The Poet was now tamed once for all. From now on, he was but a slave. He
had had an idea about the slaves. They were the only people to be singled out
for all the nasty jobs. The Poet also knew that it was high time he had begun
to accustom himself to this frowsty cell. For he wouldn't live in a better
place. Already, it was a wonder that he was still alive. Yet, he felt there
were still many a thing to aspire to although he wasn't sure what. As long as
there was life in his veins, his heart told him, he should never despair.
The Poet didn't dwell long on
that, however. What he wanted now was a good hamper of food and a cup of sweet
water. He was terribly hungry. His pangs of hunger increased with each passing
minute. Now much of the day had gone and there was nothing to hope for from the
people who had thrown him into this cage. The Poet also feared that the guard
wouldn't come in time to take him to that foul shed.
One hour followed another till
the cell was engulfed in utter darkness, and yet no one came. The Poet's fears
grew wilder. How long would he remain incarcerated in this gloomy place?
Weren't slaves entitled to just a handful of dates to appease one's deathly
pangs of hunger? Had the world run out of soft hearts? This made the Poet
indignant, furious. But what could he do? Nothing but wait.
The Poet waited with a rising
temper many hours far into the night before he succumbed to sleep. But his
sleep didn't last long. Even during his sleep he hadn't ceased from wriggling.
When he awoke and sat up he was still shivering with cold. He indeed was
chilled to the marrow. And hungry, thirsty and angry. He couldn't lean his back
against the icy wall. The straw beneath him was wet, and the air bleak. There
was no light at all. No sound was audible. He believed there were still several
hours to dawn and wondered how he would be able to endure them. So he just sat
there, upright, facing the door, and waited.
The Poet's heart quivered as a
distant cock-crow indicated that the night had melted into day. Soon the first
rays began to flood in. The world was awakening. Impatiently, the Poet waited
for the new day's news. He wanted to know many a thing. Would he breakfast?
Would he go out to the shed? Would he be handed over to the slavers today? Who
would they be these slavers and where would they take him? What would he be
doing as a slave? What would become of his personal belongings: his house, his
camel, his flute?... And Sultana? And his brother's small family? Too many
questions to answer. The Poet remained engrossed in these unending thoughts
while waiting for something new to happen.
Now the chill was quite a
distant memory. The cell was warmed up by the heat outside. Several hours must
have passed since sunrise. The Poet sat speechless, but he was expecting
something. This time his dream came true. One guard came and took him to the
musty shed. He also brought him a pot of water and a receptacle full of dates.
When the guard left, after having closed the cell-door, the Poet washed his
fingers with some of the water and drank some and ate several dates. He hadn't
asked the guard about anything.
The Poet leaned on one side and
melted into thoughts. He would go away. Maybe forever. He would leave behind a
smart house, a wonderful camel, a marvelous wife, an elderly brother and his
family… He would leave Lehreem. Maybe forever. He would go somewhere else.
Where? He didn't know. What would he be doing? He had no specific idea. His
only job was composing verses. What else could he do? Who would be his master
or masters? Or mistresses? Ida came to his mind fleetingly. Sultana, too. But:
"Why am I to stay
When I am to go?
To go far away
Where the stars stand aglow…?
Why am I to say
'I love you', when you
know…?"
The singing stopped there. Weary of waiting, the Poet found almost
anything boring and disgusting.
Soon after dark, the cell-door
opened. "Shalom" said a fifty-year-old, white man clad in a white
jellaba. On his hairless head was a fez and on his shoulders and back a long,
black cloth. This man beamed at the Poet, who rose and gaped. The Poet knew
immediately that the newcomer was a Jew. Two guards were standing behind the
Jew. "Shalom," he repeated. "Salam," replied the Poet.
"Come along!" the Jew ordered, and turned toward the guards, who
paved the way for him. The Poet followed on the heels of the Jew and the
guards. They led him along a passage out into the open, a short way from the
palace, where two men and four horses were waiting beside a palm-tree. The
guards went back into the palace and the Poet was ordered to mount one of the
four horses and ride in front. He mounted diffidently and waited for the next
orders. "Fly! This way! Fly!" whispered the Jew as he and his
companions mounted their respective horses. The Jew had gestured toward the
northeast. And all the company flew that way, in silence.
The Poet's thoughts were
blocked for a moment. All overnight he found himself, as if in a stinking
nightmare, in the hands of a Jew. And here he was racing northeastwards, as a
slave, to a Jew's world. Where? He didn't know. He was fearfully anxious to
know.
After brief halts at three
inn-like large houses, where the horses were fed and watered and where the Jew
and his two companions chatted with the people there, the journey ended a
little time after dawn at a smart, uninhabited house perched on a hill
overlooking a small town. The horses were led into an adjacent stable and the
men went into the house. The Poet was then conducted into a large room, where
he found on the floor a sufficiently long mat, one sheet and one low pillow.
The Jew brought him a good handful of dates and a pot of water, and locked the
door and left. He had spoken no word. He only smiled.
The Poet sat down. He was
terribly weary. He drank some water and ate dates. And then he mused for a good
while, before he began singing mournfully in a very low voice:
Sultana! Oh Sultana! here I am a slave!
Sultana! Oh Sultana!
here I am a slave!
…and can’t guess where
you are:
in what
cell, in what cave?
Sultana! Oh Sultana!
Here I am a slave!
Do send me a smile! Do
send me a word!
I need you most in this
crazy world!
Sultana! Oh Sultana!
What could I feel but
cheap
Now that I’m sold like a
sheep?
Sultana! Oh Sultana!
Here I am a slave!
They will lead me as
they please.
And they will sell me
when they please!!
Oh Sultana!...
Apart from singing, what else
could he do? Oh yes! he prayed. And then he slept.
The Poet woke up and waited a
few hours before nightfall, the time when the Jew came and ordered him to go
with two young men. The Jew didn’t say where. The two young men, like the other
two who had escorted him the last night, were wearing jellabas and white
skullcaps. One of them had a charming black beard. When the Poet left the room,
he was led into another –a small room– where he was commanded to put off all
his clothes and put on instead an old, but quite clean jellaba and patchy old,
short trousers. When he got out of that small room, the Jew escorted him out of
the house, where the two men were waiting with the horses. There, the Jew
handed a white skullcap to the Poet and ordered him peacefully to put it on his
head. The Poet took the skullcap, with a trembling hand, and put it on his
head– while the Jew and his men chuckled. “Mount!” said the Jew. The two young
men and the Poet mounted their respective horses and vanished into the dark. As
the horses flew northeastwards the two men began to talk in a low voice:
“Did Sham’oon give you all the
money?” asked one of them.
“Yes,” replied the other.
(The Poet listened very
intently.)
“How much?”
“As much as he gave you!”
“What’s this, David? You don’t
trust me?”
“Why do you insist?”
“Shut up!”
(…)
The Poet now knew that these
two men, too, were Jews. They pronounced the s sound as sh . But what struck
him particularly was that both men spoke Arabic, the very Arabic spoken in the
middle of Al-Maghreb Al-Aqsa (Morocco). For the Poet, the two men must have
come from Fez, Shella or Marrakesh. But where were they taking him now? They
were heading northeastwards, toward Al-Maghreb Al-Awsat (Algeria). Would they
sell him to the Turks there? He didn’t speak Turkish. He only spoke Berber, his
mother-tongue, and Arabic, which he had been taught by his uncle at the Aït
Abed Quranic school.
