Horses of God

9

NO, IT WASN’T all darkness in Sidi Moumen. I had my share of happiness too. My love affair with Ghizlane, Fuad’s younger sister, is proof of that. If there was one thing for which I’d have given up the whole idea of leaving, it was my love for Ghizlane. To think so many lives would have been spared if she’d held me back. Mine for a start, and other people’s — people I didn’t know, whom I carried off in my game bag like a poacher. I know she’d have stopped me going beyond the point of no return if only she’d taken me seriously. One night we met up outside her grandmother’s house. We’d often meet in that blind alley where few people ventured. I tried to talk to her, hinting that it might be the last time we’d see each other. She laughed in my face sarcastically: “Watch you don’t fall in the cesspools, they’re crawling with snakes and scorpions!” I knew every nook and cranny of Sidi Moumen, all the mounds of fresh or recently scavenged rubbish, down to the last square inch of muck; so if I was going to fall in a ditch, it would be because I’d been pushed. It was no good my trying to look stern and serious or explaining it to her, she just kept laughing. Ghizlane was the funniest, liveliest, most radiant girl I ever had the good fortune to meet. The least thing would set her off. She’d slap her knees, and her whole body was so eloquent, you’d never notice how tiny she was. Her presence was so cheering it was as if garlands had been hung all round her, the kind used to decorate the wall on the Feast of the Throne. Her hazel eyes always sparkled, lighting up her face and its oval mouth with an irresistible mixture of charm and innocence. Despite her exuberance, and her slightly affected manner, she was sensitive and deep. When I was alive, I wouldn’t have been able to describe her as I can now. I wasn’t taught the words to convey the beauty of people or things, the sensuality and harmony that make them so glorious. And now, as a lovelorn ghost, I feel the futile need to pour out my feelings and finally tell this story I’ve been turning over and over in my mind since the day of my death.

In the beginning was the dump, teeming with its colony of rascals. The cult of soccer; the incessant fighting; the shoplifting and frantic getaways; the ups and downs of trying to survive; hashish, glue, and the strange places they took you; the black market and the small-time jobs; the repeated beatings; the sudden attempts at escape and their ransoms of rape and abuse. . In the midst of all this chaos a glittering jewel had fallen from paradise: Ghizlane, my sweet and beautiful friend. No one knows how she landed in Sidi Moumen, but she was out of place in our filthy universe, a happy accident. I can still see her in the middle of her carrying hoop, a medium-sized rubber bucket on each side, going back and forth between the street pump and their home. In her long dress with wet patches, she seemed to glide over the loose stones and thistles on the path. The angel of grace had chosen this frail creature to blossom and live among us. If I wasn’t helping Nabil at the dump, I’d offer to lend her a hand. She’d gladly accept and the mere sight of her white teeth made my heart quiver. We chatted as we walked. I’d sometimes do that journey several times in one morning, just as happily each time. I’d put up with my friends ribbing me, calling me a sissy, and with Hamid’s jeers, if he happened to pass by. I loved being with her. Near the pump, we’d play at splashing each other, letting ourselves get soaked to the skin. We’d soon dry off in any case; Yemma would never notice a thing when I got home. Sometimes we’d stop near an isolated hut where, scorning the drought, a vine had clambered through the corrugated roof and reappeared through what must have once been windows. It was a shady place that, miraculously, no one had yet reclaimed. We secretly dreamed of living there one day, but we were too young to contemplate that kind of adventure.

Ghizlane would tell me about the dreadful atmosphere at home since the death of her father, the muezzin, and the marriage of her mother to Uncle Mbark. She didn’t like that man, that hermit crab, who’d taken her father’s place, taken over his job, his bed, his whole life. She didn’t understand how her mother had metamorphosed into a harridan, one of those wicked witches straight out of fairy tales. True, Halima had never been the maternal type, but to neglect her own children to that extent verged on insanity. Now she had eyes only for her new husband, who’d become her lord and master; this man who’d turned her head, for whom she was willing to abandon everything. Was this recent or had it predated her husband’s demise? No one could say. Whatever the truth of it, she’d spend hours making herself beautiful for him. It was as if she’d erased twenty years of her life to become the young, coquettish girl of the past again. Before sunset, she’d settle herself on cushions in the yard and bring out her beauty paraphernalia: a tiny round mirror and a case containing all kinds of powders, creams, and unguents. She attempted to brighten her eyes with a thick line of kohl, dragged almost to the ears, and enhance the coming kisses with lipstick from Fez, then she’d put on a delicately embroidered kaftan and sit herself on a kilim, like a young fiancée awaiting her suitor. When Mbark arrived, absinthe tea and dried fruits were produced, fresh candles were lit, and the transistor radio switched to the national channel, which broadcast popular tunes, patriotic songs to glorify the king, and official news bulletins. She hurried to bring him a basin of warm water with cooking salt for his foot massage. Soon after the radio soap opera, which the lovebirds wouldn’t miss for anything in the world, Ghizlane would serve them supper, which they took à deux in their own room.

This was during the worst of Fuad’s glue addiction, when he almost never came home, or if he did he was in a terrible state, his eyes rolled upward, red as two drops of blood. Ghizlane and I had made it our all but impossible mission to save him; she’d look after him indoors and outside it was up to me. She made him eat, wash, and change his clothes and would physically intervene when her mother, armed with a broad belt, came to give him a thrashing. “You’re no longer part of this family!” Halima would say, summoning their uncle, who’d back her up with a verse from the Koran. Then she began to shriek: “That drug addict is driving me mad! What have I done to the good Lord to deserve such punishment?” Fuad was so far gone, he didn’t even shield his face from the flailing blows. Ghizlane caught a few in the cross fire, but still she put herself between them, defying her mother. Sometimes clumps of her hair were pulled out and she wouldn’t make a sound. She’d get scratched, too, but she stood firm and waited for her mother to calm down before taking care of her brother, who’d be stretched out like a corpse on the palm mat. She took off his plastic sandals, slid a cushion under his head, and covered him with a blanket. She lay down next to him for a little while, to warm him up and comfort him, as her mother would have done had she not lost her mind.

Ghizlane’s life was no fun — far from it. She didn’t have any time to herself, she’d slave away all day long. She left the kitchen only to do the shopping, take the bread to the ovens, or fetch water from the pump. She’d make the meals, serve them, do the washing up, mop the cement section of the floor and sprinkle the rest. The afternoon was given over to laundry. She’d have to hang the washing on a line outside the house and, since they didn’t have a terrace, she’d sit on a stool all afternoon to guard it, not just from thieves but in case the wind got up; then she had to take it down in a hurry, otherwise the clouds of dust would mean she had to start all over again. Meanwhile her mother, who’d taken early retirement, spent her days sipping tea with the neighbors, hanging around the souk as soon as a consignment of contraband was rumored to be arriving, or keeping company with her oaf of a husband at mealtimes. The only contact she had with her daughter consisted of criticism and abuse, and usually ended in tears. Life might have gone on this way if Ghizlane hadn’t rebelled. And I played a part in it too. Together we worked out a clever counterattack, an unexpected strategy from a couple of twelve-year-olds. The plan was for Ghizlane to fall asleep on the job and make a mess of anything she possibly could: add too much salt to the tagines, leave it out of the bread dough altogether, put a pinch of killer chilli in salads, sweep before damping down the floor so that dust spread right through the shack, leave stains in the laundry or make new ones. . in short, as far as possible try to poison the sweet, peaceful life of her stepfather and her hag of a mother. In spite of the hell Ghizlane and Fuad were forced to endure for weeks on end, the plan paid off. They put up with the beatings, the humiliation and bullying. They were made to eat those revolting meals, the salads that were on fire with chilli, the gut-wrenching soups, while their mother and Uncle Mbark brought delicious sandwiches back from the market and shut themselves up in their room to eat them. This war of attrition might have gone on indefinitely had it not been for the intervention of Mi-Lalla, their paternal grandmother. Heaven had sent her to put an end to this situation, now become unbearable. She suggested to Halima and Uncle Mbark that the children come to stay with her until things settled down, explaining that it was normal for them to be upset by their father’s death, their mother’s remarrying so soon, and all the rest. A few weeks at most and things would be back to normal. Mother and uncle were only too willing, and it was salvation for all concerned. Ghizlane and Fuad packed their bags the same night and went to live with Mi-Lalla in Douar Scouila, a shantytown half an hour’s walk from ours.

The Stars of Sidi Moumen took the news badly, fearing Fuad would be tempted away by his new neighborhood’s local team. But that didn’t happen. Moreover, a little while later, he stopped sniffing glue and was back to his dazzling best as our center forward. A new life was beginning for Ghizlane, too, since Mi-Lalla had taken her under her wing. She banned her from setting foot in the kitchen and enrolled her in an embroidery school run by someone she knew. “You have to have a trade, child, it’s the only way to be free.” Free: there was a word that resonated in Ghizlane’s ears. It struck a chord, it consoled her. Yes, she would learn a trade and be free, vindicating the faith placed in her. She realized how lucky she was to have a grandmother like Mi-Lalla, who treated her so kindly, who fussed over her and spoke to her gently, who gave her the gold ring she’d been given by her own mother. She made her promise never to part with it. “You’ll give it to your own daughter one day!” she’d concluded. Ghizlane turned as red as a tomato.

Mi-Lalla belonged to what passed for aristocracy in Douar Scouila. The widow of a soldier who’d been killed in Indochina, she received a monthly pension, which, converted into dirhams, amounted to a tidy sum. And since she hadn’t stopped working and didn’t spend much, she’d managed to build up a decent nest egg. No one knew where she had stashed her money; her house, which was built of concrete, had been visited many times by burglars. One day she found her garden completely dug up, since the thieves believed she had buried her savings there. It was a waste of effort. Mi-Lalla’s fortune lay in a safe place known only to herself and God. Fuad used to say he’d rather not find out, or it would be too tempting. That made Ghizlane laugh. She’d reply that he had many faults, but stealing wasn’t one of them. And anyway, she was going to ask Grandma’s permission to start making cakes, as she used to do, and he could sell them at the souk. That way, he wouldn’t have to ask anyone for money. Now that he’d given up sniffing glue and had gone back to soccer, he didn’t have as many needs.

Mi-Lalla’s work, as unpopular here as anywhere else, made her a lot of enemies. She was a representative of the law. Since men weren’t allowed to enter people’s homes to make spot inventories of goods before they were confiscated, it fell to mature women to do the job. It was a painful duty and the grandmother performed it reluctantly. She felt for these people who were about to have everything taken away because they were unable to pay their debts. Even after thirty years in the job, she still had scruples. Sometimes she’d send a messenger to warn her victims she’d be coming the next day. That way, they had time to move their most precious things during the night: their radio, television set, wool-filled mattresses. . Even so, people avoided her like the plague. She was never invited to anyone’s home, for fear she’d suddenly ask them to account for their furniture. People were too unkind, because Mi-Lalla had a big heart. It was true that she made her living from other people’s misfortune, but it was a job, like any other. Gravediggers do the same, but they’re still decent, honest people. I should know. As for me, I loved her as if she were a member of my family. She’d adopted me too, since I often came to play with her grandchildren. I called her Grandma like they did. She could see I was crazy about Ghizlane and it amused her. Coming across us sitting in a corner, she whispered: “One day, I’ll marry the two of you.” But before that, we had to behave ourselves. “Don’t get up to any mischief, I’m watching you!” she called out, laughing.

Some temporary arrangements endure. The few weeks that Ghizlane and Fuad were meant to stay with Mi-Lalla turned into months, then into years. Halima came to see them less and less and they were none the worse for it. Her children avoided her. They’d be out when they knew she was coming. Soon the visits were limited to holidays and then they stopped for good. No one suffered too much, except perhaps Ghizlane, a little. She confided this to Mi-Lalla, who had a talent for soothing aching hearts with her magical phrase: “Tomorrow’s light will open a different door.” One tomorrow followed another and it turned out she was right: time eventually eased the little girl’s distress.

Fuad now had a mobile stall measuring nearly one square meter, mounted on wheels that a blacksmith friend had made with great skill. He sold sweets, chocolates from Spain, lollipops, and Ghizlane’s cakes. He’d set himself up at the entrance to the only school in the vicinity, and business was good.

Ghizlane had learned how to embroider and was working for the nuns, who provided her with fabric and good-quality thread. She’d make tablecloths, napkins, sheets, pillowcases, handkerchiefs, and linen of all kinds. You’d sometimes see luxury cars parked near the house. Women in European clothes, smelling strongly of perfume, would come to place orders with her. Mi-Lalla would tell her she ought to give some thought to her own trousseau, too, and Ghizlane would pretend to be annoyed.

I’d see her on Tuesdays, which was market day, and we’d go out together, wandering round the tent stalls that had been put up overnight. Douar Scouila’s customary chaos would be multiplied a hundredfold. Men would jostle with beasts in happy confusion. And they’d be shouting, squabbling, laughing, guzzling, and belching all round the great mounds of brightly colored spices displayed on the ground, part of a vast throng: street vendors crying their wares, vying to make themselves heard above the din, chickens with their legs tied together cackling round farmers, braying donkeys collapsing under overloaded carts, a chanting chorus of blind men warning of Judgment Day. I knew every one of the thieves who operated round there. They weaved through the crowd, sharp-eyed and quick with their hands. We’d observe their maneuvering with glee: a deft slit of the razor on a back trouser pocket and they’d shadow their victim, patiently waiting for the wallet to drop. Ghizlane would laugh and give me a little tap on the back. Midday already. The aroma of grilled sausages, snail soup, and puréed broad beans was making us hungry. We’d buy ourselves a sandwich and devour it under a tree. Refreshed, we’d plunge back into the fray. Stopping by the fortunetellers was obligatory, because Ghizlane was eager to find out everything there was to know. Those lowlifes were like weeds sprouting all over our misery. According to them, poverty would soon be abolished and love would reign supreme in Douar Scouila. They all but promised the resurrection of the dead. Ghizlane lapped up the good things foretold by the cards. Her eyes would light up the way they did in front of a fabric stall, when she’d start fingering and rummaging through the brightly colored materials, giving me a great many knowledgeable explanations about the provenance of the different wools, cottons, cloths, and satins. She’d criticize the prices and wouldn’t buy much in the end. Or she’d spend hours haggling over a reel of thread. I’d be laughing and embarrassed at the same time. Sometimes she made me go to the barber — he too operated from a tent — because she thought I needed a haircut. Sitting on a stool, she waited, smiling at me in the mirror. She said that short hair really suited me; she thought I looked handsome. I thought she was beautiful too, but I didn’t have the guts to say so. I once managed to stammer a compliment about her long black hair. She smiled. Walking side by side, our hands would brush and we’d pretend not to notice; we acted as if the shivers we felt were just chance, or the coolness of the morning. We’d stop at the stall selling sunflower seeds and buy ourselves a cone. She’d slip a note into my pocket, since she knew I was broke and thought it more proper for the man to pay. And she’d refuse to take it back. So we’d go on, wandering aimlessly, lingering in a crowd that had formed round a singer performing with his tam-tam. If she could have, she’d have danced with him. And the day would pass, as if in a dream. We’d be on our way home before sunset. Ghizlane didn’t like to leave Mi-Lalla on her own too long; she was getting old and had more and more trouble keeping herself occupied. We’d bring her nougat, which she adored, though she could only suck it, since the stumps still clinging to her gums were about to fall out. If she’d had a good week, Ghizlane would bring her a scarf, a turban, or a prayer mat showing a sparkling Mecca. Mi-Lalla would instantly sniff back her tears. With age, she’d become very emotional.

That last evening, before the big day, we’d come back from the souk without saying much. Ghizlane hadn’t laughed the whole walk home, which had gone quickly for me. She must have noticed the anguish my eyes couldn’t hide. I’d have liked to walk and walk. I’d have liked to feel her slender fingers touch mine one last time, but we were already home. Right outside her house in the dark shadow of the blind alley, I took my courage in both hands and kissed her.