Tahar had yet to wait until the next Wednesday. He
wanted to meet his twenty-year-old cousin Fatima.
Now Fatima was walking slowly towards
the riverbank, where her lover, a young man from the opposite village, was
waiting for her. The place was already full of lovers from both villages.
"Good
morning," said Tahar a bit shyly.
"Good
morning," replied Fatima, who had been trying to avoid him.
"I'm
sorry to stop you, but I have something to say to you."
"Yes?" said Fatima, unveiling her face.
"Could
you do me a favour?"
"Yes?"
"Well,
please tell my mother that I am leaving the village this afternoon. I am going
to Mogador. I will stay there until Zina has got married. Tell my mother that
I'm not going to marry Zina. The Qadi will meet my father and explain
everything to him."
"What are
you going to do in Mogador?"
"I don't
know, really. Just tell my mother what I've told you. I couldn't tell her
myself because I know she would assail me with questions. I don't want to talk
about Zina anymore, right?"
"Alright!
I'll tell her. Have a good journey!"
"Thank
you!"
On the way to Mogador, Tahar came
across Laâbeed, the black nomads who sometimes spent a month or two in his home
area. Tahar was relieved to see them, because he knew that some of them would
help his father and brother during his absence. Laâbeed would be only too glad
to work in his family fields.
Tahar left Laâbeed's camp and rode on
to Mogador. As soon as he arrived there, he booked a room in a funduq, a cheap
inn. The room had no bed, no table, no chair. There was only a mat partly
covered with a thin mattress with a low pillow and a woolen sheet. But there
was no other place where Tahar could be accommodated with his mount under the
same roof.
That was not the problem, though. The
problem was that once he had booked that room, Tahar felt the urge to go back
to his village, and especially to that palm-tree by the river-bank, from where
he had been able to see his beloved Zahiya, or at least something of her.
Now he left the funduq and headed for
the mosque, guided by the voice of the muezzin, who was calling for
mid-afternoon-prayers. On the way there Tahar saw two young women clad in white
and his longing for Zahiya became more painful.
Even while at prayer he thought of her.
But he did not think of her alone. He also thought of Zina. He pictured himself
sitting with Zahiya within hailing distance from Zina.
“Yes, I did
think of her,” he thought, speaking to Zahiya, “but now she no longer means
anything to me. I am not impressed by her beauty, you know. You are by far more
beautiful than her. No, believe me! I’m telling the truth!...”
As he was leaving the mosque, Tahar
mistakenly took someone else’s shoes.
“Excuse me,
brother,” said a handsome young man with Berber features, “those are my shoes.
Here are yours!”
“Ah, sorry!
You’re right. Those are mine indeed!”
“No problem!”
Outside the mosque, Tahar found himself
walking in the same alleyway as the young man. His heart pounded as he turned
round and said:
“Are you going
my way, brother?”
“Where are you
going?”
“I am looking
for a tailor’s shop.”
“You aren’t
from this town, are you?”
“No, I’m not.
I’m from…”
An hour later
the two were friends. They had tea together at the funduq.
“I was happy
to meet you, Smaïl,” said Tahar. “I hope to see you again and again.”
“You too!”
said Smaïl. “But now let’s go! I’ll show you a tailor who, I think, will soon
take a liking to you.”
“Oh, thank
you!”
The tailor’s shop opened into a busy
street. The tailor himself was a little fat man in his fifties dressed in a
beige djellaba. He was sitting at the back of the tiny shop, working on a garment
while a teenage boy, standing at the edge of the street, pulled threads that he
crossed in synchronization with the tailor’s sewing. The tailor did not move
from his place when Smaïl stood at the door and said:
“Hi, H’sein!
How are you? Can I have a few quick words with you?”
“You’re
welcome!” replied H’sein. “Come in!”
“There’s a
friend with me,” said Smaïl, glancing round at Tahar.
“You’re
welcome both! Come and sit by me.”
“Thank you!
Well, I came to place this man as an apprentice to you,” said Smaïl, sitting
down on the right of H’sein, while Tahar sat on his left.
H’sein looked
up at Tahar, and said:
“I have never
had an apprentice his age!”
“Yes, but this
man is willing to learn and pay for his apprenticeship.”
“Well,” said
H’sein at length, “I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you!”
said Tahar shyly.
“Now let me
show you what I do, right?” said H’sein, rising to his feet and waving to his
apprentice to take a seat inside the shop. He then stood by a garment hung on
the wall, and said, looking at Tahar:
“This is a
takchita, you know. It’s an expensive one.” He unhooked the takchita and began
to display its inner and outer parts, naming each part and saying how long it
took to make. Tahar’s heart beat fast as the tailor sat down and went on,
“Look, I am the mâallam, or chief tailor, if you will. This means that I don’t
do all the work all by myself. That’s why I have several people working for me.
Each of them has something to do. One, for example, is the berram. He twists
silk thread to make trassen, or braid, which are used with sfifa. Sfifa is this
thing you see here on this dfina. It’s here round the neck and it also runs
down along the middle of the front of the dfina. Trassen are this thing you see
on the fringe of sfifa. Trassen are also used here, pretty in the middle of
sfifa, to fix the âkadi, you know. These buttons here are the âkadi, see? Sfifa
and trassen and âkadi are made by two different people. The one who makes âkadi
also makes dfira, which is this thing you see right in the middle of trassen.
And then there’s me; I sew together all parts of the takchita. And, last, in
comes the one who puts the finished touches to it. As you may probably know, a
takchita is made up of two pieces: a tahtiya, which is the part beneath, and a
dfina, which is the outer garment. You could also add the m’demma, or belt,
which is in itself special work. I forgot to tell you that the boy over here
helps me with berchmane. My primary job as mâallam is this: After a client is
measured for a dress, I note down her wishes for her dress. Then I design the
dress, I cut it out, and then I share out the work with my partners and
apprentices, who are scattered all over the quarter. There are also women who
do embroidery for me in their own homes. Now, how do you find that?”
Tahar did not
open his mouth. He was bamboozled. He longed to go out for a breath of air. “I
have to go back home,” he thought. “It would take me a whole lifetime to do
this!”
“How do you
find that?” the tailor repeated.
“Sorry?” said
Tahar in a mumble. “Oh, thank you! I shall try. I shall try. Now, I think, we
have to leave you. Thank you once again!”
On leaving the
shop, Tahar took a deep breath.
“Don’t be so
pessimistic!” said Smaïl, patting him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry! I see the
tailor has made you dizzy by showing you all that stuff. But you shouldn’t be
put off so easily.”
“Honestly,”
said Tahar, finding his tongue at last. “I was befuddled.”
“That’s quite
normal, brother. Now look, go and rest for an hour or two. And don’t leave your
room except for mosque. As to me, I have
to go home. My wife doesn’t know where I am. I will see to her needs, and then
I’ll try to fetch you, right? You’ll dine with me tonight, because I can’t see
you again before next Thursday.”
“Why so?”
“You know, I
now work as a teacher with a family outside the town. I teach their children at
home. I am also a physician. So I have very little time left to spend with
you.”
“I am happy to
meet you, anyway. I don’t know what I could have done without you.”
“You know
what, you remind me of my early youth!”
“How old are
you?”
“I am
forty-one. And you?”
“I am
twenty-one.”
“That’s what I
guessed! I know this is a special age. Alright! This is the way to the funduq. Have a nice time!
See you!”
“Thank you!”
Tahar bought a big cake at a shop on
his way to the funduq. Inside the funduq, the eating-room was packed with
people who seemed to have come more to talk than eat. Only a little way from
them, on the other side of the wall, two donkeys filled the air with their
bray. Tahar looked round for a place to sit, but then whispered to the waiter
that he would prefer to have a cup of tea in his room. “I’ll bring it to you at
once,” said the waiter.
Tahar ate the cake and drank the tea
and lay on his back, but then suddenly he jumped to his bag that was lying at
his feet, and took out his utar and pressed it to him.
He laid down his utar only for as long
as he said his dusk and then, an hour or so later, evening prayers. So when
Smaïl came back and stood at the room door, Tahar was still plucking his utar.
“That’s a good
surprise to me!” said Smaïl, squatting down in front of Tahar.
“You liked
it?” said Tahar, laying down his utar.
“Sure! But now
get up! As I told you, you’ll dine with me tonight. I’m going to have another
man for dinner!”
“Please, I’m a
shy person, you know! I don’t feel at home with strangers.”
“I said get
up!” said Smaïl, plucking at Tahar’s sleeve. “This man who’s going to dine with
us is unlike any other you have ever seen in your life. Be quick! Look alive!”
That special guest was an old man in
his seventies, but he could still walk without a stick. He lived not far from
the mosque where Tahar and Smaïl had first met. On their way to Smaïl’s home,
Tahar did not speak a word. At first he thought about the old man, wondering in
what respect he would be special to him. But then his thoughts shifted to a
woman who had just caught sight of him and then hastened to half-close her
window so that she could steal glances at him from behind the shutters. In
another moonlit alleyway it was a much younger woman who peered at him from
behind the door of her home. Tahar was enraptured, but embarrassed.
His embarrassment all but doubled when
he stepped into Smaïl’s house. It was a large house, beautifully painted and
tiled. Tahar looked straight ahead, but his eyes rolled right and left looking
for Smaïl’s wife. He wanted to see her face. He wanted to see whether she was
beautiful. “Make yourself at home!” Smaïl was saying to him. “You needn’t be
shy in my home…”
In the guest room, Smaïl told the old
man Tahar’s story. Every now and then the old man glanced at Tahar while Smaïl
was speaking.
“Don’t tell me
more!” said the old man suddenly. “You want me to pray for him? That’s what
I’ll be doing when we have eaten, Insha Allah. I smell the tajeen, if I’m not
mistaken?”
“That’s
right,” said H’sein with a big smile. “It’s a tajeen. It was especially made
for you!”
“Oh, thank
you!”
While they ate
Tahar thought of the little hands which had prepared such an appetizing tajeen.
But once they had eaten, the old man faced him, and said:
“Before I pray
for you, my son, let us recite some Koran!”
To Tahar’s
great relief, the old man started with the shortest Souras which Tahar had
learned in Marrakesh.
“And now, what
is your wish?” said the old man.
“I wish to
become a dressmaker, sir,” said Tahar.
“Oh God…”
The old man
prayed ungrudgingly for Tahar. But Tahar was a bit sceptical. He whispered to
his friend Smaïl that he wished to know when these prayers would be answered.
Smaïl reported that to the old man, who smiled, and said to him:
“When did I
pray for you?”
“You prayed
for me when I was thirty,” said Smaïl with a smile.
(Tahar was
staggered.)
“And when was
my prayer for you fulfilled?”
“Moneywise, it
was fulfilled two years ago.”
“That is, when
you were thirty-nine!”
“Yes, Âmmy
Abderrahman, but Tahar is only twenty-one years old. He can’t wait as long as I
did.”
“Let me ask
him, can you wait?”
“I hope so,”
said Tahar dolefully. “What’s–what’s–what’s important for me is–is whether the
prayer will be fulfilled at all!”
“There is no
room for doubt about that,” said Smaïl. “If Âmmy Abderrahman prays for anybody,
then you can be sure that prayer will be fulfilled sooner or later. It’s only a
question of time!”
“Your friend
doesn’t seem to understand yet,” said the old man. “Look, my son,” he went on,
looking at Tahar, “God doesn’t look at you alone. God looks beyond you. He
looks at the whole world around you. If God gives you something now, He may be
giving it to one of your unborn children through you. If God wants your child
to grow up in a smart house, then He will provide you with the means to get a
smart house, even if you don’t deserve it yourself. If God wants your child to
be beautiful, then He will make you marry a beautiful woman, even if you don’t
deserve her yourself. If God gives you something good now and you don’t deserve
it, then He may have something bad in store for you. And you won’t know when
nor how that bad then will happen to you. If you don’t worship God and yet have
a large workshop or vast fertile lands, then He may be giving you that because
He knows that a good faithful who worships Him always will be very happy to
find work, humble as it may be, in your workshop or in your fields and he will
thank God for that and devote his life to Him. Don’t imagine that God behaves
at random!”
“How do I know
I deserve that?” said Tahar shyly.
“You will know
by looking at your own behaviour,” said the old man. “Look at this man here. He
was no less handsome than you, if not more. I know of women who had a terrific
desire to marry him. Those women married other men years ago, but Smaïl stayed
single until a little more than a year ago.
He could not marry in his twenties or even in his thirties simply
because he was penniless.
“What I liked
most about him is that he was aware of what was happening to him. You might be
surprised, given your age, but this man has always been clear with himself. He
sinned, yes, but he was brave to admit he was a sinner. He always owned up to
his past sins and asked God’s forgiveness. And that helped him endure his
hardships. So, if you, Tahar, want to marry while you are so young, so
handsome, be careful! Think of God as being constantly on your right and of
Satan as being constantly on your left. I know you youngsters hate being
preached, but I know also that you love to be happy. ”
That night
Tahar returned to the funduq deeply frustrated. He had wished to see Smaïl’s
wife, but he had only heard her voice.
The next morning he was at H’sein’s
shop.
“Have you had
breakfast?” asked H’sein.
“Yes, and
you?”
“I have, too,
but a cup of tea now would only do me good, don’t you think?”
“I pay for
it!” said Tahar, plunging his hand deep in his pocket.
Before tea
came, H’sein started teaching Tahar what a master tailor would teach a very
young apprentice. To Tahar’s surprise, H’sein’s words were music to his ears.
It all looked as if he were only learning by heart one of Saeed El-Bahi’s
religious songs. H’sein too was surprised when Tahar said to him:
“I would like
to make a gandoura like this one. I think it’s easier for me.”
“Alright!”
said H’sein. “I’ll give you all the materials you need. But now we have tea
first!”
And so that
first morning passed off peacefully. In the afternoon, a man speaking Arabic
with a Berber accent came in and greeted H’sein, and said, “I want this and
this and this.” He was all smiles as he said that. But when it came to the
point of paying, his last smile froze on his lips.
“That was a
Jew,” said H’sein slyly. “He’s always like this. But he’s a good client.”
“Does he come
very often?” said Tahar, affecting interest.
“Yes, he’s
been a client of mine for more than five years now. He lives in Mogador. He
comes to me once a week.”
“He’s a
merchant, you mean?”
“Yes, he is.
He is a travelling salesman. He roams all the region around. He sells from door
to door. Sometimes he goes as far as Marrakesh.”
“I know two
Jewish men who do quite the same thing. They often come to our village. But I
had never seen this one before.”
“Now forget
all about him and keep your mind on your work. Be careful, that piece of cloth
is delicate. But I see you’re doing well! Go on!”
And well he
did indeed. His first dress ever was ready seven days later.
“Well done!”
exclaimed H’sein, handling the dress carefully. “It’s a stunning dress! Very good!”
“Now I want to
make a takchita,” said Tahar, heartened by H’sein’s comments.
“No, friend.
It’s too early for you to start on a takchita.”
“But just let
me try!”
“Do me three
more dresses like this one and I’ll let you do a takchita, right?”
“Alright!”
said Tahar reluctantly.
Now, with more and more women appearing
here and there, Tahar could not but think more of women than anything else. And
the woman he thought of now was Zina. He tried to forget all about her. He tried
to think more seriously of Zahiya. But Zina was there, still in his heart. He
had seen Zina. He had talked with Zina. He had laughed with Zina. He had
dreamed of Zina. And now Zina was going to marry soon, maybe in the next few
weeks or soon after Eed El-Kebeer.
Even when he returned to the funduq at
sunset, he would pick up his utar and sing his old songs, those he had sung to
Zina.
Now he was no longer eager to make
dresses for Zahiya. For him dressmaking had now become so easy –as easy as winking–,
so dull, that he no longer thought about it. All his work had now become
jejune, all his life insipid.
So one evening he ran to the old man
who had prayed for him.
“Âmmy
Abderrahman,” he said, “I came to tell you that your prayer for me appears to
have been fulfilled. I have succeeded in making good dresses which pleased the
master tailor.”
“That’s a good
thing!” said Abderrahman, who was sitting on a stool with other old men near
the mosque. “Now, what’s the problem?”
“Well, sir,
I’ve begun to feel homesick. I feel lonesome.”
“So what can I
do for you?”
“I wonder
whether you know of a school or any other place where I could spend the evening
and learn something good.”
“Would you
like to join a zaouia?”
“That would
make me glad!”
“Alright! Come
along!”
Tahar joined the zaouia. He was
thrilled to sit with dozens of men of all ages in a large house scented with
musk and ambergris. It took him very little to overcome his timidness. He was
given a book, and so he joined in the chanting as best he could.
But once back to his room in the funduq
he found himself thinking of Zina once again. The next morning he thought of
her still. He waited for her to fall ill because of him and refuse all
treatment until he, Tahar, came back to her and said to her that he loved her
still and that he would marry her.
Thursday came. Smaïl came. But the
story remained the same. Zina just refused to get out of his head.
Days went on like this until one
evening when a stranger came up to Tahar as he was ordering for his dinner in
the funduq eating-room.
“May I have a
word with you?” said the stranger.
“Yes.”
Both sat down
on the mat and talked over tea.
“Believe me,”
said the stranger, “you needn’t learn more than you have learned already. Just
by making dresses like those you made you’ll certainly make a fortune! That
master you’re working for will only exploit you. Come and work with me. I’ll
pay you good wages. You’ll become rich in a matter of months…”
The stranger left and Tahar spent that
night thinking. In the morning he went back to H’sein’s shop.
“Master
H’sein,” he said within moments of his arrival, “I must learn more. I must make
a dfina and a tahtiya now. It’s a must.”
“No, no,
friend! You needn’t learn all that. Just keep making the same dresses you’ve
been doing.”
“I have done
more than enough, and it was I who paid you.
You never paid me a penny!”
“I shall pay
you this time. I promise.”
“No, master! I
must make a dfina and a tahtiya. I’ll take them to my family on the eve of eed,
and then I’ll be back and I’ll work for you. I’ll make any dresses you like.”
“No, but…”
The master gave in in the end and Tahar
started work on a dfina. And little by little, he found himself thinking of
Zahiya again. And he thought more of her when he sat with the good men in the
zaouia. And he sang for her when he was alone in the funduq.
A month later he was on his horse,
riding back to his village.
“These are two
of the dresses I’ve made,” he said to his family boastfully.
“Oh, how
lovely they are!” said his mother. “But have you earned any money?”
“Not yet,
mother. I was only an apprentice, you know. But next time I’ll bring some money
with me.”
“We don’t need
your money, you know,” his mother said.
“But if you want to marry and start a family you’ll have to earn your
living somehow.”
“I know,
mother. If I don’t earn enough money making dresses I’ll come back to work in
the fields.”
“Fortunately
for me,” said his father, “Lâabeed were here during your absence. I wonder what
I’ll do when they go.”
“I’ll find you
a jobber or two,” said Tahar. “Don’t worry!”
“What’s in
your bag?” said his mother.
“Only the utar
and clothes for me,” said Tahar with a blush.
“I have to leave you now. I’m going to Kremat to wish the Qadi a good
eed.”
“Wait! Wait a
moment!”
But Tahar
picked up his bag and scuttled out of the house. He swung himself into the
saddle and set out for the Qadi’s village.
The Qadi did
not show up until late in the evening.
“What are you
doing here?” he said, looking suspiciously at
Tahar, who was standing against the trunk of a tree just outside the
Qadi’s home.
“I came to
tell you that the dresses are now ready.”
“What dresses
do you mean?”
“Well, look!”
said Tahar, opening his bag with trembling hands, “here are the dresses. I made
them. I made them myself, with the help of the master tailor. This is the
dfina, and here’s the tahtiya.”
“Where did you
get them?”
“I said I made
them! I swear it!”
“You made them
in less than forty days?”
“Let me
explain, Qadi! On my arrival in Mogador I happened upon a young man who
introduced me to an old man who prayed for me. I myself was surprised when I
felt that I was learning very quickly.”
“Who’s that
man who prayed for you?”
“All I know is
that he’s called Âmmy Abderrahman. I can take you to him, if you like.”
“When did you
come back from Mogador?”
“I came
earlier on today.”
“Did you see
Zahiya?”
“No.”
“Do you want
to see her?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow will
be eed.”
“I know. But I
can’t wait.”
“Alright! I’ll
try to come to your village tomorrow afternoon and I’ll take you to her home.
Would that suit you?”
“No, sir! I
can’t go to her home now. I am a shy person, you know. I don’t want to look
ridiculous in front of her.”
“Alright!” the
Qadi grinned. “We’ll meet somewhere around her home, then.”
“Thank you!
May I leave these dresses with you? I don’t want my family to see them.”
“Alright!”
said the Qadi, bursting into laughter.
Tahar was so happy he could not sleep
that night.
The next morning he shunned everybody
until his mother began doing a roast in the courtyard of their home some time
around noon. But even then the other members of his family, who were sitting
around, had so much to talk about that he needed not talk with them at all. He
retreated within himself, and waited patiently for the afternoon.
The Qadi came late in the afternoon and
found Tahar dressed not in an everyday jellaba, but in a beautiful white
tchameer shimmering at the neck beneath a conspicuous white djellaba, itself
laid with a black, thin selham. A yellow âssaba adorned Tahar’s head, and his
yellow slippers were a delight to the eyes. In a word, he looked his best and
his natural good looks gave him the aura of a prince.
On the
opposite side of the river Zahiya was waiting with her father in an olive
grove. She was dressed not in an everyday heïk, but in a blue takchita and a
yellow-and-white thick headscarf fringed with jingling old coins. And she was
shod in a very beautiful green sherbeel.
The Qadi was the first to speak to her.
He seemed to have met her before fetching Tahar, but even now Tahar hung on her
lips.
“Come!” she
said suddenly.
Tahar took
quick steps towards her.
“Peace be with
you!” he said in a wavering voice.
“Peace be with
you too!” she replied, running her blue eyes on every feature of his reddish
face.
“Did you like
the dresses?” Tahar said, glancing at the Qadi and Zahiya’s father, who were
shuffling off towards another olive-tree.
“Yes, I did.”
“Can I marry
you now?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You can’t
enter my life before I enter your heart.”
“What do you
mean?”
“Well, I was
not interested in any of the dresses you made, to be honest. 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.” More blood rushed to Tahar’s face as Zahiya went
on, “I didn’t expect you to return so early. Now go back to Mogador and stay
there until you have made more dresses for me. Don’t go back to that old man to
pray for you so that you can make the dresses in three days. I’m not in a
hurry. M’barek Eedak! Good bye!”
“Wait a
moment!”
Zahiya did not
wait a moment. She ambled up to her father. And, on the way, she exchanged a
few words with a passing young man. The Qadi came towards Tahar, and whispered
to him:
“Now, please,
go! Don’t get us into trouble here!”
“Who’s that
man she’s spoken to?”
“I said go!”
said the Qadi, moving away from him.
Tahar spent that night in the open,
speaking to himself and to the moon and stars. In the morning, he was galloping
back to Mogador.
Once again, he booked a room in the
funduq, and went to work in H’sein’s shop.
The next
Thursday he begged H’sein for a break so that he could spend some time with
Smaïl. Smaïl took him to the Skala. They sat on one of the cannons facing
towards the sea.
“Do you trust
your wife?” said Tahar suddenly.
“We were
talking about the sea, weren’t we? Why are you now asking me about my wife?”
“Something in
my heart pushes me to. Please tell me, do you trust your wife?”
“Well, I make
as if.”
“You mean you
don’t worry?”
“Look, Âmmy
Abderrahman said you should be careful, if you remember. He meant by that that
you should pay attention to your own behaviour. If you behave well; if you’re a
good man; if you say your prayers regularly; if you don’t take bribes; if you
don’t take away people’s money; if you don’t flirt with women other than your
own wife; if you always feel that God is watching you, then you needn’t worry!
And then if your wife did something wrong, that would be 'a bad thing for you',
as Âmmy Abderrahman put it, meaning a punishment for you– for something you did
in the past and forgot all about it. But even then, if you don't change for the
worse God would certainly give you something better."
"You mean
a better wife?"
"Why not?
Look, let me tell you one thing. You can't get your wife to be faithful to you
by just beating her or imprisoning her or by spying on her all the time or by
subjecting her to test after test. That won't help. Love her and keep faithful
to her and bring her only food and goods which you bought with clean money– money
that you earned by the sweat of your brow. Do that and then entrust your wife
to God's care. If she is a good wife she will stay with you, by the grace of
God. If she turns out to be a wicked woman, God will find you a solution. And
then, let me conclude with this. You know what, I myself was a sinner. Many
people trusted in me while I was anything but trustworthy. I hope that my
sufferings in the past were a punishment for that. Now, to tell you the truth,
I don't worry about my wife, because I have a strong feeling that God chose her
for me. Thank God!"
"Did you
love your wife before you married her?"
"Now,
that's enough! Please, forget all about my wife. Let's move from here!"
"I'm
sorry, I didn't mean…"
Tahar was
deeply hurt by the way Smaïl had rebuked him.
Smaïl had scowled at him.
Now he was back to the funduq. He
crammed himself with a big cake and three bunches of grapes. Then he lay on his
back and closed his eyes. Zahiya's face came in flying. Her blue eyes and fair
face were inviting, her whispers soothing.
The next morning Tahar left the funduq
later than usual. H'sein greeted him
with, "Where have you been all this time, you son of bitch?" Tahar
gave him a scathing look and spat in his face and made his way back to the
funduq. He collected his belongings, fetched his horse and rode back home.
His family talked and talked and he did
not care twopence. He went to mosque. He said his prayers and chatted with the
Imam. Then he went back home, fetched his utar and trotted up to the palm-tree
by the riverbank.
He sang. Zahiya came out. She stood
away from the bank and looked on as Tahar strummed on his utar. A young man
came up to Zahiya and spoke to her. Tahar stopped singing. Before he could do
anything else, Zahiya vanished behind the houses. The young man who had spoken
to her went in another direction. Tahar panted and his heart pounded.
An hour later, he was in Kremat, the
Qadi’s village.
“What are you
doing here?” said the Qadi, looking askance at Tahar.
“Qadi, I saw a
man with Zahiya!”
“Where and
when?” said the Qadi, lifting up his voice.
“In her
village. Today.”
“Listen! I
tried to help you because I thought you were mature and sane. Now, never come
back to me again! Stay away from the girl! If you ever harass her, then that’ll
be the end of you. I’ll lodge a complaint against you with the Qaïd!”
The word ‘qaïd’ sent shivers down Tahar’s spine. So he
just bowed his head and led his horse away from the Qadi’s home.
He then spent two days roaming the
place, not knowing what to do with himself. The next day was Wednesday, so he
took his utar and sat in the shade of the terebinth-tree and sang to himself
while lovers from both villages enjoyed themselves down the valley.
“Hey you over
there!” said a voice unexpectedly.
Tahar turned round and gaped. It was one of the Jewish
hawkers.
“Tahar? Why
are you sitting here alone?” said the Jew, approaching the terebinth-tree.
“Hi, Âmmy
Dawud!” said Tahar, laughing nervously. He then picked himself up, and said, “I
was longing to see you!”
“To see me?”
“Yes!”
“Why so?”
“I want to
work with you.”
“To work with
me? How?”
“I make
dresses and you sell them and give me my share of the profits.”
“But I only
sell good dresses, like those you bought from me for your mother. How could you
make good dresses yourself?”
“I was an
apprentice to Mâallem H’sein, the master tailor in Mogador, do you know him?”
“O course, I
know him! Now, what do you expect of me?”
“Well, I’ll
give you some money to buy me the necessary materials. I’ll make the dresses
and I’ll give them to you to sell them, right?”
“Alright!
That’s a good idea!”
Tahar built himself a shed a little way
from his parents’ home. He found an apprentice. And he set to work.
The news spread that he had now become
a tailor. People –men and women– came to him asking for a hem to be let down or
a tear to be sewn up or a button to be sewn on. But he turned them away kindly
saying he only made new dresses to be sold elsewhere by Âmmy Dawud. Birds
twittered over his head as he worked. His mother brought him his lunch at
midday. And everything was alright.
But then came the day when the village
became infested with horses, when women filled the air with trilling cries of
joy, when children pranced about in clothes they had been denied even on the
day of eed.
That was the Wedding Day. Lovers from
both villages would now marry, to their families’ delight. Tahar’s family would
join the folks. They would join in the festivities, but they would not share in
the joy. They had no groom or bride to have a celebration for.
Both Tahar’s father and brother would
take part in the fantasia parades. They had been preparing their horses for
some time now. His brother had even changed his rifle and bought new gunpowder.
Tahar himself had always enjoyed
fantasia. He would love to stand his horse with the other horses assembling at
the start and then wait impatiently for the starting signal so that he could
rush his horse forward, abreast of the other horses, until the Mqaddem gave
them the signal to fire, while the women standing on either side of the field
filled the air with trilling cries of joy.
But today was different. Tahar had not
the heart to do that on the day someone else would marry Zina.
Tahar did not leave the village,
though. He only went to the palm-tree by the river-bank. He sat down there and
sang to himself in a low voice. He had not brought with him his utar. He had
only brought a basketful of grapes.
And while he was eating and singing, a
shape appeared on the other side of the river. “It’s her!” Tahar cried within
himself. “It’s Zahiya! I swear by God it’s her! But–” He could not believe his
eyes. Zahiya walked slowly to the river. She looked as if she were heading for
Tahar’s village. But she stopped at the water’s edge. She stooped down and
splashed her face with water, then she stood up, glanced at Tahar and turned to
go. Tahar watched her with beating heart. As soon as she had disappeared he
turned round and ran to the mosque, his face aglow with pleasure. He sat down
in the mosque and performed the tayammum, but then he remembered that it was
un-islamic to say prayers at this time of day. So he left the mosque and
returned to the palm-tree by the riverbank. He stayed there until the muezzin
called for dusk prayers.
The next day Tahar returned to his
work. And two weeks later, new potential lovers began to show themselves down
the valley. At first Tahar just stayed seated in the shade of the
terebinth-tree, watching. But then he saw a shape quite like that he had seen
before. It was the same shape, the same gait. But now? Here? Could it be her?
Tahar got up and, in no time, he was on
the other side. Many girls looked at him, making him blush. He looked as if he
were looking for someone, and then plonked himself into a pile of dry bush a
little way from the farthest group to the right. Several girls looked in his
direction, but his eyes were somewhere else. He was striving to look
indifferent, even to Zahiya, who was sitting alone, aloof from everybody. Tahar
was fired with the desire to go and speak to her. His feet could hardly touch
the ground. He now felt lighter than the air. But he simply could not do
anything. The Qadi had threatened to lodge a complaint against him with the
Qaïd. But then, all of a sudden, Zahiya stood up. Tahar had his heart in his
mouth. He wondered what to do. But then, to his great surprise, he saw Zahiya
working her way round towards him. He saw her approaching him, but then
suddenly he cut her dead. Zahiya did not look his way, either. She just walked
past him with head erect.
And every night thereafter Tahar lulled
himself to sleep with dreams that Zahiya would do again what she did on that
day. But Zahiya never reappeared again, and Tahar began to kick himself.
He got fed up with going to the
palm-tree by the riverbank in the hope of catching a glimpse of her.
People started to plough their lands.
The sky was becoming cloudier with each passing day. And it soon started to
rain. There was no place left to sit by the riverbank. All places were wet, or
so they seemed to Tahar. And there was more and more water in the wadi. The
brook was gradually swelling into a running stream, making it impossible for
lovers to meet for months to come.
That was Tahar’s only comfort. But for
how long?
