A strange man came to him one day, and said: “I am from
a tribe called Lamnasra, near Safi. The son of the Qaïd of our tribe was riding
back home when he came across Âmmy Dawud somewhere between Shiadma and ‘Abda.
He found in Âmmy Dawud’s basket three dresses which really dazzled him. Âmmy
Dawud was afraid, because he knew that it was the Qaïd’s son. So the Qaïd’s son
said: ‘Don’t be afraid, Âmmy Dawud! I’ll pay you for these three dresses. But
you must tell me who made them!’ Âmmy Dawud refused. The Qaïd’s son paid for
the dresses, though. And he took them to his wife. And so all the women in his
family begged him to send somebody up and down the country and bring over the
tailor who made those dresses. And so the Qaïd’s son said to me, ‘You have to
track down this unknown tailor. I want him by my side and I’ll give him
anything he wants.’ It took me a whole month to reach you. Now, if you really
want to be happy, to earn more money, and have a beautiful wife, then this is
your chance!”
Tahar did not argue. He did not haggle.
He only went to his apprentice’s home and apologized to his family. He gave
them three hens and a coq and pressed coins in the boy’s hand, and rejoined the
stranger.
The Qaïd’s son
received them with open arms.
“I’m happy you
came!” he said to Tahar, gathering his selham around him.
“Me too!”
replied Tahar shyly.
“You’re
welcome! Now, Sêed will give you something to eat and show you your room,
right?”
“Thank you,
nâamass!”
And so Sêed
took Tahar to a small room off the courtyard of a large one-level building.
“Wait a moment!” said Sêed, signing to Tahar to stand at the room door. “Let me
tidy the room for you!” Tahar did not speak a word. He only turned round and
glanced at the woman who was swinging a churn in one corner of the courtyard,
and at the other woman sitting beside her, who was grinding something in a
quern, and at the two men, who, in another corner of the courtyard, were making
reed baskets, and then he was looking down at the chickens which filled the
place when Sêed came out, and said, “The
room is now ready. Have a rest! I’ll bring you something to eat.”
An hour later, Sêed came back and
called Tahar out. Tahar gaped as he stepped out of the room. He saw two camels
overladen with unhusked maize. “Come and help us unload this!” said Sêed. And
then all the women and men who were in the courtyard rushed forward. Tahar
joined them as they took down the loads. Sêed then led the camels out of the
courtyard and came back to join the husking bee. Tahar was full of questions as
to where this maize had come from and why it had not been husked before…, but
he strove to keep his mouth shut.
The Qaïd’s son returned some time later
and stood behind Tahar, tapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Come along!”
Tahar started to his feet and followed the Qaïd’s son out of the building. Then
the Qaïd’s son mounted his horse and rode at a slow pace without glancing back.
Not knowing what to do, Tahar ran after him. The Qaïd’s son stopped at the door
of a beautiful, large house surrounded by a garden. “Come along!” he said,
alighting from the horse. Tahar ran to his side, panting. And then standing in
the middle of the courtyard were four women: two white and two brown. The
Qaïd’s son grabbed Tahar by the nape of the neck and propelled him along
towards the women, who were smiling and looking at Tahar, lost in silent
wonder. “This is the tailor,” said the Qaïd’s son, looking at one of the brown
women. “Tell him what you want and then send him back to the douar. I am going
into town. ” The women did not speak a word. They waited until the Qaïd’s son
had left, and then the brown woman whom the Qaïd’s son had spoken to glanced
round and said, “Let’s move into the shade!” As they went there the women
squabbled amongst themselves over who should sit where. They finally lined up
like four chits in front of Tahar.
“I am the wife of the Qaïd’s son,” said one of the two
brown women. ” Tahar bowed slightly, and mumbled a greeting while that woman
went on, “And this is my mother-in-law.” (She pointed at a tall white woman in
her forties.) “And this is my sister.” (She pointed at the other brown woman.)
“And this is my husband’s cousin.” (She pointed at the other white woman.) “Now
tell us, what kind of dresses do you make?”
“I make
gandouras,” said Tahar in a slightly trembling voice.
“Don’t you
make takchitas?” said the wife of the Qaïd’s son.
“I can make
them. But I need the help of someone else. And I also need a lot of
ready-for-use materials. ”
“You need an
apprentice, you mean?”
“Maybe I need
an apprentice and an adult man as well.”
“Well, I’ll
tell my husband about that. Now go back to the douar. We will send you Mweina
with our demands, right?”
“Right,
madam!”
“Wait a
moment!” said the Qaïd’s wife.
“I said go!”
retorted her daughter-in-law expeditiously, staring at Tahar.
Tahar bowed
himself out and trotted back to the douar. He rejoined the husking bee and did
not move from there until he was ordered.
When he was alone in bed at night he
thought of Mweina. The wife of the
Qaïd’s son had said she wound send Mweina to him. Unlike the brown fatty the
Qaïd’s son had made his wife, Mweina had a rather pleasant face. But Tahar was
not interested in her face now. Maybe she was married, given her age. She was
at least twenty-four. And she was the cousin of the Qaïd’s son. What Tahar
wanted now was a person –any person– he could pour out his heart to. He felt
deeply humiliated. “I left Mogador because Smaïl had scowled at me,” he thought
ruefully. “And H’sein called me names. I got angry. But now the Qaïd’s son has
turned me into slave. He made me run after him while he was up on horseback! I
wonder what’s awaiting me if that’s what happened to me on my first day here.
Was this a ‘bad thing’, as Âmmy Abderrahman put it?” He sighed. “I wish I could
go to him to pray for me again. But –alas!– I am now a slave. I can’t do
anything. Oh, yes, you can! Why don’t you pray to God to deliver you from this?
O God! I have no other God but You, deliver me from this! I implore You!...”
Tahar prayed on and on till his eyes filled with tears.
Then, suddenly, he remembered his
family.
“I didn’t tell
them anything,” he thought. “I fondly imagined I could be happy here. What
would become of my father and mother if I didn’t return anytime soon?”
The first cockcrow found Tahar awake.
But he could not leave his room until he heard voices. Day was breaking. The
two men who had been making reed baskets on Tahar’s arrival were now sitting on
the fringe of the stack of maize. Tahar walked diffidently towards them and
greeted them with a smile. As soon as he sat down one of the two men said to
him:
“Won’t you
wash your face? ”
“I don’t know
where?” said Tahar, feeling a great relief.
“Well, there’s
a well just outside the douar.”
“I didn’t see
it.”
“I’ll show it
to you. You can then draw water and drink and wash as you please. The Qaïd’s
son won’t say anything. If you want to relieve yourself you can go to the
dunghill. It’s behind the douar.”
“Can I go
now?”
“Yes. Come along!
I’ll show it to you.”
Tahar relieved himself and quenched his
thirst and washed and said his morning prayers. Then he rejoined the husking
bee and waited for Mweina.
Mweina came in the late morning. With
her was a teenage boy carrying a small basket in either hand.
“Where’s your
room?” said Mweina, looking down at Tahar, who was busy husking the maize.
“It’s there!”
he said, pointing at the room door.
“Let’s go in
there!” said Mweina, a bit shyly.
It was the boy
who went in first and put the basket down and left. Mweina sat on the bed,
Tahar on the floor.
“The wife of
the Qaïd’s son has sent you boiled eggs and bread in this basket,” said Mweina,
devouring Tahar with her black eyes.
“Thank you!”
“And in this
other basket here there are two pieces of cloth. Make a gandoura for the wife of the Qaïd’s
son!”
“Insha Allah.
But, you know, I need an apprentice.”
“The boy at
the door is going to be your apprentice.”
“Alright! But
I’d still need some other materials, such as a sewing basket, sewing cotton,
sewing silk, a thimble, and so on.”
“I know.
You’ll get all that, but now, let me ask you a question, right?”
“Tell me
something about you.”
“Something
such as what?”
“What’s your
name? Where are you from? Are you married? Do you have children? If you aren’t
married, are in you in love? Who is your beloved? Why haven’t you married yet?”
Surprised at this sudden avalanche of questions, Tahar
glanced round, and said:
“I fear the
Qaïd’s son may come in and hear us.”
“The Qaïd’s son
is in town right now. Besides, there’s nothing disgraceful about what I asked
you.”
“Well, my name
is Tahar…” And he answered all questions, then he asked his own.
“And what
about you?” he said shyly.
“Well, I only
asked you; I didn’t force you to reply. See you!”
Mweina left
Tahar boiling with rage. She had made a mockery of him, and he had just to put
up with it. He could not show his rage. He had no time to think of himself. The
boy was waiting at the door. So Tahar composed his features and called him in.
“What’s your
name, kid?” said Tahar with a forced smile.
“My name is
Lârbi.”
“Where are you
from?”
“I live in a
nearby douar.”
“Now you’re
going to be my apprentice, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. But,
you see, I only have these pieces of cloth. As I said to Mweina, I need other
materials. So you can go now. Mweina will send you back to me later on, right?
Good bye!”
The boy left. Tahar stretched out on
the bed and started thinking of what he should say to Mweina when she came
back.
And so he found himself waiting for her
impatiently. He could not forget her first look at him. He could not forget
that she had come into his room and sat on his bed and talked to him like a
lover and listened to him like a lover and looked at him with the eyes of a
woman filled with envy. Maybe that was why she had made a mockery of him. Mybe
she became jealous of Zahiya.
“I wonder what Zahiya would do if she
knew you’re here,” said Mweina when she returned three days later.
“Are you
jealous of her?” said Tahar, without raising his eyes.
“Yes,” said
Mweina, fixing her eyes on Tahar.
Startled,
Tahar looked up.
“Why?” he
said.
“I don’t like
men talking of other women in my presence.”
“But you are
married, why should you care?”
“Who told you
I’m married?”
Tahar was at a
loss for words. He just contemplated
Mweina’s jolly face while she looked fondly at him.
“What’s the
matter?” Mweina said suddenly.
“I don’t
know,” Tahar muttered, looking down.
“Well, I came
to you today because I want you to make me a robe. Here’s the cloth.”
“Alright,”
said Tahar abstractedly.
At that moment
Mweina’s hand touched his and he felt that she was pressing her hand against
his.
“The boy’s been
out for some time now,” he said in some confusion. “Please leave now! See you
soon!”
“Alright! See
you!”
This time Mweina left Tahar burning
with desire. And from the moment she left he waited for her return, seething
with impatience. But the boy could see nothing of that.
When Tahar was alone that night
Zahiya’s words stirred his heart. ‘I wanted you to cleanse your heart and mind
of Zina,’ Zahiya said. What would Zahiya say now if she knew that he had fallen
in love with Mweina?
And so Tahar worked on Mweina’s robe,
putting his heart and soul into his work. And if Zahiya ever appeared to him
and did hazard a remark or a threat he would simply whisk her away as he did
the flies that buzzed in his room.
And Mweina came back to inquire after
her robe.
“How far have
you got with the dresses?” she said, sitting on the bed and signing to the boy
to leave the room.
“Well, the
gandoura of your cousin’s wife is almost finished,” said Tahar, “But I’m still
working on your own robe.”
“Show me the
gandoura to see?”
“Yes, here you
are!”
Tahar picked
up the gandoura and hung it with both hands in such a way that it looked like a
curtain hiding him ana Mweina from any potential interloper. Mweina seemed to
like that. “Look how good it is!” said Tahar, glancing at Mweina’s red lips.
She too glanced at his shivering lips, then at his brown eyes, and said, “You’re
a coward.” Tahar dropped the gandoura. He glanced round at the door, then
looked back at Mweina, and mumbled, “Why so?” “Hold the gandoura as you did a
moment ago!” was her reply. With trembling hands, Tahar did just that. Then he
moved a bit closer to Mweina, who looked at him temptingly. His mouth was not
an inch from her cheeks. He tried to snatch a kiss, but he simply could not.
“Move away from me!” said Mweina abruptly. Only then did he throw his arm round
her and rested his other hand on her thigh. She smiled. He fondled her back
while she still looked fondly at him.
“When is my
robe going to be ready?” Mweina said in a rather grave tone now.
Tahar moved
his arm off her back and sat upright, then said:
“I think in
two or three days’ time it’ll be finished.”
“Right,” she
said, rising to her feet. “Now give me the gandoura. I’ll come back in three
days’ time.”
“Here you are!
But, please, may I ask you a question?”
“Who will pay
me for the dresses I make you?”
“I don’t know.
Ask Balîd!”
“Who is
Balîd?”
“The Qaïd’s
son!” said Mweina with a fetching smile.
“Right.”
It rejoiced Tahar’s heart to see Mweina
treat him with such undreamt of kindness. Her smiles did not leave him a moment
all day. But at night he was perturbed. Zahiya had simply refused to let go of
him. “I wanted you to cleanse your heart and mind of Zina,” she kept on
reminding him even now that Mweina had become his new beloved.
There was thunder in the air when
Mweina returned. It was spitting with rain as she stood at the room door. She
looked distraught. “What’s the matter?” said Tahar, rushing forward to welcome
her. “Balîd is around,” she whispered despondently. Tahar himself was downcast
now. “Well, I’ve finished your robe,” he faltered out. “Give it to me,” she
said. As Tahar turned round to pick up her robe, Balîd’s voice gave him the
horrors.
“What’s going
on in here?” Balîd said gruffly.
“Nothing,
nâamass,” said Mweina before Tahar could swing round and echo her words.
“Have you made
any dresses yet?” said Balîd with a forbidding look.
“I have,
nâamass.”
“Good.”
As Balîd
turned to go, Tahar took it into his head to say:
“Excuse me,
nâamass!”
“What’s the
matter?” said Balîd with the same glowering look.
“What about my
pay, nâamass?”
“Your pay?
What pay do we owe you? We gave you a place to sleep. We give you food to eat.
What more do you want?”
Mweina slunk out of the room as Tahar replied in a
hardly audible voice:
“Nâamass, I
thought you would pay me. But even now there’s no problem.”
“Since there’s
no problem; then shut up!”
The blaze in Balîd’s eyes shocked Tahar into silence.
He diverted his eyes and hung his head and waited for Balîd to leave. Balîd
left and Tahar shuffled up to his bed. He sat down and held his head in his
hands. “You don’t know me,” he muttered. “I’m not the one to sleep under an
insult. I can’t stand being humbled by a thief like you.”
Tahar thought of how he could avenge
himself. He thought day and night, because he had nothing else to do. Mweina
had not picked up her robe; it was only the boy who had taken it to her. And
she did not come back, because of the rain.
And it so happened that Tahar was lying
on his bed, thinking of his family and of Zahiya, when Mweina stood at the
door. “Good morning,” she said, stifling
a sneeze. “Good morning,” Tahar
replied, gathering himself up. He sat on the bed and looked up at her. She
moved forward and sat by his side.
“Are you
angry?” she said, blowing her nose.
“I am not in a
good mood, anyway.”
“How could I
put you in a good mood?”
“By bringing
me some wine.”
“Some what?”
“Wine.”
“How?”
“Send me some
with the boy.”
“But first I
have to see where I get you wine. Then, you’ll have to choose between milk and
wine. I can’t send you both in the same basket.”
“Do your best!
I need wine urgently.”
“And you’ll
make me a takchita?”
“I’ll make you
a takchita.”
“Sure?”
Now Tahar
turned to her. He met her eye. And he caressed her burning lips with his
shivering thumb. Then he kissed his thumb.
“I have a
streaming cold,” said Mweina.
“Don’t pass
your cold on to me!”
“Do you like
me?”
“I love you.”
“Now; look
here,” Mweina said, turning away from him suddenly. “I’ve brought you pieces of
cloth to make us three takchitas: one for Balîd’s wife, one for his mother and
one for me.”
Tahar, who had
been stroking her thigh while she was speaking, now held the pieces of cloth,
examined them, and said:
“But these
pieces will barely make one ample takchita for
Balîd’s wife. She’s fat, you know!”
“If that isn’t
enough, I’ll bring you more next time. No problem.”
“There’s yet
another problem, Mweina. To make a takchita, you know, I’d need silk thread,
buttons, sfifa and even dfira, if you like. You’ve only brought me the cloth.”
“I’ll bring
you all that next time.”
“There’s yet
another problem, Mweina. A takchita takes time, you know.”
“I know.”
Now Tahar put the pieces of cloth aside
and turned to Mweina again. She too faced him, and said:
“I didn’t know
you’re a drinker.”
Tahar smiled
nervously while he lifted his hand to Mweina’s right breast, but hesitated to
touch it.
“What are you
doing?” Mweina said with a smile.
At that moment
the boy looked in and gaped, then vanished behind the door.
“It’s all over
now, see?” said Mweina, her face aflame with embarrassment.
“I didn’t do
anything,” said Tahar apologetically.
“But to the
boy you looked as if you’d been fondling my breast!”
“I didn’t
touch your breast!”
“See you.
Start on the takchitas now!”
“Sure!”
“And don’t say
anything to the boy! I’ll tackle him.”
An hour later, Tahar was working on
Mweina’s takchita. The boy assisted him in silence.
At night Tahar struggled with his own
incomprehension. Mweina seemed to have bought the boy off. “She did not argue
when I said I wanted wine,” Tahar thought confusedly. “I could have grasped her
breast and even kissed her full on her lips hadn’t the boy looked in. What kind
of woman is this? Is this the woman you would like to marry?...”
Tahar could not sleep that night, and
at cockcrow he felt hemmed in. He could not stay in bed. He left the room and
began strolling around the courtyard. One of the few men who usually worked in
the courtyard opened the front-door, which was always locked from the outside.
That man was appalled to see Tahar strolling around there in the twilight.
“What are you
doing here?” he puffed out.
“Don’t worry,
Âmmy Saleh!” said Tahar with an uncertain smile. “I was just strolling around.”
“Now see here!
Last time I warned you off running away”
“I wasn’t
trying to run away. It didn’t enter my head to run away.”
“Well, I’m
glad you followed my advice. But before anybody else comes, let me give you
another warning.”
“About what
this time?”
“About
Mweina.”
“What! What
about Mweina, then?”
“Listen, that
woman had a husband. They were married for six years. But, unfortunately for
them, they didn’t have a child. So her husband decided to go to Haj to pray to
God to give him a child. And before he went, he had to divorce her, as is the
custom. If all goes well, he may be back in the next months and then he’ll remarry
her. And let me tell you this, the father of that man was no less a person than
the Qaïd of this tribe before Sy Balîd’s father. I warn you once again: don’t
trifle with that woman’s affections!”
“Thank you for
the warning!” Tahar muttered, shuffling his feet towards his room. His head was
reeling. He tumbled into bed. “It’s unbelievable!” he whispered to himself.
“This is going to drive me mad, really. I can’t believe this. I don’t want to
believe it. Mweina is in my heart. I can’t get her out of my head. But you got
Zina out of your head. And you got Zahiya out of your head. No, Mweina is
different. Mweina is–” (He sat upright.) “But what if it’s true? What is true?
I don’t care! Whatever the truth, Mweina is here. She’s in my heart…”
Tahar was still struggling with his
thoughts when the boy arrived. “Good morning, master!” the boy said, putting
the basket down at Tahar’s feet. Tahar returned the greeting, and then, with
trembling hands, picked up the basket and placed it on the bed. He took up the
jug and looked into it. It was wine, as Mweina had promised. “What shall I do
now?” Tahar thought perplexedly. “I have no chance of escape. I must drink
this, otherwise everybody will find out.” He hesitated, though, as if he had
never drunk wine before. But then he lifted the jug to his mouth, and in a fit
of anger, he suddenly burst out, “What does she take me for?” The boy stared in
fear as Tahar fixed him with an angry glare, and barked, “The this back to her
and tell her that I want milk not wine! Get up! Hold! Go!”
Tahar was trembling all over when the boy replaced the
jug in the basket and got out of the room. Saleh came in soon afterwards.
“What’s the
matter?” he said.
Tahar looked
up at him with bleary eyes, and said:
“I don’t know.
I was suddenly overcome with anger when I found wine instead of milk in the
jug.”
“Where did you
send the boy?”
“I sent him
back to Mweina.”
“What for?”
“To bring me
some milk.”
“You’re wrong
if you think anybody here can be bluffed by you. You’re cutting your own
throat, boy!”
Hardly had Saleh left when Balîd himself erupted into
the room, holding the boy’s hand.
“What have you
been doing in this room, you scoundrel?” Balîd snarled.
“Nothing,
nâamass!”
“Speak!” said
Balîd, turning to the boy.
“I saw him
fondling Mweina’s breast, nâamass,” said the boy in fear and trembling.
“See? Is this
what you call nothing?”
“I swear by
God I didn’t do that!”
Tahar saw
stars when Balîd flew at him and dragged him out of the room and then flung him
to the ground and started kicking him with both feet. Without waiting for a
signal, the men and women who were then there in the courtyard joined in. Some
slapped poor Tahar on the back, others in the face or on the bottom. When Tahar
had got such a battering, Balîd glanced round and shouted, foaming with rage:
“Leave him
here! Go back to your work and give him no water, no food. He doesn’t deserve
it.”
“Right,
nâamass!” everybody replied in unison.
The workers
made a bow and returned to their work. Balîd gave Tahar one last kick and left.
For two days Tahar did not get a thing
to eat or drink. He was not allowed to go near the well. And he started eating
tree leaves.
He did not see the boy during those two
days. Nobody spoke to him and he could not bring himself to speak to anybody.
He felt such a shame that he could not even speak to himself.
But Mweina came back and found him
eating tree leaves. The boy too was
with her, and he saw him eating tree leaves.
“Why did you
lay yourself open to ridicule?” said Mweina, holding back her tears.
Tahar was too
moved to speak. He was out of breath. He looked at the basket which the boy was
still holding in his hand. Mweina turned to the boy, and said, “Give your
master his breakfast!”
Both looked
unbelievingly at Tahar’s face, which had been slightly gnawed by hunger.
Tahar then
took a gulp of milk, and said, “Tank you!” “Eat the bread!” said Mweina,
handing it to him. He took the bread from her and began eating it in silence.
Then, suddenly, he looked Mweina square in the face, and said rather wanly:
“Can I marry
you?”
Both Mweina
and the boy were astounded.
“Don’t you
want me?” said Tahar again, looking as if he had long pondered and resolved to
burn his boats.
“I am sorry I
can’t marry anybody now,” Mweina said uncomfortably.
“Why?”
“Well,
everybody knows that a relative of mine is in Haj right now, or maybe he’s on
his way back. I can’t marry in his absence. I must wait until he comes back. My
family are waiting, too.”
That answer
made Tahar shrivel up. He avoided Mweina’s eye. And then he mumbled in an awed
voice:
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re
awfully nice, Tahar!” said Mweina soothingly. “God will certainly bless you
with the woman you dream of.”
“I am
thirsty,” said Tahar, turning his gaze back to Mweina.
“Get up! Be
quick!” said Mweina to the boy. “Bring your master some water!”
The boy
flashed out of the room. Amazingly, Tahar made to embrace Mweina, but she
shrank back from him, and said, “No,
please! No more of this.”
Tahar was
staggered.
“But you know
I love you?” he whispered breathlessly.
Mweina gave no
reply. She looked away from him and gazed vacantly into space. When the boy
came in with the water, Mweina faced
Tahar, and said:
“Have you
finished any takchita yet?”
“No,” he said
laconically.
“Right,” she
said, rising to her feet. “We’ll give you some more time.”
For a good hour, Tahar remained
stretched out on the bed while the boy lay sprawled on the floor.
When Tahar resumed work on Mweina’s
takchita he felt like a free man again. A smile suddenly stole across his lips.
And he gave a gurgle of delight. The boy watched him apprehensively. “You think
I’ve gone mad?” said Tahar, sensing the boy’s bewilderment. “Don’t be afraid!
I’m alright.”
Mweina too doubted her own eyes when
she came back three days later and found him singing religious songs, songs
that he had sung for Zahiya.
“Have you
finished my takchita yet?” she said with a sultry smile.
“It’ll be
finished in three weeks’ time,” Tahar replied in a tentative voice, without
raising his eyes.
“Why don’t you
look at me?” Mweina said provocatively.
Tahar was
seized with the desire to open his heart wide to her again, but he struggled
not to lead himself into temptation– now that the truth had burst in upon him.
So he said simply:
“I said your
takchita will be ready in three weeks’ time, insha Allah.”
“Alright!” she
said with a note of frustration in her voice.
She left. Tahar then flung up his head. His heart
pounded. The boy watched him curiously.
That afternoon both Tahar and the boy
stared, their eyes wide with fear, as Balîd stood at the room door. But Balîd
was smiling. He looked like an unhappy lover feigning happiness. Tahar’s fear
suddenly turned to self-conceit. Balîd was looking at him with the eyes of a
vanquished warrior. “Good morning,” said Balîd at length, taking two steps towards
Tahar.
“Good morning,
nâamass,” replied Tahar in a shaky voice.
“Come along!”
said Balîd in a friendly tone.
“Right,
nâamass!”
Tahar followed
Balîd out of the courtyard. They went towards the well.
“Do you have
another jellaba?” said Balîd on the way.
“Yes,
nâamass,” replied Tahar, trying to puzzle out what Balîd was about.
“Good. I want
you to wash and wear that other jellaba of yours, right? This evening you’ll go
with me to a party. There will be men and women. Try to be respectful. If all
goes well, I’ll restore your horse to
you and I’ll pay you for the dresses you’ve made, right?”
“Right,
nâamass!” said Tahar, stung by Balîd’s odd promise of restoring his horse to
him. “Now, go back to your work.”
Tahar’s desire for revenge revived, but
he fought that desire down. He was afraid. He had noticed that Balîd was not
quite himself any more, and that might lead him to commit the worst of crimes.
In the evening, Balîd was a buoyant
young man of twenty-seven. To look at his immaculate jellaba and selham and at
his golden horse you could say he was going to a King’s reception. And to Tahar
he only said honeyed words. He gave him a black donkey, and said jocularly,
“Let’s go!”
