4
THE WEDDING NIGHT finally arrived.
Nothing will be gleaned here about the unfolding of the wedding ceremony and its various protocols. There are plenty of films for that, as they say, full of colorful descriptions left behind by colonial authors of the old guard, not to mention by the nationalists that followed in their wake, who while sharing their prejudices were perhaps even less talented.
We will therefore elide the following details.
On the bride’s side:
the scene involving the ritual waxing and grooming
the henna ceremony: its application and removal
descriptions of the dress, jewels, and assorted fineries
presentation and “exhibition” of the bride, as well as the collection of the wedding gifts, either in cash or in kind
the singing of the neggafate3 in honor of the bride, where the words are always the same, regardless of whether the woman in question is ugly or beautiful, tall or petite, skinny or rotund, clever or asinine
last but not least, the displaying of the sarouel splattered with the postcoital blood after the consummation (which is stipulated in the marriage contract)
On the groom’s side: nothing in particular. At most there is the night before the wedding, where it seems the groom is dragged by his friends to visit women of ill repute for a demonstration of their practical skills. Yet I never actually saw any of this — and like Ghita, I never speak simply on hearsay.
What I did see and hear, however, is this.
It had been two or three hours since the married couple had retreated to their bedroom, yet our pricked-up ears hadn’t detected any noises or reassuring cries. In the drawing room where we had all assembled, the tension had become unbearable. Ghita could no longer sit still.
“What are those kids up to?” she asked. “Playing leapfrog?”
Turning to one of the neggafa, she ordered: “Go and look in on them, Lalla, and see how they’re getting on.”
The kind lady did as she was told, and after a moment that seemed to last an eternity, she came back empty-handed, though optimistic.
“They are young, and the night is long. I made them drink some warm milk and gave them some walnut-stuffed dates to eat. The little one had forgotten to put a cushion under her pelvis like I’d recommended. As for the groom, he very much has his eyes on the prize but doesn’t dare take the initiative. We must empathize with them. But we should also do all that is necessary. All will go well, Lalla, I promise you.”
“Even so, it’s not that complicated,” Ghita remonstrated. “Even donkeys know how to do it.”
At the sound of this insolent remark, Driss nearly leapt out of his chair.
“Hush now! Children shouldn’t hear things like that.”
“Maybe it’s because they’re stifled by all this prudishness, cursed jinn! What the camel thinks he alone knows, the camel driver knows too.”
On the verge of turning sour, this exchange was happily interrupted by a series of moans, then an out-and-out cry coming from the direction of the bedroom. Before long, the door opened and Si Mohammed appeared, looking pale, confused, and out of breath.
“Fetch the tea,” Driss said in an attempt to create a diversion and liven up the atmosphere.
We surrounded Si Mohammed, who was catching his breath before launching into a bizarre narrative that felt like something between a sports commentary and a medical report. He bragged about gaining the upper hand after a veritable boxing bout. The frightened girl had at first put up a brave resistance. He then confessed that after he’d broken her resolve, his virility had failed him. It was only after the neggafa’s intervention that his senses came back to life. The light refreshments were most welcome, and the woman’s advice quite pertinent.
“Well then, why don’t you bring out the sarouel?” Ghita asked, since all this talk was making her very impatient.
“There’s nothing to show,” Si Mohammed answered sheepishly.
“How can that be?” Ghita cried. “Do you want to make us into a laughingstock?”
“Turn to God woman,” my father said, “let the boy explain himself.”
Si Mohammed explained. Talking expertly, as if he actually knew something about it, he claimed that, anatomically speaking, he had found the hymen highly unusual. Stopping several times to pick up the threads of his tale, he said that though he had pushed as hard he could, he’d only been able to force a small opening. But a few drops of blood had fallen onto the sheet.
“That’s all that God has seen fit to give me,” he concluded, without seeming too sure of himself.
“You have to go back in there immediately and finish the job!” my mother thundered.
DESPITE THE RISING tension, I believe it was at this time that I received a visit from the sandman.
I must have felt quite nostalgic for our old home in the Spring of Horses, since that was the house upon which my eyes opened in my dream.
Some will cry foul. What? Could they be so unaware of similar cases in The Arabian Nights and various cinematographic efforts? That is unless they happen to be followers of the late Bourguiba,4 who, before being overthrown in a medical coup d’état, had been famous for his harebrained ideas. One of them being to ban filmmakers in his country from using the flashback technique, deeming that it seriously compromised the feeling of suspense and was detrimental to the intellectuals’ obligations to instruct the moviegoing masses.
THAT SHOULD BE taken as a warning since all it takes is the blink of an eye for a clumsy bombshell to come out of nowhere (according to Ghita) and for the narrative to slide to the earliest days of childhood. Once again, the following themes will be skipped over:
the Qur’anic school, which I didn’t frequent for very long
my circumcision, which didn’t unduly traumatize me
the Festival of the Sacrifice, where the blood of sheep freely flows and spurts
the hammam, where little boys are initiated into the great mysteries of women
the tyranny of the paterfamilias, since I am not exaggerating when I say that my own father, Driss, was as gentle as a lamb
I am now well within my rights to return to my dream. . or rather my reverie — on that I will readily concede.
5
THE CHILD WHO opens his eyes on the house in the Spring of Horses must be around the age of six and has already been saddled with a nickname. His playmates called him Namouss (or Mosquito), not because he was smaller than the kids his age (Fezzis, people from Fez, generally have short legs) but because, aside from being rather frail, he was also a bit of a flighty creature who was unable to keep still. Bordering on recklessness, this sprightliness had earned him plenty of boo-boos (torn toenails, a head crisscrossed with scars) and was above all the reason Ghita had designated him as her emissary, charging him with relaying communications between her and Driss. Whenever the slightest problem arose — and something went wrong each God-given day — Ghita would bid him: “Namouss, go and tell your father to come daba daba” (immediately).
At the speed of lightning, Namouss would run straight through the Sekkatine souk, and once Driss had received the message, he would forget customers and merchandise, adjust his tarboosh, slip on his balghas, and head home pronto.