A Riffians Tune (10 page)

I raced, caught up with him and bought the ticket. With the ticket in hand, I went back to the ticket desk and asked for the departure time.

‘The coach leaves at one o'clock in the morning,' murmured a middle-aged man, his eyes fixed on the floor.

A myriad of voices bombarded my ears. From one corner came what sounded like an echo of a chorus: ‘a, a, o, o, i, i, n, n'. At six o'clock, the crowd deserted the station. Looking for a safe corner, I heard again the repetitive ‘a, a, o, o, i, i, n, n'. The source of the singsong was three boys. One, older than the other two, was conducting and the others were repeating, like parrots.

Noticing me listening curiously to them from a distance, the oldest boy jumped up and shouted, ‘Is my teaching correct?'

I said, ‘Yes,' but the truth was that I had no idea what it was all about. I edged closer to their encampment and sat on my duffel bag to listen.

Delighted with himself, the boy returned to his teaching. From time to time, he would become aggressive toward his brother. The irony was that he taught Arabic grammar, but didn't know the language itself. He spoke Tarifit. Whenever he got tired of teaching grammar, he switched to liturgical matters such as hygiene and women's clothes, as they could be sexually provocative.

Just as nervous as I was about the journey, one of the younger boys asked me, ‘Where are you going?'

‘To Fez,' I said, ‘At one o'clock. A long time from now.'

‘That's where we're going, to school,' he answered quickly.

‘Where is there to wait until one o'clock?' I asked.

‘In a café,' one said.

‘No, they're closed,' I replied. ‘We should rent a room in a hotel,' I suggested.

‘Good idea,' responded the oldest boy, whose name was Kamil.

We picked up our luggage, left the station and headed to the
medina
, or old town; a poor, crowded area. Unfortunately, wherever we went, the hotels were full. Also, our looks worked against us. I had unruly hair, wide trousers and a
jellabah
. Kamil limped, had a skinned head and wore a woollen hat that looked as if he had knitted it himself. His brother, Moussa, was thin and short, but with the voice of a middle-aged man. Samir, their cousin, had no hat, was wearing glasses, didn't open his mouth, and looked just like a cat trying to jump on a mouse.

The problem was exacerbated by the Algerian war. Refugees had flooded the town and occupied every room. We scurried up and down the dark streets, looking like demented patients escaped from a mental institution. Desperate, we took a risk and ventured into the darkest slums of the town where we came upon a hotel in a narrow, twisted street.

It was a terraced house with a very tiny low door. To get inside, one had to step deep down. The hall was spacious and had five or six rooms, mostly on the ground floor. All the doors were wide open, some for air, others for the occupants to see who was going in or out. Radio noise was pouring from every room. Music from different channels shook the walls, but no one seemed bothered. Famished and needing to escape our hired hell, we dumped our bags and went out to look for a place where we could have a meal.

Looking for a restaurant, we came to the main street; it had an ornate Catholic cathedral in the middle. Deciding what to eat was not a problem for us. Anything solid would be tasty and appreciated. Aware of our budget, we danced up and down the street looking for a bargain. To attract clients, restaurants had their menus posted outside on mannequins. Menus were written in French; what was written in Arabic and Moroccan dialect didn't make sense to us either. Moussa started moaning; he wanted to get a meal quickly, but he refused to pay the posted price. Embarrassed, his brother told him to shut up, but to no avail.

One waiter met us outside and asked, ‘Can I help?'

This was a good sign of Moroccan hospitality, we thought, and rushed inside. The interior was chic, and the aroma of onions cooking whetted our appetites beyond our ability to resist.

The entrance opened into a bar, full of people drinking, sitting on high stools. I wondered,
How can anyone sit on a wobbly high chair, dangle his legs and drink?

The restaurant was nearly full and most tables were occupied by French clients. In one corner sat a French family with a Franciscan priest. He was drinking wine, smoking a long, thick cigar and looked as though he had a bottle in his mouth with smoke coming out. He was wearing a brown rug-like gown with no underclothes, I thought. Moussa wouldn't stop talking about how strange the man was. I was appalled to learn that the man was a priest. Drinking and smoking was, for me, the last thing a religious leader should do.

We hoped to be treated like everybody in the restaurant, but the waiter seated us in a back corner, isolated from the rest. He brought the menu and slapped it on the table. ‘Five minutes to decide!' he said.

‘We came in as clients, and end as hostages,' I said. ‘What would you suggest?' I asked the waiter five minutes later.

‘Soup or salad,
tagine
or fish,' he said, nose in the air.

We all shouted at once, ‘Soup and
tagine
, please.'

We knew what to expect – we were Moroccan. Moroccan soup,
harira
, was renowned for its taste and nutritious value. It was thick, made of chickpeas, onion and barley. White flour and sometimes a few pieces of meat – chicken, lamb or beef – were also added. The onion and meat were first boiled, then simmered over a low fire for a long time. This was supposed to allow ingredients to release their flavour and mix with each other. Seasoning was unsophisticated: a little salt, cumin, ginger and often pepper.

Tagine
was the tastiest common Moroccan meal. Like
harira
, it varied from region to region and often from family to family. It could be made with either meat or vegetables. The meat had to be thoroughly washed and dried, then mixed with olive oil before being put into the pot. The meat was never thrown into hot olive oil, but fried very gently on its own, with onion, tomato, peppers and garlic added to it. When the meat, the onion and the peppers looked brown, a small amount of water was added, but never boiling or hot water. It had to be room temperature. The amount of water added could either make it or spoil it. The safe measure was one and a half centimetres above the surface of the food. The seasonings were usually cumin, pepper, coriander, almonds, olives or prunes, and salt. Potatoes, chopped in half, were often added to the
tagine
at the same time as the water. The fire was slow, the pot was covered, and when the water boiled down to the surface of the meat, it meant that everything was done. It had to be cooled naturally. Bread was served with both
tagine
and
harira
.

Nothing resembling what we knew was served in this restaurant. The soup was just lukewarm, salty water. I complained; the waiter gave me a mocking look and said, ‘
C'est du potage
, boy.' (He meant French soup.)

The waiter brought a few pieces of bread, but with no substance, white and misleading to the eye. They looked good, but were in fact full of air. I grabbed a piece, and it disintegrated between my fingers, as it was old. The waiter brought a brown pot, locally designed, and dropped it on the table. ‘Here is your
tagine
, boys,' he said.

I picked up the ladle and stirred the
tagine
. All I could find were two bony pieces of meat, more suitable for a dog than for hungry boys. The rest was mushrooms, gravy and salt. Intimidated by the waiter and the owner, we just asked for more bread. The waiter was unhappy and said he would charge extra.

‘I've never seen people as hungry as you!' he said.

To crown the meal, the waiter brought a dessert as part of the fixed menu: four small mandarins, old, shrunken, and two of them were rotten inside.

‘Can you change these two oranges for us?' I asked.

‘Sorry,' he said. ‘Not every number you pick for the lottery wins you the prize.' He made a U-turn and marched away. We divided the two edible mandarins, paid and left. The waiter was happy to see our backs.

Bemused, we headed back to the hotel room; we were anxious about the time and worried we might miss the coach, the only one linking Oujda to Fez. Moussa was a slow walker, and Kamil shouted, ‘Don't you know where you are? Move your legs and hurry!'

As we stepped into the hotel, the owner rushed out of her room and shouted, ‘Boys! Where were you?'

Music was bellowing from every room, and we were not sure if we had heard what she said. Her voice melted into the music, she charged toward me and peered at each one of us. ‘Where were you, boys?' she shouted with a louder voice.

The toughness of her voice and the harshness of her attitude didn't match her elegance and beauty. Unlike many women that I had come across in my rural life, she was sparklingly beautiful. She wore a skirt and low-cut top. She was tall and elegant. Her head was covered with golden hair, and her breasts were planted on a broad chest. To see such a woman was, for me, a gift from heaven, but also a wicked witch from hell. My confused expression inspired her to ask more questions. ‘Where were you?' she asked for a third time.

‘We were in a restaurant,' I replied.

‘Which one?' she asked.

‘The one with a posted menu on the corner.'

‘Bad choice,' she said. ‘Are you related?'

Kamil quickly answered, ‘This is my brother, and this is my cousin.'

‘No one could guess you are brothers. You have different noses. One juts out and the other is flat,' she chuckled.

‘He's my half-brother,' Moussa cut in even before her mouth was shut.

‘How many wives does your father have?'

‘Four,' Moussa said.

‘Do they all live in one house?' she asked.

‘Yes,' he replied.

‘In one room!' laughed Samir.

‘
Lalla
(Madame),' I said, ‘we are travelling to Fez and our coach is at one o'clock in the morning.'

Not happy to be interrupted, she sized me up and down and said, ‘I think you are running away from home. What have you done?'

I refused to answer her questions, as I didn't want anyone to know that I had been a shepherd. Agitated, I repeated, ‘We need to go.'

Outraged, she bellowed, ‘I have the power to cancel your coach trip or make it late. I am the chief witch of Oujda and Magnea, in Algeria.'

Moussa, who talked all the time and had no gate between his mind and his mouth, said, ‘Witches and witch doctors go to hell.'

She smiled and said, ‘Boys, boys, you have a lot to learn. Our task is to help and guide lost souls. Religious people take care only of themselves and we take care of those whose dark nights have no end.' She said to me, ‘I know you are anxious. Pick up your luggage and hurry.'

‘Thank you,' I said.

She looked at me and said, ‘I will ask all our members to burn the demon eyes for you so no demons will haunt you. Our congress will be held shortly in Rabat-Sale.'

‘Why Rabat-Sale?' asked Moussa, curiously.

‘That is where our wizard prince lives,' she said, her eyes focused on me. ‘If you go to Sale, ask for him by name – Sfruy. Tell him
Lalla
Zahra will attend the congress, and she sends warm greetings …'

‘Why not write to him?' I asked her.

‘We never write or phone,' she said. ‘We communicate viscerally, telepathically or by word-of-mouth, call it what you will.'

‘What if someone lies?' I asked.

‘We know what is a lie and what is true. In fact, lies die before they reach us. We are rarely disturbed by lies.'

I grabbed my bag and case and said, ‘Goodbye. We must be going.' Everybody followed at lightning speed, leaving Zahra in mid-sentence. I couldn't forget Zahra's image, the way she had dressed, behaved and talked to us.

‘Who was that woman?' Kamil asked loudly.

‘She's a witch,' I answered.

‘No!' said Moussa. ‘She's mad!'

‘She can't be a witch,' argued Kamil. ‘She didn't turn stones into figs or dates. She didn't even know where we were! She is neither mad nor a witch.'

Exploding loudly, Samir accused us of being naïve. ‘She's a whore!' he said. ‘She showed her best – breasts and legs!'

‘No, she isn't,' we all indignantly jumped to her defence.

‘Do you really believe anything she said?' asked Samir.

‘No,' I answered, trying not to sound naïve. Because of her, we nearly missed our coach.

The coach, engine revving, was already stationed in the street and waiting to pick up late arrivals. Two-thirds of the coach was full and most travellers were foreigners, mainly French and a few Americans, to judge by their clothes: Western and casual. We watched them with some envy and jealousy, but also with some self-pity. The French, in all kinds of cars, dropped their relatives and friends at the station. They looked very well-fed and well-dressed, and we looked skinny and like tramps.

The coach was a massive and imposing Volvo. The driver was a young black man whose voice was thunderous. He could pierce an eardrum with just a few angry words. Passengers called him
Saharaui
, which meant he came from the Sahara. His assistant kept us well at bay and believed we had no tickets.

‘Chancers,' he murmured. ‘Your tickets!'

Tickets, for us, were our passports, something too precious to lose. With the flick of a finger, each of us handed him a ticket. They had been in our pockets like guns – to be drawn in an emergency. He examined each of them and read its content with utmost care.

‘Your luggage,' he shouted abruptly. ‘How many kilos does your luggage weigh?'

‘This is my luggage,' I said, ‘but I don't know about kilos.'

He lifted my case, expecting it to be very heavy, but to his disappointment, it was very light. Nevertheless, he was determined to weigh it. ‘Over nine kilos, you must pay,' he said.