Moulana ya doul-jalal
Ben Youssef wa-l-istiqlal!
Oh Lord of glory
Ben Youssef and independence!
As this was happening around me, the moon-gazing produced several wholly different interpretations. Ghita, whose sight was deteriorating, asked whether the sultan was standing up or on horseback.
“What horse?” Driss scoffed. “Open your eyes, you can only see his face.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to teach me how to look? I tell you there’s a horse up there. I’m absolutely certain of it.”
“Return to God woman. It’s just the shadow of his djellaba’s hood. Can’t you see the sultan’s eyes, his nose?”
“What about his mouth, where is that then?”
“Where do you think it is? On his forehead?”
Employing her renowned gift for pedagogy, Zhor cut in and pointed at the moon.
“Let me show you, dear Mother. The face is right in the middle. Follow my finger.”
“Where is your finger? Think I’ve got cat’s eyes?”
“Here it is, hold on to it, and follow me as I show you. There, that’s the outline of the djellaba’s hood. There’s his round face, and here are his lips.”
“Ah yes, dear, it seems you’re right. Now I can see his mouth, and it’s as if it were getting ready to talk.”
While everyone was reaching a consensus, I tried my best to determine what I was looking at. Alas, even though I really applied myself — the moon as my witness — the results were hardly conclusive. It was certainly shining more than usual and some unrecognizable shapes could be glimpsed. Yet I could see nothing resembling a clearly defined face, regardless of whether it looked anything like the sultan’s. In any case, the portrait of his that I was familiar with — which my father had destroyed in his moment of panic — depicted him in profile, with a watani on his head, and everyone around me was speaking of a head rather than a face, and that it was covered with a hood. That said, how could I possibly doubt, even for a single moment, the reality of what everyone unanimously agreed they could see, a vision that was becoming increasingly detailed, and which they were waving at with great joy and devotion? I could only put my inability to see the sultan down to poor eyesight and other infirmities connected to my age. Adults had faculties that I clearly lacked. The simplest option was to blindly believe them. From there I’d be only a step away from a true leap of faith, and wanting to dispel my doubts, I took the plunge. I surprised myself by poking fun at Ghita, who was guilty of having dragged her feet before accepting the official interpretation.
“I guess your horse flew away, huh?”
“May he trample you under his hoofs and make mincemeat out of you!” she retorted.
Faced with that less-than-enviable fate, the solution I found was to shout myself hoarse, joining with the chorus of invocations: Oh Lord of glory, Moulana ya doul-jalal. .
Was it the meager contribution I spilled into the communal emotion that brought on the steel bird? I was so naïve I actually believed that. Announced by a frightening roar, the helicopter sprang out of nowhere, lit up the star-studded sky with red and green flashes, and began spinning above our heads. A short silence followed, after which people let out a flood of hostile rebukes and angry gestures at the helicopter’s occupants. Disappointed by the negative reception, the helicopter rose straight up and flew past the moon, “on the double” one would have said, so as to obscure the sultan’s face, and then disappeared into the distance. The people clapped, drunk with victory. It didn’t last long. The helicopter announced its return. It reappeared and some believed they’d seen flashing lights leave its cockpit, accompanied by sharp explosions. Driss, an expert in this field by virtue of having handled fantasia rifles, cried out: “They’re bringing out the big guns!”
Panic ensued. For once playing the role of mother hen, Ghita fussed over her chicks: “This isn’t a game anymore children. Go on, scram, kids, go downstairs.”
We resolved not to budge, especially since we really hadn’t seen or heard anything this time. The helicopter had gone away once more, giving us a reprieve. People let out a sigh of relief and went back to the object of their fascination. A thin veil covered the moon. Yet this mist didn’t impede the conversation that was dissecting each and every detail. Our neighbor’s wife raved about how handsome the king was.
“He is blessed by God,” she said, “an artist’s hand has drawn his eyebrows and endowed his eyes with the roundness of a crystal glass.”
“His face shines with the light of Mecca,” Ghita added. “Even the moon must be jealous of it.”
“Have you noticed how straight his nose is, how it’s neither turned up nor hooked?”
“Is that a beauty spot on his cheek?”
“Beauty spot or not, he has a rosy complexion. It’s as if blood were about to spurt from his cheeks.”
Zhor made a bizarre remark: “Happy is the woman who enjoys her baraka day after day!”
Faced with these tributes praising Ben Youssef’s physical charms, I would have expected the men to feel somewhat jealous. There wasn’t a bit of that. Leaving the women to their hackneyed attempts at poetry, the men brainstormed with the aim of producing some solid ideas. Our neighbor, who was keen on economics, came up with an analysis that made our mouths water.
“Are you aware that when the French leave, we’ll be left with enough phosphates to cover a family’s needs for three months without having to work?”
“It’s a steamed chicken served with its own cumin,” Driss exulted.
“I’m afraid so, Sidi, and as for the lands that belong to the colonial settlers, we will repossess them and use them to grow enough wheat to feed every single Muslim on Earth.”
“Barley will become something fit only for animal feed.”
“We won’t have sent our children to school in vain. It won’t be long before they will become administrators and distribute what needs to be distributed.”
“You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.”
“Why not? We have emptied our choukaras so that they could become educated and climb to the top of the ladder. Now it’s time for us to put up our feet and relax.”
“We certainly deserve to. We’ve slaved away our whole lives and worn out our hands and eyes. It is time to rest our heads on a pillow and retire in comfort.”
“Istiqlal is a great thing,” our neighbor concluded emphatically.
The celebrations died down only very late when the crowds on the terraces started to thin out. We followed suit. Once we’d gone downstairs, I noted with bitterness that we had skipped dinner. Ghita must have thought that we’d eaten enough with our eyes, and after all, inshallah, thanks to independence, we would soon feast to our heart’s content. Less susceptible to these arguments than my head, my stomach started to grumble. But I didn’t have a choice. I was therefore forced to avail myself of the only refreshment that was readily available: sleep.
WHAT DID I dream of that night? Tales of gluttony, of course. It was a nzaha in the Bab Lahdid orchard. As with the previous occasion, the whole family was there, including Touissa, who was an early riser. The order of the day: a great feast. Ghita had secured the services of a caterer. There was the smell of barbecue in the air, as well as roast chicken, tagines, and the inevitable couscous. What was all this in honor of? It was twofold: We were celebrating Driss’s return from his pilgrimage to Mecca, and at the same time, we were waiting for a distinguished guest to make his appearance.