A Riffians Tune (14 page)

‘Yes,' I said. ‘Samir and Moussa.' I looked around, but Samir and Moussa hadn't arrived yet. The crowd started to shout.

The officer decided to register me, even though he was not sure I matched the ID photo. He wrote my name down and said, ‘You are number ninety-two, exam hall number four. If you pass your exams, you will be assigned a year and class. Be there before eight-thirty in the morning next Wednesday, and bring your identity card with you,' he added. ‘Next!' he shouted.

Not knowing how, I found myself pushed aside. The police could hardly cope with the intensive shoving coming from the crowd toward the window. Despite the imposed queue, all order was lost when the crowd got near the window.

Moving away, I checked to see if Samir and Moussa had arrived. They were at the end of the queue. They must have seen the officer talking to me and the police interrogating me, but Samir pretended he hadn't.

‘Did he register you?' asked Samir with an unhappy look.

‘We saw him getting registered, didn't we?' answered Moussa.

I felt Samir was envious of me. He couldn't stomach how leaving the room half an hour earlier could give me such an advantage over him. I knew he could get jealous over a pencil, but still hoped he would be registered. Unwilling to listen to him, I left, saying, ‘See you later.'

That afternoon, everything changed. Kamil was cleaning his glasses, and I was trying to read a manuscript that made no sense to me. We heard loud laughter and excited voices – Moussa and Samir rejoicing over being registered. ‘I am number one hundred eleven,' said Samir to Moussa. ‘You are seventy-seven, though you came after me. How come?'

I cheered to know that they were registered and was happy to see Samir in a good mood. The waiting time for exams was short, but extremely boring and taxing. Most of the time, Samir didn't know what to do with himself.

I waited anxiously for the exam day and rushed to the hall on Wednesday morning. I was acutely aware that I knew nothing, tried to remember times tables and a few practical rules of ritual, such as washing my face, cleansing my nose, dampening my hair, cleaning my ears, my feet and my privates. The queue was already formed, but orderly and subdued with no police needed this time. Glints of anxiety shone over the boys' faces, as if execution were waiting.

Professors were seated inside a massive hall, long and beautifully decorated with mosaics. The colour green was dominant on every wall to give a cool and fresh feeling whenever anyone stepped inside. The examiners were sitting in a row behind huge leather-covered desks. Outside the hall, two beefy middle-aged men acted as gatekeepers, shuttling people in and out freely and calling the examinees' numbers.

Only three girls were in the queue. Two of them were particularly talkative, joking and giggling as if nothing mattered. One of them was flaunting an expensive necklace, constantly flicking it. I hoped I would be in the same class with them if I managed to be admitted. In reality, there was no chance; boys and girls didn't share the same school. ‘Ninety-two to desk three!' A sharp voice broke my fantasy.

The doorkeeper opened the door; I scrambled through the crowd and headed in a daze to desk three. Far from the door, behind a majestic, dark mahogany desk, sat Professor Allal. He was a tall man, broad and smartly dressed, in a navy suit with a silk tie. As I entered, he peered at me from behind his silver-rimmed glasses and followed me with his eyes, scrutinising every step, until I reached his desk. By the time I sat down, I felt he had already made up his mind.

‘Where do you come from?' he asked, like a policeman rather than a genteel professor.

‘I am from Kebdana,' I replied.

‘What did you do there?' he asked.

A ripple of panic struck.
I can't tell him I was a shepherd!
I thought.
What will he think of me?
I stumbled about for an answer.

‘Have you forgotten already?' the professor commented with a cold smile. Silence ensued, and he patiently waited for an answer.

‘I was a shepherd,' I whispered.

The surprise showed in his face, but to my relief he then changed the subject. ‘How is your maths?' He handed me what looked like an endless list of division and multiplication problems. ‘Take your time; you have thirty minutes,' he said without a trace of irony.

While I was struggling with solutions, he chatted to his neighbouring professor at the table a few metres away. As his loud voice reverberated around the room with news of his son, it was a struggle for me not to be distracted.

‘My son is in Paris,' he said. ‘Last year he was in Polytechnic College, the most prestigious and famous college in France! He passed his exams, but now he has changed his mind and is doing medicine instead.' It was difficult for me not to feel jealous of this boy I had never met.

‘Thirty minutes are up!' shouted the professor, becoming aware of my presence again. He broke off from his discourse, snatched my paper and peered down at me. Nodding and leaving, I had no idea what impression I had left behind.

Not having a second to gather my feelings or talk to anyone in the crowd, I heard a loud voice piercing the air. ‘Ninety-two to desk thirteen!' It was a call from the second doorkeeper on behalf of Professor Farid. He motioned toward the door and went back to squat on his stool.

I knocked and stepped in. The room was beautiful; sunlight beamed through the huge windows which stretched to the ceiling elevated high above and bathed the entire room in a warm, golden glow.
I wish I were allowed to bring my blanket and sleep here in the middle of this room
, I thought to myself.

Professor Farid, lips stuck out, looked annoyed and gave the impression he did not appreciate his precious time being wasted. He had been reading a local gossip rag before I sat down and interrupted his reading. In complete contrast to Professor Allal, Professor Farid was dressed all in white: white shirt, white
kashaba
and white
jellabah
. Even his
babouches
were white! He would have looked like a snowball were it not for his head, which was swathed in a pink turban, a colour my mother had said was reserved for virginal girls. Professor Farid didn't scrutinise me as Professor Allal had; he barely lifted up his head to look at me.

‘Sit down!' he told me in a harsh voice, but before my bottom could touch the seat, he handed me three pages of questions. The next half hour would be a blur forever in my memory.

It was lunchtime. Moussa, Samir and I were all supposed to meet at noon so we could go back to our room and, on our way, buy two round loaves of bread for lunch. Demented by Professor Farid and preoccupied with my next exam scheduled for two o'clock, I forgot to wait for them. By the time I realised my mistake, it was too late; I couldn't go back, have enough time for lunch and be at the exam hall before two o'clock. I prepared myself for Samir's and Moussa's wrath.
I'll try to explain the behaviour of Professor Farid, and that might calm them,
I thought.

Ashamed, I entered the
funduq
and blinked as my eyes adjusted to the darkness from the bright midday sunshine outside.

‘How was it?' Samir shouted down from the first floor.

‘Is Moussa here?' I shouted back.

‘Yes, he's here.'

Thank goodness I didn't wait for them
, I thought indignantly. As no one had bought bread, we had to content ourselves with what was left: unsweetened tea and unbuttered, stale bread.

I was very slow in chewing the bread and didn't want anyone to notice. I had developed a severe ulcer on my tongue, cracked and excruciatingly painful. Chewing was slow and laborious, and eating any spicy food was impossible. However, we were all short of bread and time.

We hurried to the exam hall in a panic and arrived early. Samir was taking pleasure in both worrying and exciting Moussa. I was half listening to their conversation when a booming voice cut through my thoughts; ‘Ninety-two, room four, desk eleven!'

Professor Maliki was behind his desk and looked up earnestly at me as I entered. Unlike Professor Allal and Professor Farid, he looked young and rough, like a wild country horseman. He was a Sharia Law professor. With his hand outstretched, he indicated the chair.

I took the seat and waited for questions. ‘Pick a question from the pot.' He slid a large pot filled with folded bits of paper across the desk. With trepidation, I reached forward, picked one, and stared at the scratches on the paper. ‘Can't you read?' he snapped impatiently.

‘No, sir,' I answered.

Snatching the paper out of my hand, he read, ‘Do grandchildren have a share of their grandfather's estate if their father dies before their grandfather?'

‘No,' I said. I couldn't have hoped for a better question than this! ‘My uncle Hamid was killed in the Spanish Civil War, and died just a few days before my grandfather. He left eight sons and one daughter, and they were excluded from their grandfather's estate. For this reason, they had no land and, consequently, were destitute.'

‘What do you think about that?' asked Professor Maliki.

‘That is the law, sir. Maybe it needs to be changed.'

He raised his eyebrows and glared at me. ‘Change the law!' he shrieked.

‘Yes, sir.'

He smiled crookedly. Then with a frown, he grabbed the pot and asked me to pick a second question. He read it aloud. ‘If a wealthy man dies and has one son and one daughter, how would you apportion his estate?'

‘I would divide it into thirds. The son would get two-thirds and the daughter would get one-third.'

‘Is this the law?'

‘Yes, sir.'

He kept silent for a while as if something really bothered him, then presented the pot again, and asked me to pick another piece of folded paper. I stretched my arm, put my hand in the middle of the pot and my fingers fiddled with folded scraps of paper trying to find the easiest question.

‘As you know, every Muslim has to tithe to the poor and the needy. What is the amount?' he asked.

‘Ten per cent, sir.'

‘Are the tithe and tax the same?'

‘Yes and no, sir.'

‘“Yes and no” is not an answer. Who is the collecting agent for taxes?'

‘The government, sir.'

‘What would happen if someone refused to pay the tax?'

‘He would be put in prison, sir.'

‘Who is the collecting agent for the tithe?'

‘It is not the government, sir. It is self-policed.'

‘What would happen if someone didn't pay the tithe?'

‘He would go to hell.'

Professor Maliki exploded in laughter and other professors in the same room looked at him. Stepping out of room four, I bumped into Samir searching for room three. ‘To your right,' I shouted.

By the end of the afternoon, my die was cast. I paced up and down, wondering what to do next. As I waited for Samir and Moussa, Samir came out first with a red face like an overripe tomato about to burst. ‘Bastard!' he mumbled, his usual confidence and cynicism evaporated.

All finished and on our way to the
funduq
around six o'clock in the evening, we couldn't pass Moul Idrees shrine. The whole town seemed to have come out to enjoy a bizarre, erotic jostling. Men and women crowded the very narrow streets and went around endlessly, forward and backward. Women pretended to be pushed backwards, and men forwards so that women pushed their breasts out and men brushed against them. There was no age limit or moral boundary to this exercise.

Though having achieved nothing yet, we decided to surprise Kamil with a feast that night. We bought three-quarters of a kilo of camel mince mixed with onion, garlic and coriander.

To alleviate my anxiety, I asked Samir and Moussa over dinner, ‘Would you like to escape the
funduq
's stench and go outside the city tomorrow?'

‘Good idea,' Moussa piped in.

‘I'm not going anywhere,' grunted Samir, lips tightly zipped like a deaf mute.

That night, I didn't sleep a wink.
What am I going to do if I am rejected?
my mind simmered. In vain, I tried to convince myself not to worry for at least three days while waiting for the results.

Dawn stole the night. I felt motivated to get up, happy to hear life in the street, eager to leave the
funduq
, the narrow streets and not feel confined by the derelict, crumbling room. Unfortunately, when Moussa and I stepped outside the town, through Bab Guissa, we discovered that we could not play football there. It was sloping; the ground, uninviting and barren, was rocky and uneven with some aged olive trees here and there. A dotted shantytown didn't compare with Makran and Tassamat, where fresh air filled the lungs and wildlife inspired the mind.

‘We should have gone to Bab Ftouh,' I said.

‘Let's play the flute,' suggested Moussa.

Happily, we sat on soft soil under an olive tree. I tried to show Moussa how to place and move his fingers, how to blow, but his fingers were as stiff as steel and his whistling produced only a bizarre, windy sound.

Shaking and drying the flute, I was a few metres away from Moussa when a sharp yell pierced my ears. A tramp had crept up behind us and thrown a sharp stone, missile-like, which grazed Moussa's head.

I had no idea where he had come from, and had heard no footsteps. He certainly lodged within the area and had a hole within the shantytown one kilometre away. Maybe he had been hiding, sleeping behind or underneath one of the olive trees near where we sat.

Moussa's head was oozing blood from over his ear, and we were shocked and alarmed. We rushed toward the tramp to hit him as he raced toward us. We heard him mumbling, but couldn't make any sense of it. Very tall and wrapped in two or three coats, he looked huge. His legs were wrapped thickly with pieces of different-coloured cloth. His face was bearded as though he had never shaved; he had a big moustache shooting out like the horns of a wild bull, but dirty and greasy. Grubby and hairy, he looked faceless. Looking at this spectre, I pulled Moussa back. As the tramp swept the hair from his face, it suddenly looked familiar.