A Riffians Tune (36 page)

‘Worse than that,' I answered.

Ali's room was small and dark, and the floorboards left gaping holes. Peering through the huge cracks, I saw the rushing, murky water and the stench pierced the room. Distasteful as it was, it was heaven.

Ali's hospitality was unstinting. He went out and came back with eggs, tomatoes and peppers … but he couldn't find bread nearby. While he was cooking, I went to fetch a loaf of bread while fearfully looking over my shoulder.

Frying eggs was Ali's forte. ‘No one can emulate me. I never cook eggs the same way twice,' he said. He fried tomatoes in olive oil and vinegar. Watching him, I wondered if the room was going to be set alight. Despite the splashing sparks, Ali was the master of the fire. When the tomatoes were over two-thirds fried, he poured scrambled eggs over them. I had never seen this done before. The end result looked like a cake of tomatoes and eggs.

Ali fell asleep like a child, but I couldn't sleep. I kept the light on and looked at my study programme; Ali was undisturbed.
I wish I could sleep deeply and peacefully like him
, I thought.

At five o'clock in the morning, Ali's birds vibrated the room. He had four birds, two in each cage. They all looked well-fed and healthy, but the noise they produced could awaken the dead and dement angels. For Ali, their voices were nature's pure and unpolluted music, but I realised this was not the place for me.

After listening to the birds' songs, Ali went to a corner and spent half an hour meditating like a Buddhist, detached from the world. ‘Morning prayer for me,' he said, ‘is the key to the day.' Despite being a believer, my practice was sporadic, hindered by lack of water and clean clothes for prayer.

Ali wanted to be a wholesale grocer, but his clairvoyant, who lived close by, had told him to wait, as his stars were not in his favour. We had a quick breakfast, which was tasty although it was just bread and tea, as Ali had to go to the market.

‘When you are ready,' he said, ‘on your way out, bring me the key.'

‘Where is the key?' I asked.

‘On the floor under your shoes,' he replied. ‘Can't you see it?'

Only a tip of the key was showing from under the shoes. Looking at it, as in a rearview mirror, my memory spiralled years into the past and Samir and Moussa came to mind. I could almost see Moussa spilling his tea over Samir's trousers and a squabble beginning.

Ali prepared himself to go. Half an hour later, I left to hunt for a room to rent where I could hide before falling into the hand of the protestors. I rushed to Bab Talaa to find a
samsar
(a broker), an old man who billed himself as a paragon of virtue. He sat in a pigeon-hole shop a metre and a half above the street, only four metres high and two metres wide. Sitting cross-legged, he never had a chance to stand up and could only get in or out by grabbing the rope hanging from the ceiling and catapulting himself. He jumped like a hen on and off its roost.

The
samsar
wore a blood-red hat twice the size of his head. He was very fat and waddled when he walked, in a conscious effort not to lose his
babouche
shoes.

‘What is in your heart?' he asked with a lazy voice.

‘I need a room to rent,' I replied.

Silence fell, as no quick answer was forthcoming. He stretched his hand slowly to light a half-cigarette he had saved and looked deep in thought. Nothing was urgent for the
samsar
. His eyes browsed the wall where a few keys were hanging and a few murmurs came out of his mouth.

‘Is your mother going to be with you?' he asked.

‘No, sir,' I responded, stunned by the question.

‘We have a few big houses with rooms to rent, but you are a bachelor!' he remarked, shaking his head and sucking his lips. ‘The tenants, all married, refuse to have a bachelor in their midst.'

I had heard that before. From there, I moved to a second
samsar
. Based in a Jewish ghetto, he was an orthodox Jew, clothed entirely in black, including his hat, and his beard looked enormous, long and white, covering his whole face and touching the floor when he sat. ‘Sir,' I asked, ‘do you have a room for rent?'

‘No,' he replied. ‘Go and look in the
medina
,' he advised, meaning he thought I was poor and of no importance.

At quarter to one, lunchtime, people, like birds, flocked to their homes. Streets became deserted; some were dangerous, and not even armed police could safely patrol the hidden, crooked corners. Back in Ali's room, I found Abdu reclining against the wall, and Ali struggling to cook a meal of camel mince mixed with potatoes, coriander and cumin. Excitedly, Abdu spoke of the university, where he was a first-year student. He looked different, was wearing new clothes, and looked much better fed.

‘Any joy with the
samsar
?' he asked.

‘Not a thing,' I replied.

‘Vipers, aren't they?' he said with a cynical and aborted smile. ‘Why not look into
funduq
s?' he asked.

‘Anything but that!' I replied, disgusted at his suggestion.

The cooked meal settled the mood. Ali couldn't keep his eyes open after lunch. His birds made a lot of noise, but that only added to his deep sleep. He had bought a new transistor radio, tiny and tinny, which he clasped against his chest. When he left for his shop, I continued hunting for a hideout in the sprawling slums.

I didn't return to Ali's room until late that night, but with good news: I had found a single-car garage to rent. I rapped on the door; no one answered, yet the light was on.
Ali wouldn't go to sleep and leave the light on
, I reasoned.
He's a penny pincher.
With a second rap on the door that left my knuckles burning, the door opened a crack.

Abdu's face looked like a patchwork quilt. ‘Was it a fight in the street?' I shouted.

‘No!' answered Abdu. ‘Around eight o'clock, five big thugs knocked on the door and flooded in the moment Ali opened it. They saw me lying on the floor and mistook me for you, kept calling me Jusef. They pulled me out and began pummelling and kicking me, and one of them with a big stick. They shouted, “Son of whore! Poof! Scab!”'

‘I managed to reach the kitchen knife and slashed out, not caring where my blow landed. I split one of their buttocks in two. He yelped like a beaten dog. The blood poured on the floor, and he couldn't move. With the help of the others, he scurried away, leaving no trace except the blood, but I've got bruises and cuts all over, and my face is swollen. It's you they tried to get!' screamed Abdu to me, as he studied his face in a small mirror the size of his palm.

Hot-headed Abdu wanted revenge. Convinced they would come back soon, despite the slashed buttock, he wove a plot and wanted me to play a part in it.

‘We should switch off the light and leave the door half open,' he said. ‘We'll let the first one in and immediately bar the door. We'll jump on him and snap his neck. By the time they force in, if they ever do, their chief will be a cadaver to drag away.'

I rejected the plot, and angrily Abdu pointed to his face and shouted, ‘Look what they've done to me and think what they might do to you!'

‘The plot is full of flaws. They won't come in twos, but in a group. If the door is open, they'll just throw a petrol bomb inside and fry us! We must all leave this room now,' I insisted.

‘And go where?' exploded Abdu.

‘To the garage I rented this afternoon,' I said. I hadn't had a chance to tell them about it.

Convinced and in a chaotic rush, Ali hurriedly grabbed a blanket, rolled it up, stuck it under his arm and held the key in his hand, ready to lock the door and follow me.

Neither Abdu nor I had any bedding. ‘Do you have any blankets?' I asked Ali.

‘What you see is what I have!' he replied. He had one or two blankets, dusty and old, thrown in the corner. Abdu and I each grabbed a blanket, rushed out, and Ali locked the door.

We vacated the room, but left the light on. We wove our way through the stenchy bowel of the town, each of us with a rolled-up blanket under his arm, heading for the garage that was miles away. Empty and deserted streets, dimly lit, echoed the sound of our footsteps. Secluded corners and empty doorways were home to tramps. Grouped together, it was hard to know their number. They were not all happy to be disturbed. One, tall and hairy, stood and shouted, ‘Tramps of the town, give me peace! Don't disturb the tired, the elderly and us hard-working people!'

As we emerged from the city slums, the sky opened and stars dangled from heaven. The night was over and a crisp, early morning began. There were no pedestrians on the road, but heavy lorries with smelly diesel engines heading either south or north were out in force.

Gendarmes were on the lookout for overweight lorries, careless and drunken drivers. We were their first catch of the day. An American jeep stopped abruptly in front of us and two armed policemen jumped out, blinding us with a spotlight. Abdu's face showed marks of a fight, impossible to hide or deny.

‘Look at the injuries you've sustained stealing that blanket!' said the captain to Abdu.

‘
Nous ne sommes pas voleurs!
(We're not thieves!)' I jumped to defend Abdu.

‘Drop those blankets!' said one of them. They kicked the blankets with their steel-toed boots, but nothing was inside, neither hashish nor gold.

As if on cue, Abdu shouted, ‘Thugs attacked me!'

‘In your house?' asked the captain.

‘In my room!' replied Ali.

‘Why did they choose you?' the captain asked.

‘Because Jusef stayed with me,' said Ali, in tears.

‘Where are you going now?' they asked.

‘To a garage that I rent,' I answered.

Confused and suspicious, the captain demanded, ‘Jump in the jeep!'

‘To go where?' I asked.

‘You'll see,' he said. I refused. ‘Do you want to jump in cuffed or uncuffed?'

The gendarmes drove us not to the interrogation centre, but to a forest fifteen miles out of town, and there we were dumped to find our way back.

Swollen with anger and mounting frustration, Abdu turned into a digging horse. He kicked the ground until half his shoe broke off. Ali, who had never ventured out of the town, felt disoriented with no clue of where he was. ‘How can we ever find the way home?' he kept asking me.

‘It could have been worse!' I shouted.

‘Worse? Worse?' yelled Abdu.

‘Yes! Had they dumped us at the central police station, we wouldn't see the sun for days, weeks, maybe months.'

‘Are we criminals?' asked Abdu.

‘It's easier for them to charge us as criminals than for us to prove our innocence.'

‘Ridiculous! Ridiculous!' shouted Abdu, his face upturned to the sky.

‘Absurd!' cried Ali.

‘Do you have a receipt for those blankets?' I asked Ali.

‘No,' he said.

‘What would stop them from charging you as a thief?' I challenged, ‘And that's not all! Abdu's been in a fight. What happened to the man he fought? Did Abdu kill him and dispose of him? Unless the other fighter is found, Abdu could be suspected of murder. We are more lucky than unlucky. Let's move,' I pleaded.

The path out of the forest, where north, south, east and west were indistinguishable, was physically rocky. Abdu couldn't keep up; the sole of one shoe was dangling. Twice he nearly fell on his face. Lorries' headlights, like fireflies, drew us to the main road like a beacon. Reaching the road, we saw how far we were from the town. Many cars, heading to the town, passed us, but no driver dared to stop and pick us up. At best, we looked like tramps; at worst, like thugs.

As we were approaching a café, my bruised toes started to hurt. The café was packed. The
garçon
, rattling back and forth, was a small boy of ten. He was polite and quick. His boss prepared tea and coffee behind the counter, his eyes constantly upon him. The boy ran eagerly to please everyone, but that didn't save him from being called a donkey when a clumsy client spilled his tea over the table. The boy wasn't new to this; he looked immune to the abuse. Before noon, his ears had collected several titles.

Before leaving the café, I felt unwell. ‘I have a stomach ache and nausea. The garage isn't too far, and we should move quickly,' I told the others.

‘My shop … my shop!' shouted Ali. ‘I must go.'

‘Your room is no longer safe,' I said. ‘The mob, organised into teams and unchallenged, will get you and whoever is found in the room with you.'

‘You brought that on me!' he accused me.

He jumped up, picked up his small sack, grabbed his blanket and made one step to leave. Abdu shot out his hand and pulled him back to his chair. Ali was surprised by how aggressive Abdu could be. By the time I had paid the bill and joined them again, my pain was worse. The garage was only half an hour's walk, and I could barely make it.

The area was unfamiliar to Abdu and Ali. The garage was built as part of a terraced house, and designed to harbour a small Simca. I opened the door and collapsed instantly. I wrapped myself into a blanket.

‘Is this your new room?' asked Ali, looking around. ‘It's just walls!'

‘Yes,' I said. Reading Ali's mind, I continued, ‘Your room has no water or toilet either. The window that you have comes from the crack in your floor and a dirty river runs underneath. Would you like to share this room with me?'

‘No,' replied Ali. ‘My room is central, close to my shop.'

After a few hours of sleep, I got up and felt much better.

Hearing voices talking loudly and sometimes over each other, the landlady realised there was more than one person in the garage, and this wasn't what she had agreed to. She came out of her house and stood in the doorway of the garage. She looked physically unfinished, with a beefy and large trunk, legs only a few inches long and a tummy pushing hard against her clothes. She peered at Abdu and sneered at me.