Abdellatif Laabi - The Bottom of the Jar

Ghita lowered her eyes in a gesture of feigned modesty and indifference, although she was in fact on cloud nine and had picked up on every allusion the song was making.

This is the lament of the lover

Who burned, just as I once did

With desire for his sweetheart,

And whenever he thought the flame

Had flickered and gone out

The slightest sight

Of the young beauty

Would restore the flame

And set him on fire,

Poor lover, deserted

By sleep and appetite,

Whenever he saw his damsel

It was as if he’d glimpsed

The gates of death,

She who so wholly possessed him

Cared not for his suffering

Blessed by life, she was

A ruler both cruel and just,

Standing before her door

He begs tirelessly for her favor

And will never give up.

Tell Lalla Ghita my sovereign:

Satisfy your lover when you meet him,

Oh you, mother rain. .

Tell Lalla Ghita: you are the blessing

He is looking for, take pity

On he who loves only you,

You have made him lose all sense and reason

So why are you throwing him on the embers?

Revive him, with just one kiss

Oh my dear, before it’s too late,

Don’t you know he’s a slave

That’s been entrusted to your care

Who observes all rules of decorum?

His desires are yours, you are all

He lives for. Your indifference

Will be the death of him,

His torment knows no equal

Just like your beauty!

Tell Lalla Ghita my sovereign. .

The unbridled, almost carnivalesque party taking place inside the large house they enter is a far cry from the intimate poetry and discreet melodies of that song. The crowd of spectators surrounding the Gnaoua is almost exclusively composed of women and children. The atmosphere is overheated. Clouds of incense smoke are rising from a number of braziers, gradually forming a thick fog where one can barely see anyone’s face. Volleys of ululations are unleashed at regular intervals as the rattles and drums play on. In the midst of this hubbub, Ghita suddenly leaves her child behind and, as if moved by mysterious forces, elbows her way to the front of the crowd. Namouss tries to catch up, but having opened for her, the wall of bodies quickly closes ranks again. Panicking, he tries to come up with a solution. Lifting his eyes, he notices that a number of other spectators are following the ceremony from the floor above by leaning on the parapet. He runs up. Moved to pity by how frazzled Namouss seems, a woman makes a little room for him, but in doing so squashes up against him, overwhelming him with the heavy smell of her perfume. Braving these nuisances, Namouss’s only desire is to find his mother again. He tries to make her out in the crowd by spotting the color of her djellaba. There’s no point. The cloud of incense has thickened and turned opaque. His gaze is then drawn to a group of women dancing in the middle of the room. Dancing is not quite the word for it. Their agitation has nothing to do with swaying arms and hips or quivering bellies and shoulders, movements Namouss associated with dance as he knew it, the sort that women threw themselves into with a coquettish air at fêtes and festivities. Instead, the only movement these women are making is snapping their heads back and forth in an increasingly staccato rhythm. The rest of their bodies remain immobile, except for when one of them sinks to her knees and begins shaking her torso back and forth with extraordinary strength. Freed from her head scarf, her hair would fall free and toss back and forth, then it began to fly around like a giant eagle experiencing turbulence in flight. Inspired by this ecstasy, the Gnaoua musicians play faster and faster, shouting hoarse sounds to egg the women on. The women reply by ululating in unison. At its climax, the ceremony takes an unexpected turn: A young female spectator leaps into the middle of the ring, and as if she’s been bitten by a scorpion, collapses onto the ground. Gripped by convulsions, she starts rolling and wriggling every which way on the floor. At this sight, a few dancers who haven’t yet lost all sense of reason run over to her, but instead of calming her down, they merely restrict her freedom of movement by surrounding her in a tighter circle. In doing so, these women look not only delighted but even envious of this “poor epileptic.” Moved to pity and racked by anxiety, Namouss pronounces the diagnosis. He knew all about epilepsy. Cases of it were not so rare in the Medina. Whenever they occurred, the first-aid workers immediately set to their principal aim: freeing these bodies of the evil spirits that had possessed them. They would put a large iron key in the victim’s hand and sprinkle a little water in his face. Whereas here no one was doing anything to stop the attack. The young woman continued to writhe while the women around her ululated, taking the girl’s affliction as a blessing.

And where was Ghita during all of this? She was nowhere to be seen. Namouss began to despair of ever finding her in this courtyard of miracles. He felt bound up and wanted to be sprung out of this cage. He decided to slip away and leave his mother to her stories of Lalla Mira.

This is how he blew his initiation.

THE BEGINNING OF the new school year rescued Namouss from a state of despondency. At the end of a summer marked by peregrinations — where he had gone from frightening discoveries to questions that only led to more questions — he had come to an unsettling conclusion: he had taken stock of his life and not only found the results disappointing but also didn’t have the vaguest notion as to what might constitute a better life — or a world without struggles or worries.

The big cloud of these heavy ideas burst while he was walking to school. The air on that October morning was bracing, the sun sparkling. After the climb of the Grenadiers, Namouss went down the rue El-Amer and walked alongside an orchard surrounded by a low wall topped with a hedge. The smell of caramel and musk invaded his nostrils. From inside the orchard came the aroma of freshly turned earth that had just been watered, of chopped cardoons, and of Seville orange blossoms. Among the intoxicating fragrances, a particularly enticing one began to insinuate itself. . something Namouss had forgotten but now quickly remembered. He picked up his pace and ran into the street vendor posted at the bottom of the staircase that led up to the school gates, which were already surrounded by a group of children. When his turn came, he didn’t know whether he should go through the turnstile or leave that to the vendor. Given the stampede, he opted for the latter.

“One!” the street vendor cried. Then he lifted the lid of his tin and — surprisingly — pulled out two waffles, which he held out to Namouss and smiling, added: “Here you go, the second is in case luck betrays you.”

Such generosity was welcome. It brought comfort to Namouss, who was starting to become superstitious. Thanks to the street vendor’s gesture, he cheered up.

Boy, were those waffles good! Leaning against the school gates, Namouss gobbled them up as fast as he could, partly because he couldn’t resist and partly so no intruder would show up and ask for some. He swallowed the last bite, the most delicious, just as the bell was ringing. Then immediately, the gate opened onto other trials and tribulations.