A Riffians Tune (43 page)

* * *

THERE WAS A WEDDING
just a few days before I left for Fez. Mrs Robbi was outside watching the bridal procession slowly ascending the hill to reach the house adjacent to hers on the top. She was all alone, sitting on a large grey stone, her legs outstretched and spread ungracefully.

‘Hello, Mrs Robbi,' I greeted her with a nod and a wide grin.

It took her a few minutes to recognise me. Pleased that someone had bothered to notice her, she called me to her side. I sat next to her, and we both watched the bride nearing the house where she was received with fireworks. Once it was over and the bride, blanketed with a clumsy cloth, was conducted to the room where she would later be tested for virginity, the time came for Mrs Robbi and me to leave, but she couldn't pull her legs back to stand up.

‘I suffer from arthritis,' she told me. ‘Being heavy-boned doesn't help.' As I helped her to stand up, she leaned heavily on my shoulder. I propped her up until she reached home. Her face flickered with pain; we stopped here and there to allow her to take a deep breath, but the smile cascaded from her face when she reached home.

‘Why don't you slip into my orchard and pick some fruit?' she offered to me.

‘I like apricots,' I said.

‘Well, there are plenty and they are ripe,' she answered.

Her orchard was immense, though deceiving as its entry was narrow and dark like a dungeon. The apricots were ripe, but more sunny days were needed to ripen off the figs, peaches and grapes. I counted twenty-four beehives in four rows with walkways in between. Bees darting in and out like bullets made the orchard like a battleground. Sadly, I was stung on my cheek by one of the bees.

Watching me from her tiny window, Mrs Robbi realised I wasn't picking fruit, but swatting bees left and right. My reaction amused her, and she came out. ‘It's like a bee chasing an elephant!' she said sarcastically.

‘It takes up to two weeks for a bee's sting to fade. I don't want to go back with swollen cheeks,' I told her, feeling embarrassed.

‘I don't want you to look odd!' she said, smiling at my expense. ‘Your father was pretty clumsy with bees. He never placed hives in the right spot, and never renewed them when they got old. His bees died prematurely, and your mother used to get frustrated with him and envious of my honey.'

‘Did you know my father very well?' I asked.

‘I always thought so,' she replied with a shrug.

‘Did you know my mother just as well?'

‘I wouldn't say so,' she replied. ‘There was a hell of a difference between them. Your mother worked pretty hard to tame her two piglet daughters. They tattooed their faces beyond recognition with long stitches on the forehead, both cheeks, the chin and neck, driving her to tears. It would have taken a blind man to marry either one of them, but that didn't bother your father, which was an additional pain to your mother. How did you do in your exams?' she asked.

‘I haven't sat them yet,' I answered.

‘Why are you strolling around here, then?' she queried.

‘I'm hiding from thugs. I also had to run from my brother-in-law, but as soon as I arrived home, Uncle Mimoun forced me to read the land documents stored in my mother's trunk. Thumbing through the suitcase, I chanced upon my father's notebook. In two and a half pages, he described how Jusef (I'm assuming that's me) ended up in their hands; that my real father was killed at sea and my mother was unable to cope. They took me in as their own. Has my father filled his notebook with fiction?' I asked her.

Visibly at a loss for words, she threw her hands up in the air, turned on her heel and hobbled back toward the house.
That's a strange reaction!
I thought. At that moment, she must have thought better of it and turned around to face me. ‘I never knew your father to be a liar!' she stated forcefully. ‘The story is, they weren't your natural parents, but I don't know who your parents actually were. I have wondered that for many years.' She backed a few steps and disappeared behind the door.

How can she not know?
I wondered.
She was a close friend of my father.

* * *

HAVING BEEN ABSENT FOR
a month, I felt like a raven in a land of penguins when I arrived back in Fez. Looking for a safe haven, I hired a room in a small, respectable-looking lodging, owned by a French couple and managed by a local woman. I soon found that female and male prostitutes, black and blond, were hustled about like trains at the station, and kept the manageress busy cashing in. When I asked for the front door key, she refused.

‘It's already dark. You're not going out now, are you?'

‘Yes, I need to see a friend,' I replied, with Kadija in my mind.

‘We never give the front door key to anyone. I can't give it to you.'

‘I'll be back early,' I promised.

‘I'll wait for you,' she said.

It was dark and the street was empty, no cars or pedestrians were around, and I was alone walking down from the New Town to the
medina
. In the narrow, dimly lit streets, I couldn't see who might be behind or in front of me, so, like a bat, I depended on my ears. Beggars were everywhere.

I reached Kadija's house and wondered what her father might think or say to me. The house number was not easy to read, but I remembered the door, the sign above the lock, and the tiles on each side. I knocked on the door and a tall boy came out. He gave me a suspicious look, and asked, ‘What do you want?' The tone of his voice said it all.

‘Kadija,' I answered.

‘There's no such person here,' he answered with a sneer.

‘I am Jusef, her classmate. We had some lessons here not long ago, and our exams will start on Wednesday,' I explained.

The boy didn't budge. Kadija must have heard us talking and rushed, bare-footed, to the front door. I might have gotten a hug had her brother not been around. ‘Where have you been?' she asked.

‘I went to my sister's, then to our house in Kebdana.'

‘I have been working day and night,' she said.

‘Have you seen Faissal and Najib?' I asked.

‘No. They are hiding. It's such a shame! But, I've seen Rahma and Bajia,' she added. ‘Now that I've seen you, I'll work harder!' she whispered with a smile, checking that she hadn't been overheard.

‘I came to see you as soon as I arrived,' I said.

‘Exams start on Wednesday at eight. Do you think it's safe?' she asked, frightened. ‘I've heard they mistook a girl for a baccalaureate student and threw acid on her face. What is left if a girl is defaced?'

‘Nowhere is safe. Anyway, don't forget to take your exam ID. They won't let you in otherwise,' I responded, noticing her brother's menacing look. ‘I'm afraid I have to go. I promised the manageress of my room to be in on time. Otherwise I will be locked out.'

‘I'm glad you're back,' she smiled sweetly.

The manageress was pleased when I arrived before closing time. Seeing that I was tired and sweaty, she said, ‘You're a sight!'

‘Yes, I was running.'

Inside my room, I felt exhausted and hungry. I avoided looking at myself in the mirror beside my bed. For three days, I lived on bread and milk. The manageress discovered how dedicated I was to my studies and how poor my diet was. ‘You need more than bread and milk,' she told me.

Wednesday couldn't arrive too soon. I hired a taxi and mapped a circuitous route. Puzzled, the taxi driver wondered why I was wasting my money.

Each examinee had to come and go at his own peril. Escorted by her father, Kadija arrived in a taxi with Rahma and Bajia. They were immediately ushered into the hall and then to their seats. I was already seated at the very front, near the window, face-to-face with the proctor. Faissal and Najib were far away and apart, for once. Kadija was seated in the middle and waved to me as she sat down. Rahma and Bajia were somewhere, but invisible to me.

Four hours of maths exams debrained me, and I was the first to hand in my paper and leave the room.

Kadija came out almost in tears, shouting, ‘Hard! Hard!'

‘It would have been harder if Professor Nassiri hadn't given us those private tutorials!' I answered.

‘Horrible as horrible can be!' remarked Faissal as he lumbered out of the hall.

At lunchtime, Kadija's father was already outside waiting for her. Some parents came to pick up their children; Faissal, Najib and I stayed in and shared our lunch. I had brought bread and a couple of mandarins; Faissal and Najib had brought bread and dates.

The second morning was different. Crafty, rough-looking and pretending to be tradesmen, thugs arrived at the exam complex at five-fifty in the morning, ten minutes before the real cleaners were to start, ingenious timing. Carrying buckets and brushes, they passed the gate, spoke to the janitor and penetrated the building, undetected and undeterred. They knew it was a short time before the janitor would raise the alarm. At lightning-speed, they sloshed petrol here and there, threw a match into the middle, engulfing part of the building in fire, and scurried away. The janitor realised that he had been duped, and when the real cleaners arrived, they could only watch the blaze. The building had been turned into a war zone. In the smoke, the police, fire brigade and undercover police watched and listened, but there was no one to cuff and no fish in the net.

On the third morning, the weather was out of character: cloudy, misty and surprisingly chilly; weather no one expected or enjoyed. Overnight, the school ground became a military camp. Vehicles of all sizes and soldiers of all ages and ranks were waiting for action, but all was calm; the moles were underground. The entrance hall was a football ground flooded with undercover police, eyes and ears strained. Leaving the dirty lodge early, I arrived at the building at seven-thirty with a black bag on my back and a suitcase.

At each side of the gate stood two tall undercover policemen, nervous and facing each other; not even a tiny fly could sneak in. ‘Your name and your ID,' one of them asked me.
This is going to be the morning from hell
, I thought.

‘Your exam number,' asked the other one. The documents were in my pocket. Behind the policemen stood the janitor and his assistant son, whose task was to identify any suspect and to tip the police with a wink of his eye.

‘What have you got there?' the janitor asked me at the gate. ‘You're not going to sleep here, are you?'

In seconds, two police jumped on me. Two burly men, their eyes popping, focused on the bag. ‘Open this bag!' the commander shouted to me. I was slow to do so.

‘Are donkeys' ears implanted on you?!' one shouted at me.

Face scrunched, I unzipped the bag. No petrol was found, just dirty old worn-out books. ‘Jusef is here to sit his exams!' said the janitor, trying to soften their harsh treatment of me.

‘Let him go!' the commander replied, a pistol hanging on his belt, pushing his jacket out.

Passing the gate, I asked the janitor's son if I could leave my luggage with him until six that evening.

‘If my father allows it,' he answered. Shouldering his way through the police line, he shouted, ‘Are we allowed to keep Jusef's luggage?'

‘Yes,' replied his father.

Carrying my lunch wrapped in newspaper, I went straight to the biology lab. Access to it was shut and a few students were waiting nervously by the door. In their midst was Driss, an extremely tall, thin student with a moustache. Because of his height, he could talk to people in either the front or the back of a queue. He and I had never hit it off.

During his exam, Driss sat beside Kadija, and embarked on a very laborious technique of cheating. His arm was covered with writing, and each time he got stuck, he stretched his arm, allowing his shirtsleeve to pull back. The professor spotted his bizarre movement, and at first thought he was just nervous, but soon realised writing appeared each time Driss' arm moved. The professor called his colleague next door, and both of them observed his aerobic art of cheating. At a quarter past twelve, Driss was expelled.

Exams over, the six o'clock siren sounded, and the janitor swept everybody out. Abdu-Rahim didn't heed the janitor and an undercover policeman cuffed him. He was put outside and set free like a mouse from a trap.

I picked up my bag, my suitcase and searched for Kadija. Her face changed and her voice dropped when I told her, ‘I mustn't miss the eight o'clock train.'

‘Couldn't you stay until tomorrow at least?' she asked.

‘By this time tomorrow, I will be in Kebdana. I have no money left,' I responded.

Kadija moved away, faced the wall, covered her face with a book, and broke into tears. I stood beside her, knowing I was not allowed to touch her, and wished all had been designed differently.

‘I have applied to read pharmacology,' she said. ‘You have applied to do medicine. I will change and do medicine as well.'

‘I hope they will give us a grant,' I said. ‘As you know, you only get a grant if you don't need one.'

‘Can I go home with you?' she whispered to me so no one would hear.

‘I wish you could, but my life in Kebdana is tough. Like they did in the Stone Age, you have to grind your own barley to make bread,' I answered, my heart pounding. ‘As a currency trader, I narrowly escaped death last summer in Melilla. I have nothing to go home to, and I will have to resume trading again, though I have no capital.'

‘I would be good to your mother. I would help,' she pleaded.

Until now, I had been undisturbed by my father's notebook, but was now stirred by Kadija's mention of my mother. Just then, Kadija's father lost his patience. The taxi driver hadn't switched off his engine and had kept the meter running. ‘Kadija! Kadija!' her father called. She feigned deafness. Angry, he leaped out of the taxi, and she was unaware of him until he grabbed her with both hands and bellowed, ‘Child! The taxi isn't free!'