Ouari frowned slightly as he saw me slip my purse into his game bag, but his surprise faded immediately and he went back to his traps as though it had never happened.
My father’s reaction unsettled me. How could he have so misinterpreted my modest contribution? I was his son, flesh of his flesh. By what twisted logic could my well-meant gesture be taken as an insult? I would have been so proud for him to accept my money, but instead, I had hurt him.
This was the night, I think, when I first began to doubt the soundness of my good intentions, a doubt that would plague my every thought.
I no longer understood anything.
I was no longer certain of anything.
My father was determined to get back on his feet, determined to prove to me that my uncle had been wrong. He worked tirelessly, worked every hour of the day, and now made no attempt to hide how hard he worked. My father, who until now had always kept his plans to himself so as not to tempt the evil eye, now told my mother every detail of his plans to find more work, earn more money – ensuring his voice was loud enough so that I would overhear. He promised us the moon. Every night when he came home, a twinkle in his eye, jingling the change in his pocket, he would talk about the house we were going to live in – a proper house with shutters on the windows, a front door of solid wood, maybe even a little vegetable garden where he could plant coriander and mint, tomatoes and vegetables that would melt in our mouths. My mother listened, happy to see her husband planning and dreaming again. Though she did not entirely have faith in these plans, she pretended to believe him, and when he held her hand – something he had never done before – she positively glowed.
My father worked morning, noon and night, taking any job he could find, determined to be back on his feet as soon as possible. He spent his mornings helping out a herbalist, in the afternoons he did a shift for a ambulant greengrocer and in the evenings he worked as a masseur in a Turkish bath. He was even planning to start his own business.
As for me, I wandered the streets, alone and worried.
One morning, while I was far from home, Daho crept up on me. He had an ugly green snake wrapped round his arm. He backed me into a corner, rolling his eyes, waving the reptile’s gaping maw in my face. I had always hated snakes; they scared me to death. Daho taunted me, laughing at my panic, calling me a sissy . . . I was about to pass out when suddenly Ouari appeared from nowhere. Daho immediately stopped and stood, ready to run if my friend came to help me. But Ouari did not come to my rescue. He stared at us for a moment, and then walked on as though he hadn’t seen anything. Daho breathed a sigh of relief and, laughing maniacally, went back to torturing me with the snake. But it didn’t matter now, he could laugh all he wanted. I didn’t care. Sadness had driven out fear: I no longer had a friend.
4
PEG-LEG was dozing behind his counter, his turban pushed down over his face, his makeshift limb in easy reach lest he need it to fend off some light-fingered child who came too close to his sweets. His humiliation at the hands of El Moro was a distant memory. His time in the army had taught him forbearance. After years of suffering brutal NCOs with obtuse submissiveness, I suppose he considered the fleeting outbursts of Jenane Jato’s thugs just another abuse of power. Peg-Leg knew that life was a series of ups and downs, moments of bravery and moments of cowardice. What mattered was to pick yourself up when you fell, keep your dignity when you had been beaten. The fact that no one in Jenane Jato made fun of him after El Moro’s ‘humiliation’ was proof that no one could have stood up to the man. El Moro was no ordinary adversary; he was death incarnate, he was a firing squad. To face him head on and escape with only cuts and bruises was a triumph; to come through unscathed but for a pair of soiled pants was a miracle.
Next door, the barber was shaving the head of a bald man who sat on the ground like a fakir, his open mouth revealing a single stump of tooth. The rasp of the razor on the strop seemed to give the old man great pleasure. The barber told him all his troubles, but the old man paid him no heed; he simply sat, eyes closed, enjoying the feel of the razor as it scraped across his head, which was as bald as a polished marble.
‘There you go!’ the barber said as he finished. ‘That head of yours is so clear now a man could read your mind.’
‘I’m sure you missed a bit,’ the old man said. ‘I can feel a five o’clock shadow clouding my thoughts.’
‘What thoughts, you old fool? Don’t tell me that that brain of yours still works . . .’
‘I might be old, but I’m not senile. Look again. I’m sure you missed a hair or two.’
‘There’s nothing, I promise you. It’s smooth as an egg.’
‘Please,’ the old man insisted, ‘look again.’
The barber was no fool; he knew the old man was simply enjoying the shave. He considered his work, meticulously checking that he had not missed a single hair on the old man’s wizened neck, then he set down his razor and indicated to his customer that his siesta was over.
‘Come on, Uncle Jabori, time to get back to your goats.’
‘Please . . .’
‘Enough is enough, I said. I’ve better things to do with my time.’
The old man grudgingly got to his feet, peered at himself in the sliver of mirror, then pretended to rummage through his pockets.
‘I think I must have left my money at home,’ he said, trying to sound exasperated.
The barber smiled; he had seen this coming.
‘Don’t worry about it, Uncle Jabori.’
‘I was sure I’d put it in my pocket this morning, I swear to you. Maybe I lost it on the way here.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ the barber said wearily. ‘God will repay me.’
‘I won’t hear of it!’ said the old man politely. ‘I’ll go and get it right this minute.’
‘That’s very touching. Just try not to get lost on the way.’
The old man twisted his turban round his head and hurried off. The barber watched him go, then squatted on his munitions box.
‘It’s always the same – do people think I do this for fun?’ he muttered. ‘This is my living, for God’s sake! How am I supposed to eat tonight?’
He ranted on, trying to get Peg-Leg to respond.
Peg-Leg ignored him.
The barber went on for several minutes, and when the ex-soldier still did not react, he took a deep breath and, staring up into the sky, started to sing:
I miss your eyes
And I go blind
Every time you look away
I die a little every day
Searching for you
In vain among the living
What does it mean to live this love
When all the world proclaims
That you are gone?
What will I do now with my hands
Now your body is not here . . .
‘Use them to wipe your arse!’ yelled Peg-Leg.
It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over the barber. He was sickened by the vulgar way the grocer had broken the spell, the beauty of his song. Looking on, I felt sad, as though I had been woken from a dream.
The barber tried to ignore Peg-Leg; he shook his head sadly, cleared his throat and tried to begin again, but there was a lump in his throat and his heart was not in it any more.
‘You can be such a pain in the arse!’
‘What about you, forever wailing those pathetic songs of yours?’ Peg-Leg shifted lazily on his box.
‘What if I am?’ the barber said. ‘Look around. There’s no one here, there’s nothing to do. The whole place is dying and there’s not a soul around can even raise a smile. If a man can’t sing, what’s left?’
Peg-Leg jerked his thumb at the coils of rope on the hook above his head.
‘There’s always that. Take your pick, tie one end to the branch of a tree, wrap the other end around your neck, then bend your knees and you’ll have peace; that’s a sleep no one can disturb.’
‘Why don’t you go first? You’re the one who hates life.’
‘How am I supposed to go first? I’ve got a wooden leg – I can’t bend my knees.’