A Riffians Tune (28 page)

Michelle was fascinated by the Moroccan social fabric and asked me, ‘Why can a man end a marriage with just words and why should he pay a dowry for a bride?'

‘It's the price for virginity,' I told her.

‘Do you believe in that?' she asked me.

‘Yes, I do,' I answered.

‘I don't accept that,' she said.

‘If you had lived here as long I have, you would understand it,' I said. I tried to explain the paradox of the dowry. ‘It's a gift, as well as payment for the hymen.' But I refrained from telling her that two of my nieces had been married and divorced before dawn, as their husbands had declared they were not virgins. They had handed back the dowry and their parents had had to repay the wedding expenses. As for divorce by words alone, I recited the Bible to her, ‘The power of life and death is in the power of the tongue.'

‘Do you read the Bible?' she asked me.

‘No, I collect proverbs,' I answered.

The next time we met, she gave me a Bible.

* * *

WITH THE SPROUTING OF
the spring flowers and trees, the school shut its gate for holidays. Most boys flocked home, but a small bunch stayed. With fewer students, the nights felt quieter and, during the day, the school was empty and spooky.

With more free time, Oujdi asked me if I would like to go to the New Town the following Friday.

‘I'm going to see someone in the hospital,' I replied.

Intrigued, he insisted on accompanying me. Oujdi knew nothing about Bo-jaama; he didn't know Abdu had a brother who was homosexual and in the hospital. He thought the hospital would be a place full of beautiful nurses, and hoped he might talk to some of them. He liked the nurses' uniform, their white, short skirts and bare legs.

After lunch on Friday, Oujdi and I rushed to the hospital. On our way, I bought a few oranges, as Bo-jaama would be disappointed if we arrived empty-handed. The hospital gate was manned by a burly security guard: broad-shouldered, bold, stocky and full of authority. In his narrow hut, he enjoyed sipping his tea and listening to local music on a small radio close to his chest. The moment the gate opened, visitors stampeded in.

Some knew where to go, but most didn't. Oujdi and I followed the visitor tide to the main hospital door. ‘It's to the left,' I said, remembering my last visit weeks ago. Confused, Oujdi and I went into the big ward where Bo-jaama had been lying. The excitement with which Oujdi had come evaporated as soon as he entered the patients' dismal ward, where twenty or more men were lying on beds in two long, narrow rows. We looked around, but found no sign of Bo-jaama, just many other patients, some sleeping and others with eyes open, watching who was coming in and hoping someone would say ‘hello' to them. Not finding Bo-jaama, I thought he might have recovered and gone home.

Outside the ward, we came across a male nurse. He was very tall, had moderately black skin and was half bald. Wearing thick glasses, he stirred right and left while walking down the corridor, as though losing his balance. He looked around thirty and was holding medicine in his hand. I scurried and stood right in front of him, as if trying to ambush him. ‘Sir, could you help?' I asked.

He hesitated, skirted me, and kept moving on, his eyes glued to the label on the medicine in his hand. I motioned to Oujdi to follow the nurse, who finally stopped and looked at the oranges in my hand. ‘What's the matter?' he asked.

‘We're looking for Bo-jaama,' I replied. The name didn't ring a bell. ‘He was in this big ward weeks ago,' I pointed out.

‘Weeks ago, weeks ago, weeks ago,' repeated the nurse, shaking his head. Suddenly, the name Bo-jaama jogged his memory. ‘Follow me,' he said, striding off on long legs. Oujdi had to jog to keep up with him.

The hospital was a real labyrinth. He took us far away from where we had been. Without a word, he pointed to a new door and a different ward. He looked at us and said, ‘He is very ill.'

He disappeared, and dazed, I whispered, ‘Thank you.'

Bo-jaama's ward, several steps down, was accessed via a dark, narrow corridor. There was Bo-jaama, lying in bed number three, facing the door and in the midst of about twelve other men who were just as ill as he. They were all covered with blankets, just faces popping out like mushrooms. It was impossible to distinguish who was young or old; all were unshaven. Bo-jaama had a patchy beard and looked one thousand years old. Like many, he was expecting no one.

‘
Assalamo, Assalamo,
' I repeated while standing at his bedside. No reply. This wasn't what Oujdi had expected, and he looked overwhelmingly shocked.

When Bo-jaama opened his eyes, he seemed confused. Oujdi, standing beside me, confused him even more. He looked Oujdi up and down several times, but didn't ask who he was.

Bo-jaama gained some strength and consciousness, recognised me and tried to prop himself up against his headboard, but he failed. Last time, Bo-jaama had asked for food, but not this time. He noticed the oranges at his bedside and gave them a slow smile, exposing green teeth, unbrushed for a long time. I was certain Bo-jaama didn't know which month, day or year it was. I didn't want to mention school, but there was no other topic to talk about.

Oujdi kept silent all the time and looked perplexed when Bo-jaama asked, ‘Where is my brother Abdu?'

‘He wanted to come, but he has exams. He sends his regards,' I lied, trying to comfort Bo-jaama.

Before we realised it, the bell rang and visitors were swept out. ‘See you soon,' I mumbled, not really knowing what to say.

From the look of it, Oujdi's desire to be cheered by a semi-naked nurse had been dashed. ‘What's Bo-jaama's illness?' he asked.

‘I don't know. I'm not a doctor yet,' I replied. ‘Whatever they're doing for him isn't working, by the look of it. A hot pot of mint tea would probably work better.'

After the visit, we lost our inclination to go to the New Town. We didn't even try to find a café to sit in to while away the time. We headed straight to the school library to leave behind the spectre of Bo-jaama's ward. Oujdi hid himself in a book he wasn't supposed to read.

Abdu plodded in late to the refectory and nearly missed dinner. He took a seat beside Faissal and me and looked exhausted.

‘Where have you been?' I asked.

‘In New Town,' he replied.

He looked shocked when I told him Oujdi and I had seen Bo-jaama. He nearly fainted.

‘Does Oujdi know that Bo-jaama is homosexual?' he asked me outside the refectory.

‘No, he doesn't,' I replied.

‘Does he know that Bo-jaama is my brother?'

‘Yes, Bo-jaama told him. Bo-jaama is very ill, do you know?'

Abdu blinked his eyes and showed no emotion. Because I wished I had a brother, I was shocked, but then began to think.

‘Hospitals have plenty of doctors and nurses, yet people are ill and die. Schools are stuffed with teachers, yet people can't read or write. Streets are full of police, yet crimes are rampant. Tribunals are full of judges, yet people are still seeking and waiting for justice, and some are misjudged,' I told Abdu. ‘Evil is not the opposite of good. There is only one evil and one good, and they are one apple; they both reside in the flesh. They are the flesh itself. It is like that, it has always been like that, and it always will be like that.'

Back inside the dormitory, it was quiet, except for Oujdi's abrasive snoring. No one dared wake him, but everyone wished someone would. I lifted his book, freed his nose, and he immediately lifted his head up.

‘I was dreaming,' he said. ‘Having a nightmare!'

‘What was your dream?' I asked with a smile.

‘I dreamed I was riding a broken bicycle and chased by two Scottish women. They were headless! I pedalled as fast as I could, but I went nowhere, and they caught me.'

‘How did two Scottish women appear in your dream?' I asked him.

‘You took me to the hospital with you,' he answered. ‘The half-naked nurses I dreamed of turned into rough, tough Scottish women!'

During this spring holiday, the prefects didn't care where we sat at dinnertime. There were so few of us anyway, and soon it became a habit for Oujdi, Faissal, Abdu and me to sit at the same table. But the table gathered the people with the most contradictory views. The debates turned into shouting and table-thumping. Prefects, worried, succumbed to eavesdropping.

‘I can't understand why, when two countries are rubbing shoulders, one is poor and the other rich!' shouted Oujdi.

‘I can,' I told him. ‘This is how my sister's donkey died. It was stung by a swarm of wasps while tied to a hook in the field. My sister saw it jumping, kicking in the air, trying to break the rope to free itself, and she thought it was happy-dancing. The donkey was restricted by its leg; you and I by the language typed into our brains.'

Our discussion was halted by the sixth-year prefect shouting, ‘Out! Out!'

* * *

THE SPRING SUN REVIVED
the spirits, hearts and minds of men and beasts. I remembered cows stampeding, sheep and goats jumping and running, sexually excited, but I had felt nothing like that during this spring holiday. It came and went like the melting of a snowflake on the skin. Whenever my heart jumped, my mind opened a new chapter that I had to read and think about. Friday was the last day.
Bo-jaama expects me and I must visit him
, I thought to myself. I also knew I must work flat out the following weeks for exams, then go home.

‘Would you like to visit Bo-jaama?' I asked Oujdi at lunchtime.

‘No,' he replied with a grimace. He had been put off by the shocking scenery of the hospital: men, women, young and old, either lying, weak and pale, in bed, or the fit ones wandering around in striped pyjamas, not much different from those worn in prison.

I went to see Bo-jaama on my own. On my way to the hospital, I bought three big, good-looking oranges. It was about three o'clock when I arrived. I went straight to ward three, where Bo-jaama had been bedded. The ward's French doors were open wide, but there were few visitors. The ward was uninviting, and the patients were unshaven, looking jaundiced and deeply depressed. Searching for Bo-jaama on the left, I couldn't find him. Going back to the main door and looking right, I didn't find him there either. Searching frantically, darting around the room while some patients were watching me, I thought,
Bo-jaama is not here. He has either changed wards or gone home.

As I emerged from the basement, I saw the Sister, a mature woman with grey hair, holding a pile of paper in her arms, her pockets stuffed with medicine. Her look and walk inspired confidence. As she was walking fast, I sprinted to catch up with her. ‘Sister, Sister,' I pleaded. She looked, but didn't stop. She wore tinted glasses and I wasn't sure if she had noticed me. ‘Sister!' I called again, now beside her. ‘Could you help? In which ward is Bo-jaama?' I asked, while she was still walking.

Abruptly, she stopped, turned to face me, peered straight into my eyes and said, ‘Is he your brother?'

‘No,' I replied.

She gave the impression of confusion and wondering. ‘Come to my office,' she said in a grave voice.

I followed her to her office, situated at the very end of the corridor and, once in, she asked me to take a seat. No one had ever asked me politely to ‘take a seat' as she did. ‘I will be back in a few minutes,' she said.

I didn't know where she had gone, but she came back in the promised time. She didn't sit behind her desk as the rector had. She sat beside me, close to me – too close. ‘What is your name?' she asked. ‘Where did you come from?' The Sister was as pleasant as she could be, but her face alternated between relaxed and tense, happy and sad.

‘My name is Jusef. I'm from the north,' I uttered, lips pursed. ‘Bo-jaama is my friend's brother. We go to the same school,' I added.

Like a bullet, the truth emerged from her lips. ‘Bo-jaama is dead,' she said. ‘Nobody was beside him when he died; the nurse discovered him at ten o'clock in the morning. We don't know the exact time he passed away. We kept him in the mortuary for three days, but no one claimed him, so the council took over and buried him. As far as we know, he was buried in the nearest cemetery,' she continued.

Listening to her, I felt my chest tighten and the room change position. The Sister pulled a bundle of keys from her pocket and yanked a tiny one. With it, she opened a drawer in a small cabinet. She pulled out two pages, looked at them patiently, and came back to sit where she had been, beside me.

‘Bo-jaama left a will,' she said. ‘He left you his watch and a gold ring. I have some papers for you to sign, then the watch and the ring will be your property.'

It was too much for me to take in. Just as the Sister was fiddling with papers, a tall young black doctor came in. ‘Madame Omlil had high blood pressure last night,' he said.

‘Go and test her again,' she told him. ‘If it is any higher than yesterday, instruct the nurse to medicate her and make sure the nurse carries out your instructions.'

The doctor wasted no time and waltzed out of the room. I was struck by his dark black skin and long white teeth.

‘Sign this paper for me,' the Sister asked me, but my French was not good enough to understand medical or legal jargon. Fearful, I refused to sign.

‘I don't need Bo-jaama's watch or ring,' I said. ‘I have a watch. Look!' I showed her the watch on my wrist.

The Sister realised how nervous I was. ‘It's a gift,' she said. ‘You can do whatever you want with it.'

I thought I would never be able to dig myself out of the hospital, but the Sister shook my hand and showed me the door. I scrambled for a while to find the main door and went straight back to school, hoping against hope to see Abdu. Back earlier than planned, I went to the library, not to read, because my mind was spiralling wildly, but to hide and collect my feelings. My presence in the library, however, didn't please the librarian.