This was how Abdelkader’s story came to an end. Touissa’s story, however, continues on.
TOUISSA HANDED OUT the presents he’d brought with him: jabane (nougat), sesame cake, dates, and walnuts for the children, and a yellow scarf for Ghita.
This time around, he had gotten back on his feet and was looking healthy and respectable. Namouss was struck by yet another detaiclass="underline" He was wearing shoes. In fact, he had always worn shoes, but it was the first time that Namouss had noticed them, amused by how paradoxical this was considering that Touissa made slippers. As one remark led to another, Namouss noticed that unlike his brothers — and here again there was nothing new — Touissa dressed in the European fashion. Trousers, a shirt, and over his shirt, even during the summer, a black overcoat that hung down to his ankles like a djellaba. People of Touissa’s ilk didn’t bother themselves about dressing elegantly, traditional clothes had become too onerous. They therefore made recourse to the American surplus stalls in Boujeloud’s Joutiya. In this flea market, which Namouss was well acquainted with, one rummaged through piles of clothes and usually found something you could be pleased with, and for a modest sum. This brings us to yet another bizarre enigma surrounding Touissa.
We celebrated the return of our prodigal uncle. The children were fascinated by his bohemian side. They could poke fun at him, outrageously so at times, without the threat of reprisals. Zhor, the eldest sister, took the initiative since she was better equipped to converse with Touissa. She’d learned the sign language used by the deaf and put it to wonderful use. One habitual game consisted in taking advantage of Touissa’s culinary phobias, since he was terrified of honey and okra. Zhor would therefore pretend to dip her index finger in a pot of honey and then place it in her mouth, accompanying the motion with a sucking sound while feigning delight. Even though she was only pretending, Touissa would begin shaking in fear. But Zhor would stay on the offensive. Pulling her finger out of her mouth, she would slap her forehead with the palm of her hand shouting: “Honey! Honey!” Touissa would then stamp his feet and shake even more, and attempt to escape. The children would then surround him and start to tickle him relentlessly, right up to the point where they feared he might start to suffocate. Giving him a little room to breathe and recover, they would then renew their assault, this time armed with okra. L-mloukhiya!
These games would last the whole day. Touissa was happy to spend time with Ghita and Driss, despite the fact that this intimacy would begin to wear thin the moment he felt the need to smoke his sebsi. He didn’t dare do it in front of Driss, since even though Driss wasn’t the eldest, he was nonetheless older than Touissa. He therefore owed him some respect. So he waited impatiently for Driss to leave so he could give free rein to his vice. Rather than getting offended, Ghita would encourage him.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Now that your belly is full, you can let your hair down!”
Night came and dinner was served. A simple meal of couscous flavored with sugar and cinnamon and accompanied by a glass of milk. Seeing the disappointment on the children’s faces, Ghita then announced there would be dessert — but only a chhioua (candy) — while winking in Touissa’s direction. The more cunning of the children sensed there was something fishy going on.
The sweets were brought out after the couscous. Ghita put a large raffia plate on the table, which was covered by a cone-shaped lid. Namouss didn’t get it at first. Zhor, one step ahead of him, had figured it out. Shouting in Touissa’s ear, she said, “Lift the lid!”
Touissa didn’t understand why Zhor had asked him of all people, but he did it anyway, and in uncovering the plate discovered there was a large rooster underneath the lid, which leaped on him, all the while beating its wings before flapping off to the other side of the room. This time Touissa wasn’t the only one who was laughing. Everyone in the room was in hysterics. Namouss’s clan certainly came up with some kooky ideas!
An hour after the meal, everyone moved to the couch. Driss lowered the flame on the gas lamp. A sense of peace reigned over the room, and Touissa knew the time had come for him to take center stage. He began by asking everyone to repeat some phrases that would serve as good omens, as well as inspire the storyteller.
“Curse you, Satan!”
“May you be cursed and cast down!”
“Blessed are you, oh Prophet of God!”
“Blessed are you,” the others chimed in.
“And again.”
“Blessed are you!”
“And again.”
“Blessed are you, oh Prophet of God!”
Then Touissa began: “It is told, ladies and gentlemen, that once upon a time, in a country blessed by the heavens, there was a king whose reign was just and compassionate. His fair-mindedness extended even to animals, so much so that the sheep got along with the wolves, and the lions and gazelles slept peacefully side by side. .”
We will content ourselves with this little taste, since Touissa’s stories were long, in fact very long, and Namouss had never been able to follow them to the end. Each time, the delightful stories would deliver him into the embraces of sleep.
A question, however, begs to be asked: How did Uncle Touissa, who barely spoke during the day, transform into such a formidable bard thanks to the power of the word? How had a deaf — and illiterate to boot — man come to acquire such culture and the ability to impart it? Yet, after all, wasn’t Homer blind? Long after these events, Namouss would ask himself these questions and answer in all honesty: Touissa was my Homer.
GHITA, WHO ONLY a week earlier had waged a war to go on holiday, wound up finding it exhausting.
“We came here to feast our eyes on some greenery and to relax, and what did we get out of it? Excess flab and work. And the holy month of Ramadan is fast approaching and I know what’s waiting for me back at home.”
Taking advantage of the situation, Driss approved enthusiastically.
“Your mother is right. It’s time to go home.”
“Hmm,” Ghita remarked, “you were just waiting for me to open my mouth so you could use my own words against me. You’re so honey-tongued you’d think I’d been throwing sweets at you.”
On that bittersweet note, the decision was made to go home. In his hurry to get back to work, Driss arranged to travel back to Fez by bus, partially fulfilling Namouss’s dream.
The vehicle that was to transport them home was a beat-up old bus — so rusty that its original color was indiscernible. As far as its size was concerned, it was just as Namouss had imagined it, happily so considering the number of people and the mountains of baggage it would have to carry. It took almost an hour to load everything on the roof and another hour for the passengers to come to an agreement as to who should sit where — there weren’t many places available — and there was also the business of putting the hand luggage on the overhead rails: sacks heaving with fresh vegetables, baskets of eggs, oil drums that threatened to spill, chickens that had been bound by their feet, cackling and flapping their wings, even slices of mutton, still bloody, that had been wrapped in rags. Once the seats had been filled, the conductor allowed the few visibly less moneyed passengers to perch on the roof for half the going fare. Namouss would have loved to join them. From there, he would have had a better view of the landscape, and with nose to the wind, could kiss the sky and steer an imaginary wheel, feel as if he were the one in charge of that crazy, traveling band. He put the idea to Driss, who refused him outright.