Despite her threats and harsh accusations, some kind souls would slip a small coin into Chiki’s hand, who, suddenly appeased, would smile and respond to their generosity.
“They are nothing but sons of bitches. Bless you my children.”
Then she would leave the place, followed by a swarm of children.
Slightly stunned by her speech, Namouss decided to join the crowd. He took a left and headed toward Nejjarine Square, where another spectacle lay in store for him. The man who presided over this ceremony was also there and had chosen a good spot. Nejjarine Square was the intersection of three particularly busy souks: that of the carpenters, which gave its name to the square; that of the saddlers, where Driss had his shop; and finally that of the potters. Not to mention the fountain in the middle of the square, where nearby residents came to fetch their water.
They called him Bou Tsabihate (rosary man), and he was certainly covered in rosaries. He wore many around his neck, which dangled down his large chest. Others were strung around his arms, which he always kept outstretched before beginning to preach his sermon. He was magnificent. Slender, with a strong constitution. A thick beard framing the entirety of his face. His head covered by a yellow turban, impeccably fitted.
Namouss had heard contradictory reports about the man. Some took him for a madman of God, or in other words, a saint. Others suspected him of being a proponent of a religious sect in cahoots with the colonial authorities. That he had chosen to preach in Nejjarine Square where there was a police station lent authority to the second theory. Could everything he was shouting so vehemently be genuine considering there was an abundance of attentive ears waiting to catch him out?
Namouss didn’t know what to think. As it happens, he became indifferent to all this reasoning when Bou Tsabihate raised his voice and launched into his homily, making even all the unbelievers fall silent.
“Come back to God, oh slaves of God! Don’t allow yourselves to be corrupted by this fleeting world. It’s just another one of Satan’s tricks, since he loves nothing better than pissing in your ear and diverting you from the path of righteousness. Faith and prayer are the only remedy. But what is that I see? The mosques empty when it’s time to fill your stomachs. You are still snoring when the muezzin calls you to your duty. And what about orphans, what do you do for them? And what do you spare for beggars save crumbs and bones? And what about the hajj, how many among you hoarders of gold and silver have carried it out? Oh black sheep, you have been led astray, crossed into the land of the Pharaohs. Your children pay you in kind by forsaking all notions of decency and obedience. I say to you, the end of the world draws near. The goblins will soon come. They will come out of the basin in Moulay Idriss. Mules will conceive and give birth. The deluge will drown you. You will pay dearly for your sins when you stand naked before your Lord. Eternal hell will be your punishment. Come back to God, oh slaves of God!”
Unlike Chiki Laqraâ, Bou Tsabihate never begged for alms. Once his sermon was finished, he would vanish into the unknown, while the people who had gathered to listen would also disperse, with grave looks on their faces. The nearby craftsmen went back to work, with equally grave expressions.
Namouss, on the other hand, continued on his quest. He ran through the saddlers’ souk so that Driss wouldn’t see him. His destination, the horm, the sanctuary of Moulay Idriss.
LEANING ON THE guardrail that cordoned off the horm, as always, is Bidouss, the one-legged beggar. Despite his wooden leg, the man stands up to his full height. Like Uncle Touissa, he is wearing a black overcoat. While other beggars look miserable and try to outdo one another with their catchy laments, Bidouss remains sober and composed. His only request, which he delivers in a monotone, is astonishing, to say the least: “One hundred reals for God!” One hundreds reals, and nothing less, quite a sum! Such a claim astonishes Namouss. At the same time, he is deeply impressed. If Bidouss is asking for so much, it must mean that he’s worth it. Hence the respect he inspires. Besides, his reason for being there is that he’s on a quest. He could wait for hours on end — this did not happen every day — for a believer to pull out a large note and hand it over to our man, who would then pack up and leave, disappearing into the crowd only to return the next day.
Roaming around the horm, despite the throngs of people — or rather because of them — was a complicated pleasure for Namouss. There was a group of women there, some jostling for position, while others clustered around little boutiques to buy decorative candles, sandalwood, or orange blossom water, butternut bark, and kohl. Among the female population, there were also young girls, and thanks to the layout of the premises, one could meet their eye, unlike when they rushed through the neighborhood at such a pace that one could barely get a glimpse of them. But to actually speak to them? Hchouma (shame) — that was simply impossible. Curiously enough, however, moving around in this holy place often forced people to press up against one another, even though, out of politeness, everyone tried to slip past with the least possible contact. This did not prevent a certain amount of confusion, which was exacerbated by the stifling atmosphere and the fragrances the perfume-sellers burned in order to better intoxicate their customers.
Namouss was aware of these things. But this awareness did not extend to the torments of the flesh. What distracted him for the moment was his mischievous sense of humor. Alas, he would not be able to give free rein to it. While he was in the company of his neighborhood buddies, Namouss was able to become bolder and take part in a cruel game whose victims were exclusively female. The game consisted of taking advantage of the rush of people and the feverish touting of wares to attach the ends of two or three women’s djellabas together with a safety pin. The more adept ones would use a needle and thread and actually stitch them together. They would then follow their victims right up to the exit of the horm. When the women would attempt to go their separate ways, they would become aware of the problem, the nasty trick would be exposed, and hilarity would ensue. Curses would rain down on the children’s heads, and they would scatter like a flock of sparrows.
Namouss would then do the best he could to reach Bab Loufa, which would allow him access to the central basin of the mosque. This was where the children would rendezvous since their presence wasn’t tolerated in the prayer rooms. In order to lend weight to their supposedly pious intentions, they would pretend to perform their ablutions, a ritual that, thanks to the heat and resultant need to freshen up, quickly — and chaotically — devolved into a case of the sprayer getting sprayed. This would signal the entrance of a dreaded character, whose purpose for being there was to ensure the tranquillity of the worshippers and that the place was treated with respect. The children knew him by the name of the instrument he carried with him to keep the peace: Bou Souita, Father Whip — a boundless whip. A quince handle with a long, long leather lash attached to one end, which allowed him to strike the fugitives even in the farthest reaches of the square, dealing out blows in a most democratic fashion. Once the delinquents had been beaten and had dispersed, Bou Souita was free to attend to his other tasks, at which point the rabble-rousers would regroup, this time in a slightly more organized way. Lookouts would be designated in case Bou Souita should return unexpectedly. And the games would start over.
At this point in his peregrination, Namouss inexplicably felt a different sort of need. He therefore joined up with a few of the kids there and performed his ablutions with actual dedication. He wasn’t sure he was proceeding through the steps of the ritual in an orderly fashion, but he didn’t really care since, as Driss was found of saying, at least his heart was in the right place. He would then leave the group behind and head toward the room where the city’s patron saint was resting. His head held high, he took a few measured steps and assumed an inspired composure. If he was to be admitted into the holiest of holies, his face must show his heart was in the right place. And it worked. He went in and approached the grille surrounding the mausoleum. His heart was racing. Was it fear? Fear of what? Or was it that he was the only child in the midst of so many patriarchs, people who usually commanded respect but who were now kneeling submissively in front of the grille, murmuring prayers or expressing their weaknesses and their hopes for help in their time of need? He didn’t know. His legs buckled and he found himself on his knees. He reflected on what he would say. He didn’t feel particularly unhappy and had nothing to ask for. The only thing that came to mind was the beginning of the new school year. He really wanted to do well at school. He wanted to succeed. The words issued without a hitch. He formulated his vow, kissed the grille, drew back, and sat down cross-legged. He thought he had won the right to be there and to leisurely observe everything that was going on around him. The people there, either seated or reclining in Roman style, would abandon themselves to their reveries, indifferent to the passing of time. This despite the fact that the walls were decorated with large clocks whose swaying pendulums produced a subdued cacophony, even though all the faces showed the same time. Namouss was stunned by the array of timekeeping instruments juxtaposed with the people present who, having found refuge in the saint’s mausoleum, had wholly detached themselves from earthly concerns. He too had abandoned himself to a reverie. He grew wings once again. He rose up and up through the sky until he was blinded by a dazzling light. He forced his eyes open, because he knew the Face would appear before him. A moment later, he saw Him on His throne. A stern-looking old man with a magnificent beard, who held out His hand. Namouss kissed it and immediately an incredible feeling of strength flowed through him. But a voice brought his euphoria to an end.