He knew now that no matter what he did, what he said, he was doomed to disaster, and no oaths sworn on mountaintops, no holy vows could change the course of his fate.
One night we heard the voice of the local drunk howling and raging along the street, his filthy tirade echoing across the courtyard like a baleful wind whistling through a tomb. It was a rasping voice, filled with bile and scorn, that called all men dogs, all women pigs, that predicted dark days for the wretched and the cowardly; a voice that dripped with self-righteous scorn, with bloated pride; a voice the people of Jenane Jato had learned to recognise amid the thousand apocalyptic rumblings – the voice of El Moro.
When he heard it, my father looked up so quickly he slammed his head against the wall. For a moment he stayed crouched in the corner, petrified. Then, like a ghost emerging from the gloom, he got to his feet, lit the oil lamp, rummaged through a pile of clothes, pulled out a battered leather case and opened it. His eyes shone in the lamplight. He held his breath, hesitated a moment, then plunged his hand into the bag and the blade of a butcher’s knife flashed in his fist. He put on his gandurah, slipped the knife into the sleeve. I saw my mother stir. She knew what her husband was thinking, knew the madness of it, but she dared not say anything: this was not a woman’s business.
My father stepped into the shadows and I heard his footsteps in the courtyard dying away like prayers carried on the wind. The door to the street creaked as it swung shut, then there was silence . . . a roaring silence that kept me awake, watching for my father until morning.
He crept back furtively at dawn, took off his gandurah and threw it on the floor, slipped the knife back into its case. Then he went back to the murky corner where he had been brooding since that fateful Thursday, curled up and did not move again.
The news spread like wildfire through Jenane Jato. Bliss, the broker, was overjoyed. He went from door to door shouting, ‘El Moro is dead! He will never terrorise any of us again! Someone stabbed him through the heart!’
Two days later, my father took me to my uncle’s pharmacy. His eyes were bloodshot, his beard dishevelled and he was trembling as though he had a fever.
My uncle did not come out from behind the counter, suspicious that we had shown up unexpectedly at a time when most shopkeepers were only rolling up their shutters. He assumed my father had come to take revenge for the insult some days earlier. When at last my father spoke, my uncle was visibly relieved.
‘You were right, Mahi. My son has no future with me.’
My uncle stared at him open-mouthed.
My father crouched down beside me, digging his fingers into my shoulders so hard that it hurt. He looked me in the eye and said:
‘It’s for the best, son. I am not abandoning you, I am not disowning you; I simply want you to have a chance in life.’
He kissed me on the forehead – a gesture usually reserved for venerable elders. He tried to smile, and finding that he could not, he quickly got up and almost ran out of the shop to hide his tears.
5
MY UNCLE lived in the European part of the city, in a quiet cul-de-sac lined with neat brick houses with wrought-iron railings and shutters on the windows. It was a beautiful neighbourhood. The streets were bordered by neatly trimmed ficus trees; there were benches where old men could sit and watch the world go by and leafy squares where children could play. These children were not dressed in rags like the children in Jenane Jato, their rosy faces were not pitted with the marks of damnation; they took in life in great lungfuls and seemed to genuinely enjoy it. The neigh-bourhood seemed impossibly hushed, the only sounds the burbling of babies and the chirp of birdsong.
My uncle had a two-storey house with a small front garden and a lane running down the side. Bougainvillea spilled over the fence, its purple flowers tumbling into space, and a grapevine grew in a dense tangle over the veranda.
‘In summer, there are grapes everywhere,’ my uncle told me as he opened the gate. ‘If you stand on tiptoe, you’ll be able to pick them.’
His eyes were shining. He was in seventh heaven.
‘You’ll like it here, boy.’
The door was opened by a red-haired woman of about forty. She was beautiful, with an oval face and huge aqueous green eyes. Seeing me standing on the step, she clasped her hands to her heart and stood for a moment, speechless, then glanced at my uncle, who nodded.
‘He’s so handsome!’ she cried, crouching down to study me more carefully.
She threw her arms around me so suddenly that I almost fell over backwards. She was a powerful woman, with quick, brusque, almost masculine gestures. She hugged me to her, and I could feel her heart beating. She smelled as wonderful as a field of lavender, and the welling tears simply accentuated the green of her eyes.
‘Germaine, darling,’ my uncle said, his voice tremulous, ‘this is Younes. Yesterday he was my nephew, today he is our son.’
I felt the woman’s body tremble, saw a glittering tear quiver on her lashes then roll down her cheek.
‘Jonas,’ she said, choking back a sob, ‘Jonas, if you knew how happy this makes me.’
‘You have to speak to him in Arabic, he’s never been to school.’
‘It doesn’t matter, we’ll soon fix that.’
Still trembling, she got to her feet, took me by the hand and led me into a room full of grand furniture that to my eyes looked bigger than a cowshed. Daylight streamed through the French windows that led on to the veranda, where two rocking chairs stood either side of a table.
‘This is your new home, Jonas,’ Germaine said to me.
My uncle followed, a parcel under one arm, smiling from ear to ear.
‘I bought him some clothes. You can buy him some more tomorrow.’
‘That’s fine, I’ll look after him. You’d better go back, your customers will be getting impatient.’
‘Well, well . . . so you want him all to yourself?’
Germaine crouched down again and looked at me.
‘I think we’re going to get along just fine, aren’t we, Jonas?’ she said to me in Arabic.
My uncle put the parcel of clothes on a sideboard and settled himself on the sofa, hands in his lap, his fez pushed back from his forehead.
‘You’re not going to hang around here spying on us, are you?’ said Germaine.
‘Absolutely. Today is a holiday, my darling. I’ve just become a father.’
‘You’re not serious.’
‘I’ve never been more serious in my life.’
‘Very well then,’ Germaine conceded. ‘Jonas and I are going to take a nice bath.’
‘My name is Younes,’ I reminded her.
She gave me a tender smile, stroked my cheek and whispered:
‘Not any more, my darling . . .’
Then, turning to my uncle:
‘Since you’re here, make yourself useful and go and heat some water.’
She led me into a little room where there was a sort of large cast-iron cauldron, turned on a tap and began to undress me.
‘Let’s get rid of these old rags, shall we, Jonas?’
I didn’t know what to say. I watched her pale hands working, removing my fez, my gandurah, my threadbare vest, my rubber boots. I felt like a bird plucked of its feathers.
My uncle came back with a bucket of scalding water. Out of decency, he stayed in the hall. Germaine helped me into the tub, soaped me from head to foot, rinsed me over and over then rubbed me energetically with some perfumed lotion and wrapped me in a huge towel while she went to get my new clothes. When I was dressed again, she stood me in front of a large mirror. I was a different person. I was wearing a sailor’s pea jacket with a high collar and four brass buttons down the front, a pair of short trousers with pockets, and a beret like the one Ouari wore.
When I reappeared in the living room, my uncle got to his feet to greet me. He looked so happy it almost scared me.