“So, Hammou, the director of Abou-Chouaïb-Doukkali high school, decided to organize the swimming exams in the high school playground. Not in the water, because there was none, but on the sand.”
This gave rise to one single shout at Café de l’Univers:
“WHAT?”
Hamid, imperturbable:
“Indeed! Sand! All they needed was to bring in a sufficient quantity and place it in the playground in a big regulatory rectangle: twenty by six meters. And the wheels were set in motion! Well, I suppose ‘The wheels were stuck in sand!’ would be a more accurate metaphor.”
We were blown away.
“That’s crazy! We don’t remember this story at all. Are you sure this happened in El Jadida? Are you sure you didn’t make it up?”
“It is perfectly authentic. It was before your time.”
“Oh okay, alright, fine, okay.”
“So Hammou calls his colleagues and tells them to meet him in a café next to the local public theater, the one that’s falling to ruin today but which had its hour of glory. My father saw Jacques Brel sing there…”
“Can you ‘see’ someone sing? Wouldn’t you say my father heard Jacques Brel sing there?”
“Are you calling my father blind? He paid his five dirhams, he was in the second row behind the Corcos, the governor, and Madame Dufour, and he saw, with his eyes, Jacques Brel sing. But why are you trying to p…me off with Jacques Brel? I was talking about the café that was next to the local theater…”
Ali interrupts:
“Ah yes! It was called La Marquise or La Duchesse or some similar nonsense but everyone called it Dadouchi’s since the owner was named Dadouchi. Incidentally, even after his death, we still called it Dadouchi’s even though someone named Bouchta took over the café, which was officially called La Marquise or La Duchesse — but we continued to say Dadouchi’s — which was rather macabre seeing as the guy was lying in the local cemetery.”
“Bizarre. We referred to this place with a name that had nothing to do with its owner? Isn’t there a philosophical problem there?”
Hamid stood up and pretended to take off.
“Alright, well if my story doesn’t interest you…”
“No, no, stay. We won’t say another word.”
Hamid grumbled, for appearances, shooed the cat and sat back down.
“So, Hammou explained his idea to his colleagues at Dadouchi’s. Everyone found the idea ingenious. They congratulate him, they promise him a blowout kefta grill, they marry his daughter on the spot. Everyone’s happy. Everyone, except one person: the director of the Ibn-Khaldoun high school, a certain Tijani. Tijani had a problem, let’s say a problem of luxury: a beautiful lawn, a legacy of the Protectorate, decorated the playground of his establishment. He was very proud of it and looked after it with the meticulousness of an Englishman, manicure scissors, sprinkler on standby. Out of the question, he roared right in the middle of La Princesse (that’s what Dadouchi’s café was called, not La Marquise or La Duchesse as Ali claims), out of the question, he roared, to dump cartloads of sand on that marvel which constituted more or less the only green space in the city! His colleagues shrugged their shoulders. He persisted: we’ll do without quartz and silica! ‘And how will you accomplish this miracle?’ mocked his colleagues, who had already forgotten that swimming in sand was also not very common — how quickly we adapt. ‘You’ll see!’ he replied, mysterious. And he leaves them there in La Princesse, astonished. The next day, first thing in the morning, he asks one of his students, rather supple, rather soft (so as not to ruin anything, you’ll understand in a minute), he asks him to try to swim on the lawn. The student doesn’t understand: why this harassment? He wasn’t any rowdier than the others. Tijani essplains to him that it’s not a punishment, but an ultra secret project. Is NASA involved? the student asks. Or maybe the CIA? Tijani pushes him down onto the grass; the student contorts, pants, and moves, oh miracle; proving thus that it was doable, as the director had thought, now rubbing his hands together excitedly while the earthworm continued to crawl. That very night, at the café adjoining the local theater, which was called (I remember now) La Royale, and not La Princesse, that very night, Tijani announces to his colleagues that his students would train on the green grass, the gift from God.”
“Why ‘gift from God’? Sand was created by God, too.”
“Okay but stop right there, you’re not going to compare sand and grass?”
“Why not?”
“But…grass, it’s green, it’s vibrant, it synthesizes I don’t know what exactly, and it drinks water, I mean, s…it’s different from inert, stupid sand, which results from the degradation of rock.”
“Certainly. But everything is divine creation, isn’t it? So why rhapsodize and roar ‘oh, the great gift of God!’ when faced with a waterfall, a beautiful tree, or a cloud, and say nothing when staring at a pebble or listening to a braying donkey?”
“I repeat: because sand results from degradation of granite and other rocks. For God creates, He doesn’t degrade. That’s perhaps the work of the Devil or at least of Nature, which doesn’t deserve any better, the villain. While vegetation is the exact opposite of degradation, of putrefaction…”
(You’ll see, he’s going to talk to us about “dissipative structures.”)
“…it’s like dissipative structures…”
(See?)
“…they introduce order within disorder. After all, we can’t treat as equal that which makes a mess of things and that which picks up after itself.”
“In other words, God only created that which is beautiful and orderly? Who created the ugly, the disorderly, the dumps?”
“The Devil, probably.”
“You’re lucky it’s hot out today, otherwise I wouldn’t let this load of nonsense slide.”
Hamid waited patiently for the theological storm to pass and then continued his story as if nothing had happened:
“Then Tijani announces, standing up, as if towering over the stupefied La Royale, that his students, you see, will be taking the bac swimming test on the grass; it is out of the question for him to transform into a miniature Sahara his lovely lawn, inaugurated in its time by Marshall Lyautey (go ahead and try to prove him wrong). Silence in the ranks of La Royale. The other leaders of the establishment furrow their brows, make eye contact — was there a reason to complain, to oppose him? No, they decide, and they order: who wants a coffee, who wants a beer? Then Hammou stands up. Stop right there! He is not having it. What is this bunk? Standing opposite Tijani — like two cowboys at the end of a film — he formulates what I propose we refer to henceforth as Hammou’s Theorem: ‘It is easier to swim on grass than on sand.’ The statement rings out in La Royale like the conclusion of a scientific presentation, just before the thunder of applause. Someone ventures: ‘Are you sure?’ Hammou stands by it: ‘It is easier to swim on grass than on sand!’ The bac candidates at Tijani’s school will be at an advantage compared to the others. This was unacceptable! The exclamation point was worth a veto.”
“The plot thickens.”
“The polemic splinters instantly. La Royale divides into two camps: on the port side, those who accept Hammou’s Theorem. Starboard, those who refute it a priori — we are not yet at the proofs. The arguments are flung into the air like gyrfalcons flying out of their native ossuary. Those pro-Hammou cite the viscosity of the blades of grass and the morning dew; those pro-Tijani counter with the rollability of grains of sand. Finally, the doyen of the leaders of the establishment…”
“Who? Zerhouni?”
“…finds the solution: call in a specialist of fluid mechanics. Abdeljebbar, his nephew, was an engineer who graduated from the École Mohammedia for engineers and, as such, knew the Navier-Stokes equations, which determine, as you are aware, fluid mechanics. They called in Abdeljebbar, who lived five minutes away. He came. Was informed of the problem. Squinted his eyes. Pouted. Took a notebook out of his pocket. Etched a few very elegant curves. And decided thus: the results obtained for swimming on sand must be multiplied by a factor of 1.2 to be compared to those obtained on grass. Still all that depends on the quality of sand and on the ambient hygrometry, but anyway, if we kept track of all the variables and of all the parameters needed to resolve a problem, we would still be in the stone ages.”