Abdellatif Laabi - The Bottom of the Jar

Feeling excluded, Namouss tried to come up with something to do. His attention was drawn to a trickle of water snaking along the meadow. He decided to follow it to its source. His curiosity led him to a spot where there was a mass of boulders. And in a recess of the rock where he’d dared to venture, he found the object of his quest: a hissing waterfall. Alas, what Namouss had thought was a discovery turned out to be anything but. Other explorers had beaten him to it. There they were, leisurely washing themselves and snorting under the stream, mistaking the waterfall for a vulgar shower.

Return to the meadow. Namouss looks for a bit of shade. A palm tree generously offers him some. He lies on his back and loses himself watching the sky, stripes of which he glimpses through the foliage. Little by little, a ray of light begins to illuminate his face. After a moment, the palm tree starts to shake, then slowly twists upon itself, making the canopy of the sky dance with it. Namouss feels as if his body is being lifted by some unknown force, but instead of lifting him toward the top of the palm tree and beyond, up toward the eye of the sun, it transports him into another dimension. A window onto the future opens: Some time from now, he tells himself, I will go far, farther than my legs will be able to take me. And one day I will come to the foot of a waterfall as high as the minaret of the Qarawiyyin mosque. I will drink from its waters and forget everything. I will speak other languages, including those of animals. I will sail the seas, journey through deserts, and decipher the stars. I will no longer fear the blackness of the night or the sound of the thunder. Maybe someday I will learn to fly and from time to time come back to Fez and touch the summit of Jebel Zalagh and glide above the terrace of our house, tell Ghita and Driss “Behold my wings,” and then fly off toward new horizons.

“On your feet, Namouss, we’re making our way back.”

Return to reality. Namouss is loath to set aside his journey, but his brothers don’t want to wait for him. He gets up and falls in behind the assassins of his dreams.

THREE DAYS PASS, allowing Namouss to acquaint himself with his surroundings to the extent that Ghita entrusts him with small errands: buying bread or charcoal — if it was beginning to run low — or, more important, going to tell the girls to end their bathing sessions and come home. He’d also learned the basics of swimming. Denied the ability to fly through the air, he’d begun to appreciate the possibilities afforded by this new element — even if his exploits were limited to a few strokes and never straying far from the edge of the pool. The little he’d learned about swimming came courtesy not of his brothers but of Driss, and he was not about to forget the circumstances in which this had occurred.

The day following their arrival in Sidi Harazem, the sun had barely risen when his father had woken him up to take him swimming in the Qobba pool, which was usually reserved for adults. At that time of day, while it was still cool, the tepid water was even more delightful and not as crowded with bathers. The place also doubled as a hammam. A haziness prevailed, accentuated by a dense fog of vapors rising from the water. In one of the alleys, two masseurs set themselves to scrubbing their clients as well as “stretching their bones” until they cracked. At regular intervals, hymns sung in praise of the Prophet bounced off the walls and reverberated throughout. Only a few of the people there would be swimming. Some had propped their backs against the edge of the pool and would talk to one another in hushed voices. Others devoted themselves to the minutiae of grooming, including the brushing of teeth. A claylike paste that clung to the walls served as toothpaste, while the index finger served as a toothbrush.

It was in this atmosphere of complex rituals that Namouss learned to move in the water. Driss guided him. Sometimes he would hold him, others he would let him go, and even though his movements often caused the other adults to be amused, Namouss didn’t give up. The ability to float freely in space for a few seconds made him feel empowered, as if he had broken through a boundary and acquired a new faculty. Where did this new power of his come from? From him or from Driss? He didn’t know the answer to that. He only felt his father hold him close, which happened seldom. Moreover, on that day, Driss held him close against his naked torso, thereby also imparting his warmth. The child could feel his father’s heartbeat as well as his own. A tender connection that even oblivion and time could do little to destroy. A timeless thread. A taste of the eternal. Its smell.

“Don’t be afraid,” Driss murmured. “Move your arms and legs at the same time. Don’t stiffen up. There you go.”

Namouss followed his instructions to the letter. He applied himself even more than he did at school. He knew he had already earned his gold star the moment he had his father all to himself, a moment that might never again come to pass.

ON THE FOURTH day, a minor incident disrupted the monotony. Except for the baths and the ritual walks in the countryside, Sidi Harazem offered no distractions. At nightfall, a sort of curfew reigned. One went to bed not long after dinner so as to wake up when the cock crowed. Sleep didn’t bring much rest with it since, as luck would have it, one had to spend much of the night battling minuscule yet formidable invaders. Drawn by the city slickers’ sweet skin, the fleas and bedbugs feasted to their hearts’ delight. Even Namouss, who by virtue of his nickname was related to these bloodsuckers, didn’t manage to escape their greed. At the risk of suffocating, he’d had to wrap himself in his blankets in order to defend himself against their traitorous attacks. It was already dawn by the time the insects left, their hunger sated.

When Abdelkader, Driss’s youngest brother, arrived unannounced that morning, he was greeted as a liberator, especially by the children. They knew that, thanks to him, the nights would take a very different turn, and the time after the evening meal would stretch into the small hours, since Abdelkader’s talents as a storyteller would keep them entertained, delaying as much as possible the dreaded moment when the insects would swing into action.

Uncle Abdelkader was a real character. In terms of physique, while Driss wasn’t exactly a giant, his little brother seemed like a dwarf beside him. He had a funny protuberance on his forehead, not in the middle, like the prayer bump that regular mosque-goers took pride in, but on the left side, which meant it’d been there from the time was he born. Furthermore, he was as deaf as a doorknob. How had that come about? It was just one of the many mysteries about him.

He had also been saddled with a nickname, to the point that most people who knew him had forgotten his real name was Abdelkader. To them, he was Touissa and nothing else. But why Touissa, diminutive of tassa (cup)? When one said tassa , the first thing that came to mind was the expression “hitting the cup,” which in popular parlance in Morocco was equivalent to draining a glass (or rather many), hitting the bottle, getting hammered, going on a bender, or to put it plainly, getting drunk. What? Did Uncle Abdelkader drink alcohol? Once the feeling of indignation had passed, we listened to Radio Medina, which let nothing slip past it and had the habit of making a mountain out of a molehill. They would tell of how people usually beyond all suspicion, whether or not they were of some standing, would find any pretext to slip out of the Medina and go to the mellah, where they would frequent cafés called “cantinas,” where they served kosher wine and mahia , which was made by Jews from the Sefrou or the Demnate. Besides the profits they were reaping, the publicans took pride — and delight — in seeing the faithful of the dominant religion partaking in the pleasures that were permitted under their own religion. The radio also said that one didn’t need to go as far as the mellah since there was a cantina in the immediate vicinity of the old city, not far from Bab Boujeloud, where very respectable fellow Muslims could “hit the tassa ” with the most exquisite brews. Ah, those Nazarenes, taking over the country and running it as they liked wasn’t enough for them, they had to go ahead and corrupt the souls of the faithful and damn them to the torments of hell!