Tahar Ben Jelloun - A Palace in the Old Village

What can I do to make my wife be nice to me? Give her a present? But it would have to be something special: the keys to a new car, the deed to some property, or at least a gold necklace or a diamond ring, a trip to Turkey, maybe camping out by the pyramids under a starry night sky — or, better yet, a briefcase full of money. Ever since she saw that in an Egyptian film, she’s been dreaming of it.

Watch how the other men get on, she keeps telling me, the real men, not limp noodles like you! Study them, at least try to learn from them, and don’t come near me, don’t try to cry on my shoulder, because in that movie it’s only after handing over the little briefcase full of money that the husband took the liberty of resting his head on his wife’s shoulder. Don’t count on me to wash your hair. Leave it greasy with dirt; that’s you in a nutshell. My husband — or shall I say my alleged husband? — has greasy hair because his pockets are empty, because he can’t satisfy his wife either sexually or financially. His wife is frustrated! She would willingly have gone off with someone else, but she has principles.

The petty bureaucrat begins to count the number of files on hold. Two hundred fifty-two files. Not one has a chance of getting anywhere. He scratches his head, looks at his fingernails clogged with dandruff. Turning toward a colleague, he suggests they go out for a coffee.

THE DAY MOHAMMED MOVES IN, the house is not completely finished, but nothing stops him. He’s obstinate — that’s built into him, part of his character. There’s an expression, “stubborn as a mule,” but a mule can’t hold a candle to Mohammed and his tribe. He refuses to face facts, forges ahead as if permanently locked on to rails. Doesn’t talk things over (forget that!), plunges in headfirst and eyes closed, convinced he’s absolutely right. Hardheaded, headstrong, strong willed. Impregnably and single-mindedly devoted to the idée fixe, inflexible to the end. No, a stubborn man is a nut impossible to crack because he clings with everything he’s got to what is primitive and archaic. Mohammed doesn’t know it, but his obstinacy is at the core of his being.

In his house there is a room for every child, but they all have different dimensions. Some connect to each other through a low, awkward door. The small windows are of various sizes. The prayer room takes up too much space; carpeted with mats, it awaits an imam and the faithful. Mohammed never thought about whether his children were good or bad Muslims, whether they observed Ramadan, prayed, drank alcohol — no, impossible to imagine. On the contrary, he envisioned them all there and himself up front, leading the prayer, while they submitted dutifully to God’s will. He saw them, heard them asking God for help and good fortune — and at that very instant, draped in black from head to toe, a dark silhouette appeared, wearing black gloves and babouches , a moving mass, perhaps a woman, or else a thief hiding behind that veil, a shadow circling the house again and again, a strange, heavy, enigmatic presence. Who’s there? asked Mohammed. Silence. He felt a cold wind blow by as the shadow swelled up and vanished. Mohammed was afraid, not of being attacked, but of meeting a messenger of misfortune. Like all those of his tribe, he was superstitious, although he would never have admitted it, since only women believe such nonsense.

That black thing did not augur well; it could have been a message from the devil, or from some evildoer, a jealous neighbour trying to frighten him or cast a wicked spell. Mohammed knew that envy and hypocrisy thrived in his village, and his wife had even given him talismans to wear against the jealousy of his own family. It’s only natural, she’d told him, that when someone manages to climb out of a hole, people do their best to pull him back in. They can’t bear it that others enjoy good health and manage to emigrate, because to them emigration is a fantastic stroke of luck, so watch out: your own nephews and cousins see you as the sacrificial lamb of Eid to be shared among themselves when you arrive in that car full of presents. Be careful: it’s the people closest to you who are the most envious, and dangerous, for they mean you harm.

Mohammed said prayers, then said them again, but he had an uneasy feeling of foreboding. Although he was physically courageous, this was beyond him. Seized with uncertainty, he felt a painful emptiness burning in the pit of his stomach and wondered if he was having a touch of after-dinner heartburn, but his emotional turmoil grew as he heard the black thing murmuring, grinding its teeth as it came and went.

Mohammed recited the shahada several times: Ach hadou anna la ilaha illa Llah, Mohammed rassoulu Llah…. He watched the phantom flit off, a cloud of dust in its wake. Then he made his ablutions with the water in the bottom of a jar and said a few prayers as if to erase that grim vision, or at least keep it at a distance. When a bat crisscrossing the courtyard brushed by him, he stumbled. Then he fell so deeply asleep that he did not dream at all.

The following evening, after sunset, he climbed up a lopsided ladder to the roof terrace, where he had pitched a tent that in summer would provide a place for sleeping in the cool night air. He thought some more about the thing in black. And again it appeared, this time with part of its face uncovered. It addressed him as if it were a member of his family, and although Mohammed called on God and his prophet, praying for their protection, the thing grew bigger as it spoke to him, now in Berber, now in Arabic.

Pour soul! Meskin! Alas for you! You have spent all your money on this building, to dance on your head, walk on your hands, eat spiny hedgehog, and drink milk full of sand! You will choke and die smothered because no one will come to your aid: you have built a house on the only land that does not belong to humans. You have violated the secret of the masters of this place; you have disturbed them, hurt them, and this house will remain empty, empty, for no soul will ever enter here, and yours is kept outside, because you did not know what you were doing, but from the next night of Destiny onward, you will go hence. You will leave the house to the masters of this place, those who live in the depths of wells and the vaults of the sky, those who burn all that their eyes behold, those who leave no trace and know neither fear nor shame, those who are stronger than Satan because they have always been here, for hundreds and thousands of years, those who love not the imprudent, the foolish, the careless who think to drive them away by reciting a few prayers. Meskin! Alas for you! All that for naught! Gaze not upon me or you will become dust, to be blown by a gust of wind into the distant sands! Listen well to what I tell you, and do as I command! You, men of foreign countries, you have abandoned your lands, and you return to cover them with stones. You are lost and your descendants are lost: they no longer know you; they have already repudiated you; they have escaped from you; and so it has been decreed by the masters of this place, who do not want them, for they are sons of foreign soil, ingrates without roots, without religion. The roots of those shrubs have been cut, burned into cinders and ash. Go to the cemetery to meditate on the tombs of your ancestors, and hearken well to what they will tell you, for they are just and wise: they will say that this house is a mistake, and that one does not live in a mistake — especially when it is immense. One does not come to disturb the masters of this place, because they are invisible: you do not see them but they — they watch and pursue you! To be quit of them, you have only one solution: leave and abandon this house to them, which they will make a place of penitence for those, like you, who have gone astray, those from foreign lands who no longer know who they are or where they came from. One last counsel: do not bother summoning the white-robed men who endlessly chant beautiful words when they think only of the feast to follow.