Monarch of the Square, page 24
We may die because of magic or for other reasons. Many other things can be deadly; people talk about them—something called cholera or plague. In 1950, ‘51, or ‘52 (as I mentioned above, I can’t remember which year it was), we’d hear women yelling at their children, “May God give you the plague!” It sounded like a nasty disease that killed people and livestock. For sure, the people from the incline by the lake-shore, behind whose coffins the women were wailing, had died of magic, plague, or the other thing that people called cholera. It was scary for us to watch barefoot, half-naked women slapping their thighs and faces as they walked behind the coffins. Some of them ripped their clothes apart until they were almost naked; others rolled in the dust or the mud by the lake. Their lamentations sounded like howling wolves (although I must admit, at the time I’d never seen a wolf in that region. However, when I grew up and you could hunt wolves in the forest, I ate wolf-meat grilled. The meat didn’t smell as bad as I’d been told; in fact, it was delicious. I’m convinced that, if people hadn’t eaten wolves’ meat, they would have died).
Hunger could kill too. In our house, for example, we only had plain bread and tea, and, if we could find any, herbs. We rarely saw sheep grazing on the slope by the lake on the other side of the road. Most of the time, if a lamb, sheep, or goat appeared, there was bound to be someone behind it, or else in front of or close by it. No animal could possibly graze on its own without someone to watch it; someone would be bound to steal it either to sell or slaughter. If you don’t keep a close eye on your animals, someone may come and steal them. It’s the same with women: if you don’t watch your wife carefully like an animal, some other man may come along and take her away. And that’s the way it is. You have to take care of your property, both livestock and humans. When I grew up and learned things, I became very fond of this hadith: “Everyone is a caregiver, responsible for his flock.” Since the Prophet was himself a shepherd, he knew what he was talking about.
For that same reason, it seems that the people who lived on the slope on the other side of the road knew how to graze their cattle. But on our side of the road, where the scattered shacks were, all we had was a skinny cow. Needless to say, it didn’t belong to all of us; the owner was a crazy man from Bani Hasan who never talked to anyone. No one knew where he’d got the cow from. So we had dogs barking, frogs croaking, flies buzzing, and the cow mooing, along with the continuing silence of that crazy man who owned, fed, and guarded the cow—and once in a while even talked to it. Here again, when I grew up and understood things a bit more, I read a story by a Russian writer named Chekhov, about a coachman who used to talk to his horse, but I can’t say for sure that he was insane. So, who knows? Maybe the cow’s owner wasn’t insane, either. I can’t remember. It was back in ‘50, ‘51, or ‘52. In any case, at that time the cow was alive and living on the left side of the road leading to the port of Mahdiya on the Atlantic Ocean. It kept on mooing, while beneath the snow in White or Black Russia the horse might be neighing.
Anyway, there were shacks and camelhair tents, separated from each other by a road leading to the port of Mahdiya, and there was a small lake. Some people died, others survived. Wailing women slapped their thighs and cheeks and tore their clothes.
In life, all this will come to an end one day, just as many things have ended and others have started. For example, war may start, only to stop one day; then another will start, and it will come to an end, too. Someone may be born, while someone else dies. Livestock may be slaughtered, while other animals may be born, only to be slaughtered later; someone else may show up to slaughter, skin, and eat them. If he’s generous, he’ll donate some of the meat to his neighbors.
I realize that such things are rare, but it can happen. It certainly did when someone donated wolf-meat, and many people were disgusted. I heard my mother and aunts who came to this region Moroccans call “the West” talking about the number of animals that were slaughtered at one time; they also mentioned hunger and men joining the French army; some of them came home injured and ailing, while others had died. Their wives are still waiting for compensation from France.
In our shacks at least, we don’t have any war-wounded, but there may be some in those tents. By the roadside nearly two kilometers from our shacks there’s a French officer’s tomb built with cement and encircled by a chain fence; we would jump over it to get on top of the tomb and play on it. We had no idea why that tomb was there, all alone and solitary on the ocean beach; whereas the Christian cemetery was only about ten kilometers away. To tell the truth, the Christian cemetery was very beautiful; there were flowers and roses on each tomb, and at the iron gate, a living Moroccan was posted to stand guard over the dead. When we were children, we wanted to get into the cemetery, but that very alive Moroccan would threaten us with a big stick. He would be fully alert, even when he seemed to be fast asleep under the hood of his jallaba.
It is really nice to have a living Moroccan guarding dead Christians. Later I discovered that Islam is a religion of tolerance; but the Christians attacked us and kicked us out of Andalusia. According to what I’ve read, not one Christian stood guard over Muslim tombs; in fact, they actually exhumed the bodies.
We certainly didn’t do that to the French officer. All we did was play on his tomb. We’d find empty wine bottles. It was a lonely, isolated tomb with a tall tree behind it and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. How did this man come to die here? Nobody knows. He’s dead; that’s it. We’re all going to die, and nobody gets to choose his own tomb. Even if there’s a will, they’ll still choose it for him. The people on the other side of the road who’ve died probably didn’t leave a will, but they’ve certainly left dozens of children. They’ll be buried somewhere, will or no will.
Anyway, some people will be born and others will die, the way this French officer died. Instead of putting up this tomb, they could have hung his photograph somewhere. If he’s managed to do something with his life and wasn’t just “hardhearted,” he could have had a whole bunch of medals and decorations on his chest. But no matter.
So, once more, there were shacks and camelhair tents; and the road that led to the port of Mahdiya. It was a long, long way, and the she-donkey kept on walking. Where to? No one knows. Some people used to walk and live in shacks by the Atlantic Ocean; others walked and lived in camelhair tents. The French soldier was fated to remain isolated and alone, with children playing on top of his tomb.
Then one morning, I spotted some men, both Moroccans and foreigners, walking around; they were checking the shacks, talking and pointing, but not toward the camelhair tents. At noontime I saw women slapping their thighs and faces. The men had gathered under a fig tree and were talking. What were they talking about? No one knew.
Next morning, carts and trucks arrived and transported us all to the city’s suburbs. When I’d grown up and learned enough, I found out that they were intending to build a French naval base—which they did. Even so, they didn’t know what they were doing. They hadn’t put up a school by the shacks or camelhair tents, but they did build one in the city’s suburbs, and that’s where we all studied. If they’d never walked, talked, and built a naval base, we would never have left that place and studied. You only walk to the place that God has chosen for you.
There are those who walk to tombs. There are those who go on the pilgrimage by foot. But I took another path. When they evicted us from our shacks, I grew up and started learning things. I learned how to write stories like this one. So you should all start walking. It’s a long road, and the she-donkey. . . . And so forth.
At the Genoa Beach
Listen, I said, the sea view here is really beautiful. It’s pretty well unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The waves aren’t high, it’s true. But then there are short green trees all along the edge of the beach, with flowers of various colors hanging from their branches. They take good care of the beach here. You’ve come in spring. If you come back in the summer, you’ll see something else. Everything will look different. You’ll see beautifully sculpted female bodies sunbathing on the golden sand. The small beach-bars will be packed with customers thirstily downing beer, as though Doomsday’s arrived and they’ll never get to drink again.
You want to see such scenes in our country as well, you say. No. No. That’s impossible. We need too much time for our women’s bodies to become slender and for children and drunkards to stop breaking branches off small trees. You’re right: their physique is just like ours. Didn’t the Arabs come to Genoa a long time ago? It’s an ancient but beautiful city. Did you look at that huge church we passed the other day? Great architecture, isn’t it? I’ve seen other churches in Europe, but the Genoese one looks beautiful and different.
Do they pray?
Yes, they’re religious, but there are some atheists and fatalists as well.
Don’t be surprised. It’s seven in the morning; that’s why you can see so many cars. They work like ants. Yesterday you may have seen them drinking in bars, but they still manage to wake up early. What matters is that they work in order to be able to eat, drink, wear nice clothes, and talk about soccer results. You said they don’t read. That isn’t important; they don’t pay any attention to what’s going on. They voted for the prime minister even though they’re all against him on buses and in cafés. They are a people that like to eat, drink, and wear nice clothes. And they make wonderful shoes.
Italy isn’t Morocco, you have to understand. When all is said and done, this country doesn’t resemble yours. They go to bed late, but still manage to wake up early.
When it’s time for elections on Sunday, some Italians go to the polls, but others choose to stay at home, with either their dog or their sleep-mate in bed beside them. That’s why the election results can be so unexpected. They sleep a lot. They’ve no excuse. They work all week long. It doesn’t matter who wins the elections as long as everything stays the same and American air bases still exist. Do you realize that, after Moroccans, the largest foreign community in Italy is the Americans, followed by Filipinos? By the way, when you go back to your country, tell them that when an Italian gets drunk and starts fighting his friend, he’ll say, “Shove off, you dirty Moroccan.” What a surprise! A Moroccan woman who used to work in Saudi Arabia once told me that when Saudi women fight, they insult each other by saying, “Beat it, daughter of a Moroccan!” Isn’t that cute?
But none of it’s surprising. You’ve seen for yourself naked Moroccan girls on the streets in Milan, Genoa, and Rome. It’s the same in other cities, too. In a just a few months they can make a lot of money, then they go back to Morocco to buy houses, shops, and unemployed men. Don’t act surprised if I tell you that even married Moroccan women behave that way with the complete acquiescence of their husbands.
That’s a disgrace you say. I agree, it’s a disgrace for people in Morocco, but not here. After all, what could such women do if they stayed in Morocco? They have to prostitute themselves for a piece of bread. Sometimes they even have to pay the unemployed man who protects them; if they don’t, he slashes their faces with a razor. Here, they don’t slash women’s faces; they either slash their bodies or kill them. However, they don’t rob them of the fruit of their labors. The profession has its own morality.
That girl who’s trying to use the underpass to get to the other side of the highway is really pretty, you tell me. She is indeed, but when she grows up, she may turn ugly and mean. Who knows? Maybe she’ll practice the same profession, or become a great scientist. She’s young and pretty. She’s trying to use the underpass by those short trees with dangling blossoms. When she’s older and those trees lose their blossoms or die, she may have to use that same underpass on a cold rainy day like this.
Are you afraid of death? You’re stupid. People here aren’t scared of death. That’s why they eat and drink a lot. They say that since life is short, flowers die, and rivers dry up only to fill up again later, they must eat, drink, and do all those other things. Go to Sicily, and you’ll see. There they go home at eight p.m. They have no idea how to argue and quarrel the same way we do over there. If there’s a misunderstanding between two people, you can be sure that one of them will be dead by the next morning. The other one will keep on eating and drinking till his turn comes. Then flowers will start growing on his tomb, and a woman will come with her lover to cry over him. Those flowers will fade, and others will grow.
Now there’s the girl disappearing behind those flowery trees. Who knows which direction she’s going to take now? That underpass has four exits; nobody can guess which one she’ll take. What matters is that, as far as you and I are concerned, she’s disappeared. For sure that doesn’t apply to other people. She will cause them problems just as they will her. Actually, she may even have a problem before she exits the underpass.
Yes!! What are you saying? Life itself is like an underpass! I’m not sure; I may agree or disagree. The underpass will sometimes be dark, and at others, properly lit. That’s okay, as long as you insist that life is an underpass. The girl has gone through that underpass the same way other people are doing right now. Look, they all go in, but no one has any idea where they’ll come out. It has four exits; Genoa has many entrances and exits. What’s important is knowing where to enter and exit.
Do you smell that strange odor?! It’s the wind blowing in from the sea. It always has a special smell to it. If you walk away from the beach a little, you won’t be able to smell it any more. Maybe the Genoans’ ancestors decided to build their houses here so they could savor that special smell. People have the right to choose where they feel at ease, even if it’s a basement or a tomb. . . .
You don’t need to tell me you agree. I am well aware that if you didn’t agree with me about many things, we would not be sticking together so much. You are feeling particularly happy, you say. Why not? Just looking at this calm sea and ancient castle right in front of you, and dreaming about the beer you’re going to be drinking in a minute or two at the “Gira La Terra” bar, that’s enough to make you feel even happier.
No one seems interested in that girl, you say. I see her sometimes; maybe she’s the girlfriend of someone who works here. Every morning she comes here, reads the newspaper, gets in her car and drives away without ordering anything. I’ve no idea what she does. She doesn’t say a lot; that’s what makes her really attractive; she prefers to remain silent. Occasionally she’ll say a few words to one of the workers, and flip through the newspaper or read it more carefully, but then she gets into her car and drives away. All over the world, women aren’t the same. I don’t know whether that girl’s from Genoa or not. What I do know is that she’s female and certainly doesn’t resemble any other woman.
Moroccan women are all the same, you all say. I don’t agree. No woman resembles any other; nor does any man. God created each person with a particular temperament.
The flowers are beautiful, you say?! Of course they are. People here love beautiful things, but they don’t know how to talk about them. Their poets do it for them. Speaking of flowers, I once went to a bar in Casablanca with a friend. A girl came over, kissed us and joined us for a drink. She was already kissing us even before she had a drink, but once she got really drunk, she wanted to kiss the other people who kept staring at us, not at her. The flower-seller came in, but no one bought a single flower. They’re not interested in flowers. Even so, my friend bought a very expensive one and gave it to the girl. She looked at it, smelled it, drank her beer, and put the flower on the bar. She was the kind of girl that any prisoner would crave. We left the bar and decided to head for a night club. The girl took the flower with her. She stared at it for a while and then was about to throw it away.
“What do you want me to do with this flower?” she asked my friend. “Shall I cook it for my nine brothers?”
Dropping the flower, she stomped on it as though it were the body of an enemy. She stomped on that beautiful flower, but here people don’t even dare cut them. They love flowers, the same way they love other things, like killing people, for example. That’s the way they are; they’ll kill someone in an instant, whereas we only kill slowly.
You understand me, you say. That’s great. We have to understand each other before we start fighting. Just look how crammed together their cars are. But they still don’t run over pedestrians, because the latter have a sense of self-preservation, except when they’re drunk. Some Moroccans don’t have any sense of self-preservation; they cross the road without bothering to use the underpass. Maybe there’s a reason for that, some instinctive urge. What’s life worth when compared with a large sum of money to pay for an apartment building with a garage, or shops that sell spices, rats’ tails, frogs, and just-culled orphan baby tortoises?
People die in Morocco just as they do here in Genoa. There’s no difference. People seem to forget that there’s something called death. The way they choose to marry, procreate, live, deceive, squabble, or settle down: none of that really matters.
You don’t like talking about death? That’s only natural. But you know more about it than I do. Oh, we shouldn’t be talking about it this early in the morning!! So when should we talk about it, bearing in mind that it’s with us at every single moment? Even while I’m talking to you now, many people have died and others have been born.
You’re watching those cars speeding. Don’t be surprised. Other people are doing exactly the same thing somewhere else. Still others are still asleep. It may be just past eight a.m., but no one knows where all those cars are going. They certainly aren’t hanging around here. Even some Moroccan women aren’t wasting their time here either. That’s their right and duty, as long as they don’t catch that incurable disease.
But wait a minute. Can there be a disease more foul than poverty itself? If it weren’t for poverty, they would never have to come to Italy. Those poor women, they’re decent and clean. Any Moroccan man needs to watch what he says about this subject. If he isn’t happy about the situation, then he should support his sister or his Hajja mother and stop them taking the trip to this Christian country. What will the girl who trampled on the flower do if she comes here? Will your government (sorry, our government) appoint her ambassador? Don’t get angry. It’s just my opinion. Be open-minded.
