A Riffians Tune (42 page)

‘Yes,' she replied with a quivering voice.

‘Have you lost the key?' I asked.

‘No. My husband locked me in and went away, as usual.'

‘Where does he put the key?'

‘I don't know.'

I searched everywhere, floor and windows, table, but found no key. When I discovered an old nail, I used it to try to unlock the door of the single toilet. Sakina didn't want me to force the door or break the lock. I stayed outside and kept her talking, hoping her husband would return soon. It was five o'clock and there was no sign of him. She had been locked in a toilet, one square metre, with no seat or window and no air except what could pass through the cracks since two o'clock. Her children would be back from school shortly, and her main worry was hiding the drama from them. Tinkering with the lock, I finally managed to open the door. Inside, Sakina was squatting on one side then the other, straddling the toilet hole and its contents.

I felt sorry for my sister, but had no solution to offer, as she was economically trapped. Hoping to shame him, I wrote an angry note in the evening and handed it to him myself in the morning. I grabbed my bag and boarded the coach headed home, miles to the north.

B
ack home, I was all alone in an empty house, with no life, no sisters, no dogs, donkey or even a wild cat. Silence was all that God had left in the previously noisy house, but with the silence came peace; I didn't fear thugs or need the police.

The house was like a mausoleum. My mother had been terrifyingly superstitious. She had often spoken of death and the dead and connected herself more with the dead than with the living. Though my father had died years ago, she had still kept his turban on a hook. His shoes were still behind the door. Leaving everything as it was created a silent montage of the past. I felt the distance between me and the dead, paper-thin.

I had run away from the thugs and my sister's house to be invisible for a few days before going back to sit the rest of my exams. My wish, however, was unachievable. As it was built on a hill, anyone moving in and out of the house was visible from a higher hill behind, from neighbouring hills, or just from the valley beneath.

Uncle Mimoun spent two-thirds of his time cruising from hill to hill, his rifle ready to kill any edible rodents. Failing rabbits or pigeons, there were always beautiful robins in the sky to shoot down, for thrills if not for food.

I later learned that Mimount had been the first to spot me. ‘A strange man was coming out of your brother's house and quickly disappeared,' she had told her husband. Uncle Mimoun had feared an intruder, important family documents on his mind. Mimount hadn't wanted him to go and confront the intruder. She knew how quick-tempered he could be, so the two of them had decided to investigate.

Nervous and worried about what might happen, she had led the way. Uncle Mimoun had not been complacent, and his finger, though trembling, had been on the trigger.

Fifty metres away from the house, as the local creed stipulated, Mimount called, ‘Mohammed! Mohammed! Mohammed!' Mimoun stood side by side with his wife, his rifle directed at the main door.

Though I heard the voice, I didn't go out.
The caller might be a beggar
, I thought, as many were roaming around. As the calling continued to be a bother, I couldn't ignore it.
An intruder might get in if I don't go out
,
I
thought to myself.

Slowly, I edged the door open. Steadily, Mimoun cocked the trigger. When I popped my head out, Mimount recognised me and abruptly shoved the rifle barrel up into the air as the rifle discharged with a bang. She shouted with horror, ‘Jusef! Jusef! Who would have thought it was you! Your uncle nearly killed you!'

With a sigh of relief, Uncle Mimoun laid his rifle far away against the wall. He had had every reason to worry. If an intruder had gotten into the house and made off with the family documents, Uncle Mimoun could have lost his house and every plot of land he owned.

Being a
hafiz
, my father had been the family registrar. All documents relating to divorce, marriage and land purchases had been kept in my mother's trunk. Despite the suspected intruder turning out to be me, Uncle Mimoun still didn't want to leave until he saw that the trunk was still heavy with documents, even though he was illiterate.

Relaxed and smiling, Mimount followed me. ‘I remember when girls popped in and out of this big house. Which room are you using?' she asked me, probably hoping not to go to the main bedroom, which was where the trunk had lain under the dust and where Uncle Mimoun was headed. The bedroom door was unlocked, and Uncle Mimoun was the first in.

The trunk had been a fixture for as long as I remembered and was full to bursting. My mother, my sisters and I had all been taught not to tamper with it. No daughter had ever put her hand inside; I had some years earlier when I was young and naïve, looking for magic, and had discovered the book of spells, all meticulously handwritten, but none of them had been any good; I had never turned water into honey and a talisman hung on the branch of a tree had never brought my beloved, or any other girl, to me.

Mimount appeared as though she had been sucked through space, weeping and sweeping her tears away at the same time. Moving her hand as if it had fallen asleep, she pointed behind the door. My father's shoes were lying there neatly, as if he might come back and put them on. Watching Mimount, I kept my ready tears to myself.

Uncle Mimoun caressed the trunk, opened the latch, lifted the lid and smiled when he saw no documents were missing. Land documents were all rolled up and carefully pushed inside bamboo reeds, similar to the one from which I had made a flute. Uncle Mimoun grabbed as much as his right hand could hold, and he grimaced when he saw a long, white worm inside one bamboo reed. One document carrying his name was unreadable. It looked like a fishnet; the worm had eaten its way in and out.

Each handwritten document was stylised, and the language used was a mishmash; some words were Arabic, some dialect, and some Tarifit words written with the Arabic alphabet. The wind was the main tool, apart from the river, that marked the border between fields. ‘Mr Hamza's field ends at the point of rustling wind and the peak of the hill,' read one document. ‘Mr Bohali's field ends at the hugging wind,' read another. As the wind never stopped and kept changing strength, so did the farmers' arguments. Fighting and death had been woven into the hearts and life of this deceptively peaceful community for years.

Watching her husband's enthralled face, Mimount asked innocently, ‘What is in this trunk?'

‘Our history, our land, our religion, everything we are!' replied Uncle Mimoun loudly. Squatting down, he kissed the trunk. For me, it was a history that I disliked and the cause of my endless misery.

‘Tonight you will have your dinner with us,' offered Mimount just before leaving and standing in the shadow of Uncle Mimoun.

‘Thank you. I will,' I replied.

Mimount never lacked generosity. A big plate of cous cous, adorned with chickpeas and a stewed chicken on the top of it, was put in the middle of the crowded family. With his rough hands, Uncle Mimoun ripped the chicken apart with joy and vengeance.

Still eating around the plate, Uncle Mimoun shouted, ‘The land documents must be moved here before you go back to Fez!'

Going back home in the pitch-dark night, I couldn't shake off the tales of ghosts and demons and became fearful of them as if they were real. I trembled as I reached the dry riverbed. I had hoped Uncle Mimoun would give me company going home, as his rifle inspired confidence, but he hadn't offered.

Going across the valley, I heard footsteps, but couldn't tell where they were going or coming from.
This could be a ghost, a vampire, a demon, a genie, or just my blood pulsating in my head,
I thought to myself. Still moving slowly in complete darkness, concentrating on the scattered white stones marking the path, the sound of someone or something walking came nearer and nearer, but there was still nothing to be seen.
Should I go back to Uncle Mimoun's house?
I wondered. Fearful, I heard the shuffling footfalls get very much closer.
It's real,
I thought. I clenched two heavy stones, one in each hand, ready to throw them if the shadow got too close.

Ready for the worst, I continued until I reached the crosspath, where I walked in a semi-circle; so did Rabbia (for it was she), and unknowingly we avoided each other.

Passing the paths' intersection, listening to the footsteps dying away, I breathed relief, but still kept my ears on full alert until I reached the fence of my house, built of solid stone in front of thick, high prickly pear. Climbing the short hill and reaching the main double door, I noticed a flickering candlelight coming from the main room. Jumping back in fright, I gasped to myself, ‘What's this?'

I had heard of people who had found lit candles in their rooms or on top of a hill, often under trees. Frightened, they had moved house or emigrated to run away from the mysterious lit candles. The common advice was not to react to the light, not to use it, and certainly not to extinguish it, because a group of genies or demons was using it.

Afraid to go into the house, I stayed outside the whole night. The sun rose slowly and bathed the house in light. I entered the house and went to the main room where the mysterious light was. The door had no lock, but was closed. As I opened it, sunlight spilled in. There was no sign that anything had changed, but the beeswax candle was extinguished, choked by hundreds of spit bits of wax.

When Rabbia came that afternoon, I learned the mysterious candle had been her trick to deter intruders. Worried about the house and the trunk, she came now and again and lit a candle. She turned her fury to Uncle Mimoun when I told her of his desire to hold the land documents in his house; they had never seen eye to eye. He had accused her of being a witch and a disgrace, and she thought he was a bully and out of touch.

‘Are you happy to hand him the documents?' she asked me with a look of dismay.

‘No,' I replied.

‘I'm certainly not!' she retorted. ‘I've always kept an eye on the house and trunk. I come late most nights and light a candle. Do you have any idea what else is in the trunk apart from the land documents?' she asked me.

‘No, I lost interest the day I went to school, but I do remember a notebook of spells,' I explained.

‘Don't lose them,' she said. ‘People will pay a fortune for them.'

Before the end of the week, she came twice. She brought her husband and their donkey to empty the trunk, but I wouldn't allow it.

Out of his bed after a bout of summer flu, Uncle Mimoun did the same. He came on his mule, his rifle on his shoulder, and asked to load the land documents into his saddlebags. I refused. I had run from the thugs, from Sakina's husband, and was now caught in a tussle with both Rabbia and Uncle Mimoun.

Intrigued by the interest of Rabbia and Uncle Mimoun in the family heritage in my mother's trunk, I started a disturbing journey of discovery. Tucked deep in the trunk lay three medium-sized books, all with hard covers. Their beauty caught my eye – maroon, brocade covers with pink paper, well printed, and each page with sketches. They were all written in the Arabic alphabet, but not in the Arabic language. Challenged and defeated, I couldn't decipher them. Their meaning was locked into their pages as a mystery, just as it was a mystery how they happened to be here in this land and in the hand of someone who hadn't written them and couldn't read them, let alone understand them.

I was stressed by the looming exams, the overwhelming task of revision, and frightened of what the thugs might be plotting, yet I was compelled to thumb through the contents of the trunk. I found a notebook filled with papers of different sizes and colours.
This is my father's writin
g
!
I realised.

Artistically written notes, but in mixed languages, Berber and Arabic words meshed together, were so difficult to make out that I struggled to decode the meaning. One page however, struck me like a hammer on the head:

Jusef's father was a true nationalist. He loved freedom just as much as he loved nature. ‘Colonialism,' he told us, ‘is rape in the daylight.' He was not a romantic or a visionary. When the time came, he sailed courageously with his men to provide arms for nationalists. In the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, his ship was encircled. The blockade lasted for days, and when he ran out of fuel, the battle started. Sadly, he was killed along with Mr Omar, Mr Jaloun, and Mr Sohbi. Mr Ishram was wounded, but miraculously picked out of the sea by a passing merchant vessel …

Blinded with love for her lost husband, very young herself and left with an infant son, the young widow was unable to function. Her widowed mother, traumatised by the experience of her only daughter, moved in with her for months, but had seven boys of her own living miles away, to keep her eyes on. The young widow, heartbroken, tearfully entrusted her infant son to Sabah, my wife.

Perplexed and numb, I moved to the goat room, a large room with only three walls. There, I pulled down my old flute. It had been stuck between bamboo rafters in the middle of the ceiling, hidden from Uncle Mimoun's tyranny. I played the flute to block out my thoughts, but it only brought back the past. My shepherding days had been hard and lonely. The sound of the flute vibrating through my ears brought back every scorpion that I had killed and every snake I had chased, my movements from hill to hill, mountain to mountain, valley to valley, the chasing of foxes, the feeding of goats and sheep who never once expressed thanks.

Unable to focus despite my looming exams, I went back to the notebook. Disappointed, I found no more on how the infant, like a bag of groceries, had changed hands. Trying to digest what I had read, I had so many unanswered questions … and no one to ask.