Abdellatif Laabi - The Bottom of the Jar

I have made a gift of my soul

To Morocco, my homeland

And he who tramples its rights

Will be made to taste death. .

The crowd grew larger and larger, and the excitement had reached its apogee when gunshots broke out from the top of the road.

“The goumiers! The goumiers!” someone shouted.

Panic ensued. Wave upon wave of protesters flooded the square, collapsing one after the other into a heap of bodies, crashing down like a house of cards. Trapped in a bottleneck, gesticulating wildly. Namouss felt the ground beneath his feet give away. The wave had overwhelmed him, swallowed him up, blowing him like a feather right into the thick of things. He reacted instinctively and did his best to neither move nor scream so he could concentrate on breathing. Keeping his mouth open, he tried to catch some air, but his lungs were being increasingly squashed and his heart started skipping beats. The thought that he might die crossed his mind, but strangely, this did not bother him much. Rather, he thought about how Ghita would throw a fit as soon as she heard the news — or about how Driss would be spared from having to give him his weekly allowance. But the more suffocating the situation got, the less he thought about these things. He was no longer able to breathe, and his throat only emitted a hoarse rattle. In a final burst of lucidity, he realized he was being pressed against a woman’s inert body, and that the woman was jamming her hand into his face. Without knowing why, he took the woman’s hand and, using all his remaining energy, bit down on it. He smelled blood. His or the woman’s? He couldn’t tell. The surrounding darkness gave way to a cold, white haze that worked its way into his brain and put him to sleep. All around him, the screaming and wailing began to fade away.

That was when he felt the hold over him loosen. Someone was dragging him away. He opened one eye, first seeing a policeman’s helmet, then a face and lips ordering: “Get the hell out of here!”

Freed from the vise, he landed, made his way to all fours before getting back on his feet as best he could — at which point his savior gave him a kick in the backside before he scuttled off.

“DO YOU WANT a drink?”

The boy yanking Namouss away from his agitated dreams was very small, in fact only knee-high to a grasshopper, and had hanging over his shoulder. . a gargoulette! With his free hand, he held out a cup, insisting: “Do you want a drink?”

Waking up in a daze, Namouss looked at this apparition. Having just left a nightmare behind, here he was staring at his doppelgänger. Would his suffering never come to an end? What evil jinni was forcing him to remember that story, especially on a day like this, when everything was going wrong? Recovering a little, Namouss grabbed the cup and emptied it in a single gulp. The child was amused by such great thirst.

“Did you fast today?”

Wary, Namouss answered his question with another: “What about you? Did you fast?”

“No,” the child retorted. “I’m younger than you.”

“I am the youngest in my family,” Namouss added. “I won’t be starting to fast anytime soon.”

The conversation went on like this.

“I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”

“What about parents?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Where do you live?”

“In New Fez.”

“In whose house?”

“Houses that belong to people. I work and give them money.”

“Did they find you here in the garden?”

“No, they said they got me in the countryside, but they’re lying.”

“Who gave you the gargoulette?”

“I bought it with my money.”

“Do you sell water everywhere?”

“I sell it here during Ramadan, otherwise in the mellah.”

“So why are you here now?”

“I worked enough today. I came here to rest. The water that’s left over I give away fabor .”

“Who drinks your water?”

“Kids, and women who are having their time of the month.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“When they bleed.”

“From where?”

“From where you came out.”

“Why?”

“That’s just the way it is. And so they have the right to eat and drink as they like.”

“Ah, so that’s why my big sister eats from time to time.”

“You’re a real kanbou . You don’t know anything at all.”

“Yes, I do. I learn a lot at school.”

“I learn more from the streets.”

“Like what?”

“Tricks. Also, I know how to defend myself.”

“So do I.”

“Yeah, yeah. You wouldn’t stand a chance against me.”

“Don’t push it. I wouldn’t hit you anyway because you’re younger than me.”

“Feel my muscles.”

“It’s true, they’re hard as steel.”

“You’ve run away from home, haven’t you?”

“How do you know?”

“You did something bad, I can tell just by looking at you.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

IT WAS TIME for the evening prayer. Maghrib wasn’t far off. Namouss decided to go home, reluctantly leaving his companion behind. The initial hostility had disappeared completely. The thought that he might never see the boy again even made Namouss sad. He turned around to look at him one last time. The water seller was perched on the bench with his gargoulette close beside him, his naked, dusty little feet dangling in the air. Framing him from behind, the waterwheel was spinning away. With a last look at this somewhat disquieting image, Namouss headed toward the exit.

RETURN TO THE house. His apprehension is intact, and the state he finds his mother in is certainly not going to release his tension. At first, Ghita seems to be ignoring his presence. It then becomes clear she is just midstream in one of her memorable tirades, using the patio as her stage. Namouss, used to these performances, pricks up his ears, waiting to see what will come next. But what he hears astonishes him.

“Our religion sure is a fine thing! You have to spend all day chained up like a dog. Our throats parched and our bowels gurgling. Neither rest during the day nor sleep at night. And who — who’s left gathering the grievances? Ghita, that’s who, the servant of young and old — the orphan girl with no one to look after her. If only I had somewhere to go, I swear to God I wouldn’t stay here a moment longer. What is it that our ancestors used to say? ‘When your country humiliates you, leave it.’ It’s true, the world is vast. I can live anywhere, even in a nouala or a tent. I’m strong enough to look after myself. After all, bread and water will suit me just fine. I don’t need gold or caftans. I don’t need a man, or children, anything that will make my head ache. Head, oh head of mine, you’re going to explode. My head, my head, my head. .”

On that note, she made an about-face and, finally noticing Namouss’s presence, she began to scold him.

“You’re just getting home now, you sinful son! Where have you been all day? Who have you been gallivanting with? Everyone was worried to death. Your father almost hired a street hawker to go around the city shouting your name.”

Namouss was seriously starting to panic, but then Ghita abruptly changed her tone.

“Come here! Now tell me first of all: You haven’t eaten a thing since yesterday, have you?”

“No,” Namouss hastened to answer, her question filling him with hope.

“ Wili, wili !” Ghita exclaimed, suddenly moved to pity. The boy was dying of hunger and there was no one there to rescue him. “Come here, my poor little one, come here. You can start by tasting that damn harira to tell me if it’s salty enough. I never know how much salt to put in. That dates from the time when your father and I were newlyweds and lived at your uncle’s house. Well, would you believe that when it was my turn to cook, your aunt — may God punish her! — would wait until my back was turned to throw a handful of salt into the pot. When the tagine was served it was almost inedible. All of that just to sow discord between your father and me. I was still a little girl, but one day I woke up at dawn, packed my things, and gave your father a choice: Either he would find us a house of our own, or we would go pay a visit to the qadi —”