The Boy Who The Set Fire and Other Stories Page 7

  Do you want me to bash your head in?

  She stopped talking and merely sobbed. Mehdi threw some money on the table and went out. He walked straight down to Bnider. Aicha Riffiya was waiting for him in the street.

  Labess.

  Labess. Come on in.

  Mehdi went in, and they sat on piles of cushions in an inner room. Aicha Riffiya was very lively. Let’s have a celebration tonight. she said.

  They ordered wine and cognac, and started to drink. What with the kif and the cognac, Mehdi began to feel happy. Aicha Riffiya was waiting for this time, so that she could bring out what she wanted to give him and slip it into his glass.

  When she had emptied the powder into the glass, she filled it with cognac and gave it back to him. Mehdi spent the night with Aicha Riffiya and went to work in the morning. The kitchen seemed hotter than usual. He felt a great weight inside him, and his head was swimming. Then he fell to the floor in the middle of the kitchen.

  They took him to the British Hospital and the doctor gave him medicine through needles. I can’t see anything the matter with this young man, said the doctor. His body is in perfect condition.

  At the hospital there was a Moslem who had worked there for many years, ever since his childhood. When the old man looked at Mehdi, he shook his head and said: That boy has eaten tsoukil. He should be given very old oil.

  The man himself went and got the oil, and took it to Mehdi in the hospital. When Mehdi was taken home the next day in an ambulance, he went along, carrying the oil.

  After a week or so Mehdi was well. The day he got up, his wife said to him: What did you find when you opened your eyes? Who was sitting beside your bed? The whores you spend your nights with, or your wife?

  It’s the last time, said Mehdi. I’m never going to do it again.

  When Mehdi’s son was fifteen, he too began to go to Bnider, and he got to know all of his father’s friends there. By then he had heard the story of what Aicha Riffiya had done to his father. One day he invited some friends to his mahal on the Hafa. They brought along some whores with them. The oldest whore was Aicha Riffiya. After everyone was drunk, the boy stood up and said: My father was handsome and he owned a diamond. That was my mother. And you, Aicha Riffiya, wanted to kill him because one night he went off with another whore like you. But he didn’t die.

  And the boy rushed at her, and pulled off her pants, and wrenched open her legs, and burned her with the Lucky Strike he was smoking. They all laughed while she screamed. Then two of his friends got up and stopped him. That’s enough, they told him. The cigarette is broken, anyway.

  Aicha Riffiya was not able to walk for two weeks. When Mehdi heard of it, he said: I never paid her back, but my son did. He’s a good boy.

  BAHLOUL

  THERE WAS A YOUNG MAN they called Bahloul, who lived alone with his mother. His father had left home when he was four years old. Since then his mother had cared for him, working in the house of some Nazarenes. When he was ten, she had bought a small house with a patch of land around it. Now, she said, at last I can relax. I’ve got my own house, and if I should die, you’d have a place to live, aoulidi.

  I wish I knew where my father was, said Bahloul.

  If he’s still alive, he’ll come back to find you, she told him. Or if he’s dead, we’ll see him when we all go before Allah.

  When Bahloul was fifteen, his mother fell ill and took to her bed. He was overcome by anxiety. There was no one else in the house, and he stayed home from school to take care of her.

  Then the Nazarenes she worked for came to see her, and they called an ambulance and had her taken to the hospital. For three months she stayed there, while Bahloul lived at home by himself. He did not go back to school, but instead sat with his friends in a café. And when he went home at night he would take another boy along with him to sleep there, so that he would not be so afraid. Then he grew used to smoking kif, which he enjoyed every time.

  One morning an ambulance drew up in front of the house. Two internes jumped down and took out a stretcher from the back. They asked Bahloul if this was the house where the sick woman lived.

  I’m her son, he said.

  Your mother’s dead, they told him. May she stay with Allah.

  Bahloul began to cry. The neighbors came and comforted him. Don’t cry. It’s bad. And you’re a man now.

  They carried her inside and laid her on the bed. Bahloul took the key to the box where she had kept her money, and opened it. He pulled out a little money and locked the box again. Then he went out of the house and down to the city. On the way he met his friend Zizi. Where are you off to?

  I’ve got to go and buy a kfin for my mother before I take her to the cemetery.

  Shall I go with you?

  Let’s go.

  They went down to the city, and Bahloul bought the kfin, five meters long, and rose water, sandalwood and bakhour. And he bought many figs and loaves of bread. Then they walked back to the house, left everything inside, and went to the mosque.

  Bahloul asked the fqih if he would bring some tolba at the hour of the evening prayer, to chant for his mother. The fqih said he would.

  To Zizi he said: Tell your mother to get some couscous ready. He and Zizi went and bought all the ingredients: the meat, vegetables and spices, and took them to her, and she prepared the couscous. At twilight the fqih arrived at Bahloul’s house with all the tolba.

  Bahloul showed them into a room, and they began to chant the Koran. Every corner of the house smelled of sandalwood, and the smoke poured out into the street. The tolba stayed until the dawn prayer. Then they all filed out and walked to the mosque to pray together.

  In the morning two women came to Bahloul’s house and washed his mother. And they dressed her all in white and prepared her for the cemetery. The tolba returned to the house. They put her onto a litter and carried her out.

  At that moment Bahloul felt again like crying. But instead he began to laugh. He walked behind the litter to the cemetery, and watched them bury his mother. Afterward he gave the bread and the dates to the people waiting there in the cemetery. This was his sadaqa.

  Three days later Bahloul asked Zizi’s mother to make couscous again. This time he needed a great quantity of it. When it was ready he carried it to the cemetery, and to the mosque, and to his own house. The tolba came again to chant and eat couscous. Then it was all over.

  In the morning when he got up, Bahloul went straight to the café. Make me a glass of tea, he said to the qahouaji. Then he ran out and bought some pastries to eat with the tea. Make me another tea, he said. He pulled out a small sebsi and his mottoui, and smoked.

  An elderly man named Ali came in.

  Good morning, Uncle Ali, said Bahloul.

  Bahloul, my son!

  Ali, can you sell me some aghrebia? The kind you always make? The time I tried them I thought they were fine.

  Ouakha, my son. If you want some, I’ll make them.

  How much will it cost?

  It’s a little expensive now, Ali said.

  How much?

  I can make a few, maybe twenty or thirty, Ali began.

  No. More. How much for fifty?

  That would cost you three hundred pesetas.

  Bahloul pulled the money out of his pocket. Here you are. Make them a little hard, can you?

  If they’re hard I’ll get only forty out of it. Anyway, it’ll be one batch, and no more.

  Ouakha, Uncle Ali. Bahloul took out another twenty-five pesetas and gave it to him. Here’s a tip for you.

  Ali took the money, and Bahloul got up, paid for the teas, and went out. From the café he walked to Sidi Boukhari. On the way he met Zizi, who wanted to know where he was going.

  I thought I’d go down to the city and look around for a half a kilo of kif.

  Let’s go. I’ll go with you, said Zizi.

  In the Medina they found the kif, and Bahloul bought half a kilo and the tobacco that came with it. When they walked into the Zoco de Fuera th
ey saw the Nazarenes in whose house Bahloul’s mother had worked. The Nazarenes called out to Bahloul. He went over and spoke to them.

  We’ve been twice to your house to look for you, they told him. But both times you were out. Can you come to our house on the Mountain tomorrow? We want very much to see you. We’re going away.

  All right, said Bahloul. I’ll see you tomorrow.

  The two boys went back to Bahloul’s house. Since his mother had fallen ill he had arranged one of the rooms for himself the way he wanted it, with five stuffed owls on the wall and four sheepskins on the floor. He put some water on to boil. Then he and Zizi sat down to pull the leaves and dry parts from the kif stalks, leaving only the bunches of flowers. Bahloul prepared the tea and poured it, and the two began to smoke.

  As they were smoking, Bahloul suddenly said: Zizi, I want to buy a store. My poor mother left a little money behind. If I go on spending it, it’ll be finished and I’ll have nothing. You know me. I have no trade. I can’t do anything.

  Why not have a shop? said Zizi. You know how to buy and sell.

  Yes, that’s what I’ll do.

  When they had finished preparing and cutting the kif, each one filled his mottoui with the fresh mixture.

  Where do you want to go now? Bahloul asked Zizi.

  Why don’t we sit a while in the café?

  The café. Always the café, complained Bahloul. Why can’t we go and see a movie?

  Ouakha, if you like.

  They walked down to the Zoco de Fuera, and went into the Joteya to a café that belonged to El Amartsi. They sat down and called to him. Bring us two black coffees, Moroccan style. They smoked, and talked with the other clients about istiamar, which was what everyone discussed in those days when the French ruled Morocco.

  When evening came, they walked down the Calle de Italia to where the cinemas are. Finally they chose the Capitol, because there was a film showing the war between America and Germany. They enjoyed seeing the part about Hitler when he was a boy.

  Zizi, that’s what we’ve got to do to France some day. If we want to get her out of here we’ve got to make a war like that, Bahloul whispered.

  When the film was over they decided to go to a bacal. They bought bread and a can of tunafish, and made sandwiches. On the way to Bahloul’s house they passed a café in the neighborhood that was still open, and went in. They ordered tea to drink with the sandwiches. Then they went to the house. One of them slept on one mtarrba, and the other on another, and the night passed.

  In the morning Zizi, before washing or eating, filled his kif-pipe and began to smoke.

  Zizi, that’s bad for you. You’ve got to eat something first. Then smoke, and it won’t hurt you. Not like that.

  I’m used to it, Zizi told him. Remember, I’m seventeen. When he had smoked four pipes he got up and washed his face. Then they went out together to a café, and Bahloul bought ten pastries. Zizi could eat only two of them because he had been smoking, and Bahloul ate the rest, and ordered an extra glass of tea.

  Your stomach is shut, Bahloul told Zizi.

  While they sat there Ali came into the café. He had a large box in his hand with the forty aghrebia in it. Here are your forty, my son, he said. You’ve got twenty pesetas coming to you.

  Give me the aghrebia and keep the twenty pesetas.

  At three in the afternoon Bahloul and Zizi climbed up the Mountain to see the Nazarenes. Bahloul rang the bell. A maid answered. Is the senora here?

  Wait.

  The Nazarene woman appeared in the doorway. Come in, she said, and they followed her into the house. What would you like? Whiskey, beer, wine?

  Thank you. We don’t drink, Bahloul said.

  We’re leaving Morocco, you see, and we’re not coming back. It’s too bad, but that’s how it is. We have work to do in America, so we’ve got to go. But there’s no place like Morocco, and we’re all very sad.

  Then she brought out a large sheet of paper and laid it in front of Bahloul. Here, she said. Sign your name at the bottom here. And I’ll sign mine. You see? Now, all these things here are for you. You can take them all away. We’ve sent everything else to America, and at seven-thirty tomorrow we’re taking the plane. But you must keep that paper. It’s very important for you.

  Bahloul was delighted. He folded the paper and put it into his pocket.

  We loved your mother, and we want to give you something worthwhile. She handed Bahloul a check.

  Your mother was with us for a long time. She was a brave woman. Very clean, and a fine worker. Like one of the family to us. When I saw her son left all alone in the world, I felt very bad, and I wanted to help. You must excuse me for saying all this in front of your friend, but there’s no time.

  On the contrary. You’re doing me a great favor, said Bahloul. He and Zizi went to get a large truck which they brought back with them to the Mountain. They began to carry out the furniture and other things. They drove the truck to Bahloul’s house, emptied it, and returned to get more.

  At his house he filled the three rooms he did not use. Finally they were completely full of furniture and rugs. They had even brought pails and brooms, and all the flower pots from the garden. They left the house on the Mountain completely empty. Bahloul wished the Nazarenes a good journey, said good-bye, and went home to bed.

  Early the next morning he and Zizi went together to the bank to cash the check, and got the money. I’m really happy now, Bahloul told Zizi. I’ve got a little cash, and I’m going to rent the shop next door. Let’s go and see the owner.

  They went to the man’s house and knocked on the door.

  Salaam aleikoum.

  Aleikoum salaam. What is it?

  I’d like to rent the empty shop down the street.

  What for?

  I want to sell things in it.

  I see. It’s a hundred pesetas a month.

  Bahloul gave the man a thousand pesetas. Now it’s mine for a long time. Please give me a receipt, then. Say I paid ten months in advance.

  The man wrote out the paper and gave him the key to the shop.

  Bahloul and Zizi walked down to the city. They came back with a truck full of sugar, flour, oil, tea and cans of food. They bought a pair of scales for weighing the food, and everything else that was necessary for opening a store. The next morning they were both there, and the door was open so that customers could come in.

  The first week they sold a great deal of merchandise. The two sat there all day in the shop drinking tea and smoking kif and eating pieces of aghrebia, which was stronger than the kif. The neighbors would send their children for a kilo of sugar or two kilos of potatoes or a bottle of oil or a liter of kerosene. At the end of the month my father will come and pay you, the children said.

  They noted down every sale, and more people came, and they noted down what they took and how much they owed. Out of a hundred customers maybe twenty-five would pay, and the rest promised to pay at the end of the month. And at the end of the month the men would come and say they could pay only half. Each time Bahloul did the accounts, he found that he had lost more money, and this went on month after month.

  At the end of the year he realized that he had lost about twenty thousand pesetas. The neighbors had them.

  Bahloul did not wait. He sold everything in the store and returned the key to the owner. He was disgusted with his life, and sat around the house in a very bad humor. Zizi said to him: That was a good business we had, wasn’t it? We couldn’t even get our money out of it.

  I’m not going to fight with them, said Bahloul. If they want to give me my money they will. If they don’t, Allah will know what to do with them.

  And we’ll stay together up to the last franc, said Zizi.

  They were sitting in a café. Suddenly Bahloul said to the owner: Do you want to sell your café?

  Now that you mention it, I do. Do you want it? I’ll sell it to you.

  How much?

  Cheap. A hundred thousand pesetas with the chairs and eve
rything.

  That’s not cheap, said Bahloul.

  And how much can you give?

  Seventy thousand.

  The man thought for a while, and then he said: I’ll sell it. They went that day to the adoul and arranged the papers, and the man sold Bahloul the café. The following morning they took possession of it. Bahloul made the tea and coffee, and Zizi served it. Business was very lively. All the young men of the neighborhood began to come regularly. Let us say that fifty young men came every day, and twenty of them never paid.

  Bahloul always brought an aghrebia with him from the house, which he shared with Zizi. Usually they made one cake last for two days. This way they were always happy, no matter what the hour of the day. But each time Bahloul went over the accounts, he flew into a rage. Finally he could not stand it any longer.

  Zizi, he said. You go on working. I can’t work here anymore.

  Ouakha, Zizi said. You take care of buying everything, and I’ll do the work in the café. See if you can earn any money. I don’t believe it.

  Bahloul did not work anymore. He sat in the corner smoking kif, drinking tea, and eating his aghrebia. His friends would gather round him and listen to his stories. Sitting there with them one day, he said: Now I’m going to tell you a tale, and it’s a true one.

  Who’d it happen to? You?

  If it didn’t happen to me, it happened to somebody just like me, Bahloul said.

  What’s the story?

  This one smoked kif, lots of it, and took hashish, even more of it. And when he was alone in his house with his head bubbling with kif and hashish, he would go into an empty room to drink his tea. Afterward he would take the wet mint and tea leaves out of the teapot and scatter them over the floor. There was one window in the room, and it looked out onto an orchard that belonged to a Djibli. The Djibli had built bee-hives under the trees. So this one would open the window and let the bees fly into the room. They would all come in and light on the floor where the mint leaves were because they liked the sugar. And he did this every day. But at the same time he was busy building a whole set of hives along the walls of the room. One day when he opened the door into the room he saw everything black with bees. He went over and shut the window. Then he shut the door and bored a hole in it, and fitted the hole with a cork. The bees stayed in the room, and he threw sugar and other food for them through the hole. And the light came in the window for the bees.