9
That necklace is precious. My mother wore it on her wedding night. It was a long night, an interminable night. Adorned with jewellery, she waited, surrounded by negafates — women companions whose job was to ensure the ceremony was conducted properly. The celebrations took place in two houses. The girl’s family waited while the bridegroom’s kinsmen readied themselves to come and take the bride away. Time dragged on. The girl was drowsy, she could hardly keep her eyes open. Tiredness from the hammam and the tension of the day heightened her fear and sharpened her curiosity about the man who was to be her husband for life. Because in those families, divorce did not exist. Marriage was for ever, whether you were happy or not.
The girl waits and counts her years, her months. She recounts several times. Fifteen years and seven months, or sixteen years and a few weeks? She had been told she was five years older than her brother, that her little sister was still a baby: ‘So that makes me fifteen and a half. My periods started five years ago. They told me I was early. I was ten then, so I’m fifteen now …’
She counts so as not to fall asleep. The jewellery lent her by the negafates is heavy, the embroidered caftan is heavy, her make-up is heavy, the air she breathes is heavy. The sound of the festivities is soothing. She is ready. Ready to take the hand of her husband, this stranger, this scion of a prominent family, this man whose face and stature are unknown to her. A husband made for her, chosen by her parents, in a sort of pact between people of the same kind. She waits, wrapped in her ceremonial bridal dress, her seroual tied too tight. She waits, with no idea what to expect. She tries hard to picture this man naked — pure invention, she’s afraid to think beyond that. She’s scared, she’s thirsty, she isn’t hungry, she needs to talk to a married friend and ask her what might happen.
At around three o’clock in the morning, the head negafa arrives, a woman whose bulk, natural authority and expression are intimidating, causing girls to look away immediately: ‘My girl, you know what’s in store for you. It is my duty to initiate you and give you some clear, practical advice. When your husband enters this dakhchoucha, you should rise and walk towards him, looking down — never look up at him — and kiss his right hand. Don’t hold on to it, let it go, return to the bed and sit down. While he takes off his djellaba, his jabador and his seroual, you must wait until he gives you the order to get undressed. In a dark corner of the room, take off your jewellery and then your caftan. Keep on your white tchamir and your seroual, too — it’s up to your husband to remove them. Be carefuclass="underline" no crying out, no tears, this is a crucial moment. A man is going to touch your skin for the first time. Let him have his way, be obedient, gentle and relaxed. Don’t be afraid. He will try to penetrate you — open your legs wide, let your mind go blank. It’s painful at first. Take this cream and hide it under the pillow. If he has trouble entering you, smear it on your lower lips discreetly, to help things along. When he’s inside you, keep him there by wedging your feet under his buttocks. Let him do all the moving. Don’t think of enjoying it this night — forget that, my girl — we need to see blood on your white seroual. If it hurts, don’t cry out. Stifle your cries, yield, endure and, most importantly, prove to each and every one of us that you are a virgin, a daughter from a great family, a girl carrying her family’s honour and bringing a flush of pride to their cheeks. That’s it, my girl. The first time is painful, but afterwards, when the wound eases and the scar heals, you will never let him go.
The bridegroom’s family announce their arrival with a fanfare, shouts and ululations. Everybody sings: ‘He came, he carried her off, he did not forsake her. No, he did not forsake her. He has triumphed! He has triumphed and made her his!’ Meanwhile, the negafates present the bride, bedecked in sparkling jewellery, and demand money before the family will hand her over. The negafates chorus: ‘See the hostage, see the hostage. Come and deliver her. See the beautiful hostage, she begs you to deliver her! She is charm, she is beauty, she is reason. See the dates arrayed in mystery, see the pure honey. She is grace, she is soft as the feathers of a dove, she is supple as a reed, she is charm and beauty …’
The mother steps forward first and tucks a large banknote into the head negafa’s belt, followed by the father, who does the same, then the rest of the family, until the negafates consider the ransom sufficient.
It is time to depart. My mother wails, her mother wails, the servants all wail. The noise grows unbearable. It has to be stopped. The night weighs heavy on the heart of this young girl carried off by a man, a stranger, who’s about to possess her, make her his wife, make her happy perhaps.
The procession sets off from the house. My mother keeps her eyes down. She thinks she might faint amid the noise and tumult. Her husband takes her hand. Just two streets to cross. She walks, leaning against him. It’s the first time a man’s hand has held hers. She doesn’t think, she lets her mind go blank, she keeps walking, fear in the pit of her stomach, the afternoon’s Andalusian music, El Bhiri’s band, still ringing in her ears. She sees the hajamas — barbers acting as waiters for the night; she hears all kinds of noise. She walks on, not knowing exactly what awaits her. She feels sick, she gulps, her hands are clammy. She’s afraid she’ll panic and run away, like her first cousin, who fled when the man took off his seroual and his penis advanced towards her like a stick. The family all laugh when they tell the story. The girl’s mother gave chase, slapped her and took her back to the dakhchoucha, under the guard of the negafates.
No, she won’t flee, she’ll let it happen, wait until it’s over and, as soon as there’s blood on the sheet, she’ll go and hide behind the curtains. She dreams of her dolls, made from rags and matchboxes. She dreams of the holidays in Ifrane, at her uncle’s house. She thinks of Ali, the cousin who teases her, the one she played brides and grooms with when she was seven. She thinks about her parents, what people will say. She closes her eyes and reluctantly opens her legs, clenching her teeth. Not a word, not a cry. She faints. She is elsewhere, no longer there in that dakhchoucha, scented with rose water and musk, guarded by a squadron of negafates. She’s somewhere else, in the cornfields, jumping from terrace to terrace, flying over Fez, disappearing into the blue of the sky. Something like a biting, pinching sensation, then she feels warm liquid trickle between her thighs.
The next day is the sbohi. All went well, so they say. The husband sent trays to his new bride’s family piled high with dried fruit and nuts: a sign of satisfaction.
My mother never told me about her wedding. She kept it a secret: there are things you don’t tell your children. My grandmother told me a little about it, when I was very young. After the sbohi, after the second night, my mother, like all young brides, was put through her paces by her mother-in-law, who had arranged for the delivery of three large shad — the migratory fish that swim up the Sebou in spring, the fish with a thousand and one bones and a very particular taste, which are notoriously difficult to cook. My mother rolled up her sleeves, assuming her place in the kitchen, where no one was allowed to help. She spent all morning cleaning the three fish and then marinated them in a sauce made from coriander, cumin, mild paprika and spicy paprika, a little garlic, salt and pepper. She cooked some of the fish in a tagine and fried the rest in a light oil. At around one o’clock in the afternoon, the two dishes were placed in a tbak and conveyed to her in-laws, accompanied by a large tray of plump Medjool dates and a basket of seasonal fruit.