At the conclusion of this speech, the assembled men rose in a unanimous Allahu Akbar! Their eyes were wet, their spirits seized by a sweet reverie. A simple question, asked by Haji Mohammed’s eldest son, broke the spell.
“How are the Muslims from other countries?”
“There are whites and blacks, as well as Chinese, Indians, Persians, and even Russians. Not many among them spoke our language. We were obliged to use sign language to communicate. Neither do they eat like we do. I must say that when we Moroccans shared our food with our closest neighbors, they were full of admiration. You can find the whole world in Fez, gentlemen. Our cuisine knows no equal. Is there anything better than a beef tagine with stewed vegetables, roast chicken with pickled lemons and olives, pigeon pastilla with almonds, or our traditional seven-vegetable couscous? One day I allowed myself to be tempted by a group of Indians who had invited me to taste one of their dishes. I won’t let that happen to me again. One mouthful was enough. It was like the fires of Gehenna. I almost choked. On another occasion, a group of Tunisians offered me their favorite dish: mloukhiya. At first I thought it would be made with okra, which, unlike your uncle Touissa, I very much like. But when they served me the dish, I saw before me a blackish-greenish stew whose smell made my stomach turn. I dipped my bread in it out of politeness. It tasted like henna and the meat that came along with it was like rubber. May God protect us!”
“I hear one of their specialties is couscous with fish,” Haji Mohammed’s eldest added, apparently set on taking the conversation in an insipid direction.
“And why not with pork?” Haji Mohammed guffawed, provoking a general hilarity. “Nothing further need be said. If you want to eat well, don’t travel, stay home. Fez, my friends, with its big houses! Our women have a golden touch! They can make a finger-licking feast even out of dry beans.”
“And the water, let’s not forget the water of Fez,” Driss added. “It’s as sweet as honey.”
“That it is,” Haji Mohammed said approvingly, “one of the blessings bestowed upon us by Moulay Idriss, may his baraka last.”
NAMOUSS WAS BEGINNING to get tired. While his uncle had been speaking about matters to do with the sacred, Namouss had refrained from giving in to his desire to flee to the hills. But now that the conversation had turned to bizarre dishes, he was bored. He therefore felt free to slip off and explore the orchard.
The place was absolutely enchanting. Since the garden was on a slope, the clumps of trees and terraced vegetable patches offered the view of a vast stretch of flowers and greens extending all the way to the paved road at the lower end of the garden. What was more, this configuration made the orchard into a little labyrinth, allowing one to slip out of sight and stroll through it as freely as one liked. Bowing to an ancient instinct, Namouss picked up a broken-off tree branch and, thus armed, headed confidently into that luminous, aromatic maze. What struck him at first was the wide array of trees that he could not put a name to. White, pink, red, and violet flowers. Were they prune or pear or pomegranate trees? The only one he could identify for certain was the lemon tree, whose fruit was weighing down its branches. The extent of his ignorance of botany was even greater when it came to plants. There were too many. He consoled himself by inspecting a patch of mint whose smell he recognized before the lightbulb lit up in his mind and the name burst out of him: liqama! Oh, if only Mr. Cousin were here! He might have helped him read from that unfamiliar book. But he wasn’t, so Namouss would have to do his best to manage on his own. He figured the best way to learn about plants would be to pick some. No sooner said than done. The first he pulled out of the ground revealed a root in the early stages of growth. It was anyone’s guess as to whether it was a turnip or a carrot! That’s if it wasn’t a potato. Through trial and error, he carried on with his predatory work and wound up unearthing something that looked half decent: a sizable, bright-red radish, which he wiped clean and bit down on without a modicum of self-restraint, as if it was the first time. That radish was like nothing he’d ever tasted before. Aside from its vague peachy taste and its unparalleled freshly plucked freshness, there was the fact that he had discovered it and pulled it from the earth with his own hands. His taste buds were forever marked by that experience. From now on, as with the madeleine, we can speak of “Namouss’s radish.”
The exploration of the orchard continued and the foliage grew thicker. Imitating characters he’d seen at the cinema, our hero brandished his stick like a machete and cleared a path for himself. He didn’t know that what he was cutting down were cornstalks. After a time, other memories surged back, detracting from the flurry of his explorations. Could there not be some savage beast lurking behind one of these thickets, or one of those giant snakes that coiled around you and crushed your bones? At that thought, he pricked up his ears. The silence weighed heavily around him. There were no echoes coming from the direction where his family was gathered. He had gone quite a distance from them. Perhaps he should consider turning back. At that very moment, he heard a suspicious crackle from a cluster of reeds in front him. Showing off was out of the question. He beat a hasty retreat and didn’t stop until he’d escaped the jungle and reached a clearing reassuringly devoid of greenery. He sat down next to a patch full of what he thought was mint. Worn out, he stretched out upon it hoping to indulge in its aroma and closed his eyes. It certainly felt good, but there was no smell to speak of. Surprised by this, he got up so as to better inspect this anomaly. It’s definitely mint, he said to himself. Then why wasn’t it giving off any smell? His inquisitive nature led him to try to better understand this phenomenon. He plucked a few leaves, rubbed them on his palms, and brought them to his nose. The smell was revolting. It must be a weed, he figured, as he was beginning to feel a bizarre tingle start to tickle the palms of his hands and the tip of his nose. Soon enough, this transformed into a devilish, burning sting. He thought he was doing the right thing by waving his hands about and blowing on them. But the pain only got stronger. He rushed toward the nouala so he could tell his mother.
“I’ve been stung by something!” he screamed, writhing.
“By what, a scorpion?”
“No, the mint that’s growing over there.”
“You idiot, that isn’t mint. Those must be stinging nettles. Dip your hands in a bucket of cold water. It’ll go away soon enough.”
“And what about my nose?”
“What about your nose?”
“It’s stinging too.”
“Oh well, that’s a pity. That’ll teach you not to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
The burning began to subside fifteen minutes later. Namouss went back to the men’s circle. Looking like he could go on forever, Haji Mohammed was on the umpteenth chapter of his pilgrimage.
“A thousand thousands of us were circling around the Kaaba, chanting, ‘We have answered Your call. To convey blessings upon You!’ Our invocations made the ground beneath our feet tremble and lifted an immense flock of pigeons into the sky. Oh, dear ones, when this last rite had been performed and we had to start thinking about making our way back, our hearts almost broke. Saying goodbye to those holy places was more difficult for me than the suffering I’d felt when my mother breathed her last on her deathbed. But that was only a temporary goodbye. Inshallah, in two years’ time, I will perform my second pilgrimage.”