They suspected that he was an Egyptian hired by the Saudis. Moroccans distrusted people from the Gulf States, who for years had come to their country, especially to Tangier, to hole up in hotels and send out for girls and booze. Mohammed had often heard about that. He had never seen these people in white robes, but many nasty things were said about those who came to Morocco to indulge their vices. Extraordinary rumors sometimes circulated, about outlandish orgies. It seems a minister once lent his pretty wife to a powerful emir from Kuwait or Dubai, and she came home missing a breast! The fellow had bitten, and then eaten, her breast. No one, of course, had seen that one-breasted woman; no one had proof of anything whatsoever, but as they say, “Where there’s smoke …” A cannibal Kuwaiti! That’s how the citizens of the Gulf figured in the popular imagination — men who suckle at the breasts of beautiful women and on occasion go even further.
There was another unbelievable story that made the rounds of the cafés: to gain entrance to the women’s section of a hammam, or Turkish bath, the cousin of an emir’s chauffeur had disguised himself as a woman and, when discovered, had been beaten by the ladies — who’d poured buckets of boiling water on his genitals. The man had run outside screaming, his balls in a pitiful state. But so many, many stories were told about these people that the government had finally intervened to put an end to such crude rumors.
Mohammed had been staring at the wall for so long that he began to think he was drawing closer to it or, rather, that the wall was advancing toward him. He felt trapped in that little room, which his children never entered. He had the impression that the voice was talking to him about his retirement. That word, “retirement,” flitted through the air just like that big buzzing fly.
Mohammed’s mind was elsewhere, however, in Mecca or the mosque of his childhood. His thoughts had turned toward the village, back to a colourless time of strange solitude. Because of lice, scabies, and other afflictions, the butcher, who doubled as a barber, had shaved all the children’s heads, and whenever Mohammed had rubbed his hand over his scalp, he’d felt a kind of boil, slightly infected. Those days had the acrid smell of Fly-Tox and antilouse powder, but there was also the taste of pure honey and argan oil. He well remembered the meals his girl cousin would bring to him after he’d taken out the livestock: heavily sugared mint tea, crêpes, honey, oil, and occasionally a bit of amlou, an almond paste mixed with argan oil, honey, and a few spices. The mornings were cool and quiet. In the natural course of things, his cousin would become his wife, but they almost never spoke when together. They would look at each other; she would lower her eyes, then leave.
One day her little brother brought the food, and Mohammed understood that the time for the marriage proposal had arrived. His cousin was quite young, barely fifteen, yet the next summer would see them married. Sweet memories, full of tenderness, modesty, and peace. Mohammed loved the silences that could last the entire morning, and would let himself sink into reverie.
For the marriage ceremony, the best singer in the area had come with his cheikhats and musicians. They had sung and danced until dawn. Vulgar, professional, and efficient, the cheikhats were female singers who looked like gypsies and stank of clove oil. As the ceremonial prince, Mohammed led his wife to the house of his parents, who had discreetly absented themselves to allow the newlyweds to be alone. Once more silence fell like a brief night on the young couple, who did not say a word to each other. That was the tradition. Mohammed said his prayer and pinched out the candle. It all happened in the dark. He’d been very intimidated and, above all, inexperienced. For him as for her, it was clearly the first time. He let himself be guided by instinct, and the blood traced a pretty design on the sheet. Honour was saved. After a few days of celebration, the village returned to its routine.
Mohammed had already been thinking about joining his uncle, who had emigrated to northern France, and for that he needed a passport, the little green booklet with the star of Morocco stamped in the centre of its cover. At the time, such documents were granted only to well-off city families. Every now and then the caïd, the local headman, would receive orders from Rabat: Need 104 robust men in good health for France. The caïd would arrive in the village in a jeep driven by the state police, an arrival heralded from afar by billowing dust. Taking himself very seriously, the caïd would first require some refreshments, then have the village men pass before him in review. The caïd scrupulously imitated everything the French had done during their colonial occupation, and despite being barely able to read he kept a dossier at hand, which he would leaf through from time to time. França is waiting for you. Do not shame us. Be men, soldiers, worthy representatives of our country! The jeep would drive off, leaving behind its cloud of ocher dust and a few wives in tears.
2
THE VOICE WAS INSISTENT and was now addressing Mohammed in French, a language he had finally learned to understand but did not use. It was only thanks to his children that he knew a few words of it, because they would speak nothing but French to him, which made him deeply unhappy. He had patiently taught them a few elements of Berber, but for nothing: they persisted in speaking French and made fun of him when he mispronounced it.
And now this unknown voice was talking to him in that tongue, repeating a word he knew perfectly but did not want to discuss. That’s what it was: a word he did not want to hear, a word echoing like a condemnation, announcing the fateful date he wanted to postpone until later — as late as possible. It wasn’t death, but something very similar, and it had nothing to do with Mecca. He had so dreaded this day, this moment. It wasn’t a question of a trip, a holiday, or a long and lovely stroll around Medina at a time outside the official period of pilgrimage, no — the voice was telling him something specific, definitive, and irreversible: to stop working. To break a rhythm acquired over forty years, to change his habits, to no longer rise at 5:00 A.M. and put on his grey overalls, to adapt to a new life, turn over a new leaf, change his mind, toss away the crutches of his old routines, those familiar landmarks. To stop working was to learn to be politely bored and do nothing, while trying not to sink into melancholy. Work didn’t make him happy, perhaps, but it kept him occupied, kept him from thinking.
Mohammed was afraid. Afraid of having to climb mountains, pyramids of stones. Afraid of tumbling into the ravine of the absurd, of having to face each of his children, over whom he had lost every scrap of authority. Afraid of accepting a life in which he no longer controlled much of anything. He lived through his routine, the long straight line that carried on regardless. He’d gotten used to this and didn’t want to change, didn’t want anything else. Everything seemed difficult to him, complicated, and he knew he was not made for conflicts, for combat. He had never fought; even as a child he’d stayed on the sidelines, watching others get into fights, then slipping away, wondering why there was such violence in a place so far from the city and forgotten by God. Working kept thoughts like that at a distance.