Namouss needed some fresh air, and it was only natural he should think of the Jnan Sbil gardens. Namouss had a long walk ahead of him in order to get there, including a good uphill stretch: the rue des Pavés, then the Talaa Seghira, right up to Bab Boujeloud. “All the better,” he said to himself, “that will take up a few hours until it’s time for the Maghrib.” This new perspective invigorated him. He decided to stop loafing around and walk the distance to the gardens in a single go. Yet his overall vitality, though considerable, was now beginning to flag, standing in the way of his plan. At this time of day, thirst and hunger were making themselves painfully felt. Smokers and snuff-takers lose their patience when deprived of their vice. Their grouchiness becomes unbearable. They start to split hairs, fly off the handle at the slightest provocation, and vent their spleen. Altercations would break out here and there, which the idle followed with avid interest, idlers whose chief concern was to while away the hours until the breaking of the fast, an approach Namouss was already familiar with. Any distraction — in the strongest sense of the word — was welcome. There were two categories of idlers. First came the jokers, who loved adding fuel to the fire and who generally stood to the side so as to make a clean getaway if one of their jibes backfired and stirred a bruiser’s ire.
“Whose sebsi is this on the ground?”
“Whose snuffbox is this?”
“Light up and take a good drag.”
“The Maghrib is still far-far-far away and the maid is a piddling little child!”
The second category was made up of good souls who tended to break up fights and — thanks to copious quotations from the Qur’an — tried to bring the combatants back to reason. Although these mediators really did help keep the peace, this too was a means of whiling away the hours until the fast could be broken.
It was therefore curious to note the sudden interest a great number people took in being precise during this month when patience was celebrated as a virtue. From the time the sun passed its zenith, the questions people asked all circled the same pot.
“What time is it?”
“What time will Maghrib be today?”
“How long until the Maghrib?”
And, as if these weren’t enough, others who were even more anxious, would ask, “Are you sure your watch is working properly?”
Namouss had a hard time moving through that feverish crowd. He took care not to bump into anyone to avoid attracting the wrath of those mramden — as those “Ramadan sufferers” were called. He finally arrived at Bab Boujeloud. The way was clear.
THE JNAN SBIL gardens were a true haven of peace. The main avenue was lined with bushy Seville orange trees and flanked by two rows of basins where jets of water shot up and down, like dancers repeating an endless ballet choreographed by some invisible force. Namouss left the avenue behind and took a left. He crossed through a small forest of bamboo trees growing in the shadow of pines and giant palms. Here and there were some frail-looking datura sagging under the weight of their foul-smelling, bell-shaped flowers. A burbling brook could be heard, and at the end of the path, the garden’s majestic waterwheel came into view. It was turning slowly, as if stroking the surface of the water. Namouss sat on a bench and gave himself over to its movements, which soothed his heart. Lulled by the water’s swish, he wound up falling asleep. His dreams, alas, did not bring him any comfort, as they had little in common with the peace of his surroundings. An enormous weight pressed down on his chest while a series of images whirled through his head at breathtaking speed. Once again this nightmare.
This had happened a year ago. The episode had taken place in Aïn Allou, the road where the Small Springs were located. Unlike other times, he hadn’t gone there to see Chiki Laqraâ shower her invisible rival and assorted stone-hearted miscreants with insults. He had wound up there purely by accident. All around him were seditious murmurs. The crowd that had gathered in this back alley blocked the traffic. Men, children, and even young girls were chanting slogans.
“Down with colonialism!”
“Long live independence!”
Then something unimaginable happened: A young, unveiled girl was hoisted high above the crowd by two fellow protesters. Sweeping all objections aside, the girl launched into a song, which the crowd quickly echoed:
I have made a gift of my soul
To Morocco, my homeland
And he who tramples its rights
Will be made to taste death. .
The crowd grew larger and larger, and the excitement had reached its apogee when gunshots broke out from the top of the road.
“The goumiers! The goumiers!” someone shouted.
Panic ensued. Wave upon wave of protesters flooded the square, collapsing one after the other into a heap of bodies, crashing down like a house of cards. Trapped in a bottleneck, gesticulating wildly. Namouss felt the ground beneath his feet give away. The wave had overwhelmed him, swallowed him up, blowing him like a feather right into the thick of things. He reacted instinctively and did his best to neither move nor scream so he could concentrate on breathing. Keeping his mouth open, he tried to catch some air, but his lungs were being increasingly squashed and his heart started skipping beats. The thought that he might die crossed his mind, but strangely, this did not bother him much. Rather, he thought about how Ghita would throw a fit as soon as she heard the news — or about how Driss would be spared from having to give him his weekly allowance. But the more suffocating the situation got, the less he thought about these things. He was no longer able to breathe, and his throat only emitted a hoarse rattle. In a final burst of lucidity, he realized he was being pressed against a woman’s inert body, and that the woman was jamming her hand into his face. Without knowing why, he took the woman’s hand and, using all his remaining energy, bit down on it. He smelled blood. His or the woman’s? He couldn’t tell. The surrounding darkness gave way to a cold, white haze that worked its way into his brain and put him to sleep. All around him, the screaming and wailing began to fade away.
That was when he felt the hold over him loosen. Someone was dragging him away. He opened one eye, first seeing a policeman’s helmet, then a face and lips ordering: “Get the hell out of here!”
Freed from the vise, he landed, made his way to all fours before getting back on his feet as best he could — at which point his savior gave him a kick in the backside before he scuttled off.
“DO YOU WANT a drink?”
The boy yanking Namouss away from his agitated dreams was very small, in fact only knee-high to a grasshopper, and had hanging over his shoulder. . a gargoulette! With his free hand, he held out a cup, insisting: “Do you want a drink?”
Waking up in a daze, Namouss looked at this apparition. Having just left a nightmare behind, here he was staring at his doppelgänger. Would his suffering never come to an end? What evil jinni was forcing him to remember that story, especially on a day like this, when everything was going wrong? Recovering a little, Namouss grabbed the cup and emptied it in a single gulp. The child was amused by such great thirst.