The Boy Who The Set Fire and Other Stories (20 page)

The neighbors said: How much do we owe you?

This was a lot of work, Safi told them. I used a lot of expensive thread and broke four needles on him. So I’ll have to charge you twenty rials.

Each neighbor gave a little. They paid Safi and carried the farmer home. When they had gone, Safi went and sat on his sheepskin to enjoy himself. He poured himself a glass of tea and ate a spoonful of qoqa paste as he drank it. He was thinking that now that he was a doctor he must go down to the city and buy medicines. I’ve got to make a list of what I need. He got up and brought a board to write on and a pen made from a piece of cane.

The first medicine I need is red pepper. And then I need cumin and black pepper. And henna. He went on writing out the names of many other things he wanted to buy. Soon he got onto his horse and started out for the city.

He tethered his horse in the fondouk. Then he went to see a man who had a stall inside the gate. Give me two pesetas worth of red pepper and two of black. And the same of cumin and cinnamon and anise. He paid the man and went on to another stall. Give me two pesetas worth of rasoul and a bottle of orange flower water, and two pesetas worth of chibb. He paid and went out into the street, where a woman sat on the curb. She was holding an open umbrella over her head, and she had many kinds of resins and powders spread out in front of her. He bought a rial’s worth of benzoin. And he went to a bacal and bought a pound of honey, and string and needles.

Before leaving the city he collected three big wooden crates, because he wanted to build benches for his patients to lie on. He tied everything onto his horse and set out for the village.

When Safi was back home again he got to work. He built fires in both of his braziers and put a pail of water over each fire. From the other room he brought a collection of bottles of all sizes. While the water heated he pulled the three crates to pieces and took out the nails. When it was boiling, he put anise seed in one pail and cumin in the other, and left them both on the fire to boil. After they had boiled for a long time, he began to fill the bottles. Then he corked them and put them on the shelf. The rest of the things he arranged in tins, and piled them on another shelf. Finally he built the benches out of the crates, and covered them with burlap bags so they would be comfortable to lie on.

One evening when he had taken a great deal of qoqa, he heard a knocking on the door and the sound of a voice calling. He opened the door and saw a man. What is it?

My wife’s having a baby and the midwife can’t manage it.

I’ll go and look at her, said Safi. He took a bottle of boiled anise and one of cumin, and followed the man.

They went into the man’s house. Give me a glass, said Safi. He mixed the anise and the cumin water and told the man to make his wife drink it.

When she had swallowed the stuff the woman opened her eyes and began to move around in the bed. Safi seized her hips and pushed, and the baby slipped out. The woman took the child in her hands and cut it loose.

Everything will be fine now, said Safi.

How much money is it going to cost?

That’s the best medicine I have, Safi told him, and it’s made of the most expensive materials. I gave you forty rials’ worth of it.

I have a young cow, said the man. I can give her to you if you like.

Fine, said Safi. We’ll close the deal tomorrow in front of the cheikh.

The man agreed.

The following morning Safi went out to meet the man with the young cow, and together they went to the cheikh. He took the calf back to his house and tied it up with the other cows, very much pleased because it was worth much more than forty rials.

One day a group of men brought the pacha of a distant city to see Safi. He was a man who was always sick, and wherever he went in his travels he looked for a doctor. When his hosts told him that there was a doctor in the village, straightway he wanted to see him, and they carried him on a litter to the clinic.

The pacha was thinking: Maybe at last this one will give me the right medicine.

When they arrived at the clinic Safi was just finishing another large shack he had been building.
Salaamou aleikoum
.

Aleikoum salaam
. This is the Pacha of Bzou who has come to our town.

I’m very sick, the Pacha said.

Take him inside, Safi told them. How many of you are there?

There are six of us.

I’ll have this room finished in ten minutes. You’ll be needing it to sleep in, because you’ll all have to stay here until he’s cured.

They agreed. Safi finished hammering, and put some mats on the floor. Then the pacha and his friends went inside. Safi followed them, and knelt down to prepare tea for his visitors, and he put qoqa into the tea as he worked. And he set out a plate of qoqa mixed with honey for them, so they could eat it along with their tea.

Then they sat back to drink, Safi said to the pacha: Where do you feel sick?

I don’t know. There’s no such disease as what I have.

But try and tell me what it’s like, Safi said.

The pacha shut his eyes. When I fall asleep I don’t know whether I’m really asleep or not, he said. And when I eat I don’t know whether I’ve eaten or not. And if I go out for a walk I’m not sure whether I’m taking a walk or not. Even if I sit still, I’m not certain whether I’m really sitting there or not. And right now, am I talking? Or do I just think I’m talking?

Safi jumped up. What luck! he cried. I’ve got exactly the medicine for that. I’ve seen many cases of the same thing, and I’ve cured them all.

You have? The pacha was delighted.

This man is not sick, thought Safi. He’s just rich. And he’s afraid of dying. That’s all.

He took a pail of water and put it on the fire. When the water began to boil, he threw in a lot of red peppers. And he let them boil for many hours, as if they had been cow’s flesh. When they were ready, he took a fine cloth and placed it over the top of another pail. The liquid went into the pail and the pieces of red pepper stayed in the cloth. He filled a bottle with the water and picked up a piece of rasoul, the clay that women wash their hair with. Then he walked over to the pacha.

Ya, Sidi Bacha, he said. Here’s the medicine. It’s not medicine. Take it or don’t take it. It will either cure you or it won’t.

The pacha looked at Safi. And what does all that nonsense mean?

You tell me you sleep and you don’t sleep, and you eat and don’t eat, and sit and don’t sit. I’m giving you the medicine for all those things. Drink half a glass of this the first thing every morning and eat a piece of this rasoul while you drink it. And do the same thing when you go to bed.

Good.

When evening came, the pacha decided he would begin his treatment. First I’ll put the solid stuff into my mouth and then I’ll wash it down with the liquid, he thought.

So he put the clay into his mouth and drained the glass of pepper water. As it reached his stomach he felt fire inside him, burning his throat and his heart. And although he had not got up from bed by himself in many months, he sprang up now without any help from anyone and began to walk back and forth very quickly. His face turned the color of fire and he breathed with his mouth opened wide. Soon he went outside and looked at the sky, and suddenly it occurred to him that he was cured. He called to his friends: It’s a fine night! Come out and smell the air!

They all went out and raised their heads and sniffed, and told him that it was indeed a beautiful night. When they went back inside, the pacha sat in a corner for three hours talking to himself. After that he fell asleep.

In the morning when he awoke, the pacha decided that he felt so well he would not bother taking anymore medicine. He went to speak with Safi. I’m cured, hamdoul’lah! My health is perfect. I feel like a man of twenty. How much do I owe you?

Speak with your own image, said Safi. You know what your health is worth to you.

The pacha took out a small pouch full of gold coins and handed it to Safi. And he and his friends went out.

Safi was not satisfied with his clinic, because he still had not discovered a medicine strong enough for serious cases where he had to cut and sew flesh. He worked at this each day, and went on mixing things together and trying them himself afterward. One day he picked some datura leaves and dried them over the fire. Then he made a powder of them, and pounded kif seeds in a mortar. He mixed these two with powdered qoqa. He added argan oil to some of this, and honey to some more. The powder that was left he stored away in a box.

Let’s see what this does, he said to himself. He took a spoonful and drank a glass of tea. Then he leaned back and shut his eyes.

Three different people pounded on his door that afternoon, and Safi went on sleeping. Night came, and a man arrived with his son to have Dr. Safi look at the boy’s tooth, but still he did not awaken.

In the morning Safi heard the donkeys braying and the cocks crowing, and he got up and opened the door to look out. What’s the matter with them all? he thought. As he stood in the doorway some men walked past. And Safi said to them: Good afternoon.

It’s early yet, they said. It’s still morning.

It’s not Monday?

Not anymore. That was yesterday, they said.

Safi went inside. Aha! he thought. I’ve found what I was looking for.

That evening a neighbor woman sent Safi a big pot of spinach and a cauldron of snails cooked with tarragon, because she knew he liked those dishes. He was very much pleased with what she had sent him, and he sat down to eat his dinner in a good state of mind. But he had scarcely taken a few mouthfuls when someone began to hammer on his door with great force.

Wait! he shouted. Don’t break it down! And he jumped up and opened the door. There were two men holding up a woman between them. They dragged her into the clinic.

What’s the matter with her? said Safi. Put her there on the bench, poor thing.

She’s dizzy and she has a fever, they said. And her vomit is bright yellow.

Safi put his hand on her forehead, and saw that the woman was very ill. Her eyes and her face were as yellow as egg yolks. He was afraid, because he did not know what to do for her. But he said: This woman has bousfar. We must get rid of all this yellowness. Has she eaten anything?

Not for the last three days, they said.

Snail broth is what she needs, said Safi. He went across to his rooms and brought the water from the snails he had been eating. When he carried it into the clinic he added four spoonfuls of his new powder, and stirred it into the broth.

The woman drank it all, and then Safi gave her a glass of qoqa tea. Ten minutes afterward she was sitting up talking with her husband, and she seemed very lively.

That’s wonderful medicine you’ve got there, the two men told him. We’d like to buy the whole bowl full, if you’ll sell it.

Safi looked at the woman’s eyes, and was afraid again. But he agreed to sell the men the bowl of powder for sixty rials. They paid him and led the woman away with them.

After they had gone, Safi sat at his table thinking. He thought of his pouch full of gold coins that the Pacha of Bzou had given him, and of all the rest of the money that he had saved. Suddenly he got up and went out to the house of a neighbor who lived nearby. He sold the man his cows and his donkey, and went back home. There he collected his clothes and medicines, and packed everything onto his horse. He looked up the road and said to himself: This is the right way. Then he got astride his horse and set out along the road, leaving his clinic behind.

About midnight two men came to the door of the clinic and began to pound on it. One carried a club and the other carried an axe, and they were shouting for Doctor Safi. When they broke in the door and searched the place, they did not find him. By then everyone in the village was outside the clinic. The cheikh came running.

The man holding the axe cried: Doctor Safi sold me medicine. When I gave it to my wife she went crazy. Screaming, running, and we couldn’t hold her. When she fell down, blood came out of her mouth, and then she was dead. We’re looking for him. Where is he?

The cheikh waited a moment before he spoke. Then he said: Your wife is dead. Take her to the cemetery and bury her. Then you can marry a younger one. And here’s Doctor Safi’s clinic for you to live in. You can have it. The house you’re living in now you can sell or rent.

The man looked at the cheikh. Thank you, he said. That’s what I’m going to do. You are a very good man.

Everyone went home to bed. Safi was still riding along the road in the dark, happy and with his head full of qoqa.

By Richard F. Patteson

I
n one of
P
aul
B
owles’s
best-known stories, “A Distant Episode,” a linguistics professor visiting north Africa tells his guide, “They are expecting me back at the Hotel Saharien,” and the guide replies, “You can’t be there and here” (
CS
42). The exchange takes place during a moonlit walk on the outskirts of a remote town. The professor is beginning to feel anxious, threatened. His statement is in fact a lie. No one expects him back at the hotel. But the hotel stands in his imagination as a fortress of the familiar and the safe—an outpost of the European world he has left behind, and the lie he constructs is a protective device—a feeble attempt to reassert his cultural allegiance and to recapture the sense of security that accompanies identification with one’s own culture. The guide’s seemingly cryptic response touches on a problem that generates much of the fiction of both Paul Bowles and Mohammed Mrabet: how to traverse, intellectually and emotionally, the distance between a familiar “here” and an alien “there.”