The Spider's House (7 page)

“The son of Driss the
fqih
,” he replied.

The man stared harder. “What’s the use of lying?” he demanded. “You’re the son of Driss the
fqih? You
?” He turned away and spat.

Amar was taken aback. He looked down at his bare feet, wriggled his toes, and reflected that he should have put his shoes on before climbing up here.

“What’s the matter with me?” he said finally, with a certain belligerency. “And what difference does it make, my name? I only asked you if you had any work.”

“Can you make clay?” the man said.

“I can learn how to do anything in a quarter of an hour.”

The man laughed, stroked his beard, and slowly got to his feet. “Come,” he said, and he led him to the entrance of another small shed further along the roof. Inside in the dimness was a boy squatting on the floor beside a large tank of water, rubbing his hands together. “Go in,” the man said. They stood looking down at the boy, who did not glance up. “You rub as hard as you can,” he told Amar, “and if you find even the smallest pebble you take it out, and then you keep rubbing until each handful is like silk.”

“I see,” said Amar. It seemed like the easiest sort of work. He waited until they got back outside, and then he asked: “How much?”

“Ten rial a day.”

It was the normal wage.

“With lunch,” added Amar, as though it went without saying.

The man opened his eyes wide. “Are you crazy?” he cried. (Amar merely looked at him fixedly.) “If you want to work, step inside here and start. I don’t need any help. I’m only doing you a favor.”

Any work that Amar did, even of the simplest kind, such as carrying water at the tannery or holding the long threads with which the tailors made the frogging on the fronts of the
djellabas,
fascinated him while he was doing it; it was sheer pleasure for him to be completely occupied—the sort of delight he could not know when there was room in his mind for him to remember that he was himself. He set to work mixing water with the clay, rubbing, smoothing, washing, removing particles. At the end of the morning the man came inside, looked, and raised his eyebrows. He stooped over, examined the quality of the mixture carefully, dipping the tips of his fingers into it and squeezing them together.

“Good,” he said. “Go home to lunch.”

Amar glanced up. “I’m not hungry yet.”

“Come with me.”

They went to the end of the long roof, down the stairs, and across a stretch of bare ground to where great bundles of branches had been piled. Here another stairway had been cut
into the earth. The astringent smell of wet clay was tempered with a sweeter, musky odor which came from several fig trees down below, beside a channel of the river where the water flowed by very quickly and without a sound. In the cliff at the bottom of the steps was a door. The man removed the padlock and they went in.

“Let’s see if you can run the
mamil.”

Amar let himself down into the opening in the floor, made himself comfortable on the seat which was on a level with the man’s shoes, and began to turn the large wooden wheel with his foot. It took a certain strength and dexterity, but none that he had not already used while playing soccer.

“Do you understand how it works?” the man asked, pointing to a smaller wheel that spun near Amar’s left hand. He piled some clay on the turning disc, squatted down. With manipulating and sprinkling of water the shapeless mass soon took the form of a plate.

“Just keep turning the wheel,” he said, apparently expecting Amar to tire and stop. “I’ll take care of this part.” But it was clear to Amar that the apparatus was arranged so that one man could do everything by himself, using his hands and feet at the same time. After a bit the bearded man stood up. “You’d better go home for lunch now,” he said.

“I want to make a jar,” said Amar.

The man laughed. “It takes a long time to learn how to do that.”

“I can do it now.”

The other, saying nothing, removed the plate he had been making, and stood back, his arms folded, an expression of amusement on his face. “Zid. Go on, make a jar,” he said. “I want to see you.”

The clay and the water were at his right hand, the revolving wheel at his left. There was no light in the room save that which came through the door, so that he had necessarily missed the finer points of the man’s work; nevertheless, he did exactly as he had seen him do, not forgetting to maintain a continuous sideward pushing with the flat of his bare foot on the big wheel.

Slowly he modeled a small urn, taking great care to make its shape one that pleased him. The man was astonished. “You’ve worked a
mamil
plenty of times before,” he finally said. “Why didn’t you say so? I’m always ready to pay ten rials and lunch to a good workman, somebody who knows something.”

“The blessing of Allah be upon you, master,” said Amar. “I’m very hungry.” Even though he would not be home for lunch, his father would be pacified by the good news he would give him at dinner time.

CHAPTER 4

A certain rich merchant, El Yazami by name, who lived in the quarter and had once sent his sister to Si Driss for treatment, was leaving for Rissani that afternoon. Already his servants had carried seven enormous coffers to the bus station outside Bab el Guissa, where they were being weighed and hoisted to the top of the vehicle, and there were many more crates and amorphous bundles of all sizes constantly being carried from the house to the terminus. El Yazami was making his annual pilgrimage to the shrine of his patron saint in the Tafilalet, from which he always returned many thousands of rial the richer, given the fact that like any good Fassi he was in the habit of combining business with devotion, and knew just what articles could be transported to the south and sold there with the maximum of profit. And it occurred to him as he stood looking up at the workers loading his merchandise on the top of the big blue bus that about five hundred medium-sized water jars would be a remunerative addition to his cargo. Allowing twenty percent for breakage, he calculated, the gain could still be about one hundred
fifty percent, which would be worth while. And so, accompanied by one of his sons, he set out for Bab Fteuh to make a quick purchase. When he came within sight of the village of mud ovens and smoke, he sent his son to examine the wares on one side of the road while he went to investigate the other side. So large a quantity was not always available at such short notice. The first person his son ran into was Amar, up from his damp workroom under the fig trees for a breath of air and furtive cigarette. Amar knew the boy by sight, although they had never been friends. After greetings had been exchanged, the young Yazami told him what he was looking for.

“We can supply them all for you,” said Amar immediately.

“We need them now,” said El Yazami.

“Of course.” He had no idea whether such a large number could be furnished or not, but it was important that he be the one to communicate the order to his employer, who would surely reward him.

The man with the beard was incredulous. “Five hundred?” he cried. “Who wants them?” He knew he could get the jars from his colleagues; what interested him was to know whether this was a serious offer or some fantasy of Amar’s.

“Over there.” Amar indicated the young Yazami, who was idly chinning himself on the underside of a ladder. The potter was not impressed. The youth did not look like someone who was going to buy even one water jar.

“Son
of sin
,” began the man under his breath. Amar had run over to the boy, taken him by the arm.

“Fifty rial for you tomorrow if you buy them here,” he whispered.

“I don’t know … my father …” He pointed in the direction of the elder Yazami, who was inspecting jars on the far side of the thoroughfare.

“Bring him over here fast, and come by for your fifty rial tomorrow.” There was no guarantee that the potter would give him anything if he put the sale through, but he had decided simply to leave if he did not. The world was too big, too full of magnificent opportunities, to waste time with unappreciative masters.

The boy went across the road to the other side and talked awhile with his father. Amar could see him pointing in his direction. The potter returned to his crouching position outside the shed. “Go back to work,” he called. Amar stood, hesitating. Then, risking everything, he ran across the road, and presently returned with El Yazami and his son. The potter stood up; as the three approached, he heard the portly gentleman saying to Amar: “I remember you as a boy no bigger than a grasshopper. Don’t forget to greet Si Driss for me. May Allah preserve him.”

The purchase was made quickly, and Amar was dispatched to round up a group of boys who could carry the baskets of jars to Bab el Guissa. When the last load had departed, the potter went down the steps into the dark little room where Amar sat.

“Z
duq,”
he said, looking at him with bewilderment, “you really are the son of Si Driss the
fqih.”

Amar stared at him in mild mock surprise. “Yes. I told you that.”

The man fingered his beard meditatively. “I didn’t believe you. Forgive me.”

Amar laughed. “Allah forgives,” he said lightly. Without looking up he went on working, pretending to be completely absorbed in his gestures, and wondering if the potter were going to offer him his reward now. Since the man said no more on the subject, but began to talk about a load of clay that was due, he decided that it would be necessary to take action. Hoisting himself out of the hole in the floor, he seized the man’s arm and kissed the sleeve of his
djellaba
. The man pulled back.

“No, no,” he objected. “A Cherif—”

“An apprentice to a master potter,” Amar reminded him.

“No, no—”

“I am only a
metallem
. But I can make a prophecy. From this day on, your life will prosper. My gift tells me that. Allah in His infinite wisdom has granted me the knowledge.” The potter moved backward a step, looking at him with wide eyes. “And I’d tell you even if at this moment you were raising your hand to strike me.” The potter made a gesture of puzzled protest. “Allah is all-powerful, and knows what is in my heart. Therefore how
can I withhold it from you? He knows that this moment my father is lying ill at home without the money to buy a keg of buttermilk which would make him well. He knows that you have a generous heart, and that is why He sent the rich man here this afternoon to buy from you, to make it possible for you to use your heart.”

The man was looking at him now with mingled wonder and suspicion. Amar saw this, and decided to come to the point.

“With five days’ pay in advance I would leave here this evening the happiest man in the world.”

“Yes,” the potter said, “and have I got my own policeman to go and find you tomorrow and drag you here? How do I know you’ll ever come back? I’d probably find you down in Dar Debbagh carrying hides to the river, trying the same trick on them there.”

Amar was convinced the man would give him the money; without further words he turned away and climbed back down to his sunken seat to resume his work. When he had the wheel going, he looked up and said: “Forgive me,
sidi.”

The man stood perfectly still. Finally he said, almost plaintively: “How do I know you’ll come back tomorrow?”

“Ya, sidi,”
Amar said. “Since the world began has any man ever been able to know what would happen tomorrow? The world of men is today. I’m asking you to open your heart today. Tomorrow belongs to Allah, and
incha’Allah”
—he said the words with great feeling—”I shall come back tomorrow and every day after that.
Incha’Allah!”

The man reached into his
choukra
and pulled out the money.

“Here is your father’s buttermilk,” he said. “May he get well quickly.”

The waste land at the foot of the cemetery opposite Bab Fteuh was not on his way home, nevertheless Amar contrived to pass by it when he had finished his day’s work, on the slim chance that the younger Yazami might possibly be among the two dozen or more boys practicing there with a football. He did not find him, but he found a student who claimed to know where he was, and in his company began a quest which led through the damp
streets of El Mokhfia and across the river to a small café he had never seen before. El Yazami was here, seated among a group of boys his age, playing checkers. When he saw Amar his face fell: the only reason Amar could have for seeking him out so soon was to tell him the money was not to be forthcoming. After urging Amar to have a Coca-Cola, which he politely refused—for, this being an expensive café with tables and chairs instead of mats, he did not want in any way to get involved—El Yazami took his arm and propelled him outside, where they stood in the dark under a high plane tree and talked.

Amar’s principal interest was in keeping the other away from his place of work, where the boy’s presence would immediately arouse the suspicions of the potter. He wondered how he could have been so foolish as to have made that the meeting-place.

“It would be better if you didn’t come tomorrow,” he said. Then he added: “He only gave me twenty-five rial.” In the darkness he handed over the coins; the other went to the doorway to count them by the dim light that came from within. It was an agreeable surprise because he had expected nothing.

“I still owe you twenty-five,” Amar was saying, “and you’ll get them as soon as I do. But try and bring in some more business, yes? You’ll get the rest sooner.” This seemed sensible enough to El Yazami, and he agreed to do what he could. They parted, each one reasonably pleased with the outcome of the meeting.

Surprisingly enough, during the days that followed, El Yazami did make efforts to find customers for Amar’s employer, and these were not in vain. Indeed, they were so successful that one evening at the end of the week the potter came down into Amar’s little workroom. He stood a moment looking at the boy before he spoke. When he did begin to speak, it was with satisfaction and a slight awe in his voice. “
Sidi
,” he said. (Amar smiled inwardly: he had never addressed him thus before.) “Since you have been here with me Allah has favored me with more success than I had ever thought was possible.”