Soon enough, the house is turned on its head. Ghita’s terrified shrieks. Driss comes out in his pajamas still wearing his nightcap. Noisily throwing open the bathroom door, he grabs hold of a club and, giving Namouss a dirty look, enters the field of battle. Woken from their slumber, Namouss’s brothers and sisters rush into the courtyard, each brandishing a weapon they’d brought out just in case: a slipper, a sandal, a palm broom. The atmosphere is charged. Namouss knows he will not be able to get off scot-free. Unless. He starts thinking, fast. After all, no one could be sure that he had been the one to knock over the pots and pans. Why couldn’t it have been the mice? This version of the events could hold water. In any case, it would be best to disappear for the moment and wait for the breaking of the fast to show his face again. By that time, there’s a good chance the whole affair will have been forgotten.
HE ROAMED THE streets like a lost soul. Empty of people, the Medina was unrecognizable. The few passersby he crossed paths with looked sullen. Hardly any shops were open and the craftsmen inside worked at a leisurely pace. Only a handful of grocers attracted a few customers: some young maids, whom one recognized because of their humble attire and, above all, their faded, ill-fitting head scarves, which made them look like elderly spinsters. There they were, sniffling, their eyes heavy with sleep, waiting for the grocer to deign to serve them.
It was then that Namouss realized the full extent of the calamity that he’d brought upon himself. Unless a miracle happened, he would have nothing to eat for the whole day, and since he couldn’t very well go home before sundown, what could he do to fill the interminable hours that lay ahead of him?
He began roaming the streets aimlessly again. After a while, the empty streets made him feel as if he were in a different town altogether. Devoid of crowds, the souks seemed larger. One could take his time, look around, lift one’s gaze to the sky, watch the flight path of a stork, and there, where some reeds had been braided into a sheltering roof, observe clusters of grapes hanging heavy as wax from their vines, or listen to the chirping of birds that had made their nest in that cool spot.
Namouss continued on his way, prompted by a sudden desire to revisit all his favorite haunts, taking advantage of the exceptional tranquillity. His steps led him to the Joutiya market, where on normal days the crowds were usually thickest. Starting early in the morning, people gathered around the stalls run by butchers, fishmongers, vegetable sellers, and in the middle of the square, surrounded the traders selling olives, snails, and salt, who, lacking proper shops or stalls, sold their wares out of large, wide baskets on the ground. The cheap eateries serving harira were never empty. Namouss would sometimes slip inside the one in Ba Allal, taking care not to be spotted by someone who might be tempted to report him to his mother. This was because Ghita thought that dining out on what she called “street food” was beneath one. It was only suitable for beggars, those without families, and bachelors. When he flouted this rule, Namouss would eat his soup so quickly that he’d scald his tongue and then leave the eatery, skulking away like a thief in the night.
Today, however, there was no sign of soup anywhere, not even its aroma. Damn! The deserted square instead smelled of dung and piss. Some donkeys were there, slumped, their eyes half shut, nonchalantly shooing away some extremely persistent flies with their tails. Looking at them, one would think they too were fasting. Namouss would have to wait until noon for the square to spring to life a little. But he was wrong to think that. Because it was Ramadan, this would happen only much later, close to nightfall. Joutiya Square would then transform, as if by a miracle. There would no longer be any buying or selling. Rope dancers and storytellers would divide the square between them and hold the high ground until the first flicker of dawn, vying to outdo each other with their juggling skills and eloquence. The crowds around them would be thick, flabbergasted, and friendly. There were also pickpockets lurking about. Hymns praising the Prophet would fill the air when the collection plate was passed around.
Of all those shows, Namouss’s absolute favorite was the one performed by a character whose reputation extended far and wide, a storyteller who went by the name of Harrba. Physically, he was not particularly striking: a small head set on a scrawny neck, bleary-eyed, and half his scalp eaten away by ringworm. Fact remains that this puny-looking man was a great showman, a peerless narrator who, thanks to his varied repertoire, knew how to keep his audience in suspense. Harrba would sometimes improvise sketches inspired by daily life that made light of his fellow worshippers; other times he told variations of widely known stories, which had never been heard before. A little tambourine perched on his shoulder, and he used it to punctuate his story or to break into drum solos, which he excelled at.
Namouss would go to hear him on his own or with a group of friends. He would lose himself in the flow of his voice, a voice that could mimic those of men and women, the rich and the poor, city slickers and country bumpkins, masters and servants, the hard of hearing and stammerers, corrupt qadis and phony imams, a beggar feigning blindness, a merchant cheating his customers, and a whole other plethora of crooks and fakes. Shifting register, Harrba would allow Namouss to travel back in time and marvel at the miracles performed by ancient saints and prophets, to suffer as they suffered, be swept away by the exploits of heroes waging a relentless struggle against the forces of evil, to watch dumbstruck as Harrba brought a princess’s charms to life: a perfectly placed beauty mark, hair that reached down to the ankles, tits like grenades, and a waist so slender a single hand could clasp it.
Harrba would jump and twirl and about. He would mimic the sound of waves, the wind, thunder, rain, animal calls, evoking sounds as varied as explosive farts to the silent ones weasels make, and would stop — all of a sudden and without warning — to allow the audience to give credit where credit was due.
“Would you like me to carry on?”
“Yes!” they would yell in unison.
“Very well then,” he would say, “the show isn’t free. Dig deep into your pockets and let me hear those coins.”
The show would last up until it was time for the s’hour, the last meal before resuming the fast. Neighboring streets would resound with the songs of the “door knockers,” those messengers of dawn making the rounds from house to house. Using a hammer made out of leather, they would give the doors a sharp blow to let the people inside know it was time to eat. The crowds would then disperse in the blink of an eye. The performers would gather their belongings and follow suit.
NAMOUSS WAS COUNTING on finding Harrba again that night. From where he stood, his fate remained uncertain, so he continued wandering in the hopes that it might drive those unpleasant thoughts away. He started thinking about Driss, and this drew him like a magnet to the souk where the saddlers’ guild was located.