A Riffians Tune (18 page)

‘Do you know this man?' the caretaker asked.

‘Yes, Mr Lazar, come in.'

Mr Lazar stepped in slowly, took off his shoes and sat down. I made a pot of tea for him. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall, Mr Lazar asked, ‘What do you want to do next year?'

‘School,' I answered. ‘How is my father?' Mr Lazar pretended not to hear me.
Maybe he's hard of hearing, and the bubbling of the pot doesn't help
, I thought to myself.

Mr Lazar gazed at the ceiling, but there was nothing to see except cobwebs, then focused on the floor, on his worn-out shoes. ‘He is dead.'

His words sent the walls and the whole room spinning around. The conversation stopped, and Omar came in. Not knowing how, I found myself in the street, my face wet with tears. I didn't feel like going back to the room, where my tears would be on show. I tried to be brave, but my mind was foggy.

Can my mother survive?
I wondered.
What about Rabbia and Amina, with no school, no occupation, no job, and no husband? Salwa, Sanaa and Sakina are miserably married. They're raped in their own beds.
I forgot about the exams scheduled in a few days.

Coming back in the evening, I found Omar, Taji and Rammani waiting for me. Rammani put the kettle on and made the tea.

‘There are plenty of beans,' Omar pointed out.

‘I'm not really hungry,' I answered.

‘Mr Lazar left letters for you,' said Omar.

We usually talked and joked at this time of night, but a heavy silence fell. In the early morning I awakened first, picked up my letters and went to the mosque. Its quietness and atmosphere were inspiring and therapeutic. I sat down and opened my letters. The first was small and white, with no return address, just my name. It was from my mother, written unclearly on scruffy paper, obviously by someone who knew the Arabic alphabet but not the Arabic language. Enclosed with the letter were fifteen dirhams in notes, five from my mother and ten from Mrs Malani, and the letter itself contained just a few disturbing words, ‘Come home. We need you here. No one needs you in Fez.'

The second letter was from my Uncle Isaiah Ben Hamo, a converted Jew, now fanatically Muslim. He had seen my aunt, plump and beautiful, as a young girl and fallen in love with her. He had asked my grandfather if he could marry her and was refused unless he converted to Islam, which he did. The letter read, ‘Don't waste your time in school. Come and take care of your family. Your mother and sisters could be raped at any time.'

The third letter came from Uncle Mimoun with a warrior's mentality. He hadn't written the letter himself, as he couldn't read or write, and it was in a jumble of Arabic, Tarifit and Spanish. ‘Your mother and sisters are in danger of being raped. You risk finding yourself the uncle of children of fornication.'

School meant everything to me and nothing to them.

Deeply saddened and emotionally embattled, unable to concentrate, I went back to the room. On my way, happening on an intersection where several doughnut merchants congregated, I spotted Bozaid carrying a dozen doughnuts, several books and reading a gossipy local newspaper. His voice rose like thunder, ‘Is it too hard to say good morning?'

‘I'm in a hurry! I forgot my book,' I apologised.

‘You could share mine,' he offered.

‘I like to scribble notes in my book,' I answered.

Walking and talking, I found myself inviting Bozaid to our room. Everybody was in, and it was Omar's turn to cook. The pot was ready for tea; all it needed was mint. I went out, bought a fragrant bouquet, and returned in an instant. Bozaid's doughnuts were shared, and everyone had a small glass of mint tea.

Looking at Bozaid leafing through the newspaper, I asked, ‘What's the news?'

Bozaid folded the newspaper and passed it to me to read. I couldn't help seeing the front-page headline: ‘French Army Kill Two Boys and One Girl'. On the same page, lower down, there was a second headline: ‘Algerian Guerillas Destroy Two Bridges and Kill a French Colonial.'

‘No one expects to be saddened in the early morning with such headlines, but this is how every day starts for me,' said Bozaid.

Rammani snatched the newspaper from me and said, ‘How interesting this is!' Reading in silence, he suddenly said, ‘This is “stop killing by killing”.'

Bozaid, outraged, said, ‘It's not the same.'

‘I was thinking from a moral point of view,' said Rammani.

‘So was I,' replied Bozaid, indignant.

Caught in in the middle of this heated argument, I changed the topic. ‘Mr Murzook will give us the exam date…' I said.

Barely awake and appearing to suffer from a hangover, Taji shouted, ‘The date? What exams?'

‘Mock exams,' I reminded him.

‘You've spoiled my morning,' Taji shouted back.

During the entire morning, my mind kept cogitating over my letters. I saw myself back home: shepherding a few sheep, riding a donkey, cultivating honeybees, and loosening the ground around fig trees. Uncle Ben Hamo had several daughters and would be delighted to be relieved of one of them. I wouldn't be the worst choice of husband for one of his daughters, since he had given his eldest daughter to a convicted murderer. Maybe I could buy a passport and get into the world of
hashish
– the market was open for the brave. Remaining at school required money I didn't have.

The time for class to start, eight o'clock, was getting closer, and for me, it couldn't come one minute too soon. ‘It's time to go!' shouted Omar, and everybody jumped to put his soleless shoes on.

The street to the school was always noisy and crowded with schoolgirls. Bozaid, amazed and excited, thought he could steal a heart or two. Omar giggled at Bozaid's arrogance.

‘We are to those girls what the untouchables are to Indians!' I scoffed at Bozaid.

Talking and almost racing each other, we arrived just in time, before Professor Allawi started his complicated lesson. Faissal and Marnisi knew my father had died. They both came and shook my hand. Embarrassed, I didn't want to be pitied.

Faissal took his seat, and to divert the attention from me, I asked him, ‘What did you do on your holiday?'

‘Revise,' he replied. ‘What about you?'

‘Revise.'

While we were talking, Professor Allawi and Mr Murzook appeared at the front of the class. As usual, Mr Murzook looked almost crushed with the heavy paper he was carrying. He looked quietly at the class and said, ‘Mock exams start Wednesday and finish on Friday. The results will be announced the following Wednesday.'

Professor Allawi looked at him, smiled and said, ‘More work for me!'

‘The summer holiday isn't too far away,' said Mr Murzook.

‘I have already booked my car on the ferry to Paris via Madrid,' replied Professor Allawi.

Mr Murzook left, and the lesson started. He went from geometry to algebra as if he were faced with geniuses.

The time before the mock exams passed in a wink, but while waiting for them and sitting them, I felt as if I had two heads – one where I studied and the other in the valley between Makran and Tassamat where I should be, home.

During those days, Taji made life hard for his cousin Omar and quarrelled with him constantly. He had a bullying attitude and brought up all the family problems and arguments. Every evening, Taji entertained us with talk of Omar's sisters' and brothers' problems, to Omar's disgust and embarrassment.

The Wednesday after exams was a nerve-wracking day. In the middle of the third lesson with Professor Himi, on the relationship between oxygen and breathing, the rector appeared in front of the class. He looked tired, heavily laden with paper and handed the pass and fail list to Professor Himi.

Professor Himi proceeded to read out the names in alphabetical order, and didn't use his gentle teaching voice. He pronounced each name with extreme clarity and strength. His voice reverberated throughout the mosque and one could almost hear him from the street. He announced the name, then ‘passed' or ‘failed'.

‘Jusef, passed.'

The rector appeared again and announced five names. Mine was one of them. ‘These five,' he said, ‘have done very well and have won a financial award. Come to my office tomorrow with your ID to pick up your cash.'

Traumatised by my father's death, I was amazed I had even passed, let alone won an award. I went to pick it up on Thursday morning, but found the office closed. The rector had forgotten Thursday was a day off.

I never thought I could get money free! Thursday was a long day for me. I went to collect my award early Friday morning. I knocked on the rector's door, it slid open, and my mouth with it. Mountains of notes of all different sizes and colours, new and directly from the bank, were piled high on the rector's desk. He proudly nibbled from each pile and handed the cash, like alms, to me. I felt happy, but not proud.

Leaving the rector's office, I joined the class already in session. Every student knew where I had been, but not how much I had been given. My award didn't assuage my sense of guilt.
I am needed at home.

I
didn't usually wish my life away, but the few weeks left before final exams couldn't pass too soon. Omar and Rammani, terrified by their mediocre exam results, resorted to early morning yoga. Taji lost his cynicism and confidence. I rarely went out during this time, except to visit the public latrine half a mile away.

I was in the room alone one midday with the door closed and the light on, when a rough pounding shook the flimsy door. It opened, and a head peeked in.

‘Stop! Stop!' I shouted, jumping up.
It's either a tramp or a thief
, I thought. A different head bobbed in, so I lurched to the door and jumped out to find Moussa and Samir standing side by side. With tears in my eyes, I hugged Moussa, then Samir. I wondered what had brought them here and how they had found me.

Via Mr Lazar, they had learned where I lived and had heard about my father's death. I couldn't have wished for any better surprise than seeing them. Both looked happier and healthier than the days when we had rotted in the
funduq
. I offered them tea and asked about Kamil.

‘He's all right, but not as he should be,' answered Moussa. Neither Moussa nor Samir wanted to discuss Kamil.
Something is wrong
, I thought, but couldn't imagine what it might be.

‘Do you know what? I got an award!' I told Samir.

‘Blood from a stone!' commented Samir.

It was Taji's rota. One o'clock ticked, but there was no Taji, and no food. Omar and Rammani arrived for lunch. I introduced them to Moussa and Samir, and they clicked immediately. Having two guests and nothing to eat was neither comfortable nor an honourable position for me. Thanks to my award, I invited everybody out for a meal in memory of my father.

As I hated Bab Ftouh, we all clambered to a nearby restaurant in Boujloud to have couscous. All young, but with no visible signs of youth, we sat around a low table. We spoke politics, religion, society and family. Omar and Rammani left in a hurry to resume their revision, but Moussa, Samir and I went to a nearby café. The weather was hot, and we sat on the terrace and watched the peddlers, some bustling and some shuffling.

‘What have you been doing?' I asked Moussa.

‘Nothing I haven't done before,' he replied with a smile on his face.

I looked at him and wondered. Moussa, who usually liked to tease, quickly realized he had lost me. ‘Beyond obtaining a passport, nothing is obtainable in this land,' he said.

Samir and Moussa didn't say what their plan was for the night. I worried about where they might stay, as my room was far too small to house two extra boys, and I had no extra bedding. ‘What are you up to tonight?' I asked Samir.

‘Going home,' answered Moussa, sharply.

‘How?' I asked.

‘By lorry,' replied Samir. I was unaware there were lorry drivers with huge Mercedes carrying goods, such as potatoes and wheat, from the south to Nador. To add to their revenue, they stuffed people in the back of their lorries.
That's how I should get home
, I told myself.

The three of us headed to Bab Ftouh at half past nine in the evening. They wouldn't be able to leave until much later, as lorries had first to be filled with goods. Trafficking illegally, the drivers picked up people late in the evening. We went to a small café and ordered a pot of tea. Lamenting the cruel hand fate had dealt us, we waited for a smuggler to appear. When one showed up, Moussa and Samir headed to Nador, and I hurried back to my damp, dark, cramped room.

Living like a
Sufi
the following weeks, I continued my revision, my mind all the time full of bread, but my tummy, empty. On the eve of the exams, to fortify ourselves and raise our spirits, Omar and I purchased bread, oil and mint. To refresh our intelligence, we agreed to go to sleep early and that meant, for me, switching off the light. We all checked that we had our student IDs and the exam IDs. We knew no one would be allowed into the exam hall without them.

Dawn crept into the dark room. Unusually, we all awakened simultaneously and together prepared our breakfast of bread and tea. Omar and Rammani headed to the hall first, then Taji. I picked up my jacket dangling on the hook right above where I slept, checked again for my IDs and, to my horror, found they were missing. I frantically checked every piece of clothing I owned, my sleeping area and everything surrounding it. I found nothing, and the time for the exam was quickly nearing. With nowhere left to look, it was either stay or go. The exam hall was half an hour's walk from my room. Heart in my mouth and stomach churning, I took one last look at the empty room and left. I arrived just a few minutes before the main door was to be shut; two loud, rough men policed each side of the French door. In the hope of explaining my case quietly without making a scene, I approached one of them.