We had many rivals; every slum had a team. The “Chichane” (which means Chechnya) shantytown had its Lions; “Tqalia” (guts) its Eagles; “Toma”—named after a Frenchwoman who was said to have had coffee there once — had its Tomahawks; scariest of all were the players from the village of stones: the Serpents of Douar Lahjar, the only ones who had a hope against us. On Sundays we’d assemble at the dump for legendary matches that would usually end in gladiatorial combat: ruthless fights that left everyone pretty mashed up. Still, we couldn’t stop ourselves going back for more the following week. We needed to square up to each other, smash a ball, or someone’s face. It gave us relief. Truth to tell, my brother Hamid was often waiting nearby. He’d protect me with a bicycle chain he wore as a belt, which he’d whip out in a flash if there was any trouble. If it did kick off, I’d hide behind him and nothing bad could happen to me; I’d emerge unscathed, apart from a few scratches or a black eye at worst. Hamid used to collect scars on my account, because other boys were frustrated and jealous of the way I played. My genius for stopping impossible balls earned me thundering applause. Countless Serpents, Eagles, and Tomahawks wanted me dead. Poor Fuad, though, had no one to defend him; he had nothing but his legs. He’d often get caught and seriously beaten up. Like Hamid, he’d amassed an impressive number of injuries. What he was most afraid of was the inevitable visit to the barber, who doubled as a bonesetter. That man was a nasty piece of work, who’d reset our bones with brute force. It was his way of punishing us. Most of the time we’d lose consciousness at some point. We could have wreaked revenge on that wild-eyed maniac, but we knew that sooner or later we’d be back in his dreaded grip. . One day his shop was burnt to the ground; the culprit was never caught. Still, in Sidi Moumen, a hovel in flames isn’t exactly the end of the world. It gets rebuilt the same day and people rally round, offering the victim mats, blankets, clothes, and stuff for the kitchen. And life carries on as normal.
The only deliberate fire I was lucky enough to witness from beginning to end was the police-station fire. After the police had left a young dealer for dead, the decision was unanimous. Boys brought gas cans and set fire to the building. They were raging against “the Doberman,” a corrupt detective, a brute, a piece of filth washed up among us, who bullied people and sucked their blood. That scumbag lorded it over the anthill of small-time dealers and other thieves who made their living in Sidi Moumen. No van filled with hashish or smuggled goods could get inside the wall without his taking a cut. He also had an efficient network of informers, so nothing escaped him. He knew the innards of all the shacks and had detailed files on all of us. If some poor wretch attempted to complain, he’d confront him with the crimes of his closest friends or family, because most of Sidi Moumen’s inhabitants have skeletons in their cupboards. As the years went by, people’s resentment grew fiercer, swelling like the waters of a stream about to burst its banks. So, that night, in a surge of anger, the street caught fire like a powder keg. Omar the coalman’s son had got hold of the gas and the mob made its way to the police station, with Hamid my brother at its head: a procession of flaming torches snaked from the dump, chanting murderous threats, fulminating against “the Doberman.” Luckily for him, the creep was somewhere else and escaped the conflagration, which we danced round like demons in a trance. Some boys threw stones or spat blasphemies into the air, while others pulled out their dicks and pissed at the flames; the spectacle was never to be forgotten. The caretaker was spared, because he was a local kid. All the same, he was stripped naked and his uniform suspended from a stick, which we hoisted like a macabre flag, uttering cries of victory before flinging it on the fire. If he’d been there, “the Doberman” would have been lynched. We’d have ripped his stinking fat belly to shreds. We’d have smashed the jaw that spewed such bullshit, releasing the aggression built up over a decade. Still, the outcome was decisive, since we never saw that bastard’s sinister face again. Or, in fact, any uniforms at all. The police station never got rebuilt and no one was too bothered. From then on, differences between people were resolved either through the elders’ mediation or by a fistfight at the dump. And by and large, life in Sidi Moumen picked up and carried on its own sweet way.
5
CONTRARY TO APPEARANCES, Ali was white. Like his coalman father, he couldn’t get rid of the dark complexion that went with the job. He’d grown used to it, and to the nickname “Blackie” he’d been saddled with from a young age — unjustly, given that he was only intermittently black. On Fridays, when he left the hammam, he’d cover up his temporary natural color, which he found almost shameful, since many people didn’t recognize him. Of all my friends, Ali was Yemma’s favorite — and for good reason. He’d hardly ever come round empty-handed: he always had a small bag of coal he’d swipe from the shop, claiming it was a present from his father. Which was a lie as fat as a watermelon. Knowing Omar the coalman, it was unlikely that that skinflint would do anyone a favor. He spent his life cloistered in his little booth, his shoulder bag tucked under an unflinching arm, guarding his stash in the hollow of a damp, hot armpit. You scarcely knew he was there, so completely had he merged with the mountain of coal over which he reigned, a true king of the fire, as he was called. And don’t imagine for a moment he’d add a little extra when it came to the weighing, as shopkeepers normally do. Omar monitored the balance of the scales as if he were selling gold nuggets. But people didn’t hold it against him, and many found it funny. In any case, they didn’t have much choice, since His Majesty was the only coal merchant in Sidi Moumen.
His son Ali was the bane of his life — a gaping wound he cursed morning and night. In his eyes, that spendthrift was only out to squander the family assets and had no other interests besides squelching around in the mud behind a ball. And he never missed a chance to tell him so. Yet Ali didn’t suffer too much because, in time, he’d become used to his father’s bombast; he no longer even heard him grumbling or endlessly lamenting his fate. Ali would slave from dawn till dusk, in silence, lifting twenty-kilo sacks, bringing meals from home, washing the dishes, scrubbing down the shop front, and performing a whole series of backbreaking jobs. He’d barely stop for breath before he had to jump up for the next chore. His only moments of respite were at prayer times, when his father would go to the mosque: a good half hour, during which Ali hurriedly did his deals on the side, thus ensuring he had his daily pocket money. There were good days and bad days, but on average he’d get together about five dirhams, which earned him kudos in our group. Not counting my brother Hamid, he was the richest of us all. And the most generous, since his contribution to the team’s coffers far outstripped ours. Omar the coalman’s only means of controlling his son was to check the shopping of the people he passed in the street. If, unhappily, he spotted coal in someone’s basket, he’d rush to check the books. At the least suspicion of theft, the situation took a dramatic turn: grabbing the braided ox’s tail he used as a whip, he’d douse it in a bucket of water and crack it, ramping up the terror endured by Ali, who’d be crouching and shielding his face. He’d thrash him with all his might, until he drew blood. As a result, Ali would take serious precautions before doing any fiddling, making sure, for example, that a customer was going in the opposite direction from the mosque, or selling the coal half price to an accomplice. And if there’d been no customers while he was away, Omar would deliver a violent slap. . just in case. Ali had adapted to this too, developing a surprising technique for evading slaps while seeming to take them: anticipating the hand’s trajectory, he’d sink his neck between his shoulders at the crucial moment, letting out a yelp like a dog whose tail has been trodden on. Eventually, like many of us, he’d gotten used to these blows. Now they were part and parcel of his life — like the bitterness of humiliation, the ugliness that pressed in on us from all sides, and the cursed fate that had delivered us, bound hand and foot, to this nameless rubble.