“Did you fast today?”
Wary, Namouss answered his question with another: “What about you? Did you fast?”
“No,” the child retorted. “I’m younger than you.”
“I am the youngest in my family,” Namouss added. “I won’t be starting to fast anytime soon.”
The conversation went on like this.
“I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”
“What about parents?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Where do you live?”
“In New Fez.”
“In whose house?”
“Houses that belong to people. I work and give them money.”
“Did they find you here in the garden?”
“No, they said they got me in the countryside, but they’re lying.”
“Who gave you the gargoulette?”
“I bought it with my money.”
“Do you sell water everywhere?”
“I sell it here during Ramadan, otherwise in the mellah.”
“So why are you here now?”
“I worked enough today. I came here to rest. The water that’s left over I give away fabor.”
“Who drinks your water?”
“Kids, and women who are having their time of the month.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“When they bleed.”
“From where?”
“From where you came out.”
“Why?”
“That’s just the way it is. And so they have the right to eat and drink as they like.”
“Ah, so that’s why my big sister eats from time to time.”
“You’re a real kanbou. You don’t know anything at all.”
“Yes, I do. I learn a lot at school.”
“I learn more from the streets.”
“Like what?”
“Tricks. Also, I know how to defend myself.”
“So do I.”
“Yeah, yeah. You wouldn’t stand a chance against me.”
“Don’t push it. I wouldn’t hit you anyway because you’re younger than me.”
“Feel my muscles.”
“It’s true, they’re hard as steel.”
“You’ve run away from home, haven’t you?”
“How do you know?”
“You did something bad, I can tell just by looking at you.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
IT WAS TIME for the evening prayer. Maghrib wasn’t far off. Namouss decided to go home, reluctantly leaving his companion behind. The initial hostility had disappeared completely. The thought that he might never see the boy again even made Namouss sad. He turned around to look at him one last time. The water seller was perched on the bench with his gargoulette close beside him, his naked, dusty little feet dangling in the air. Framing him from behind, the waterwheel was spinning away. With a last look at this somewhat disquieting image, Namouss headed toward the exit.
12
RETURN TO THE house. His apprehension is intact, and the state he finds his mother in is certainly not going to release his tension. At first, Ghita seems to be ignoring his presence. It then becomes clear she is just midstream in one of her memorable tirades, using the patio as her stage. Namouss, used to these performances, pricks up his ears, waiting to see what will come next. But what he hears astonishes him.
“Our religion sure is a fine thing! You have to spend all day chained up like a dog. Our throats parched and our bowels gurgling. Neither rest during the day nor sleep at night. And who — who’s left gathering the grievances? Ghita, that’s who, the servant of young and old — the orphan girl with no one to look after her. If only I had somewhere to go, I swear to God I wouldn’t stay here a moment longer. What is it that our ancestors used to say? ‘When your country humiliates you, leave it.’ It’s true, the world is vast. I can live anywhere, even in a nouala or a tent. I’m strong enough to look after myself. After all, bread and water will suit me just fine. I don’t need gold or caftans. I don’t need a man, or children, anything that will make my head ache. Head, oh head of mine, you’re going to explode. My head, my head, my head. .”
On that note, she made an about-face and, finally noticing Namouss’s presence, she began to scold him.
“You’re just getting home now, you sinful son! Where have you been all day? Who have you been gallivanting with? Everyone was worried to death. Your father almost hired a street hawker to go around the city shouting your name.”
Namouss was seriously starting to panic, but then Ghita abruptly changed her tone.
“Come here! Now tell me first of alclass="underline" You haven’t eaten a thing since yesterday, have you?”
“No,” Namouss hastened to answer, her question filling him with hope.
“Wili, wili!” Ghita exclaimed, suddenly moved to pity. The boy was dying of hunger and there was no one there to rescue him. “Come here, my poor little one, come here. You can start by tasting that damn harira to tell me if it’s salty enough. I never know how much salt to put in. That dates from the time when your father and I were newlyweds and lived at your uncle’s house. Well, would you believe that when it was my turn to cook, your aunt — may God punish her! — would wait until my back was turned to throw a handful of salt into the pot. When the tagine was served it was almost inedible. All of that just to sow discord between your father and me. I was still a little girl, but one day I woke up at dawn, packed my things, and gave your father a choice: Either he would find us a house of our own, or we would go pay a visit to the qadi —”
“Let me taste the harira,” Namouss implored, his stomach howling like a wolf.
Ghita filled half a bowl. Namouss gulped it down and asked for more.
“Fill the whole bowl.”
“So? Is it salty enough?”
Not paying any attention to these nuances, he dodged the question gracefully: “Your soup knows no rival.”
Flattered by the compliment, Ghita uncovered a dish filled with honey cakes and said, “Take as many as you like. Eat, eat. At least your life is carefree. What happiness!”
Pondering as he ate, Namouss felt reassured. If he was ever punished, it would be for running away rather than for the mischief he’d caused earlier in the morning; nevertheless, he wanted to make sure. Recklessly, he asked, “And the mice?”
“What mice?”
“The ones that came out of the cupboard this morning. Did you kill them?”
“Hush now! They managed to get away. Wanting to crush them with the cudgel, your father missed his mark and wound up almost breaking my leg. But how did you know they came out of the cupboard, where you there or what?”
“No, Yemma, I swear.”
“Don’t swear. If you lie, you’ll turn into a monkey. Watch yourself. Now finish your cake and go to the ovens to bring back the bread. There are five big loaves and a small one, which I seasoned with sesame and aniseed. You see, I was thinking about you. Here’s the money for the baker. Make sure you hold on to it tightly so it won’t drop or get stolen. Go on, get going. The men will be back and the Maghrib will soon be called.”
Namouss found the whole family around the table when he came back from the ovens. Ghita had already poured the soup and laid out various plates filled with honey cakes, dates, and dried figs. With only a few minutes to go before the announcement of the breaking of the fast, faces wore sullen looks. Everyone stared at the food in silence, ears open. Finally the cannon sounded and the call of the muezzin filled the air.
“Bismillah,” Driss began.
Everyone lapped up their first bowl of harira, grunting with pleasure and smacking their lips. By the time the second bowl was served, the atmosphere had relaxed noticeably. Namouss decided to take advantage of the lull to make his move. The idea he had devised to pull the rug out from under Driss’s feet was daring.