The Boy Who The Set Fire and Other Stories Page 5

  Yes, I said, I will.

  He took his wife to Malaga and left her in the hospital there. By the time he got back to Tangier I had my passport. A few months later he went to see her. He wanted me to go with him, but I was feeling sick. At the hospital the doctor told him that his wife was much better and could leave at any time. She was not really well, but he decided to take her up to Granada, where there was an English family he knew. They had a large house and were willing to let her stay with them if he paid for her room and food. He explained to them that he could not take her home because every time she got to Tangier she fell sick again. He left his wife with them, and came back to Tangier.

  A few days later the telephone rang. One of the English women was saying that he must come right away to Granada and get his wife. We can’t take care of her, she said. We can’t have her in the house. And you knew very well we couldn’t have her. You come here and get her. We’re very angry with you, and we’ll talk to you when you get here.

  Mr. James tried to say: How is my wife? But the English woman had hung up. He did not understand what had happened.

  Will you come with me this time? he asked me, and I said yes, I would go with him.

  We left on a Tuesday, and got to Malaga that night. The next morning we were up early. Mr. James wanted to go to the hospital and see if they had an empty room for his wife. The doctor said there was one, and that he could bring her back if he liked. We went to an agency that rented cars and asked them what they had. There were only three cars: a Séat, a Simca and a Renault. I went outside to look at them, and chose the Séat. As we went back into the office the telephone rang and the girl answered it.

  The Séat is rented, she said when she came over to the counter. I just rented it. And she pointed to the telephone. I was angry, but I was a foreigner there and couldn’t say anything. So now which one do you want? she asked me.

  I’ll take the Renault, I said. We paid and took the car’s papers. First we drove to a restaurant and had lunch. Then we went to the hotel and paid the bill and put the luggage into the car.

  We started out. Halfway up into the mountains the brakes started slipping. I did not want to say anything about it to Mr. James because he might worry. It was very hot and sunny. When we got to Granada the air was full of dust. We found our way up to the Albaicin. I parked and we got out. We knocked on the door. A girl opened it. She was about seventeen and had blond hair. She told us to come in, and was sat down in the bar.

  Mr. James asked if he could see the girl’s aunt. She did not answer, and so he said: How is Mrs. James?

  What will you have to drink? she asked him. Beer or whiskey?

  I’d like to see your aunt, he told her.

  She looked at me. And you? she said. Won’t you have something? Some beer?

  I don’t drink, I said. I’ll take a glass of water.

  She brought a glass of water for me and a Coca Cola for Mr. James. We sat down and drank, and then he started up the stairs to see his wife. I went up behind him. The two English women were with her in her room. We went in and she kissed her husband first. Then she kissed me. I saw the two English women look at each other and I knew they hated all three of us.

  We went downstairs and out into the garden, the Americans and the two English women and I. Mr. James began to talk with his wife. He wanted to know how she felt, and whether she liked the place where she had been staying. After a while I got up and began to pull dead leaves out of the flower pots. Everything was falling to pieces and covered with dust.

  One of the women came over to where I stood and said: That’s nice of you. We haven’t had time to make any repairs. We just bought the house a little while ago. Come. I want to show you the garden in the patio. Do you like plants? We were climbing up the steps to go into the patio.

  It’s my work, I said. Every kind of plant. That’s a big garden there, and you have a fine view from it.

  That building you saw over there on the other side of the valley belonged to the Moslems once. She looked at me. Are you their chauffeur?

  Yes, I said.

  Where are you from?

  From the Rif.

  The Riffians are good people, she said. We looked at the flowers, and then she went up the stairs that led to the gallery, and I went back to the garden and sat down with the Americans. After a while the husband of one of the English women came into the garden. He was a heavy bald man with a little pointed beard. He was carrying an open book in front of him, looking down at it as he walked. He offered me a cigarette and I took it. The first thing he said to me was: What part of the Rif are you from?

  I’m from Temsaman.

  That’s a fine country, he said. I’ve lived for a long time in the Rif, and seen some of Temsaman.

  I was surprised to hear that. You have? I said.

  I speak a little Riffian.

  His wife came out then. What will you have to drink? she asked me.

  I said I didn’t want anything. She brought me Coca Cola. The Englishman went to the bar to put more whiskey into his glass. His wife was telling the Americans about a doctor she knew. She said his office was not far, and she would take them to see him, because he might give Mrs. James some medicine to make her sleep.

  A little later we started out. I helped Mrs. James walk to the car, with my arm around her, and I put her in front with me. Mr. James and the English woman sat in the back. The streets were narrow and there were holes in the pavement. Finally we arrived at the doctor’s office. I had an empty bottle of vitamins in my pocket, and I wanted to buy another like it.

  I found a pharmacy and asked for the pills. They looked, and came back and said they did not have them. All right, I said. Give me two cans of talcum powder. As he handed me the change I saw him staring at my feet, because I was wearing Moroccan belrha. I carried the parcel to the car and locked it in. Then I went back into the waiting-room and spoke to Mr. James.

  Still waiting?

  That’s right.

  I’m going out and get a cup of coffee, I told him.

  As I walked along the street all the Spaniards looked at me. I went into a café and said: Buenas tardes to the men inside, but nobody answered. They only frowned at me. I asked for a café con leche.

  The man brought a cup of something that a dog wouldn’t have taken. How much? I asked him.

  Three pesetas.

  I held up the coffee and poured it out so that it fell near my feet. Then I pulled out ten pesetas and tossed them over the counter onto the floor. The man leaned over, picked up the money and put it into his pocket. I stood in the doorway, looked at everybody in the café, and laughed. I decided to go back to the doctor’s office.

  You’re still here?

  Still waiting.

  I took a chair from the waiting-room and carried it outside to the street, where I put it in front of the door. Then I sat watching the people walk by. Beside me there was a glass table with a pot of flowers on it. In the corner stood two big pots with palms in them. On the front of the building there were several colored pictures of Jesus Christ, made of tiles.

  After a while I got up and went inside again. The English woman began to ask me questions.

  Where were you born?

  Who? Me?

  Yes. You.

  In the Rif.

  Which part?

  I was born in Temsaman.

  I’ve heard it’s a nice place, she said.

  It’s good to people who are good to it, I told her. She looked at me.

  But it’s not so good for the others.

  She sniffed. All Riffians are like that, she said.

  Yes. You have to treat them carefully. A lot of people don’t understand them, so they say they’re no good.

  My husband and I lived in the Rif. We liked the people. They’re very different from city people, she said.

  City people are modern, but the Riffians are strong. They have another life, a different world.

  Suddenly she said: What do you thi
nk about the trouble in Israel? What about Egypt and Jordan? Why don’t they get together and finish off Israel?

  That’s none of my business, I said. I don’t understand anything about those things.

  Then she said: I heard on the BBC that Egypt is going to let the Jews stay in Israel.

  If Egypt lets the Jews stay in Israel, Franco will have to let the Moroccans have Andalucia, I told her.

  She stopped talking. What’s the matter? I asked her.

  Nothing, she said quickly, and shut her mouth. At that moment the doctor came out, and all three of the Nazarenes went with him into his office.

  I walked out into the street, and went into a small store nearby to buy a bar of chocolate. Then I sat in the Renault and ate half the bar. Mr. James came out of the office with his wife and the English woman, and they got into the car. As we were driving through the Albaicin on our way up to the house, a Spanish boy on a bicycle who was playing with some others steered it right in front of us. When he saw the car so near to him, he was frightened and fell off the bicycle. I had to put on the brakes very hard.

  Why don’t you look where you’re going? I asked him.

  And who are you? he cried.

  I got out of the car. If I’d killed you it would have been my fault, I told him. And why don’t you show a little respect? Don’t try to look so tough.

  A man came up. Why are you talking to the boy? he demanded.

  You saw what happened, I told him. And what difference does it make to you if I talk to him?

  He’s a relative of mine.

  Then two more arrived. The English woman jumped out of the back of the car, got in front, slammed the door, and drove off, up the hill.

  In another minute I was in the middle of thirty Spaniards, all talking at once. I yelled at them: I shit on your ancestors and your whole race! I kept walking along, pushing through them. Barking dogs don’t bite, I told them. A very fat woman came by. She called me a moro, and I called her a Christian pig. There was a man without legs, sitting in a wheelchair on the sidewalk. He called me a dirty moro, and I said: Gracias. I don’t like to insult people without legs. You’re the champion. You win.

  I got up to the house, and went in through the patio and out into the garden. I sat down near the Englishman, who was in a chair under a tree, reading.

  What happened? he wanted to know.

  Nothing. I was talking to some Spaniards.

  Have something to drink, he told me. I ordered a Coca Cola, and he offered me a cigarette.

  I’d like to talk to you, he said. About you and about the Rif.

  Why? I mean, I want to know why you want to know about me.

  I just want to ask about some things I don’t know, he said.

  I see. You’re writing a book, and you need to know those things before you can finish it. Is that right?

  No.

  I can’t tell you anything, I said. You see, I’m writing a book about the Rif myself. I need to know some things too before I can finish mine.

  I’m not writing a book, said the Englishman. And I’m not trying to find out any secrets. I only want to know what the Temsaman country is like. What have they got there, and what do they do?

  What would they have? They have just what everybody else has.

  And their saints? Sidi Bouchaib?

  Yes, I said.

  The hundred and one saints?

  Yes.

  He had drunk a lot of whiskey, but when his wife called to him from the bar he heard her. He got up and walked away.

  Mr. James and his wife were upstairs. I smoked several cigarettes. Finally I stood up and began to walk around the garden, pulling off the dead leaves.

  The sister of the English woman came out and saw me. Do you like plants? she asked.

  I like them, and I feel sorry for these, I told her. They don’t get any care.

  We take care of everything, she said. We give all the plants water regularly.

  Of course. But that’s not enough. You have to loosen the soil around them and keep it loose. You can’t just pour water on.

  Yes, yes. We’re going to get around to all that, she said. We’ll take care of everything little by little. We have no money. We’ve got to make some money from that bar before we can paint the house and arrange the garden. There are many things we haven’t done yet. Later.

  Of course you need money to paint, I said. But it doesn’t take money to keep plants healthy.

  I know. But we’d have to have a gardener. Excuse me, she said, and walked away.

  It was just half past eight, and I was getting hungry. One of the English women was with Mrs. James, and the other was with Mr. James, and they were both talking about me, telling them that I was the bad kind of Riffian, the kind that always looks for trouble wherever he goes. I walked up and down in the hallway outside the two rooms and heard them talking. Finally I was so hungry I went down to the bar where the girl was serving drinks to some Spanish people who had come in from the street.

  Can you give me six skewers of meat, please? I said.

  She went out and came back with one skewer. That’s all we have, she told me.

  After a while they all went into the dining-room upstairs, and Mrs. James saw that the table was laid for six people instead of seven.

  Haven’t you laid a place for our driver? she said.

  Why doesn’t he eat downstairs? said the English woman. He’d be happier there.

  No, no! He always eats with us.

  The English woman came down into the bar and said: Come upstairs.

  I went up and sat with the Nazarenes. The servants brought the soup and I did not take any. The main course was chicken with potatoes. I turned my plate upside down. I did not want to eat because I was afraid. They had a black cook from Marrakech. When I had first seen her, my heart had tried to escape from her. I did not trust her at all.

  Mrs. James kept saying to me: You must eat. Why aren’t you eating?

  I don’t want anything.

  The English woman said: Oh, so you don’t want to eat? Why not?

  My stomach hurts. Besides, I had a pinchito downstairs, and it filled me up.

  She did not say anything. The meal was not a meal. The servant brought the fruit. Two pieces of melon and four cherries for each person. And they looked as if they had been waiting for a month in the icebox.

  When the Nazarenes had finished eating, they began to smoke cigarettes. A small boy came in. He was the son of the cook. Do you want coffee? he asked me in Arabic. A little coffee, and lots of milk, I said.

  After I had drunk my coffee, Mr. and Mrs. James and I went out into the garden. We sat down around a table and looked across at the Moroccan palace on the other side of the valley. They had spotlights turned on it so it would look like a postcard. We could see all the lights of Granada below. The day had been very hot, but the night was cool. Mr. James and his wife were talking together, and I was thinking only of those four English people in the house, the man and his wife, and the sister with her daughter. I could see that they had a terrible life there.

  In a little while some drunken Spaniards came out into the garden. One of them leaned against the wall, and a woman came and put her arms around his neck and began to kiss him. Then they would talk, and then kiss some more. This went on for nearly an hour.

  Later the two English women came out. We were wondering where you were, they said, looking at Mr. James, and I could see that they had just been talking about him. Then they went back into the house. A friend of the two who were kissing came and took them into the bar. I was thinking that the English women were crazy. On the telephone they had said they were very angry, but when Mr. James was there with them they talked and joked with him as if they were his friends.

  I’m sleepy, I told Mr. and Mrs. James. I’m going to bed. I went upstairs to the room where they had put me. It had a sewing-machine in it, and there were piles of old sheets and towels lying around. I had to go through Mr. James’s room to get int
o it. I pulled the spread off the bed the woman had told me was mine. There was a dirty blanket under the spread, and no sheets. The mattress was very old and filthy. Then I looked at the second bed. It had one sheet. I lay down on the bed they had given me, but I could not sleep. The room was over the bar, and there was flamenco noise and loud dancing going on. I lay on one side and the other, and on my back, and people cried: Olé! and all the time I was wondering if I would ever get to sleep.

  A little later I heard footsteps, and someone opened the door of my room. I saw the Englishman’s wife come in. She was holding one hand behind her. She’s got a knife, I said to myself, and she’s coming to use it on me. She walked toward my bed, and I was getting ready for her. Then I saw her other hand. There was nothing in it. But she kept coming, until she was beside the bed. Then she bent over and picked up a roll of electric cord that was lying on the floor. I decided that she was going to pass the wire behind my head and try to strangle me with it. I reached out and pushed away the hand that was holding the wire. She was startled. It’s all right. It’s all right, she said. Go to sleep.

  She carried the wire with her out of the room and shut the door. I sat up and smoked a cigarette. The noise down in the bar went on and on. No matter what I did, I couldn’t fall asleep.

  Finally the people left and they shut the bar. It was quiet for a few minutes. Then I heard a very loud bang, and voices in Mr. James’s room. I jumped out of bed, and opened the door. I found the two English women, both very drunk, standing over Mr. James’s bed, yelling at him. He had bolted his door, and between them they had broken it open.

  Mr. James was sitting on his bed in his pyjamas with his head in his hands. Get up! they were saying. We’re ready to talk to you now. He looked at his watch. But it’s after three, he said. I want to sleep.

  Ah, you want to sleep! They began to laugh very loud. But you’re not going to sleep! You think you can just lock your door and go to bed? Put your clothes on, and come outside. We want to talk to you.

  Get out of here, you Riffian! Go back into your room and shut the door! cried the mother of the girl.