Abdellatif Laabi - The Bottom of the Jar

It had taken Namouss some time to recover from this episode. Even now, doubts would take hold of him and his eyes would fill with tears, which he would be unable to hide. But nothing had changed his feelings in regard to Aâssala. He was still secretly very fond of her, and whenever he was out with his friends, he did his best to ensure no harm would come to her.

The group left the horm of the Moulay Idriss complex and headed toward the Qarawiyyin. A gathering crowd signaled Aâssala’s presence. Namouss squeezed through to the front row. There was his “betrothed.” A swarthy-skinned woman with pinhead eyes and wild, unkempt black hair. Even though she was dressed in old rags, she wore at least one ring on each of her fingers. She was holding a pretty kitten in her arms. Another was perched on her shoulder. She was surrounded by a few scrawnier-looking cats. Aâssala was not making a speech. Muttering between her teeth, she was addressing the cats rather than the curious people around her. Yet at the slightest threat, she would raise her voice into a croaky howl, forcing the bystanders to take a step back. Occasionally a child would launch a sneak attack and tug at her sleeve. At which point the child would be beset by the pack of cats, ready to defend their mistress. Thus warned, the children wouldn’t dare confront her head-on. They would content themselves with hurling jibes at her. Keeping at a distance, some coward would then throw a stone at her before running away.

Namouss was there, watching the scene with a mixture of pity and admiration. He didn’t want anything bad to happen to her. At the same time, he envied the relationship she enjoyed with her cats, who seemed entirely devoted to her. He would have loved to have a kitten of his own at home, to take care of it. A strict rule stood in his way. There were lines he simply couldn’t cross when it came to his family. These ranged from raising pigeons to distilling orange blossom water — all the way up to preserved lemons and olives. Even the slightest transgression would incur a beating. Ghita proved intractable on this point. Having a cat was therefore out of the question — akin to inviting a jinni into the home. Didn’t cats have seven souls?

Namouss was well aware that while Aâssala enjoyed this privilege, his own wish would remain unfulfilled. At least Aâssala was free to have the companions she wanted and go wherever she liked with them. Having reached this stage in his reasoning, he stopped and felt anxious. If he was drawn to freedom and a life of vagrancy, this must mean there was some truth in those stories that had so tormented him in the past. For the first time, he took courage: after all, it was possible for an orphan to have an altogether different life, perhaps even a better one. Why worry so much about it? He was consequently on his way to alleviating the troubles that had dogged him all these years.

And, as if canceling out these first awakenings of a desire for freedom, he surprised himself by saying, “I must get back. It’s getting late.”

IT IS THE month of Ramadan, when the mornings are long and spent in total seclusion. There’s no point in going outdoors. The Medina is deserted. One has to be careful not to make any noise in the house so as to let those who were fasting sleep as much as they wanted. Even Driss, who was not usually temperamental, would get nasty whenever he was disturbed from his rest.

Having been awake for a good long while, Namouss was growing impatient. He was hungry and wanted Ghita to get up and look after him. Satan began to whisper naughty ideas into his ears. He discarded a few of them, but his hunger got the better of him in the end. It followed that he couldn’t expect to have warm milk with his breakfast. He would therefore have to make do with the leftovers from the previous evening’s meal. Rummaging in the cubbyhole that served as a kitchen, he managed to lay his hands on a partially eaten quarter-loaf of bread and a small piece of meat coated in congealed fat. He had just begun to devour his meager snack when he heard the squeaking of mice coming from behind a row of jars. Panicking, he jerked back and bumped into a rack containing of number of pots and saucepans. With a crash, the kitchen utensils came tumbling down, scattering as far as the courtyard in a deafening racket. And the mice, who were even more scared than Namouss, leaped out of their hiding place and, after racing around the courtyard in mad circles, headed straight for his parents’ bedroom.

Soon enough, the house is turned on its head. Ghita’s terrified shrieks. Driss comes out in his pajamas still wearing his nightcap. Noisily throwing open the bathroom door, he grabs hold of a club and, giving Namouss a dirty look, enters the field of battle. Woken from their slumber, Namouss’s brothers and sisters rush into the courtyard, each brandishing a weapon they’d brought out just in case: a slipper, a sandal, a palm broom. The atmosphere is charged. Namouss knows he will not be able to get off scot-free. Unless. He starts thinking, fast. After all, no one could be sure that he had been the one to knock over the pots and pans. Why couldn’t it have been the mice? This version of the events could hold water. In any case, it would be best to disappear for the moment and wait for the breaking of the fast to show his face again. By that time, there’s a good chance the whole affair will have been forgotten.

HE ROAMED THE streets like a lost soul. Empty of people, the Medina was unrecognizable. The few passersby he crossed paths with looked sullen. Hardly any shops were open and the craftsmen inside worked at a leisurely pace. Only a handful of grocers attracted a few customers: some young maids, whom one recognized because of their humble attire and, above all, their faded, ill-fitting head scarves, which made them look like elderly spinsters. There they were, sniffling, their eyes heavy with sleep, waiting for the grocer to deign to serve them.

It was then that Namouss realized the full extent of the calamity that he’d brought upon himself. Unless a miracle happened, he would have nothing to eat for the whole day, and since he couldn’t very well go home before sundown, what could he do to fill the interminable hours that lay ahead of him?

He began roaming the streets aimlessly again. After a while, the empty streets made him feel as if he were in a different town altogether. Devoid of crowds, the souks seemed larger. One could take his time, look around, lift one’s gaze to the sky, watch the flight path of a stork, and there, where some reeds had been braided into a sheltering roof, observe clusters of grapes hanging heavy as wax from their vines, or listen to the chirping of birds that had made their nest in that cool spot.

Namouss continued on his way, prompted by a sudden desire to revisit all his favorite haunts, taking advantage of the exceptional tranquillity. His steps led him to the Joutiya market, where on normal days the crowds were usually thickest. Starting early in the morning, people gathered around the stalls run by butchers, fishmongers, vegetable sellers, and in the middle of the square, surrounded the traders selling olives, snails, and salt, who, lacking proper shops or stalls, sold their wares out of large, wide baskets on the ground. The cheap eateries serving harira were never empty. Namouss would sometimes slip inside the one in Ba Allal, taking care not to be spotted by someone who might be tempted to report him to his mother. This was because Ghita thought that dining out on what she called “street food” was beneath one. It was only suitable for beggars, those without families, and bachelors. When he flouted this rule, Namouss would eat his soup so quickly that he’d scald his tongue and then leave the eatery, skulking away like a thief in the night.