The woman in the portrait was beautiful. She lay back against plush cushions, neck straight, head held high, wearing a kaftan embroidered with gold and precious stones. She looked as though she might rule over men and over their dreams.
My uncle pointed to another photograph, one of three men in opulent burnouses with carefully trimmed beards and eyes so piercing they all but leapt from the frame.
‘The man in the middle is my father, your grandfather. The others are his brothers. Sidi Abbas, on the right, went to Syria and never came back. Abdelmoumène, on the left, was a brilliant student. A man so wise he might have been a scholar – one of the great ulemas – but as a young man, he gave in to temptation. He spent too much time with the European bourgeoisie; he neglected his lands and his livestock and squandered his money in brothels. He was found dead in an alley with a knife in his back.’
He turned and pointed to a third portrait, bigger than the other two.
‘The man in the middle, that’s your grandfather, with his five sons. He had three daughters by his first marriage but he never talked about them. On his right is Kaddour, the eldest of the brothers. He and his father did not get on well, and your grandfather disinherited him when he moved to the city to become a politician. On the left is Hassan, who liked to live like a lord. He kept company with women of easy virtue, showering them with jewels, while in secret he was brokering deals that would result in the family losing vast swaths of our lands and a large share in our stud. Your grandfather did not even realise how much damage he’d done until he was dragged before the courts. Your grandfather never really recovered. Next to Hassan is Abdessamad. He was a hard worker, but he left the family because your grandfather would not consent to him marrying a cousin whose family had sided with the French. Abdessamad died somewhere in Europe fighting in the Great War. And the two little boys sitting at your grandfather’s feet, that’s your father, Issa, the youngest, and me, I was two years older. As children we were very close, but then I got sick, very sick . . . I was about your age at the time. The doctors and the healers couldn’t cure me. My father – your grandfather – was desperate, and someone suggested he take me to the Catholic nuns. At first he refused, but I got worse and worse, I was wasting away, and one morning your grandfather found himself knocking on the door of the convent . . .’
He showed me a photograph of a group of nuns.
‘The nuns saved my life. It took years and years. By the time I was well again, I had already passed my baccalauréat. Although he was crippled with debts by then, your grandfather agreed to pay for me to study chemistry. Maybe he realised that I had a better chance of making a future with my books than with his creditors. Germaine and I met when we were at university. I was studying chemistry, she was studying biology. And even though your grandfather had probably planned for me to marry a cousin or one of his friends’ daughters, he didn’t oppose our marriage. When I graduated, he asked me what I planned to do with my life, and I told him I wanted to set up a chemist’s shop in the city. He agreed. He made no conditions. That’s how I came to buy my house here, and the shop . . . Your grandfather never came to the city – not even for our wedding – not because he disowned me, but because he wanted to give me a chance in life. Like your father did when he brought you here to live with me . . . Your father is a brave, honest, hardworking man. He did his best to save the family’s lands, but he was the only one left. It wasn’t his fault. He was simply the last wheel on a cart that was already falling apart. Your father still believes that if I had helped him, if there had been two of us, we might have saved the farm, but fate decided otherwise.’
He took my chin between finger and thumb and looked into my eyes.
‘I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this, boy . . . I’m doing it so that you know who your family are. Lalla Fatna’s blood flows in your veins. Where your father failed, you can succeed, and climb back to the lofty place from where you came.’
He kissed me on the forehead.
‘Now, go and find Germaine. I’m sure she’s missing you.’
I slipped off his lap and ran to the door.
When he saw me stop and turn, he raised his eyebrows.
‘What is it, boy?’
In turn, I stared into his eyes and asked: ‘When will you take me to see my little sister?’
He smiled.
‘The day after tomorrow. I promise.’
My uncle came home early. Germaine and I were outside. She was sitting reading a book in the rocking chair on the veranda. I was looking for a tortoise I had seen in the garden the night before. Germaine set her book down on the table and frowned. My uncle went into the house without coming over to kiss her as he did every day. She waited for a moment, but when he did not come out, she went inside to find him.
My uncle was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, elbows propped on the table, his face buried in his hands. Germaine knew something terrible had happened. I watched as she sat opposite him and took his wrist.
‘Problems with a customer?’
‘Why would I have problems with my customers?’ My uncle was angry. ‘I’m not the one who prescribes their medicine.’
‘You’re upset . . .’
‘That’s hardly surprising. I’ve just come back from Jenane Jato.’
Germaine started slightly.
‘I thought you were taking the boy there tomorrow?’
‘I wanted to get the lie of the land first.’
Germaine fetched a jug of water and poured a glass for her husband, who drank it, then, seeing me standing in the living room, she gestured upstairs.
‘Wait for me up in your room, Jonas. We’ll go over your lessons in a little while.’
I pretended to do as she asked. I waited on the landing for a minute, then crept down a few steps so I could listen. The mention of Jenane Jato had intrigued me. I wanted to know why my uncle suddenly looked so old. Had something happened to my parents? Had my father been arrested for murdering El Moro?
‘So?’ Germaine whispered.
‘So, what?’ my uncle said wearily.
‘Did you see your brother?’
‘He looks terrible, I mean really terrible.’
‘Did you give him money?’
‘You must be joking. The minute I reached for my pocket, he went rigid, like I was going to pull out a gun. “I didn’t sell you my son” is what he said to me. “I left him in your care.” I was really shaken, I can’t tell you. Issa is going downhill, honestly. I’m starting to fear the worst.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s obvious – if you saw his eyes. He looks like a zombie.’
‘What about Jonas? Are you going to take him to see his mother tomorrow?’
‘No.’
‘But you promised.’
‘I’ve changed my mind. He’s barely crawled out of the gutter; I’m not about to push him back into it.’
‘Mahi . . .’
‘Don’t go on about it. I know what I’m doing. Our son has to look to the future. There’s nothing back there but misery.’
I heard Germaine shift nervously in her chair.
‘You can’t give up so easily, Mahi. Your brother needs you.’
‘Don’t you think I’ve tried to help him? Issa is like a ticking time bomb – touch him and he’s liable to explode. He won’t give me a chance. If I offered him a hand, he’d cut my arm off. As far as he’s concerned, anything he gets from other people is charity.’
‘But you’re not other people, you’re his brother.’
‘You think he doesn’t know that? To him, it’s all the same. His problem is that he won’t admit how bad things are. He’s a shadow of the man he was. Besides, he resents me. You can’t imagine how much he resents me. He thinks that if I had stayed with him, we could have saved the farm, the family lands. He’s convinced of it, now more than ever. He’s obsessed with the idea, I know he is.’