My little angel
Lost in the forgotten corners of the planet
Thrown down a bottomless well
In cold and nakedness
By the enemies of God
My son, my little angel
Apple of my eye
And no one can hear you
No one can come to your aid
In the desert and desolation
But God is everywhere
Who sees the black ant
In the blackest night
God is generous
And takes no pity on miscreants
Be damned, Nazarenes
Sons of dogs
Drinkers of alcohol
Eaters of pork
And of frogs
And long live the King
And Allal al-Fassi!
The house had meanwhile filled with a crowd as women and children had one by one come from neighboring terraces, having learned of the situation either from the cries or from the news bulletin issued by Radio Medina, a highly efficient mouth-to-ear station, completely independent of electromagnetic waves.
Instead of comforting my mother, who had begun to beat her thighs and tear at her cheeks, the neighborhood gossips threw fuel on the fire.
“Yes, Lalla,” said one of them, “the Nazarenes have become Pharaohs. No pity or mercy.”
“May the black typhus obliterate them and cast them into hell,” added another.
“May their children be cursed,” said a third.
“Poor Si Mohammed,” continued a fourth, who was more conservative, or at least less of a nationalist. “He didn’t deserve this fate.”
“A fawn,” concluded a fifth, “and so gentle. Incapable of upsetting a hen incubating her eggs.”
Was I insensitive, or oblivious, or simply overpowered by the strength of my own gluttony natural to that age when sweets are in view? The fact remains, I took advantage of the situation to gather those walnuts with care and put them back in their place, after having subtracted two of them by slipping them into my pocket.
At that moment we heard knocking on the door. It was my father’s apprentice who had been sent as a messenger. He emerged breathless at the top of the ladder and, mustering up a virile tone, addressed the female crowd: “Make way! The men have arrived.”
The busybodies, dragging their brats away, headed for the ladder that led to the terrace. My mother, having magically recovered from her outburst, replaced her scarf around her head and took refuge in the children’s room.
“Ahem!” was heard at the foot of the ladder. “Has everyone gone?”
I recognized my father’s voice. He soon appeared, followed by my uncle and an assembly of artisans, members of the guild of saddlers. Also present were the barber-circumciser and the master tanner, a strong-arm man, fireman, and the occasional removal man.
The discussion had already begun. My uncle, who was very much listened to because he was the eldest, had attended my brother’s preliminary hearing.
“How did you find out?” my father asked him.
“It was the policeman from the Nejjarine precinct who came to tell me. That one there, God keep us from him, only delivers bad news.”
“And Si Mohammed, what did he do exactly?”
“You know he’s a firebrand. How many times did we warn him? He was at the counter at the post office and got into an argument with a French lieutenant. The guy insulted him and the boy found no better solution than to punch him in the face.”
“And then?”
“After that, Si Mohammed took off. He went to the palace of the sultan’s caliph in Tiznit and asked for sanctuary. They shut the door in his face and the gendarmes came to arrest him. They beat him and threw him in jail. Something stinks here,” my uncle surmised.
“It really stinks,” echoed the master tanner.
“What to do?” asked the barber-circumciser. “One does not joke with the makhzan.”
“The makhzan has nothing to do with it. We will have to make recourse to the protectorate’s authorities. These are matters that can only be fixed at the highest of levels, at the resident-general.”
My father, taken aback by this analysis, replied submissively, “Whatever you say we will do.”
The plan of action was thus decided. My uncle laid out the groundwork by recalling a few aphorisms: “Lust is an epidemic. Wax a piece of thread and it will pass better. If you hate, pretend to love. You must kiss the hand that you cannot cut off.” Then, returning to more mundane matters, he proposed: “The Nazarenes are like everyone else. Greed leaves them defenseless. This is what we will do. Tomorrow I will make all the necessary inquiries. In the meantime, you go to the Kissarya souk and buy two golden belts. We’ll offer the first of these to the local military commander. The second must be of a higher caliber: We’ll go to Rabat and present it to the wife of the resident-general. And God will come to our aid.”
“God will come to our aid,” the assembly said as one.
“And now, the Fatiha,” my uncle concluded.
Everyone present opened their palms and struck up a chorus: “In the name of God, the Beneficent, the Merciful. . It is You whom we worship and You whom we implore to help us. Direct us onto the right path: the path of those on whom You have bestowed Your grace, not that of those who have earned Your wrath, nor that of those who have lost their way.”
“Amen!”
“Amen!”
THE AFFAIR WAS thus put right along the lines envisioned by my uncle. The local military commander had “eaten” and facilitated a meeting with the resident-general, who had then “eaten” in his turn. Two weeks later, Si Mohammed was not only freed but also transferred to Fez, and more specifically to the post office in Batha Square, the most spruced-up one in town. There was, however, a flip side to the story. In order to buy the golden belts, my father, a modest artisan, had to sell the few trinkets of value my mother possessed and dip into my sister Zhor’s dowry — who, barely of marriageable age, had already been promised. Above all, he had to borrow the largest part of the sum from one of the more well-off members of his guild, who left him no other choice but to reimburse in kind with his labor. He had to slave away for this man for an entire year, without of course neglecting his ordinary duties.
Driss, which was my father’s name, was a saint. It took me some time to understand this.
THE PORTRAIT OF Si Mohammed again took its place on the wall. And by looking at it with eyes that had revisited the past, I rediscovered him with a half smile. Under the portrait, my father had fallen asleep. The conversation hadn’t stopped. I heard snatches of the conversation. Other images of Berlin in celebration continued to scroll by on the screen. But I had stalled. The sound and fury of the world was now receding and was slowly being put out. Another screen was superimposed on that of the cathode tube. The hand of the one who watches over the genesis of narratives has stripped away all colors. What follows will as a consequence be in black and white.
2
BEFORE SI MOHAMMED’s return from Tiznit, my mother had decided the time had come for him to fulfill his religious duties and become acquainted with marriage. For this woman, who was far from bigoted, this pious concern was an analysis that was not devoid of its psychological merits. Getting married, and taking up the responsibilities that came with it, was sure to act as a positive sort of therapy, calming the jinn that had taken hold of her mind, obsessed as it was with the thought of children. On the matter of jinn, she had moreover taken the initiative. A faqih1 from the mellah,2 who was renowned for his abilities, notably that of freezing water inside bottles, had furnished my mother with the appropriate amulet.