about him? Still, I admire Bilkisu's cleverness in preventing my brother from having access to the rooftop. Now there is no danger of his sticking his nose into the pantry. No one else but us, along with Ladi and Aïshatou, will know that the fugitive is up there.
The following morning, Jasim, resigned to his new way of life, goes off to Uncle's store for the whole day again. His days at school are over as well. He has to become familiar with the ins and outs of commerce and the harshness of long-distance travel. My father talks of eventually sending him to Istanbul to stay with one of his associates, so that he will have the experience of seeing the world and crossing the sea. At one time, he thought of placing him with the Moslem wise men of Kairouan, but my brother shows very little interest in religious issues. He would be bored, he says.
And my brother is afraid of the sea. He finds it hard to imagine such a huge expanse of water, and how you can sail on it without being swallowed by the waves. I wish I could be in his place, I wouldn't be scared!
As soon as I wake up, I race up to the rooftop to see how the wounded man is doing.
“He is sound asleep,” says Bilkisu, who is keeping an attentive eye on him.
Today, again, my mother doesn't dare enter the little room and is sitting in front of her loom. This is the wisest thing to do—not change our habits in any way so as not to attract our neighbors' attention. For here, without seeming to, every woman watches the others and someone may be surprised to see us prowling around the food pantry. Fortunately, the location of the door is such that it is impossible to look inside the house from the surrounding rooftops. And as long as we speak in low voices, no one can hear a word of what we are saying.
“Do you think he is going to die?” I ask.
Bilkisu shakes her head. “No, I don't think so. He is breathing regularly and his wound seems to be healing. But look at the state of his gandourah, with all the blood he lost! It is even starting to smell. It should be washed. Help me take it off him.”
“But, Bilkisu, we can't undress a man! It isn't proper!” “Bah, when a man is wounded, he must be helped. Don't worry, we won't take off all his clothes. He'll still have his undershirt.”
I help her slip the long tunic very gently over the young man's head and arms. But in spite of all our efforts, the movements wake him up. He sits up suddenly, with a furious look in his eyes.
“What are you doing?” he protests. “Calm down,” replies Bilkisu. “We just wanted to take off your gandourah so that we could wash it. Look—there's a lot of blood on it from the wound on your forehead.”
The young man instinctively raises his hand to his forehead but is still angry. If his dark eyes were flames, we would surely be reduced to ashes!
“Take off my gandourah! Who are you, to dare touch me?”
“My name is Bilkisu and this is Malika. But I won't tell you our family name. It's safer for all of us if you don't know it. I found you two nights ago in the passageway. You had blacked out. Do you have any recollection of that night?”
The young man frowns, straining to remember.
Bilkisu starts talking again, gently. “Aren't you Abdelkarim, of the Beni Ulid clan? The person the Aïssaouïa men want to chase away because he preaches for a rival brotherhood?”
The wounded man's face relaxes slightly. He stares at the soiled gandourah, with brown stains, that Bilkisu is holding in her hands.
“Now I remember. I thought I'd get away from them by diving into the darkest passageway, but I forgot that there are often beams across them. This isn't my neighborhood and I was running at random. When I hit myself, it was terribly painful, but I did not faint. I heard my pursuers' footfalls. So God gave me strength. Leaning on the frame, I was able to hoist myself between the two walls and huddle on top of that beam while they searched for me in the darkness. They were there, so near to me, not even two inches below, but unaware of my presence. God did not want them to catch me! It's a sign that I was chosen!”
His face lights up, and his eyes burn even more than ever, but with a strange intensity.
“You were also lucky that I went down into the street to see what had happened and that I managed to carry you home,” Bilkisu points out quietly, tilting her head slightly. “God did not make you any lighter to carry.”
While we are talking, my mother slips into the pantry, wrapped in her veil. You can see only the oval of her face, her almond shaped eyes under the perfect line of her eyebrows, and her forehead devoid of ornament.
“This is Madame Meriem, the first wife and Malika's mother,” says Bilkisu.
The wounded man scrutinizes each one of us thoughtfully. Then he addresses Bilkisu again.
“You've both taken off your jewelry. So, your husband is away on a long trip. And you dared to bring me into his house in his absence?”
He seems sincerely indignant. I see my mother blush with anger and her lips tighten. Bilkisu adopts a gently ironic tone of voice.
“Do you think it's appropriate for you to complain?” she says. “Have you thought about where you would be right now if we hadn't helped you? Abandoned in the desert, covered with blood, with no water or mount.”
“Women should never act on their own initiative, without consulting a man who has authority over them,” says the wounded man. “All too often they are guided by the devil.”
His comments do nothing to disconcert Jasim's mother. “You may well be a wise man who is never guided by the devil,” Bilkisu says. “But didn't you spend time in a woman's womb before being brought into the world?”
Blood rushes to the young man's pale cheeks. He glares at her for her impudence. He opens his mouth, then shuts it. He prefers to remain silent rather than face another cutting reply.
For several days, he remains offended. It is as if we had committed a crime not just against him, but against the entire male population. I am the only one he talks to from time to time because I am in charge of bringing him food. Bilkisu and my mother keep away from the pantry, and it is all for the better, because that way there is nothing suspicious or abnormal about their behavior.
As always, they perform most of their tasks on the rooftop, working at the loom, washing the laundry, grinding the flour for the evening meal. I think they sometimes forget about the young man's presence. While I am sitting next to him and he is eating quietly, we hear my mother's melodious voice, Bilkisu's laughter, and the recurrent tuneful sound of tea being poured into glasses from the teapot lifted high in the air.
ake up, lazybones, the sun is already high in the sky! If you want to come to the palm grove with me, you'd better hurry.”
Still dazed and sleep
y, I stare at Bilkisu without understanding what she is saying.
“To the palm grove?” I say.
She laughs. “Did you forget that today is threshing day for the barley? Hurry up, or we'll miss the Arous ceremony!”
She gives me some very sweet green tea and a bit of cake. I devour them while she braids my hair and adjusts my malafa, the rectangle of embroidered wool tied under the chin with laces that girls wear on their heads until marriage. She sniffs my neck and frowns.
“My honey bun, I think you sweated last night. We will first stop at the baths to freshen up.”
“But what about Abdelkarim? Who will take care of him?”
“I already brought him his lunch. Don't worry, he'll survive without you for one day,” she says playfully.
I blush and lower my head. I don't dare confess that I am afraid of missing him. But the Arous ceremony is such an interesting sight! And who knows how long I'll still be allowed to go down into the palm grove?
We have to ask my mother for permission and she is working at her loom in a shady corner of the rooftop, her colorful skeins of wool spread out around her.
“Madame Meriem,” says Bilkisu respectfully. “We're going to the baths, then I'll take Malika to the palm grove.”
My mother looks me over solemnly, from head to foot. “Malika is becoming a young woman,” she says. “Isn't it unseemly for her to go out into the street, even under your supervision?”
My mother, like all the women of high birth in Ghadames, hasn't set foot outside the house since her marriage, except to go to the baths. And she always goes to the baths at night, or when the men are at the mosque, and always she is wrapped in a thick veil that makes it impossible to tell whether she is young or old.
“Oh, Mama, let me go see the Arous! One last time …”
