A Riffians Tune (7 page)

‘Look at your clothes! You'll dirty the saddle,' replied Salwa's husband.

‘The mud will dry,' I replied.

‘Let it dry first,' he answered.

Before my clothes could dry and the mud fall off, we were in the town. We reached the market just before it closed at four-thirty. The bull was tired and looked dull, but was quickly sold to a Spanish dealer. ‘Couldn't we have asked for a little more?' I asked.

Salwa's husband shrugged, ‘Don't be greedy.'

The moment the bull's rope was handed over, we scurried to a hotel. My brothers-in-law washed their faces and combed their hair before rushing to a local restaurant. I stayed the entire night alone in the room; they later boasted they had spent the whole night going from one hotel to another, from one street to another hiring prostitutes and whistling at every woman they passed. It had been a big night for them, thanks to the sale of the bull, but I felt a real sense of betrayal. But then, I didn't know how the night had been for my sisters.

That summer, I met a man in the village who told me about a school in Fez called Kairaouine Educational Complex, established in the year 859, which was a primary and secondary school as well as a university. The more I learned about this school, the more desperately I wanted to go. I became excited, anxious, nervous and impatient, but had no idea how to get there. From sheep to school, there was no bridge. I talked about it and became a laughing stock.

I heard the school was huge, dark and cold in the winter, and the town was big, like piled chicken coops, with a river running through it. I also heard there was an entrance examination.

In a hurry, with a few coins in my pocket, I rushed to Zaio to find a bookshop, but there wasn't one. Moving up and down in the street, peering through a glass window, I saw an old man with a beard twice the size of his head, squinting and trying painfully to read a book. Inside his shop, I expected to see books lining the walls. What I found was a basket of bananas, potatoes and eggs.

‘Do you know where I could buy one or two books for beginners?' I asked the old man.

He looked puzzled and lost in thought. ‘Ah! Ah! I know what you want. I have two at home, but they are very, very old. I will sell them to you if you wish,' he replied. He closed his shop, went home and brought the books.

I bought both. One explained Arabic grammar and the other dealt with religious matters and the liturgy. They were yellowish in colour, over-sized, and had explanatory notes in the margins. They were too big and awkward to hold while reading, let alone understand, so the most comfortable way to thumb through them was to lie on my stomach, a position in which I could not stay very long. Candlelight rarely illuminated the entire page.

Neither book was of any real use to me. Trying to understand a grammar book of a language – Arabic – which I did not speak, did not know, had only heard, was like playing blind bingo.

I thought my father could help me. ‘What does that mean?' I asked. Sadly, I realised that his pretence – ‘I am learned' – was an empty façade and self-deluding.

‘I'm going to school!' I told my mother early one morning.

‘Mad!' she said. ‘Enough is enough.' She huffed out of the room.

My mother loved her sheep, her goats, and the hill on which we lived. Her only desire was to keep her family around her and the hill actively alive with goats, sheep, and cows moving back and forth.

I had no relatives in Fez for help. I didn't speak the language, Darija, that was spoken there. I spoke Tarifit. To survive in Fez, I needed a place to stay. To find accommodation, I needed someone to share the expense. The more I thought about it, the more frightened and nervous I became. Even if I managed to get there, I didn't know if I would be accepted. Fortunately, the bull had been sold, and I knew my father still had some money left, but not very much.

When I repeated my wish to be educated and requested some money, my father exploded with a roar, went berserk, stood up and shouted in my face, ‘Will you be educated if I give you one thousand francs?'

‘Father, education is time-consuming,' I told him.

He kicked me, and I stormed out of the room.

Late August was unusually misty, foggy and enjoyably refreshing. Still wondering what to do, I tried to get some money from my five brothers-in-law. My wish to go to school was mocked and described as folly. It was particularly hurtful and humiliating when their comments reached me through my sisters. I had no choice but to go back to my father and mother to plead again. I was determined not to spend any more time lost in the valley tending sheep and goats, and I was also determined not to become a member of the mind-numbing bingo club. I used every argument I could think of. I had done my shepherding and looked twice my age – wrinkled and dried by the wind and sun. I had already lived rough and tough; I didn't sleep on a bed or mattress covered with cotton sheets, but directly on the floor, wherever I could find space. Cockroaches, scorpions, and spiders didn't frighten me; I had observed them moving, mating and fighting with each other.

As a despised shepherd, I had learned how to live alone, my flute mirroring my soul. I had learned not to expect gifts or look for miracles and had accepted that my views of the world were simply those of a shepherd. The echo of the valley and the endless sky said something about God, but I could never quite say what, and I thought it was much better that way.

I not only needed my parents' help, I needed a companion. I tried to sell the idea of school at Fez to my half-cousin Abdossamad who was twice my age, twice my size, whom I had helped during my Koranic days. Like a singer who could only sing with a group, he could only remember when reciting with me. Amazed and puzzled, my cousin's mouth opened and his lips trembled. ‘I am engaged,' he said.

‘I didn't know that,' I said. ‘To whom?'

‘My cousin, Boshra.'

Boshra was a little girl, not yet ten years old. Confused by my suggestion about school, he suddenly started to describe how beautiful she was.

‘Wouldn't it be better for you to wait until she is grown up to see what she will be like?' I asked. ‘Her beauty might change,' I added, thinking of my sisters.

‘No,' he said. ‘My mother advised me to grab the opportunity. The engagement itself was expensive: a big crowd was invited and many chickens and eggs were needed to feed them all.'

That week, I went to the village, Arkmane, and shopped in
Sidi
Moha's. The shop was built in a Spanish style with double doors, and very large.
Sidi
Moha was an old man: tall, pale, bald and always smiling. The shop was basic. He sold sugar, olive oil, salt and matches. I bought sugar and olive oil as my mother had instructed me.

‘What else have you to do in the village today?'
Sidi
Moha asked me. ‘Why are you looking so anxious?' he added.

‘I am hoping to find company to go to Fez,' I told him.

To my surprise and delight, he mentioned
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout. Bahbout was a known figure in the village, rich and a person of influence. He had a big shop, twice the size of
Sidi
Moha's. He had many children, both boys and girls, and wanted to give some education to his favourite son, Maroine, who was good-looking, articulate, and the most intelligent.

Wasting no time, I stepped into
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout's shop and came upon two men who looked alike, big and well-fed. The only difference between them was one looked younger than the other.

‘May I speak to
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout?' I asked.

‘He is not here!' shouted the tall one.

In fact,
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout was sitting far back in the shop, drinking tea with some men. ‘If
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout is here, I would like to speak with him,' I shouted loudly.

Hearing me, he stepped forward. His long black-and-white beard impressed me. He was wearing white clothes and a brown turban. As I inched closer to him and shook his hand, everybody stopped talking to watch, as though I were about to commit a murder. I knew I had to be quick and precise and said, ‘
Sidi
Hadj, my name is Jusef.
Sidi
Moha told me that your son, Maroine, wants to go to Fez. I am going if he wants to go with me.'

He shook my hand again, firmly this time, and all the other men clambered to follow suit. He asked me to take a seat in an old chair that could have fallen apart at any time and ordered three pots of tea from the coffee shop next door.
It is a good start
, I thought to myself, but I was afraid that he might ask some details, such as how I was going to finance the trip and the schooling, but he didn't. He asked me to come back next week, and his son, Maroine, would be with him.

It was getting late in the afternoon, the sun was setting and the temperature was falling. It had been an extremely hot day and it was past time to go home. It had taken five hours of walking to get to Arkmane from home, crossing several valleys and mountains, and it would take more than five hours to reach home, as I was tired and hungry.

Along the way, I passed two important shrines where men and women went to spend days and nights seeking help.
Sidi
Yahia was a shrine for those who had sight trouble. People sat inside the shrine, close to the grave of
Sidi
Yahia, and shouted for help. They dug the soil from the tomb and sprinkled it around their necks and chests.

The
Sidi
Mimoun shrine was famous as it was believed to be the more potent. People, rich and poor, came from all regions, towns and villages to be exorcised of their demons. The shrine was situated in a beautiful place on a river in a valley full of trees. One could almost be deafened by the carols of different birds.

Possessed men and women were taken there, chained to the trees and left to shout and cry for days. On the way home, I did not want to go past the
Sidi
Mimoun shrine, but it was late and there was no alternative. As I came near, I heard a lot of confused yelling, making my heart sink and palpitate, but I still had to pass the shrine. For a moment, there was complete silence. I thought what I had heard was just normal visitors, but as I approached the shrine, which was on my left, and looked into a wide, open courtyard, I saw two men and one woman chained to the trees. They were far apart, but facing each other. As I slowed and watched, they realised that I was passing. They all jumped and shouted, but were chained by both legs.

‘Son of bitch! Son of bitch! Come and make love!' the woman shouted at me. ‘You will like it! Try it!'

The two men screamed at her, ‘Shut up, you slut! Shut up!'

As I hurried away, they turned to insult each other … and the shrine itself.

Late, I arrived home tired, but with high hopes. Falling asleep almost immediately, I felt the night was very short. Rabbia awakened me in the morning to do the shepherding as Amina was pretending to be ill. ‘Yes,' I said, but then went back to sleep.

As there was no sign of my moving, Rabbia came and shook me again. ‘Get up! It's getting hot, and soon no one will be able to move.'

Disoriented, I got up and threw a few handfuls of water on my face. This helped a bit. Only half awake, I picked up a small stick and whistled to let the cows, sheep and goats know that we were moving. Whistling and whirling the stick in the air was enough to get the attention of all the animals except the donkey. For all the other animals, the stick worked like a magic wand, but the donkey had to feel it. It was turning into an unhappy day. I usually didn't take the donkey with me to the mountains, but that day it was not needed for any work at the house, so I took it to graze with the rest of the animals.

The morning was sunny and warm. High on the mountain, I felt the fresh breeze permeate every cell of my body as though I had been born at that precise moment. Every animal was happy and busy grazing on whatever it could find. The goats were jumping and running everywhere, but the donkey was always standing still. It was midday, the sun was just above my head, and I felt I could reach it if I stretched out my hand. It was time for the animals to quench their thirst. I whistled and signalled the move toward the trough.

The goats and sheep understood the whistle, the time and their need. They raced to the trough, and the goats were ahead. The cows and donkey plodded behind. While the bull was drinking, the donkey arrived and crowded beside it. To my horror, the bull whipped his head to one side and gored the donkey with all its strength, piercing its neck and shoulder with its long, strong, sharp horn. In the blink of an eye, blood spurted from the wound. I ran to see what had happened, and found the shoulder of the donkey split in two. While the donkey was bleeding to death, the bull went back to drinking dirty water full of dead flies and mosquitoes as if nothing had happened. I had no choice but to drive the animals home. The donkey was practically unable to move. I found it crying, tears trickling down its face.

When I arrived home, everybody was shocked; they blamed and criticised me for the bull's aggression. The house was full of opinions and theories. I checked constantly on the donkey, and the deep wound was oozing steadily. It shivered each time I touched its shoulder. Desperate, I went to see Mrs Malani and explained what had happened. Swiftly, she reassured me the donkey would be all right, grabbed a bottle of water and came with me.

The donkey was under the tree, and I took her directly to it. I hoped she would give a prognosis, be it good or bad, but she said nothing. She examined the wound, pressed her finger against the shoulder to see how painful it was, and cleaned it. She gave a good shake to her bottle and sprinkled the liquid all over the wound, then gave me the bottle, and instructed me to sprinkle the liquid over the wound every three hours.

I followed her instruction religiously, hoping and strongly believing the wound would heal and the donkey would recover. Several days passed and there was no change. Then its neck started to swell, followed by the shoulder. Tiny, white worms swarmed all over the wound, and the donkey was not able to stand.