Horses of God

15

I KNEW HAMID so well that the day he took me off to the café to talk about serious matters, I told him my answer was yes before the words were even out of his mouth. He looked at me, his eyes filled with tears, and stammered: “We have no choice.” I agreed, because someone had to make the sacrifice. That was the first time I’d ever seen dread in my brother’s face. Here he was, the hero, the terror of Sidi Moumen, his voice breaking and his hands trembling. But I was calm. Maybe I hadn’t yet grasped the gravity of the situation. Then that was it, we didn’t talk about it again. I’d been the last to be told the date for the big event. A curious thing: none of my friends had refused to die. And yet dying was no small thing. Nabil, whom I’d thought was a coward, had said yes immediately, since he had no other ties besides us. He hadn’t seen his mother in an eternity and was none the worse for it. He’d banned her from coming to the shack. It was an irrevocable decision, which he’d made in front of everyone. He’d publicly disowned her, cutting the cord once and for all. But Tamu didn’t give up; she couldn’t reconcile herself to losing her only son. She’d come and hang around near where we lived — it was a heartbreaking sight. Seeing her sitting near the pump with her cake on her knees, Nabil remained adamant. She was waiting for a kid to walk by, who’d bring us the cake. Nabil would refuse it and send it back to her, or he’d say to the kid: “Take it home, you can have it.” Tamu looked on in silence. It didn’t stop her coming back the next week with another cake and sitting down nearby. Nabil acted as if she didn’t exist. He refused the baskets of food Abu Zoubeir gave us for our families, saying that he was an orphan. The master pretended to believe him, but the truth was he knew everything there was to know about us. Nabil would say that the day Tamu stopped selling her ass and repented of her sins, he’d think about it. He’d changed a lot. He’d hardened. His mother’s profession was like a scar on his face. He was the son of Tamu. Tamu the whore. He was the son of a whore. The circle was complete. Even if no one talked about it, everybody thought it a bit. And there was that story that lingered on in the memory, gleefully repeated by all the old gossips. I don’t know if it was true, but it had affected Nabil badly.

The day before he was born, his mother had taken a taxi to the hospital. As it was a long journey, she’d had time to talk to the driver, who was very chatty. When they arrived at the entrance, she asked him to help her carry her shopping bag, since she had to support her big belly, with the baby kicking about inside, impatient to see the light of day. The man agreed and helped her up the steps. At reception, the driver handed her back her bag and asked for the money for the ride.

Tamu barked: “What? You’re leaving me?”

“Yes, madam, that’s twenty dirhams.”

“And your baby? What about your baby?”

“What baby are you talking about?”

“The one you shoved in my belly, you moron.”

“I don’t know you, lady. Is this a joke?”

Tamu put her hands over her ears and began to shout: “He’s going to leave me. He’s going to abandon his child. Call the police, this man is a coward!”

“You’ve lost your mind, woman. It’s an asylum you need!”

Just as he was about to leave, giving up on the cab fare, the nurses restrained him until the arrival of the police, who immediately placed him in custody, in order to clarify the facts. His distraught family looked for him everywhere. He had a wife and three children, whom he loved. He led an easy life in the medina, since he was his own boss; he’d finished paying off the loan for his taxi and things were looking up. It was two days before his brother and his wife tracked him down at police headquarters. Then they were told the painful news: the man in question was living a double life. He’d impregnated a young woman who’d just given birth to a delightful boy, whose paternity he was denying. His wife fainted and they revived her. They were advised to hire a lawyer, since the poor girl was pressing charges from her hospital bed. That was how things began to get complicated. The lawyer reassured them that, these days, they had modern techniques to establish paternity. The DNA tests proved conclusive. Indisputable even: it turned out the driver had been sterile from birth. But he had three children, who looked like him — especially the eldest, who was his exact double. How was that possible? After much prevarication, his wife finally confessed. She loved her husband more than anything in the world. And since she’d realized he could not have children, and might reject her, she’d slept with his brother. But only so she would have children who’d bear a likeness to her husband. The driver was exonerated and, upon leaving the police station, he drove his taxi to the edge of a cliff and went straight over. So Nabil’s birth was tainted by an appalling tragedy, which did not bode well for the future. When bad luck gets into you in your mother’s womb, it never lets go. But it was no good my trying to explain to my friend that the blame lay with the people who’d cast us into this hole, that it wasn’t Tamu’s fault, because she’d had a child to feed, she was protecting herself as best she could, and ultimately she had no choice. He wouldn’t listen to me. Or he’d just say: “We always have a choice.” There was no way, then, to soften his heart.

Blackie hadn’t batted an eyelid, either, when Abu Zoubeir made him the terrible proposition. He joked about how happy he’d be to leave, because he’d never have to see his father’s miserable face again. But I knew he was suffering, he was tired of having his little brother’s death on his conscience. He wanted to be rid of that burden, to win back the identity he’d been stripped of and be Yussef again. A Yussef as free as the air. Shed his skin, embrace nothingness, be born again, somewhere else. .

Fuad had worried about Ghizlane, but he could not refuse Abu Zoubeir’s invitation. It was an honor they were doing him. To be chosen as a martyr with the keys to paradise wasn’t something bestowed on just anyone. But he wanted to be sure that his friends would look after his little sister. He was all she had in the world. Their grandmother didn’t have long to live and Ghizlane would be all alone in Douar Scouila. Abu Zoubeir vowed that she would be protected, that he’d take care of her personally, as if she were his own daughter. That made us both feel better.

As for Khalil the shoeshine, he’d long wanted to get away. If he couldn’t make it to Paris, Madrid, or Milan, because he risked getting his eyes eaten by crabs, he’d accept a one-way ticket to paradise. Maybe there he could become a crooner for the houris and the angels. .

The two days before the big event went faster than anticipated. On no account were we to leave the garage by ourselves. We did a lot of praying. The idea of imminent death didn’t dent our appetites. Like prisoners, we were entitled to better meals: tagine with cardoons and bitter olives, pigeon pastilla (a dish I’d only ever heard of), chicken with preserved lemons. . They were so delicious that Emir Zaid, fearing that such marvels might make us regret leaving this world, made a point of saying that better meals, with flavors beyond compare, awaited us up above. He backed this up with one of the most joyous verses in the Koran.

The Oubaida brothers were at the training room to go over the last technical details. The paradise belts were ready and waiting. We met up with them at night for an initiation session. We tried on the vests and as mine was a bit tight, Fuad swapped it for his, because he was thinner. Sweat was running down Hamid’s forehead and he looked at me in utter bewilderment. He couldn’t understand why I was so calm, almost serene. Riding high, I saw the whole thing as a game; a game of life and death unwittingly entwined. Sidi Moumen’s grim reaper was part of everyday life; she wasn’t as frightening as all that. People came and went, lived or died, without it making the slightest difference to our poverty. Families were so big that losing one or two of their number was no catastrophe. That’s how it was. We wept over our dead, of course, we buried them wailing and lamenting, but with the crowds of those still living there was so much to do that we soon forgot them. And yet, death was still there, everywhere. We had adopted her. She lived in us and we in her. She’d emerge from our red eyes and our clenched fists for brief sallies. She’d walk in white robes on the ruins of our shantytown and return to curl up inside us. We were the house she rested in and we’d find peace leaning on her. Death was our ally. She served us and we served her. We’d lend her our hatred, our vengeance, and our knives. She’d put them to good use and return them to us, only to demand them again. And again and again. She’d get us through the bad times, she’d haul us out of trouble, and we were so grateful to her. That night, in that ill-lit room, she was there to sustain me once more. I could feel her standing beside me, shivering. She was growing impatient. Her invisible presence had swallowed up all the people around me. I no longer saw them. I was alone with her and I wasn’t afraid. She wrapped her black wings around my feverish body and I surrendered. I thought only of the joy of obedience. I was her slave, happy to belong to her. Death was thinking for me. All I had to do was follow the Oubaida brothers’ instructions and everything would be fine. Bus number 31, the Genna Inn, and the cord I had to pull at the right moment. It wasn’t complicated. She whispered those orders in my ear. Many times. I repeated the refrain in my head, to lodge it in my mind forever. Then, like an aging princess, she glanced over and pointed her finger at me. Death had singled me out from a horde of barefoot beggars, and I rejoiced to be among her chosen few. I was ready to give in to her every whim, provided she’d let me embrace her. Hang on tight and fly away with her. Traverse the seven heavens and be born again somewhere else, far away. As far away as possible from Sidi Moumen and its corrugated iron, its grime, and its rabble. Breathe new air, banish even the memory of the dump. Wallow in nothingness and put an end to boredom. Have done with mud and insects. Never again see kids in rags running after garbage trucks, fighting to be the first to scrabble around in the rubbish, sinking waist-deep in mounds of filth. No, never again did I want to see those monstrous machines vomit their refuse onto children.

Putting on that vest packed with explosives, I was already dust. That was a strange sensation. I formed one body with the earth, the sky, and the stars that strafed the black night. The sheikh’s words scintillated in my mind and I felt invincible. No, you cannot defeat a man who wants to die. And I wanted to, fervently. Nabil, Blackie, Khalil, Fuad, and Hamid wanted to die too. Living in Sidi Moumen, surrounded by corpses, the groveling, and the lame, the truth was we were almost dead already. So really, what did it matter, a little more or less?

Hamid was still sweating and the Oubaida brothers were worried about him. They must have informed Abu Zoubeir. We left the training room and went to the hammam together. We washed ourselves and shaved our bodies closely, preparing ourselves for death as if for a wedding. We even made a few jokes about Nabil’s backside; he was refusing to let anyone scrub him down. Fuad almost passed out when Emir Zaid brought us the clothes for the last night. The cleanest, whitest linen, which our bodies, purified of any stain, demanded.

On the way back to the garage, Abu Zoubeir took Hamid aside and they had a long conversation. My brother felt better after that. The master went back to his place in the middle of the room and prayed. Then he made a speech: “Remember that tonight, my children, many challenges await you. But you must confront them and understand them. The time for playing is over. The moment of judgment has arrived. So we must use these few remaining hours to ask God for forgiveness. You must recognize that there is almost no time left for you to live. Afterward, you will begin a life of bliss, of infinite paradise. Be optimistic. The Prophet was always optimistic. Pray, ask for God’s help. Go on praying all night. You have vowed to die and you have renewed this oath for the love of God. This does you credit. Everyone hates death, I know; everyone fears it. But remember those verses that say that you would wish for death before meeting it, if you only knew of the reward that awaits you.”

We recited other prayers, and Hamid’s voice rose above the rest. He was swept away by the mystical mood of that extraordinary night, and his fervor bordered on trance. Was it fear, gnawing at his guts? No doubt, because he was sharper than us and he understood that there was no way back. It was too late to abandon ship; he knew too much. And so he’d set off, as we all had, with his hand on the holy Koran. Hamid was no traitor, neither to God nor to Abu Zoubeir, still less to me and the rest of the group. Maybe he was angry with himself for getting me involved in all this. I couldn’t say. In any case, he wasn’t himself anymore. His eyes were different. They no longer looked outward. I changed places with Fuad to be next to him. I wanted to reassure him, but he was elsewhere. The verses followed on from each other. And euphoria sprinkled its golden sand over our intoxicated minds. We thought only of paradise. We were basking in it already. It wouldn’t be as hot and humid there as it was in the garage, because right now we were soaked to the skin. And there wouldn’t be any bad smells either. I hate to say it, but Hamid smelled strongly of sweat. It wasn’t like him; usually he was very clean. With the ritual ablutions we performed several times a day, it was really hard to be dirty. Whatever the truth, we remained side by side for a good part of the night. After dawn prayers, blankets were brought and we collapsed on the mats, exhausted, half dead.

I didn’t dream at all.