The Stories of Paul Bowles (65 page)

T
HE AID EL KEBIR
would be arriving in a month or so. Each year sheep cost more, Bouayad told Chaouni. This year they’re going to be higher than ever. Why don’t we buy twenty and split the cost? When the holiday comes we’ll split the proceeds.

Chaouni always had some ready cash. He agreed. They went out to Sidi Yamani and bought the animals cheap from a friend of Bouayad’s. They hired a truck to carry them to Tangier. There they put them into a shed at Bouayad’s and went together every day, driving them to graze in the country. The sheep had to be fat and beautiful before the Aid.

One day some soldiers came across the meadow where Bouayad and Chaouni sat watching the sheep. The colonel stopped and looked. Then he went over to Bouayad and asked him if he wanted to sell the sheep.

Maybe, Bouayad said.

The price the colonel offered was exactly what they had been planning to ask in the market. They both thought it would be a good idea to sell them all at once and save themselves the bother of taking them out to pasture every day. The colonel told them to go to his office at the qachla the next morning and he would give them the money. Because he
was well-known they did not question his word. The soldiers drove the sheep ahead of them, and Bouayad and Chaouni were left alone in the meadow.

The next day when Bouayad went to the qachla he discovered that the colonel had been called to Rabat. This news made Chaouni decide to go himself the next day. The colonel was still in Rabat. They took turns going to the qachla.

This continued for several weeks. Finally they learned that the colonel was back in Tangier. Now when they went he was not in his office. They were convinced that the colonel had no intention of paying them.

Bouayad was the kind of man who would not admit to having lost. He went to Chaouni and said: Are you with me? Whatever happens? We get that money or we put him out of commission. Are you with me?

No, Chaouni said. I’ve got a wife and children to think of.

You say good-bye to all that money?

It’s gone. I’m sorry I ever listened to you.

That means whatever I get is mine, said Bouayad.

Yes. And the trouble is yours too. You’ll be lucky if you stay alive.

It’s in the hands of Allah. I’ll get the money or you won’t see me again.

He went to the Amalat and tried to see the secretary of the governor. The guards refused to let him in. At this point luck began to shine on Bouayad. As he ranted to the guards in front of the office door a man walked past and stopped to listen. Then he spoke to Bouayad. They went outside and Bouayad recounted his tale. The man said: I can help you. Go tomorrow morning to the king’s palace at Sidi Amar.

Bouayad did not understand what connection the man could have with the palace, but he trusted him because he had a serious face. The next morning he went up to Sidi Amar and stepped through the open gate. Immediately he was surrounded by soldiers. They asked him again and again why he had walked through the gate. He tried to tell them about the sheep and the appointment he had made the day before outside the Amalat, but they would not stop yanking him this way and that.

Here is where Bouayad’s luck became greater than seems possible. The king does not spend even one day a year in Tangier, but he had come from Rabat the day before. Not only was he in residence; he was in the garden not far from the gate, and he saw the commotion. He beckoned
to the soldiers to let go of Bouayad so he could approach and present his case.

The king listened until he had finished. Then he told Bouayad to wait, and went down to the palace. As he stood in the garden a man in the uniform of the royal guard walked past Bouayad and smiled at him. He recognized him then as the one who had told him to come to the palace. Later a servant brought out a letter signed by the king, with the instructions that he go to Tetuan and present the letter to the official whose name was on the envelope.

Bouayad did not even stop off at home for lunch. He went straight to the Avenida de España and, sharing a taxi with three others, set out for Tetuan.

Again he was not allowed in. Nor did he trust anyone sufficiently to show him the letter. For several hours he stayed there, insisting that he had a highly secret message that must be delivered to the official by him personally. Finally they allowed him to go inside.

The official took the letter and read it. Then he went into the adjoining room for a moment and returned with the cash for the full amount. Bouayad thanked him.

He went back to Tangier in a state of elation. After his family, the first person he told was Chaouni.

I’m back, he said, and that means I’ve got the money.

All of it? Chaouni could not believe it.

That’s right.

Chaouni said nothing. The next day he went to see Bouayad. I’ve been thinking. You’ve got my money too.

Your money? You said good-bye to it. Remember?

Chaouni went home. It was not long before he started a lawsuit against Bouayad, demanding not only his share but Bouayad’s as well. When the case was heard, Bouayad was allowed to keep his share. Out of the other half Chaouni was forced to pay a heavy lawyer’s fee and Bouayad’s fare both to and back from Tetuan.

(1980)

T
HE LITTLE HOUSE
had been built sixty or seventy years ago on the main street of what had been a village several miles outside the town; now the town had crept up on all sides. Originally there had been only the ground floor, but at some point an extra room had been added above the kitchen. In clear weather from one window of the upstairs room it was still possible to see the line of distant mountains to the southwest. It was here that Lalla Aïcha liked to sit, running her fingers over the beads of her chaplet while she considered how greatly her life had changed since her son had brought her to the town to stay with him. Somewhere behind the mountains was the valley where she had passed her life. She did not expect to see it again.

At first she had felt that moving to the town was a great triumph for her, but now she was not certain. It was true that the food was better, and there was plenty of it, but the house was very small, and she felt cramped living in it. Privately she was sorry that Sadek had not found a better wife than Fatoma, even though Fatoma’s parents owned a large house not far away. It seemed to her that in return for having married their useless daughter, Sadek might have been offered a part of their house to live
in. They all could have lived there easily, without getting in each other’s way. But when she mentioned it to Sadek, he merely laughed.

The young people had been married for more than a year, and there was no sign of a child, a circumstance which Lalla Aïcha blamed on the girl, unaware that the couple had agreed to start a family only when they had some money set aside for the purpose.

As for Fatoma, she had been nervous and unhappy since the day Lalla Aïcha had moved in with them. The old woman was particular about her food, and found constant fault with Fatoma’s method of keeping house. Whatever the girl happened to be doing, Lalla Aïcha would stand watching her closely, then shake her head and say: That’s not the way we did it in my day, when Moulay Youssef was alive. She felt that Fatoma was too casual about serving Sadek’s dinner to him when he came in from work.

Why should he have to wait half an hour before he can eat? she demanded. Why don’t you have everything ready so you can bring in the taifor as soon as you hear him come in? He’s too good to you, that’s the trouble, and you take advantage of his easy nature.

Then Lalla Aïcha would get Sadek aside and tell him how much Fatoma disliked her and how insultingly she treated her. She won’t take me out for a walk, and she won’t let me go to market with her. I like to get out once in a while, but I can’t go by myself. And the other day when she took me to the doctor’s, she went so fast I couldn’t catch my breath. I know, she wishes I were dead, that’s all.

Sadek laughed and said: You’re crazy.

Ever since the older woman had moved in with them, Fatoma had been trying to persuade her to discard her haïk and wear a djellaba like other women of the town, but Lalla Aïcha disapproved strongly of djellabas on women, saying that Moulay Youssef would surely have forbidden such a shameless custom. For Fatoma the haïk was an emblem of rusticity; above all she did not want to be taken for a girl from the country. It filled her with shame to walk in the street beside a tottering old woman in a haïk.

Each time she could slip it into the conversation, Fatoma reminded Lalla Aïcha that she had been given the best room in the house. They both knew this was not the case. True, it had more windows and better light than the room where the married couple slept. But it was upstairs,
and with each heavy rain the roof sprang new leaks, while Sadek and Fatoma were snug in a room near the kitchen.

Neither of them was sure enough of her position in the household to risk a show of open hostility; each had the fear that Sadek might unaccountably side with the other. Thus they were quiet in his presence, and life in the house continued with relative tranquility.

For a long time Lalla Aïcha had been aware that a fleshy growth was developing in the middle of her spine, although she had mentioned it to no one. One day as he helped her rise from the floor where she had been sitting, Sadek felt the bulbous object beneath her clothing, and cried out in surprise. It was not an easy matter to persuade her to see a doctor, but Sadek was determined, and eventually had his way. The doctor advised prompt removal of the tumor, and set a date for the operation.

During the days immediately prior to her hospitalization the old woman fretted. She had heard that the anaesthetic was something to be dreaded, she was afraid she might bleed to death, and she made it very clear that she had no faith in Nazarene medicines.

It’s all right, Sadek told her. You’re going to be fine.

The night before she was to leave, Sadek and Fatoma sat in their room discussing the probable cost of the operation. Lalla Aïcha had gone upstairs and was getting her things together to be packed.

All the money I’ve saved trying to make cheap meals, Fatoma said with bitterness.

If it were your own mother you wouldn’t feel that way, he told her.

She did not answer. There was a knock at the door. Lalla Halima, an elderly woman who lived across the street, had come to call on Lalla Aïcha and bid her good-bye.

She’s upstairs, said Fatoma listlessly. Sighing and groaning, the woman mounted the staircase, and Sadek and Fatoma continued their unhappy discussion.

In the morning after Lalla Aïcha had gone to the hospital, and Sadek and Fatoma were having breakfast, Sadek looked around the room. It seems different, having her gone, doesn’t it?

It’s quiet, said Fatoma.

He turned quickly to her. I know you don’t like having her here. I know she makes you nervous. But she’s my mother.

Fatoma assumed an injured air. I only said it was quiet, and it is.

That afternoon when Sadek came home from work, Fatoma handed him a large basket. He lifted it. It’s heavy, he said.

Take it to your mother in the hospital. It’s a tajine with lemon, still hot.

It was his mother’s favorite dish. By Allah, she’s going to be very happy! he said, and he kissed Fatoma, happy that she should have gone to such trouble.

When he got to the hospital the doors were locked. He tapped on the glass. A guard came who told him that visiting hours were over, and that in any case no food from outside could be taken in. Sadek cajoled, pleaded, threatened, but it had no result. The guard shut the door, leaving him on the steps with the basket.

Both he and Fatoma heartily disliked tajine with lemon, so that he saw no purpose in carrying it back home. It would be a sin to waste it; someone must eat it while it was hot. Then he thought of Fatoma’s parents, who lived just down the street from the hospital. They liked the old-fashioned dishes, and would surely appreciate being brought a fresh tajine.

He found Fatoma’s mother in the kitchen, greeted her, and took the pot out of the basket. Here’s a tajine Fatoma just made, he told her.

She burst into smiles. Si Mohammed’s going to be very happy when he sees what we’re going to eat tonight, she said.

Early the following morning, before Sadek had eaten his breakfast, there was a great banging on the door. The two police officers who stood outside seized him and without allowing him to say good-bye to Fatoma, forced him into a jeep.

His mystification did not last long. At the comisaría they confronted him with the basket and the pot, which still had a good amount of the tajine in it. He was made to understand that the food was full of poison, and that his mother-in-law was dead. Si Mohammed, who lay in the hospital, had accused him of her murder.

At that point only one thought occupied Sadek’s mind: Fatoma had tried to kill his mother. Confused by the lengthy questioning, he muttered aloud some of his inward preoccupations; these scraps caught the attention of the police.

Allah has punished her! She meant to kill mine, and she killed her own.

They soon learned that he was talking about his wife, but placed no
credence in his account until the hospital guard had been called in and had verified it. The man remembered Sadek very distinctly, he said, because he had been so annoyingly insistent upon getting the food delivered to his mother.

They sent for Fatoma. She was overcome by the news of her mother’s death, and stunned by Sadek’s sudden arrest. Her replies were inarticulate beyond her admission that she had given Sadek the basket with the pot of tajine in it, and told him to take it to the hospital. She was locked into a cell.

Several weeks passed before the trial was held. Lalla Aïcha had been discharged from the hospital and gone home to find the empty house. She received the bad news about Sadek and Fatoma with no show of emotion, save that she shook her head and murmured: It was written.

She doesn’t understand what has happened, they whispered behind her back. It’s too much for her, poor thing.

They brought her food each day so she would not have to go to the market. Instead of climbing up to her room to sleep, Lalla Aïcha installed herself downstairs in the matrimonial bedroom, explaining to the neighbors that by the time Sadek and Fatoma came home she would be entirely recovered from her operation, and could then climb the stairs with more ease.

She still doesn’t realize, they told one another.

At the trial Fatoma testified that she had given Sadek the basket with the food in it, but that she knew nothing about any poison.

Yet you admit that the tajine came from your kitchen.

Of course, said Fatoma. I was there while the old woman was making it. The afternoon before she went to the hospital she put everything together the way she likes her tajine. She told me to cook it the next day and have Sadek take it to her in the hospital.

This struck the court as an unlikely tale. It was decided to adjourn and call in Lalla Aïcha at the next session.

The old woman arrived on the witness stand entirely covered in her haïk. She was asked to remove it from around her head so they could hear what she was saying. Then they were startled to hear her declare with a note of pride in her voice that indeed she had made the tajine with her own hands. Yes, yes, she said. I like to use lots of marinated lemons.

And what else did you put into it? the qadi asked in a deceptively gentle voice.

Lalla Aïcha began the recital of a list of ingredients. Then she stopped and said: Do you want the whole recipe?

Everyone laughed. The qadi called for silence, and fixing her with a baleful stare, said: I see. We have a humorist with us. Sit down. We’ll come back to you later.

Lalla Aïcha sat and looked into her lap, murmuring as she told the beads on her chaplet. The qadi glared at her from time to time, incensed by her unconcern. He was waiting for a report from some special police who had been left behind in Sadek’s house when Lalla Aïcha had been brought in. It came soon enough. Upstairs in her closet among her clothes they had come across a half-empty container of the same ratkiller that had been found in the tajine.

The qadi’s expression was triumphant when he next called Lalla Aïcha to the stand. In his left hand he held a tin box which he shook in front of her face. Have you ever seen this box? he demanded.

Lalla Aïcha did not hesitate. Of course I’ve seen it. It belongs to me. That’s what I used in the tajine.

The sound of whispering moved through the chamber: the spectators had decided that the old woman was feeble-minded. For an instant the qadi’s eyes and mouth opened wide. Then he frowned.

Ah, you admit that it was you who put the poison into the tajine?

Lalla Aïcha sighed. I asked you if you wanted the recipe, and you didn’t. I put half a kilo of lemons in. It covers up the taste of the powder.

Go on, said the qadi, looking fixedly at her.

That was special food for me, she continued, a note of indignation in her voice. Not for anybody else. It was medicine. You don’t think I was going to eat it, do you? I wanted to let the poison in the tajine draw out the poison in my body.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, the qadi told her.

You put it into your mouth and spit it out. Then you put more in and spit it out, and keep doing it, and you wash your mouth out with water in between. That’s an old medicine from my tchar. It gets rid of all the poison.

Don’t you know you killed a woman with your nonsense?

Lalla Aïcha shook her head. No, no. It was written, that’s all.

From another part of the chamber came Fatoma’s shrill voice: Lies! It’s not true! She knew they weren’t going to let the food in! She knew before she went to the hospital!

Fatoma was silenced. The qadi, nevertheless, made a note, and the following day when she was called to the witness stand, he asked her to elaborate. As a result of Fatoma’s tale, they next called in Lalla Halima, the neighbor from across the street. She too had to be asked to loosen her haik, which she did with visible distaste.

Two, maybe three days before Lalla Aïcha was going to leave for the hospital, I went to see her. I wanted to be good to her, so I said: I’m going to have my daughter make some cabrozels and maybe some mrozeiya, and take them around to you in the hospital. She said:That’s very kind of you, but it’s no use. They have a new law, so the doctor told me, and they don’t let anything in from the outside. So I had my daughter make some cabrozels anyway, and I took them to her myself the night before she went. I thought maybe she could wrap her clothes around them and put them into her bag, and they wouldn’t see them.

That’s all, said the qadi, making a gesture of dismissal. His eyes glittered as he said to Lalla Aïcha: And now what are you going to tell me?

I’ve told you everything, she said calmly. I was very busy trying to get my medicine made, and I forgot they wouldn’t let it in. I’m an old woman. It went out of my head.

There was a commotion in one corner of the hall as Fatoma screamed: She didn’t forget! She knew Sadek would leave it at my mother’s!

Fatoma was hustled out of the court, still shouting and struggling. Lalla Aïcha stood quietly, waiting to be addressed. The qadi merely looked at her, an expression of doubt on his face.