A Riffians Tune (17 page)

‘I am looking for a room to rent,' I said.

‘How much are you willing to pay?' asked the man, perched on a high stool and looking down on me from above.

‘What do you have and what is the cost?' I asked.

‘I have rooms,' he said, ‘but not for you. You are young. Bring your mother or sister to live with you so you will look like a family. That way, tenants won't think you are chasing after their wives.'

If only he knew!
Despite being worried about missing more school, I left to look for another letting agent. It was about a kilometre away, in a street called Talaa, on a slope and paved with cobbles. The letting agent was in a cubby hole, one metre above the pavement. The owner was sitting cross-legged, facing a few keys on a board a metre away, and a young boy with bare feet outside the shop was relaying messages for him. Facing the man, I said, ‘Peace be with you.' This was generally the way to start a conversation politely, but the agent glared at me as if I were a unicorn.

‘I'm looking for accommodation. Do you have a room to rent?' I asked.

‘Plenty,' he said, bobbing his head and looking at the keys on his board. ‘My clients are rich and choosy.' He spent half an hour touting and praising himself. I nodded and pretended to agree, but the classes I was missing kept flashing into my head. ‘I have a room,' the man said. ‘It belongs to an important client who doesn't take just the first comer. Judging by your voice and appearance, you are the right tenant.' He picked a key, jabbed it at the boy and said, ‘Quick! Quick! Show him the room!'

I followed the boy into a dark street, then into an even darker lane. He opened a door right on the street to a small tomb-like closet, whose walls were dripping water. Just across the threshold was a murky pool of water, over which was a rusted grate. Just beyond, leaning against the wall, was a ladder leading to a sleeping platform. ‘Very nice accommodation,' the boy said. ‘Don't miss it.'

My heart sank and I pulled back, as if I were about to be trapped. As I edged away, the boy grinned, ‘Do you like it?'

I kept silent, still moving backward. The boy yelled louder, ‘Say something! Say something, rat!'

So young and already so nasty. He's a seed of Fez.
I pivoted and quickly ran to the main street, Talaa, then went back to join the afternoon classes at two o'clock. On my way, I happened on a narrow, small restaurant that had no seats in the front – only a few cement benches at the very back.
Harira
was the only food served, and all I could afford.

Professor Allawi was very snippy that afternoon. He picked Faissal to go forward to the blackboard to solve some easy problems. Faissal was confused, and the professor kept him there to humiliate him. ‘Sit down. Sit down,' the professor said when Faissal's knees eventually buckled.

‘To the board,' the professor motioned to me. I scribbled something. ‘What you wrote is correct. Turn to the class and explain.'

Pleased with myself, I felt like an assistant professor, but was soon humiliated.

‘Stop!' shouted Professor Allawi. ‘Speak Arabic, not Tarifit!' he added. I couldn't turn my tongue into an Arabic one by magic; from that day, my class nicknamed me ‘Riffy'. I lost my proper name and identity and embodied the entire north of Morocco.

All night, in the dim light of the mosque, I tucked myself into everything that I had and tried to sleep. Sounding like an orchestra in disarray, the collective snoring didn't wake sleeping students. No night passed without brawling, disputes, late arrivals and heavy knocks on the doors. It was a holy place, but human needs made it hell.

No two nights were alike. That night, loud knocking was heard on the main door. A distressed voice went with it. ‘Let me in! Let me in! I'm cold!' No one, apart from the caretaker, had keys to the two huge main doors so nobody bothered to see who was knocking.

Like everybody else, I ignored the knocking and the voice in the hope they might stop, but they didn't. Disturbed by the voice and made uncomfortable by the cold, I stood up, crept to the door, and peered through the peephole. I thought I knew who was there, but wasn't absolutely certain. Far away from the main door was a large, high window locked by a deadbolt. I didn't believe I could reach it, but with my third jump, I was able to reach the sill and open the window. ‘
Aji,
aji!
(Come here, come here!)' I whispered.

The boy came to the window, but it was far above the ground. I didn't want to give him my hand for fear of being pulled out, so I threw my belt out, held one end, and the boy caught the other. His knees were shivering, his fingers numb so that he could hardly hold the belt, but he reached the window and pulled himself up. I knew him by sight, but had never spoken to him. His name was Omar, in the same year, but a different class.

‘I heard you lost something recently,' he said.

‘My blanket,' I answered.

‘I've got it,' he said.

If I'd known he had stolen my blanket, I would have left him outside. He handed it to me.

* * *

AFTER SEVERAL MORE WEEKS
of misery, I asked Omar, ‘Would you like to go with me to ask the rector for accommodation?'

He quickly agreed. One morning after classes, we rushed to the rector's office and asked to see him. ‘What's the reason?' asked Mr Murzook, bold and thin, his secretary.

‘Accommodation, sir,' I answered.

Mr Murzook ushered us into the rector's office, where the rector was sitting behind his majestic desk in a large, ornately decorated room. The light was filtering through beautiful varicoloured stained-glass windows. We stood side by side feeling small and insignificant when Mr Murzook presented us and then stepped aside to listen and watch.

‘Sir, we have been looking for accommodation since the beginning of the school year and have been unable to find any. Now we are squatting in the mosque,' I said. The rector didn't say a word, and Mr Murzook asked us to leave. We were simply ignored.

With life only getting worse, I suggested, ‘Why don't we submit a petition to the rector?' Omar quickly bought the idea. We collected signatures from the homeless students and handed the petition to Mr Murzook.

He looked surprised and peered at me. I could read some irritation in his face. ‘Listen, boys,' he said. ‘I will give you some advice, but I want you to know who I am. Hopefully my words will be worth heeding.'

‘I was a political activist for many years – the French police imprisoned me and put me in a psychiatric house with the most dangerously disturbed people. I was attacked and frightened. To chase the madmen away, I pretended to be worse than they. I shouted at them and chased them. Wisdom can save your life, but so can madness. I needed madness, but you now need wisdom. If the rector receives your petition, you will be classified as agitators. The cure is simple: he will expel you. I fear for you. I can pass this petition to the rector if you wish, or, I can wad it.'

‘Can you give us any help?' I asked.

‘We're aware of the problem,' he said.

Omar and I looked at each other, reddened and left. The other homeless students asked what had happened, and I lied. ‘The petition has been sent to His Majesty, the King.' The lie bred hope.

* * *

IRONICALLY, THE LIE TURNED
out to be truth, and the liar became a hero. At midnight in mid-March, the police awakened us. In a bellicose voice, waving his arms, the policeman said, ‘His Majesty the King has mandated every homeless student be lodged.'

He took no questions, departed in a flurry and left everyone to guess. Before he disappeared, a squad of armed police burst in via the side door and a dozen civil servants jammed the main entrance. The process felt like deportation. A tall black policeman with heavily tinted glasses, a long moustache and wearing a dark navy suit with a white shirt and red tie acted as the commander-in-chief. All orders emanated from him and everybody bowed, including the police laden with pistols. Like a soldier, he advanced toward us.

‘I want you in six groups,' he shouted, spreading his arms.

Confused, we pushed each other, everyone changing groups at least twice, but Omar and I stayed together. ‘This has to do with our petition!' whispered Omar.

‘Yes!' I whispered back.

Facing our group, the commander shouted, ‘Your new home is Mr Tazzi's house, one and a half miles from here. The caretaker and an officer are expecting you there right now.'

The night was filled with fear and drama with no chance of sleep. Everyone was laden with bags; some had them on their backs, others in their hands. Getting to Tazzi's house was neither easy nor straightforward. We climbed a hill, almost vertical, then took the street to the left, then to the right, to the left again, then again to the right. It was a crisp, silent night and apart from us the street was deserted; the only noises to be heard were the gurgling of the spring that we passed and the voices of two men stoking the fire in the old bakery.

Tazzi's house was adjoined to another building, and both were at the end of a very narrow cul-de-sac. The door looked solid, made with heavy wood, and had ornate railings. We knocked and knocked like mad.

The caretaker, a middle-aged man blighted by alopecia, a tall Fezzi hat on his head, arrived with an assisting officer. The door opened and the world changed. Tazzi's house defied imagination: it was a mini-palace. I gazed at Omar, stroked my chin and nodded, bewildered. ‘What's wrong?' Omar asked me.

‘Look at what some people possess … and hide,' I answered.

The house, situated on the side of a hill, was built in a square with a huge courtyard in the centre, unlike anything I had ever seen. Mosaics caught the sun from every angle; the paths, the central area and even the fountain were made of the finest small shapes of bright blue, red and yellow woven together to create breathtaking reflective surfaces. The beauty of the mosaics were surpassed only by the three-tiered fountain that shot streams of water from three different levels and sent it cascading in perfect arches to land below with the most pleasant, relaxing sound. The trees, of differing heights, had been planted along the four walkways and provided a shady oasis.
If only I could sit under one of these trees and pass the time, I wouldn't have a care in the world
, I thought to myself.

The house consisted of three floors, the floors and walls were decorated with mosaic, and most of the rooms were humongous. Each large room could house between ten and fifteen boys. Two of the rooms were smaller; the smallest was occupied by the caretaker. I asked if Omar and I could take the second small room, which could take just four. Very tiny compared with the rest it was also darker and needed electricity both night and day. We opted for it because of its relative privacy. Omar's cousin Taji, and Rammani, from the southernmost part of Morocco, joined us.

Magnificent as it was, the house was cold, damp and had no toilet. It had a massive flat roof with some suntraps sheltered from the wind. We enjoyed it for a while, until the neighbours fiercely objected to our use of it. To escape the chill of unheated houses, women, like moles, emerged to sit and sunbathe on the roofs.

‘No men should see or watch them. Roofs,' the neighbours said, ‘are only for women.'

Extremely unhappy, the neighbours complained to the police, so a builder was immediately dispatched to block access to the roof. Recovering from the flu, desperate for sun and to escape the cold and dampness indoors, one student made a hole in the barrier to access the roof.

‘Son of a whore! Come and meet me!' shouted a man from a neighbouring roof. The outraged man, who was short and stocky with a head like a melon sitting directly on his shoulders, burst into the house, axe in hand, and yelled, ‘Where is he, that tall bastard?'

Hearing the shouting, we all rushed out to watch this man who was ready to kill. The caretaker, disturbed by the noise, ran out of his room and shouted, ‘What are you doing here?'

‘I am here looking for a bastard, the son of a whore!'

‘What's the problem?' asked the caretaker.

‘I saw that bastard on the roof. I want to quench my anger with his blood!'

The man threatened us all, yelling, ‘I'll beat you one by one into a bloody pulp until I get the bastard. Then I'll tear him apart, limb from limb, and leave his remains to the hyenas!'

The caretaker grabbed the man's axe, picked him up by the scruff of the neck and ushered him forcefully out the door. The man kept shouting and swearing, ‘I'll wait for that bastard outside! I'll get him!'

T
he full bloom of Spring arrived and cheered the depressed city. Nature tickled and reached its best; grass and flowers besieged the town. Like sheep, women went out in exodus to sit or lie on the grass, nibble snacks and feel the warmth of the sun. I joined the pilgrimage, picked a sunny spot, and no one chased me or claimed, ‘Sun is only for women (
Liaalats
)!' During the spring holiday, wealthier professors abandoned the town and dispersed, looking to sample fresh air, milk and honey. For me, home was far away.

I revised from early morning to closure of the mosque in the evening. Revision was dull, hard, and food was constantly on my mind. The damp room, lack of natural light and lack of food hampered every effort to study. On the way from the mosque back to the room, I smelled
tagine
; I stopped, enjoyed the smell, and wondered who the lucky feasters were, boys or girls, and what they looked like.

Unhappy during the spring holiday, I celebrated its end, Sunday. It was also my day to cook. I shopped, cooked beans and waited for my roommates, Omar, Taji and Rammani, to arrive. They were late, and I kept checking on the simmering beans, adding water and reading as I cooked. A heavy knock made the door rattle. I threw my jotter down, opened the door and came face-to-face with the caretaker. Behind him stood a man, waiting to be introduced.