Tahar arrived at the place. The horses were already there.
Every now and then rifles fired into the air. Tahar looked for Shama, but you
could hardly see her with so many people crowding around the field. People cast
inquisitive looks at Tahar, who went on shuffling around the field. He came
across Balîd but made as if he did not recognize him. And then suddenly a
woman’s voice cried, “The Tailor! It’s the Tailor!” Strangely enough, a host of
women broke away from the crowd just where Balîd, the Old Man, was standing.
Shama was soon standing in front of Tahar,
smiling bewitchingly. “What are you doing here?” she said.
“Where’s your
master?” said another.
“I have no
master,” said Tahar with a smile. “I am the master of myself. I am not a
slave.”
“But still you
work for him!” said Shama, screwing up her face.
“That’s
right,” said Tahar, feeling something strange about Shama’s breath. He could smell wine on her
breath, but nothing on her face suggested that she was drunk. At that moment
the Old Man edged up to Shama, who glanced round at him. Tahar turned his eyes
away from them and took steps towards the crowd. The women pressed round him as
he walked on.
“Have you
finished my dress?” one of the women said.
“No, I’m
sorry. In fact, I have only started on it. I had been working on takchitas for
Sy Balîd’s wife and mother. So your dress had to suffer.”
“Now that you
have started on my dress when could I have it?” said the woman, raising her
voice above the crowd’s noise.
“What’s the
matter, Shama?” said another woman before
Tahar could speak.
“I don’t know!” said Shama angrily. “That old
man over yonder dogs my steps. I don’t know what he wants with me!”
“Maybe he’s
fallen in love with you!” grinned a woman. “Go back and speak to him! Or I tell
you what– let’s go all of us and pull his leg!”
Tahar had hard
work to hold his tongue.
“Leave the old
man alone!” he said in one breath.
“Do you know
him?” said Shama suddenly.
“No, I don’t!”
said Tahar with a blush, trudging away from her.
“Where are you
going?” said the other women.
“I’m going to
move to the front of the crowd so I can see well,” he said in a wavering voice.
“Why don’t you
just stay with us? You can see very well from here as well!”
Tahar gave
them no answer but an uncertain smile. He walked slowly to where the Old Man
was standing. “Stay there!” the Old Man whispered to him unobtrusively. And
Tahar stayed there at the rear of the crowd and made as if watching the parade.
He waited and waited for new orders from the Old Man, who was standing just a
yard behind him. And then came a new order. “Now move off! Keep going round the
field,” the Old Man whispered in a muffled voice. And so Tahar went on
shuffling around the field until he saw a band of women in full cry after the
Old Man, who just ran off across the adjoining field. So Tahar felt he had
nothing more to do there. He simply stole out of the place.
On his way back to the douar, Tahar
bumped into Sêed, the man who had brought him from Shiadma.
“Where have
you been?” said Sêed, feigning surprise.
“I went to see
the fantasia parade.”
“You went
alone? Where’s Sy Balîd?”
“I don’t
know.”
“That’s a lie!
You know where he is!”
Tahar refused
to be drawn in. He remained silent while Sêed began a story. “I’ll tell you
where you were and why you were out there!” Sêed said. “You were there because
Balîd was there and Shama was there. Balîd is using you as a pimp and Shama is
using you as a means to quench her thirst for revenge. You know why? Well, it
started long ago. Balîd and Shama met at a party. They spoke about marriage the
same day they met. Balîd could not believe his ears when she said yes. She
asked him for a good dowry and he promised her all the best. But she refused to
go out with him. Balîd did everything he possibly could to make her sleep with
him even before marriage, because he simply did not believe he could marry her,
given the sort of dowry he had promised her. Shama waited and waited, but Balîd
could not deliver. He did not keep his promise; he could not, anyway. So poor
Shama married a cousin of hers on the rebound. But that marriage soon ended in
divorce. Her former husband remarried on the rebound too. But Shama remained
single. That’s what set Balîd after her again. His wife knows the story, but
cannot or does not want to stop him. She knows that he can never get Shama to
marry him. And his wife too is somewhat happy seeing Shama treat him so
harshly. Because she too was a victim. Balîd married her only after his family
found out that he had knocked her up. She had been his girl-friend for years
and she never denied him anything. But he has always looked on her as a moll.
No female has ever been safe with that monster. People call him the Rooster.
You know why? Because he’s like a coq in a henhouse. He even dared to chat up
my own sister! I shall never forgive him for that. I see you aren’t speaking. I
see you aren’t asking me questions. But I’ll tell you why I went in search for
you the other day. I knew that Balîd had some scheme or other in mind, and I
knew he would pay me for anything I did for him, but he would never get his own
way. Shama, who has got such a shock that she’s turned to drink, will not let go
of him until he is done for. I am saying this to you because I don’t want you
to blame me. I know he’s not treating you will. But be patient. God will
deliver you from this. Now you can go. And don’t lie to your master! Say you
met me on the way. Don’t worry about that! Goodbye!”
Tahar got into
a muddle. “Run!” he thought. “Go back to the douar and then think about this!”
So Tahar ran
back to the douar. Balîd was waiting for him in the courtyard.
“Where have
you been you perfidious slave?” Balîd barked.
“I am
dreadfully sorry, nâamass! I was coming back to the douar but I met Sêed on the
way.”
“And so you
stayed out there chatting with Sêed? What the hell were you saying to each
other?”
“Nothing
special, nâamass!”
“And on top of
that you lie to me, you donkey?” Balîd rumbled, thwacking Tahar in the face.
Tahar ran his
hand over his burning cheek. Balîd spat at him and turned to go away.
“You spit at
me, you nasty beetle?” Tahar whimpered once
Balîd had moved out of the courtyard. “Is this my requital?”
An hour later, Tahar was stretched out
on his bed, thinking. “I helped him twice,” he thought sadly, “first with the
dress, then with the disguise. And yet there’s nothing to show for it but a
spit in my face! That’s how he repaid my kindness. He called me perfidious. So
perfidious I shall be! I can’t restrain myself this time again. I could have
hit back at him under provocation. Thank God I didn’t do it! But he can’t
provoke me anymore. Since he wants war, then he’ll get war. But in fighting him
I shan’t resort to the power of gun. I shall use the power of love and the
power of thought!
The next morning Tahar was working
again on the dress of one of Shama’s mates. He was all smiles. The boy just
looked on, uncomprehending.
But each night thereafter Tahar thought
again and again of how he should best avenge himself. “I shall soon be there,
Zahiya!” he muttered to himself one night. “I only want to come back safe and
sound. I don’t want to kill anybody, and I don’t want to be killed.”
One morning a few days later, Tahar was
going out to relieve himself when Sêed hailed him from the other side of the
courtyard.
“Hey you
there! Where are you for?”
“I’m going to
the dung hill. Why?”
“Alright! Go
ahead!”
But Tahar had
barely got to the dunghill when Sêed joined him. Tahar stared in astonishment
as Sêed said in a low voice:
“Tahar, this
is your day! It’s now or never! A prince and his wife are spending the night in
this land. Shama will take you to the Prince’s wife.”
“But where
shall I find Shama?” Tahar puffed out.
“Don’t be
disputacious with me! Do as I say! At noon you’ll find Âmmy Saleh’s donkey
shuffling around here. You’ll find it fettered and muzzled. Unfetter it without
glancing back and ride to the place where you and I met the other day, between
the vineyard and the fig grove. Shama will be waiting for you there. And she’ll
take you to the Prince’s wife, right?”
“What about
Balîd?”
“I said don’t
be disputacious! Don’t bother about Balîd. I’ll tackle him! Bye!”
Tahar relieved
himself and had a wash. Then he went back to his work. At noon the boy made for
the Qaïd’s home to eat and bring Tahar his lunch, as usual. Nor did the usual
courtyard workers get out of their habit of gathering in a shady corner of the
courtyard to chat over lunch. “It’s now or never!” Tahar thought with beating
heart. “Âmmy Saleh is in the courtyard. I can hear him laugh. Get out now! What
are you waiting for? They’ll think you’re only going out to the dunghill.” And
so Tahar took his life in both hands and walked out of the room, out of the
courtyard, on to the dunghill. He unfettered Âmmy Saleh’s donkey, got on it and
rode away, without glancing back. He urged the donkey on and on, and prayed to
God on and on, till he got to the place where Shama, clad in a white heïk, was
waiting for him patiently. “Now be quick!” she said. “There’s not a moment to
lose. Leave that donkey alone: it’ll return home unaided. Now mount this mule!
I’ll sit behind you. Hold this bundle! Great! Wait a moment!” Shama too leapt
into the saddle and leaned against Tahar’s back and threw her arms round his
belly, and said, “Now lower your hood and urge the mule on! Don’t be afraid!
Everything’s going to be alright, Insha Allah!” Tahar was as in a dream with
Shama (!) sitting just behind him, wrapping her arms round him, and whispering
in his ear, “Only a little way! Take
heart! We’re almost there!”
They stopped at a well a little way
from a graveyard. “Let’s alight, Tahar!” said Shama sedately. “Nobody’s going
to come our way.” And so they alighted. “Draw some water for me,” said Shama.
And as Tahar dropped the pail into the well, Shama said:
“I betted
you’d come because I knew you’d made sure you’d gain nothing by working for
that ungracious lunatic. I know he wasn’t nice to you, so this is your chance
to avenge yourself. I know you came with that aim in mind, but let me say that
if you don’t leap at the chance you’ll live to rue it. This is your chance to
prove your manhood. Don’t be a man with an unsound heart! Don’t be afraid of
Balîd! Sêed will deal with him. When you meet with the Princess today show her
that you are a gallant man. Just speak softly and you’ll worm your way into the
Prince’s heart, I can assure you!”
“Here’s the water!”
said Tahar, listening attentively.
“Thank you!”
Shama laid the bundle on the wall of the well and took a mouthful of water,
then said, “Were you listening to me?”
“Of course!”
Tahar said.
“Well, it cut
me to the heart to see you a bondsman –let me say a slave! – in that man’s
douar. I was enraged. A man like you should be in a palace, not in a douar. Now
is your chance! If the Princess says she
wants you to go with her, then say yes. Don’t hedge!”
“But who told
you she would ask me to go with her or work for her? Where would I go then?
Balîd would certainly kill me!”
“Leave that to
us! We women know how to deal with each other.”
“Alright! I’ll
have a whack at it!”
“I wish you
all the best, Tahar. But now take this bundle and go and change your clothes
behind that wall. I’ve brought you a tchamir, a jellaba and slippers. Take your
time! You’ve got nothing to fear here!”
“How do I look
now, Shama?” said Tahar on his return.
“You look
great, Tahar! But now mount!”
And so both
got on the mule again and rode on to a wooded rise overlooking a large house
with a walled garden at the front door of which stood guards in uniform.
“I have to
leave you here,” said Shama, alighting first. “Get down!”
And when Tahar
had got down, Shama said:
“Stay here!
Don’t move from here until you see a woman waving to you from the front door of
that house. Good luck to you!”
Those words
now sounded like soothing words said to a man in the throes of death. “But this
is my day, as they said,” Tahar hastened to remind himself. “I have nowhere to
go if I don’t go with the Princess.” Tahar went on bracing himself up while his
heart sank at every bray or neigh that fell on his ears, or every further step
one of the guards took away from the house, and then suddenly a woman clad in a
white heïk waved to him from where the guards were standing. Tahar then stalked
down the rise and walked on towards the house like an intrepid soldier. And as
he walked on he could see the woman in white speaking to one of the guards.
Tahar wondered what he should say to them if they stopped him. But the guards
said nothing. They just made way for him as he walked on with no sign of fear
on his face. The woman in white received him at the doorstep and ushered him
into the house. “Wait a moment!” she said as they reached a big blue door. Then
she pushed the door open. Another woman rushed to her. The two spoke in a
whisper. Then both vanished behind the door. After a bit, the woman in white
reappeared and beckoned Tahar in. She led him into a large room upstairs, where
the Princess was seated on a handsome green divan, surrounded by a dozen women.
“Who let this
ladykiller in?” said the Princess, running her eye over Tahar’s face.
“He is no
ladykiller, Lalla,” said Shama, who looked a marvel in the dress Tahar had made
her. “It’s the Tailor!”
“Yes, Lalla!”
said another woman with a smile. “This is the
Tailor who made Shama’s dress!”
“What’s your name?” the Princess asked, peering into
Tahar’s face.
“I am your
servant Tahar ben Ahmed Erregragi, Lalla.”
“Are you a
regragi yourself?”
“Yes, Lalla.”
“Where are you
from?”
“I am from
Shiadma, Lalla. From a village by Oued Tensift.”
“What are you
doing here, then?”
“I’ve been
hired by the son of the Qaïd of a Âbdi tribe, Lalla.”
“What do you
do for him?”
“I make
women’s dresses for his family, Lalla.”
“But Shama
isn’t a relative of his, is she? So why did you make this dress for her?”
“I had no idea
whom the dress was meant for, Lalla. I just made it when the Qaïd’s son asked
me to do so, Lalla.”
“How much does
he pay you?”
“Honestly,
Lalla, I am not satisfied with my pay. I cannot tell you, Lalla. It’s
laughable!”
“So why didn’t
you go to work elsewhere?”
“I wish I
could, Lalla. But, for reasons I do not know, the Qaïd’s son has prevented me from leaving
these lands.”
“Would you go
with me then?”
“Gladly,
Lalla!”
“But I have
tailors of my own! Do you know that? Besides, you’re a dangerously handsome
man. You could easily sow trouble in my palace!”
“I am at your
service, anyway, Lalla!”
“That’s nice
of you! Now you can leave. Thank you!”
Tahar bowed
himself out and trudged out of the house. Nobody ran to show him out. The
guards saw him come out with a different face, but none of them uttered a word.
Tahar cast his eyes up and shuffled off towards the nearest olive grove. “It’s
still day,” he thought gloomily, sitting under an olive tree. “What shall I do
now? Where should I go? Could I? Shama has let me down. She and Sêed have laid
a trap for me. But it’s my fault. It’s I who listened to them. No! This is just
what I ought to have done. Was I happy there? Of course not. This is the first
time I can run away. But you could have run away the other day when you were in
the valley, couldn’t you? It’s all the same to me! I should now look for a
place to hide till nightfall, then I’ll run away under the cloack of darkness…”
And so he hid
in a deserted well until no bray or crow could be heard around, then he got up
and wended his way back home, guided by the moon. Day found him still plodding
on his way back to Shiadma. But Shiadma was still too far away when a band of
five men on horseback barred his way. Tahar was flabbergasted to see among them
Sêed and Âmmy Saleh in the flesh.
“Where were
you going, you dandy?” said one of the men, slapping Tahar in the face.
Tahar had no
power left to speak.
Even when he
was brought back to the douar at nightfall, he just could not open his mouth to
speak. Balîd looked at him with the eyes of a cold-blooded murderer.
“You don’t
want to speak?” he said calmly. “Alright!”
“Shall we
thrash life out of him?” asked one of Balîd’s men, brandishing his whip.
“No,” said
Balîd in the same calm voice. “That would be too merciful to him! He doesn’t
even deserve to be buried alive. I’ll
give him the right punishment, and I’ll make him speak! Take him to the cowshed! And leave him
there!”
Tahar was on
the verge of tears. But he just let himself be carried to the cowshed. Balîd’s
men flung him inside and locked the door behind him. The cattle mooed and moved
around. Tahar, who could hardly breathe with the stinking smell of dung,
quickly got up and worked his way towards the wall before he could be trampled
or butted by the uncomprehending cattle. Tahar had no doubt that Balîd had put
him in there because he wanted him to starve to death. “I know that!” Tahar
cried out suddenly, but he could say no more. He was out of breath.
Early in the morning the shepherds came
and herded the cattle out and locked the door from the outside. Tahar then
shambled up to the tiny window at the back of the shed. He remained standing up
there for a few moments, fighting the flies which refused to be whisked away,
then he swung round and thrusted himself forward in the midst of the haze
caused by the throat-burning dust. He banged at the door, then yelled out:
“You want to
starve me to death? I don’t wonder at it! That’s what you rulers do. You
selfish rulers are callous people! You only care of yourselves! Curse on you!
Cursed be the Qaïds! Cursed be the Princes! Cursed be the Sultans! A curse on
Shama! A curse on Sêed! A curse on Saleh!” But Tahar soon went hoarse from
shouting.
He had yet to spend another night with
the cattle before two black men came to his rescue. They found him lying
downstairs, at the back of the cowshed. They gave him water and said soft words
to him, and helped him out of the shed. He then blinked in the sun and glanced
at his jellaba: it was green with the dung. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Don’t
worry!” replied the black men cheerfully. “All this will soon become distant
memories. Now come along!”
An hour later, Tahar was incomparably
cleaner and smarter than when he had been taken to the Princess. “The Prince
wants to see you,” the black men explained. “It’s him who sent us for you.” But
Tahar’s only response was a little smile. He showed no sign of merriment even
when the black men made him mount a golden horse and led him across the country
to a large sumptuous house in the heart of the town. They took him into a room
there and gave him some scent to wear, and left. Tahar wondered what to say to
the Prince if he mentioned the curses that had come tripping off to his tongue
while in jail. He thought and thought but found no way he could talk himself
out of such a predicament if the Prince ever hinted at that matter.
It was with great awe that Tahar stood
in front of the Prince, who said straight away:
“Tell me your
story. But if you tell me anything untruthful
I’ll return you the the Qaïd’s son!”
The threat
sent shivers down Tahar’s spine, so he stood up straight, and said in an
unsteady voice:
“Well,
nâamass, I was one of five young men who happened to love a young woman living
in the village opposite us. We used to meet up with that young woman every
Wednesday when the wadi separating our two villages was passable. But as the
wedding season approached the woman’s father threatened to marry her off to a
man of his own choice if we five did not settle our problem amongst ourselves.
So to avoid fighting, all five of us agreed on leaving it to the Qadi of our
neighbourhood to decide. The Qadi ruled that he should give the woman to the
one amongst us who resembled her most in her goodness or wickedness. Sadly, I
turned out to be “a good man”, which made the Qadi weed me out in the first
round of his testing us. In consolation, the Qadi offered to introduce me to a
young woman from the same village who, he said, deserved to be my wife. But the
Qadi declined to tell me anything about the woman, not even her name. He said
to me, ‘Come to this palm-tree and sing religious songs and your beloved will
spring into view.’ I was good at singing then; I was a good utar-player, but I
had no religious song in my head. So the Qadi sent me off to a man who kept a
bookstore at Djemâa-el-Fna in Marrakesh. That man taught me a pocketful of
ditties, so I went back home and sang religious songs and the young woman did
spring into view, but I could only see her from afar. I then went to the Qadi
and asked him to tell me more about the woman. The Qadi said, ‘I can’t tell you
anything now, but I’ll meet you soon to tell you more.’ And the next time I met the Qadi he said to me,
‘Well, your beloved says to you, ‘Make me seven dresses so that I can wear a
dress everyday of the week; if you do that, then that is my dowry. But don’t
try to see me before then, because if you do, you will never see me again!’ And
that’s how I went to Mogador with intent to learn dress-making. On my first day
there I went to a mosque near the Skala. And as I was leaving the mosque a
young man came up to me saying I had mistaken his shoes for mine. Luckily, I
quickly made friends with that young man, who took me to one of Mogador
tailors. The tailor showed me so many dresses and gave me so much detail on how
those dresses were made that I got the feeling I would never make a good
tailor. But on leaving that tailor’s shop, my Mogador friend said to me, ‘Don’t
worry, brother!’ And so he took me to an old man who prayed for me. And as soon
as the next day I found myself working on my first dress. My master tailor was
amazed. But when I returned to my village six weeks later, and showed my
beloved the dresses I had made for her, she said, ‘I was not interested in the
dresses. I only wanted you to go and stay away from these lands for some time.
I wanted you to cleanse your heart and mind of Zina.’ So I was soon back to the
master tailor’s shop in Mogador. But the master tailor humiliated me, and I
could not stand that. So I left Mogador and went back home. A Jewish hawker and
I decided to work together. The Jew agreed to buy dresses of my own making and
sell them to his clients. And so I put up a shed near our home and made it my
shop. I found an apprentice and set to work. But then came a strange man who
told me that I would be far better off working for the son of a qaïd in Âbda.
Given my frustrations at that time, I did not hesitate to come along with the stranger.
But had I known what I know now I would not have agreed to leave the village
even if it meant living in poverty for all my life. Such is my story, nâamass!”
“Great! Yours
is a fairy-tale, really!” said the Prince, glancing at men sitting on chairs on
his right and left. “I’ll get it written down and I’ll send it to the Sultan.
He’ll certainly enjoy it! You will stay here in Safi until you have dictated
your story to my writer. Then I’ll let you go back home. Now you can leave!”
Tahar kissed the Prince’s hand and
bowed himself out, leaving the Prince commenting on the story to the men with
him.
