The Boy Who The Set Fire and Other Stories (16 page)

It’s just the opposite! cried Larbi. Kif makes you see the truth. And besides that, it makes you feel like not getting into trouble.

Words like that don’t even get into my ears, his father said. Go and say them to other ears that are full of kif like yours.

The two men sitting there agreed. Why don’t you listen to your father? He’s an old man. Do as he tells you, as the book says.

Larbi paid no attention to them. I’m going to ask you something, Baba. I want to go and live in the city. I’d like you to help me with a little money so I can start a business.

His father burst out laughing. That’s a bright idea! I give you money so you can live in the city! He laughed some more. Then he said: Not a guirch from me. If you want to go to the city, go on.

Larbi got up and went into his room. He opened a big chest and took out some money, put on his djellaba, and walked back through the other room. Good-bye, he said, and before anyone else could say anything he went out.

He was in a bad mood as he walked back down to Mohammed’s farm. When he got there he went inside and sat in a corner by himself. There he smoked kif until he fell asleep. No one wanted to disturb him, and so he stayed that way until morning.

Come and have breakfast, said Mokhtar.

Larbi stood up. I’m going to the city, he said.

What for? they said. Don’t go.

Good-bye. He went out and walked along the road. At eight o’clock in the evening he got to the town. He walked directly to the house where he had met Khemou, and knocked on the door.

The woman let him in. Khemou was there, and so were two of the other women who had been to the country. Khemou seemed surprised to see him.

Come out for a walk with me, Larbi urged her. We can’t talk here.

Wait while I get my djellaba.

A minute later they stepped out together into the alley. They started to walk up towards the market, but they had not gone very far before a man waving a bottle staggered out of an alley and blocked their way. He seized Khemou’s arm and cried: Where are you going? As she wrenched herself free, Larbi pushed the man’s chest. He swung the bottle at Larbi’s head, but Larbi ducked and knocked him down. The man’s head hit the pavement in such a way that the blow killed him.

People began to gather. Larbi turned to Khemou: The police will be here now, he said. Go out to Mohammed’s farm and tell him what’s happened. He handed her some banknotes. Here. You need money. You sleep with men to make money. Take this and don’t go with anybody. When my father hears he’ll know what to do to get me out of it.

The Spanish police arrived and took Larbi with them to the comisaria. He stayed there two days. Then they put him into Malabata Prison. They did not give him a trial, but they promised him one in a year or two.

Khemou took a taxi straight to Mohammed’s farm. She told the story to Larbi’s friends, and returned to the city. Then all four of the youths hurried up to the village and gave the news to Larbi’s father and mother. In a few minutes the entire tchar knew what had happened.

The following day Larbi’s father and a good many neighbors set out on horseback to the city. They went to Malabata Prison and saw Larbi.

What does this mean? demanded his father.

This is what you wanted to happen, Larbi told him.

His father went out and found a lawyer, and paid him half his fee. You’ll get the other half when my son is free, he said.

I want to hear the whole story from your son, the lawyer told him.

He went to the police and got the report on Larbi’s case. You didn’t tell me your son was married, he said.

He’s not.

He told them he hit the man to protect his wife. You must go with Khemou and make out marriage papers. Have the notary date the marriage a year ago. It’s the only way I can do anything for you.

Larbi’s father and the four friends went to the brothel where Khemou worked. They took her with them to the courtyard of the notaries and had the papers made out as the lawyer had instructed.

When the lawyer had studied the false papers, he said: Everything will be all right. I’ll do the work. You can go home.

Three months went by. The lawyer was still working on the case. Finally he got it to the court, and Larbi stood before the judge, and so did Khemou.

The lawyer spoke for a while. Soon he said: Larbi, will you tell what happened?

Larbi said he had been walking in the street with his wife when a drunken man had attacked them. He had pushed the man and the man had fallen and hit his head.

When he had finished the story he sat down, and the lawyer went on talking for a long time. At the end, the judge gave Larbi a ten years suspended sentence. You may go home, he said.

Larbi was overjoyed. He ran to kiss his father’s hand, and he kissed his mother and shook hands with his friends. And he and Khemou walked out of the court together with his family. They all returned to the tchar.

Larbi’s father and mother disliked Khemou and always spoke of her as the dirty woman. Now that she was married she had given up alcohol, but she still liked cigarettes. One day his father came into the house and caught sight of Khemou with a cigarette between her fingers. He walked over to her saying: Allah! Allah! Allah! How shameless!

Is something the matter? said Khemou.

You don’t know what’s the matter?

No, she said.

You really don’t know?

How could I know? What is it? What’s the matter?

And even though I’m in front of you, you go right on smoking? Have you no sense of shame at all?

She laughed. But a cigarette’s not shameful.

Ah, so it’s not?

No. I thank Allah I don’t do anything worse than that.

My son is a decent boy, and we are a good family. I won’t have him living with a whore who smokes cigarettes.

Khemou looked at him. You know, sidi, you’re an old man, and you talk like the people of another century. Your words don’t mean anything now. You’re old. You should be praying to Allah, because you haven’t got much time left. You should be asking pardon for all the things you did years ago. But we’re still young. What we do can be forgiven.

No, lalla! he cried. I won’t have you smoking in front of me.

You’ve got to show respect.

You’re not a saint or a mosque, you know, she said. You’re just a man.

You say that? he cried. You tell me that?

Yes. And something else. I haven’t been a whore these seven years for nothing. I knew all about you the first week. And don’t try to change me, because it won’t work.

The old man ran out shouting for Larbi. Larbi was in the garden. He came running. What’s the matter, Baba? he cried.

Your wife is smoking!

Yes? Is that bad? She can smoke or drink for all I care. I love her anyway. You’re not married to her, Baba. If anyone’s going to stop her, it’s going to be me. But I buy the cigarettes for her myself. We smoke together. I want my wife to be free and enjoy herself. I don’t want a statue in front of me. This is our time now. Your time came and went long ago.

I see. You can move out of the house, then, said his father.

If you don’t want me here, then give me my share of the farm.

You have no share.

I have half, Larbi said.

Nothing. Just take your things and get out.

Larbi got his clothes together and put them onto a horse. Let’s go, he told Khemou.

His father came running. Where are you taking that horse? he cried.

I’ll bring it back when I’m finished with it. You’ve got dozens of horses. You won’t need this one for a day or so.

He lifted Khemou onto the horse, and he followed behind on foot, and they went without speaking, to Mohammed’s farm. He was there alone.

I’ve fought with my father and I have nowhere to go, Larbi told Mohammed. I’d like to stay here with you.

Of course.

For four months Larbi and Khemou lived at Mohammed’s farm, helping him with his work. One day Larbi’s brother Abdeltif arrived, saying that their father was very ill and wanted to see him.

Larbi set off up the valley with Abdeltif. When they got to the house they found it full of relatives. Larbi’s mother sat with the fqih and the moqqaddem.

Salaam aleikoum
. Larbi went to his father and kissed his forehead.

Larbi, son. I’m sorry.

Everything’s all right, said Larbi. You called me to give me the share I asked you for?

The fqih and the relatives cried: You see your father dying in front of you, and you can say such a thing?

Larbi paid them no attention. Why did you send Abdeltif for me?

Because I’m very sick, said his father.

Allah will cure you, Larbi told him. Then he turned to the others. If he dies, Allah will see to it that he has a good death.

His father told the fqih: I want to give half to Larbi. The other half will be divided between Abdeltif and my wife.

They began to write this down. But suddenly Larbi interrupted them, crying: Forgive me, Baba! He leaned over his father, and the old man reached up and embraced him with both arms. And he died with his arms around Larbi, hugging him so tight that the relatives had to help release him.

Then the tolba came and began to chant, and they carried Larbi’s father to the cemetery.

Larbi took charge of the farm, and for the first time the men who worked there began to receive wages at the end of the month.

Khemou did not mind living in the country. Sometimes Larbi would look at her and think: They say that whores make the best wives, and I believe it.

I
WAS NINE YEARS OLD
, and we were living in Emsallah. My father did not like it there, because it was noisy and full of people, and there was no fresh air. And so he found a house in M’stakhoche, with a large orchard full of trees. Orange trees, pear trees, plum trees. And there were three wells. Two small ones and a big one.

One day I went with my mother, out to the big well, to help her draw water. As I was filling my pail a snake stuck its head out of the rocks in the side of the well. Its head came out, and it stayed there, watching us. And it made me happy to think that there was a snake living in the well.

My mother took her pail of water back to the house, but I stayed there. I picked up a few stones and tossed them into the well. The snake went between two rocks, into its hole.

After that I kept going back to the well. I would get up in the morning, have my breakfast, and run out into the orchard to sit by the edge, looking down into the water. I would see my face down there. The water was clear, and I could watch my reflection in it. I would drop pebbles to see my face begin to move back and forth. This was what I loved most of all.

Sometimes I would see the snake. It would come out from between the rocks and stay like that, half outside and half inside its hole. Once in a while it would come all the way out and swim around on top of the water.

One day when I was sitting there, it seemed to me that I heard a voice. It was saying: Look out, boy. Get away from that place.

What did I think? I said to myself: it must be a neighbor. Or it could be somebody else. But there was no one around. I began to play again and forgot about it.

The next morning I played by the well, and again in the afternoon. And then as I was sitting there I suddenly felt a blow in the face, as if someone had struck me. I turned my head around in every direction, and there was no one anywhere.

My head began to hurt, and my body felt heavy and soft, and I was cold. Then I started to sweat. I walked back to the house.

Mohammed! my mother said. What’s the matter?

Listen! I was sitting on the edge of the well, and somebody hit me. And nobody was there. I’m sick. I feel cold.

Come, she told me. I’ll put you to bed, and you can rest a little.

Yes. I got into bed and lay out flat. Cover me up, I kept saying. Cover me more. And she piled blankets over me.

After a while I began to feel hot, and I was talking to myself, like a man who has gone crazy. I did not know what I was saying, or what I was doing, or what was happening. I could not eat. All I wanted was to drink water, every little while another glass, another glass.

The next morning when I woke up my face was crooked. My mother began to cry and say: My son is going to die. His face has gone to one side. What shall we do?

My father picked me up in his arms and carried me out to the doctor’s house. The doctor tested my blood and found that it was healthy. He looked at my body, and it was strong.

The boy has nothing the matter with him, he told my father. I don’t understand where this trouble comes from.

He gave my father some pills for me, and then my father carried me back home.

Three or four days later a Djibli woman came to visit my mother. Lalla Khemou, she said. I’ve heard about a fqih. He lives in the Andjera country and he could cure your boy.

Yes, Lalla, my mother said. Tell me. That would be a great favor you would be doing me.

In the afternoon my father came home. Ya rajel, said my mother. A Djibli woman was here, and she told me about a fqih in the Andjera who can help the boy. What do you think? Can we take him there and put ourselves into Allah’s hands?