Текст книги "Horses of God"

Автор книги: Mahi Binebine

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 8 страниц)

9

NO, IT WASN’T all darkness in Sidi Moumen. I had my share of happiness too. My love affair with Ghizlane, Fuad’s younger sister, is proof of that. If there was one thing for which I’d have given up the whole idea of leaving, it was my love for Ghizlane. To think so many lives would have been spared if she’d held me back. Mine for a start, and other people’s – people I didn’t know, whom I carried off in my game bag like a poacher. I know she’d have stopped me going beyond the point of no return if only she’d taken me seriously. One night we met up outside her grandmother’s house. We’d often meet in that blind alley where few people ventured. I tried to talk to her, hinting that it might be the last time we’d see each other. She laughed in my face sarcastically: “Watch you don’t fall in the cesspools, they’re crawling with snakes and scorpions!” I knew every nook and cranny of Sidi Moumen, all the mounds of fresh or recently scavenged rubbish, down to the last square inch of muck; so if I was going to fall in a ditch, it would be because I’d been pushed. It was no good my trying to look stern and serious or explaining it to her, she just kept laughing. Ghizlane was the funniest, liveliest, most radiant girl I ever had the good fortune to meet. The least thing would set her off. She’d slap her knees, and her whole body was so eloquent, you’d never notice how tiny she was. Her presence was so cheering it was as if garlands had been hung all round her, the kind used to decorate the wall on the Feast of the Throne. Her hazel eyes always sparkled, lighting up her face and its oval mouth with an irresistible mixture of charm and innocence. Despite her exuberance, and her slightly affected manner, she was sensitive and deep. When I was alive, I wouldn’t have been able to describe her as I can now. I wasn’t taught the words to convey the beauty of people or things, the sensuality and harmony that make them so glorious. And now, as a lovelorn ghost, I feel the futile need to pour out my feelings and finally tell this story I’ve been turning over and over in my mind since the day of my death.

In the beginning was the dump, teeming with its colony of rascals. The cult of soccer; the incessant fighting; the shoplifting and frantic getaways; the ups and downs of trying to survive; hashish, glue, and the strange places they took you; the black market and the small-time jobs; the repeated beatings; the sudden attempts at escape and their ransoms of rape and abuse. . In the midst of all this chaos a glittering jewel had fallen from paradise: Ghizlane, my sweet and beautiful friend. No one knows how she landed in Sidi Moumen, but she was out of place in our filthy universe, a happy accident. I can still see her in the middle of her carrying hoop, a medium-sized rubber bucket on each side, going back and forth between the street pump and their home. In her long dress with wet patches, she seemed to glide over the loose stones and thistles on the path. The angel of grace had chosen this frail creature to blossom and live among us. If I wasn’t helping Nabil at the dump, I’d offer to lend her a hand. She’d gladly accept and the mere sight of her white teeth made my heart quiver. We chatted as we walked. I’d sometimes do that journey several times in one morning, just as happily each time. I’d put up with my friends ribbing me, calling me a sissy, and with Hamid’s jeers, if he happened to pass by. I loved being with her. Near the pump, we’d play at splashing each other, letting ourselves get soaked to the skin. We’d soon dry off in any case; Yemma would never notice a thing when I got home. Sometimes we’d stop near an isolated hut where, scorning the drought, a vine had clambered through the corrugated roof and reappeared through what must have once been windows. It was a shady place that, miraculously, no one had yet reclaimed. We secretly dreamed of living there one day, but we were too young to contemplate that kind of adventure.

Ghizlane would tell me about the dreadful atmosphere at home since the death of her father, the muezzin, and the marriage of her mother to Uncle Mbark. She didn’t like that man, that hermit crab, who’d taken her father’s place, taken over his job, his bed, his whole life. She didn’t understand how her mother had metamorphosed into a harridan, one of those wicked witches straight out of fairy tales. True, Halima had never been the maternal type, but to neglect her own children to that extent verged on insanity. Now she had eyes only for her new husband, who’d become her lord and master; this man who’d turned her head, for whom she was willing to abandon everything. Was this recent or had it predated her husband’s demise? No one could say. Whatever the truth of it, she’d spend hours making herself beautiful for him. It was as if she’d erased twenty years of her life to become the young, coquettish girl of the past again. Before sunset, she’d settle herself on cushions in the yard and bring out her beauty paraphernalia: a tiny round mirror and a case containing all kinds of powders, creams, and unguents. She attempted to brighten her eyes with a thick line of kohl, dragged almost to the ears, and enhance the coming kisses with lipstick from Fez, then she’d put on a delicately embroidered kaftan and sit herself on a kilim, like a young fiancée awaiting her suitor. When Mbark arrived, absinthe tea and dried fruits were produced, fresh candles were lit, and the transistor radio switched to the national channel, which broadcast popular tunes, patriotic songs to glorify the king, and official news bulletins. She hurried to bring him a basin of warm water with cooking salt for his foot massage. Soon after the radio soap opera, which the lovebirds wouldn’t miss for anything in the world, Ghizlane would serve them supper, which they took à deux in their own room.

This was during the worst of Fuad’s glue addiction, when he almost never came home, or if he did he was in a terrible state, his eyes rolled upward, red as two drops of blood. Ghizlane and I had made it our all but impossible mission to save him; she’d look after him indoors and outside it was up to me. She made him eat, wash, and change his clothes and would physically intervene when her mother, armed with a broad belt, came to give him a thrashing. “You’re no longer part of this family!” Halima would say, summoning their uncle, who’d back her up with a verse from the Koran. Then she began to shriek: “That drug addict is driving me mad! What have I done to the good Lord to deserve such punishment?” Fuad was so far gone, he didn’t even shield his face from the flailing blows. Ghizlane caught a few in the cross fire, but still she put herself between them, defying her mother. Sometimes clumps of her hair were pulled out and she wouldn’t make a sound. She’d get scratched, too, but she stood firm and waited for her mother to calm down before taking care of her brother, who’d be stretched out like a corpse on the palm mat. She took off his plastic sandals, slid a cushion under his head, and covered him with a blanket. She lay down next to him for a little while, to warm him up and comfort him, as her mother would have done had she not lost her mind.

Ghizlane’s life was no fun – far from it. She didn’t have any time to herself, she’d slave away all day long. She left the kitchen only to do the shopping, take the bread to the ovens, or fetch water from the pump. She’d make the meals, serve them, do the washing up, mop the cement section of the floor and sprinkle the rest. The afternoon was given over to laundry. She’d have to hang the washing on a line outside the house and, since they didn’t have a terrace, she’d sit on a stool all afternoon to guard it, not just from thieves but in case the wind got up; then she had to take it down in a hurry, otherwise the clouds of dust would mean she had to start all over again. Meanwhile her mother, who’d taken early retirement, spent her days sipping tea with the neighbors, hanging around the souk as soon as a consignment of contraband was rumored to be arriving, or keeping company with her oaf of a husband at mealtimes. The only contact she had with her daughter consisted of criticism and abuse, and usually ended in tears. Life might have gone on this way if Ghizlane hadn’t rebelled. And I played a part in it too. Together we worked out a clever counterattack, an unexpected strategy from a couple of twelve-year-olds. The plan was for Ghizlane to fall asleep on the job and make a mess of anything she possibly could: add too much salt to the tagines, leave it out of the bread dough altogether, put a pinch of killer chilli in salads, sweep before damping down the floor so that dust spread right through the shack, leave stains in the laundry or make new ones. . in short, as far as possible try to poison the sweet, peaceful life of her stepfather and her hag of a mother. In spite of the hell Ghizlane and Fuad were forced to endure for weeks on end, the plan paid off. They put up with the beatings, the humiliation and bullying. They were made to eat those revolting meals, the salads that were on fire with chilli, the gut-wrenching soups, while their mother and Uncle Mbark brought delicious sandwiches back from the market and shut themselves up in their room to eat them. This war of attrition might have gone on indefinitely had it not been for the intervention of Mi-Lalla, their paternal grandmother. Heaven had sent her to put an end to this situation, now become unbearable. She suggested to Halima and Uncle Mbark that the children come to stay with her until things settled down, explaining that it was normal for them to be upset by their father’s death, their mother’s remarrying so soon, and all the rest. A few weeks at most and things would be back to normal. Mother and uncle were only too willing, and it was salvation for all concerned. Ghizlane and Fuad packed their bags the same night and went to live with Mi-Lalla in Douar Scouila, a shantytown half an hour’s walk from ours.

The Stars of Sidi Moumen took the news badly, fearing Fuad would be tempted away by his new neighborhood’s local team. But that didn’t happen. Moreover, a little while later, he stopped sniffing glue and was back to his dazzling best as our center forward. A new life was beginning for Ghizlane, too, since Mi-Lalla had taken her under her wing. She banned her from setting foot in the kitchen and enrolled her in an embroidery school run by someone she knew. “You have to have a trade, child, it’s the only way to be free.” Free: there was a word that resonated in Ghizlane’s ears. It struck a chord, it consoled her. Yes, she would learn a trade and be free, vindicating the faith placed in her. She realized how lucky she was to have a grandmother like Mi-Lalla, who treated her so kindly, who fussed over her and spoke to her gently, who gave her the gold ring she’d been given by her own mother. She made her promise never to part with it. “You’ll give it to your own daughter one day!” she’d concluded. Ghizlane turned as red as a tomato.

Mi-Lalla belonged to what passed for aristocracy in Douar Scouila. The widow of a soldier who’d been killed in Indochina, she received a monthly pension, which, converted into dirhams, amounted to a tidy sum. And since she hadn’t stopped working and didn’t spend much, she’d managed to build up a decent nest egg. No one knew where she had stashed her money; her house, which was built of concrete, had been visited many times by burglars. One day she found her garden completely dug up, since the thieves believed she had buried her savings there. It was a waste of effort. Mi-Lalla’s fortune lay in a safe place known only to herself and God. Fuad used to say he’d rather not find out, or it would be too tempting. That made Ghizlane laugh. She’d reply that he had many faults, but stealing wasn’t one of them. And anyway, she was going to ask Grandma’s permission to start making cakes, as she used to do, and he could sell them at the souk. That way, he wouldn’t have to ask anyone for money. Now that he’d given up sniffing glue and had gone back to soccer, he didn’t have as many needs.

Mi-Lalla’s work, as unpopular here as anywhere else, made her a lot of enemies. She was a representative of the law. Since men weren’t allowed to enter people’s homes to make spot inventories of goods before they were confiscated, it fell to mature women to do the job. It was a painful duty and the grandmother performed it reluctantly. She felt for these people who were about to have everything taken away because they were unable to pay their debts. Even after thirty years in the job, she still had scruples. Sometimes she’d send a messenger to warn her victims she’d be coming the next day. That way, they had time to move their most precious things during the night: their radio, television set, wool-filled mattresses. . Even so, people avoided her like the plague. She was never invited to anyone’s home, for fear she’d suddenly ask them to account for their furniture. People were too unkind, because Mi-Lalla had a big heart. It was true that she made her living from other people’s misfortune, but it was a job, like any other. Gravediggers do the same, but they’re still decent, honest people. I should know. As for me, I loved her as if she were a member of my family. She’d adopted me too, since I often came to play with her grandchildren. I called her Grandma like they did. She could see I was crazy about Ghizlane and it amused her. Coming across us sitting in a corner, she whispered: “One day, I’ll marry the two of you.” But before that, we had to behave ourselves. “Don’t get up to any mischief, I’m watching you!” she called out, laughing.

Some temporary arrangements endure. The few weeks that Ghizlane and Fuad were meant to stay with Mi-Lalla turned into months, then into years. Halima came to see them less and less and they were none the worse for it. Her children avoided her. They’d be out when they knew she was coming. Soon the visits were limited to holidays and then they stopped for good. No one suffered too much, except perhaps Ghizlane, a little. She confided this to Mi-Lalla, who had a talent for soothing aching hearts with her magical phrase: “Tomorrow’s light will open a different door.” One tomorrow followed another and it turned out she was right: time eventually eased the little girl’s distress.

Fuad now had a mobile stall measuring nearly one square meter, mounted on wheels that a blacksmith friend had made with great skill. He sold sweets, chocolates from Spain, lollipops, and Ghizlane’s cakes. He’d set himself up at the entrance to the only school in the vicinity, and business was good.

Ghizlane had learned how to embroider and was working for the nuns, who provided her with fabric and good-quality thread. She’d make tablecloths, napkins, sheets, pillowcases, handkerchiefs, and linen of all kinds. You’d sometimes see luxury cars parked near the house. Women in European clothes, smelling strongly of perfume, would come to place orders with her. Mi-Lalla would tell her she ought to give some thought to her own trousseau, too, and Ghizlane would pretend to be annoyed.

I’d see her on Tuesdays, which was market day, and we’d go out together, wandering round the tent stalls that had been put up overnight. Douar Scouila’s customary chaos would be multiplied a hundredfold. Men would jostle with beasts in happy confusion. And they’d be shouting, squabbling, laughing, guzzling, and belching all round the great mounds of brightly colored spices displayed on the ground, part of a vast throng: street vendors crying their wares, vying to make themselves heard above the din, chickens with their legs tied together cackling round farmers, braying donkeys collapsing under overloaded carts, a chanting chorus of blind men warning of Judgment Day. I knew every one of the thieves who operated round there. They weaved through the crowd, sharp-eyed and quick with their hands. We’d observe their maneuvering with glee: a deft slit of the razor on a back trouser pocket and they’d shadow their victim, patiently waiting for the wallet to drop. Ghizlane would laugh and give me a little tap on the back. Midday already. The aroma of grilled sausages, snail soup, and puréed broad beans was making us hungry. We’d buy ourselves a sandwich and devour it under a tree. Refreshed, we’d plunge back into the fray. Stopping by the fortunetellers was obligatory, because Ghizlane was eager to find out everything there was to know. Those lowlifes were like weeds sprouting all over our misery. According to them, poverty would soon be abolished and love would reign supreme in Douar Scouila. They all but promised the resurrection of the dead. Ghizlane lapped up the good things foretold by the cards. Her eyes would light up the way they did in front of a fabric stall, when she’d start fingering and rummaging through the brightly colored materials, giving me a great many knowledgeable explanations about the provenance of the different wools, cottons, cloths, and satins. She’d criticize the prices and wouldn’t buy much in the end. Or she’d spend hours haggling over a reel of thread. I’d be laughing and embarrassed at the same time. Sometimes she made me go to the barber – he too operated from a tent – because she thought I needed a haircut. Sitting on a stool, she waited, smiling at me in the mirror. She said that short hair really suited me; she thought I looked handsome. I thought she was beautiful too, but I didn’t have the guts to say so. I once managed to stammer a compliment about her long black hair. She smiled. Walking side by side, our hands would brush and we’d pretend not to notice; we acted as if the shivers we felt were just chance, or the coolness of the morning. We’d stop at the stall selling sunflower seeds and buy ourselves a cone. She’d slip a note into my pocket, since she knew I was broke and thought it more proper for the man to pay. And she’d refuse to take it back. So we’d go on, wandering aimlessly, lingering in a crowd that had formed round a singer performing with his tam-tam. If she could have, she’d have danced with him. And the day would pass, as if in a dream. We’d be on our way home before sunset. Ghizlane didn’t like to leave Mi-Lalla on her own too long; she was getting old and had more and more trouble keeping herself occupied. We’d bring her nougat, which she adored, though she could only suck it, since the stumps still clinging to her gums were about to fall out. If she’d had a good week, Ghizlane would bring her a scarf, a turban, or a prayer mat showing a sparkling Mecca. Mi-Lalla would instantly sniff back her tears. With age, she’d become very emotional.

That last evening, before the big day, we’d come back from the souk without saying much. Ghizlane hadn’t laughed the whole walk home, which had gone quickly for me. She must have noticed the anguish my eyes couldn’t hide. I’d have liked to walk and walk. I’d have liked to feel her slender fingers touch mine one last time, but we were already home. Right outside her house in the dark shadow of the blind alley, I took my courage in both hands and kissed her.

10

WHEN THE LIVING think about me, they open up a small window into their world. And I slip through on the quiet, not making a sound. I take care not to frighten them, otherwise they’ll balk, throw up the dread walls of oblivion, and leave me confined in my purgatory, where I’m dying of boredom. That’s why, as much as possible, I resist the temptation to intervene in earthly affairs. You’re surprised, aren’t you, that a wandering soul can interfere in the world of the living? Well, you’ll just have to take my word for it. I’m not allowed to reveal any more than that. What I can say is that we possess a limited number of signs that we place along the paths of our nearest and dearest. So, as long as they bother to reflect on them, we have at least some scope for influencing particular situations. This can come about in different ways. Messages in dreams are the easiest for them to read, but on occasion, I admit, they can be quite disconcerting.

Sometimes I’m overcome by the urge to scream when I find misguided dreamers following in my footsteps; I have to force myself to abide by our rules. I want to tell them: all the promises they make you, however enticing, simply lead to death. So I suffer, in silence, and try to keep my demons in check. I sometimes tell myself that perhaps being unable to intervene fully and change things is itself hell, because I’ve been on fire since the day I died. Abu Zoubeir lied when he said we’d go straight to paradise. He used to say we’d already suffered our share of Gehenna in Sidi Moumen and therefore nothing worse could happen to us. And even that the faith he was instilling in us day after day was forging the shield that would enable us to step clear over the seven heavens to reach the light. He’d describe each stage, with its pitfalls, its temptations, its doubts and delirium. To hear him tell it, you could have sworn he’d died and come back to life ten times over, so intimately did he know every detail of the great journey, so deep was the conviction in his eyes as he related it.

In another garage, in another slum, there’s the photo of me that Abu Zoubeir pinned to the wall alongside photos of the other martyrs: Nabil smiling beatifically; Khalil with a fixed grin; Blackie, his dark complexion gone, staring with his wide protruding eyes and making a victory sign; and my brother Hamid, true to form, displaying all the swagger of a born leader. This way, Abu Zoubeir glorifies us forever in the fight against the infidels. Looking at our portraits, other boys will dream of justice and sacrifice, as we once did, watching videos of the Palestinian or Chechen martyrs.

Abu Zoubeir, our spiritual guide, wasn’t always religious. For a long time he’d led a debauched life, which he didn’t attempt to hide. On the contrary, he’d use it to convince us of the virtues of abstinence. He could be completely objective because he’d been down that road. Like many of the chosen ones who’d been touched by grace, he’d fought a relentless battle against the mediocrity of vice. Being close to the light, he was now filled with inexpressible bliss, an inner peace superior in every way to that produced by hashish. Abu Zoubeir knew the right words, the greedy words to implant in the memory, which, as they grow, ingest all the waste piled up there. He’d been born and raised in Douar Lahjar, a shantytown even more run-down than ours, if it’s possible to compare derelictions. His encounter with God took place in Kenitra prison, where he spent the best part of a decade. He didn’t like to talk about his crime, but we knew that rape and fraud were involved. It was a period of his life he described as supremely wayward. He used to say that prison had saved him from himself; having the luck to meet men of faith there was a gift from heaven. So he felt obliged to give back some of the blessings he’d received. His new purpose was to help us purify our souls, to lead us on to the path of righteousness. In fact, that path led straight to death, our own and that of our fellow man, whom we were meant to love. Slam into a blind wall, surrounded by nothingness, where there’s only regret, remorse, solitude, and desolation. Slam, slam, slam. .

It felt good, being in the garage. The prayer mats on the walls were embroidered with verses from the Koran, in gold-thread calligraphy. The sparse furniture consisted of a raffia mat, a low table, a television, and a bookcase. Sitting cross-legged, dressed all in white, his beard carefully trimmed, Abu Zoubeir radiated a strange light. When his eyes rested on one of us, we had the impression he was reading our hearts, like a book. He had a sixth sense for discerning our innermost thoughts, our doubts, and our questions, to which he had clear and precise answers.

How old were we when those meetings began? Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Hamid was the first to start visiting Abu Zoubeir. I’d see them nattering away for hours over by the cesspools, near where we’d buried Morad. Hamid seemed fascinated by the eloquent conversation of his friend, whom he referred to as a guardian angel. To me he was more like a demon. In the beginning, I hated him, because my brother didn’t notice me anymore, he ignored me. It was as if, overnight, I’d ceased to exist. Hamid was no longer interested in the Sunday games, or the fights that came after. Or even in his own business, which wasn’t doing well. The boys he employed at the dump were stealing from him with complete impunity; but he couldn’t care less. He’d lost all authority over the glue sniffers and his other flunkies, who’d gone freelance. Worse, he’d stopped getting high and, to crown it all, he’d begun to pray five times a day. The transformation was complete. Yemma was happy because he’d taken a job selling shoes in the city with a friend of Abu Zoubeir’s. Nothing was the same as before. He’d bore the pants off us with his piety. On Fridays, he’d go to the mosque and take his place in the front row next to Abu Zoubeir, who’d then give a speech. He let his beard grow; he was the shadow of his former self. Gone was the dandy always up for a fight, sharp as a razor, organizing his own life and everyone else’s. Mine especially. I’d grown up and could look after myself now, but I missed him. If, in a game, I made a spectacular save, I’d glance around for him, in case he was admiring my exploits from afar. I needed his applause, his yelling, his sudden storming of the field to give me a hug. But he wasn’t there. His time was divided between the shop, the garage, and home, where he only came to eat. Gone, too, was the gaiety he usually spread around the table, the ridiculous stories that had Yemma in stitches. He could even extract a smile from my father’s mummified face. He’d jeer at my brothers and no one would be able to get a word in edgeways, he was always so talkative, so funny. All that was gone. He managed to spin a kind of austere web that gradually entangled us all. We couldn’t watch TV in peace because he’d be doing our heads in with his diatribes about the American-Zionist conspiracy that was brainwashing us all, corrupting our morals and insidiously infecting each one of us. Yemma didn’t understand a word he was saying, but depriving her of her Egyptian and Brazilian soaps was out of the question. So, just to irritate us, he’d start noisily reciting the Koran in the room next door.

As time passed, Hamid would come home less and less. Eventually he set himself up in a shack near the garage, lent to him by Abu Zoubeir. That hurt a lot, because he left a gaping hole at home. I went on loving him in spite of it all. He was still my idol, on a par with Yachine, my soccer hero. I’d get up at dawn to go and meet him before he left for work. He’d take me to Belkabir’s, a stallholder who made doughnuts that were second to none. Sitting behind a vast frying pan, the man with the spreading paunch would fling rounds of sticky dough into boiling oil. They’d instantly swell as they floated, giving off an exquisite smell. We’d buy a big crisp ring of them and take it to the café, order mint tea and happily munch away. Hamid said I ought to find myself a job so I’d be able to feed myself properly. He’d have a word with Abu Zoubeir, who had friends everywhere. I agreed, because I adored doughnuts. Sometimes he’d put me off my food by talking about hell so early in the morning. He’d insist that on the day of the Last Judgment the infidels would be thrown into vats of boiling oil, that their skin would keep growing back so they’d carry on frying and the suffering would be atrocious. That gave me goose bumps. I told him I believed in God and I’d never get fried like a doughnut. That’s how I became an apprentice mechanic with Ba Moussa. A grubby job, but one I was conscientious about. And since Nabil was bored and kept hanging around the bikes I was fixing, he was taken on too. Together, we made a great team. So much so that Ba Moussa, who was an inveterate kif smoker, came to rely on us and we became professionals.

The shop consisted of two connecting rooms. The one at the back, which was tiny, dark, and airless, was where the boss lived. It had a bed and a table, on top of which, in pride of place, was a transistor radio, which blared from morning till night, and a suitcase for his clothes. A bare bulb, emitting a faint glow, hung from the low ceiling. We were always knocking our heads on it. The other room was our workshop: there was a crate full of tools, some old tires, nuts and bolts, screws, and a mountain of ill-assorted scrap metal that could be reused. But in fact, except when it rained, we always worked outside. The bicycle held no mysteries for us anymore. And then we progressed to the next stage: mopeds. That was a whole different story, but we knuckled down. Moussa would give us easy jobs to start with, and more complicated ones as we went on. And if, when we made a mistake, he took the liberty of giving us a beating, it was for our own good. We knew that. You have to be tough on apprentices at times, even if Ba Moussa, when he was annoyed, could deliver a real drubbing. I learned to keep out of the way, but Nabil had a knack for being in range. He bore the brunt of it. But hey, that was the deal.

It took us a few months to get the hang of the work. We learned to strip an engine in next to no time, lubricate it, replace the faulty parts, and reassemble it. I’d be ecstatic when an engine started up first time; I’d take it for a trial run on the tracks over at the dump. My friends, seeing me roar past, would howl with jealousy. Some of them threw stones and shouted: “Bourgeois filth!” I’d give them the finger and keep going. The boss was proud of us. As was Hamid, who’d come to visit, bringing bread, a tin of sardines, and potatoes. It was great. In those days, I was stuffing myself, spending half my salary on food. The rest I’d give to Yemma, who’d give it back to me in different ways. She bought balls of wool and knitted us jumpers, gloves, hats, and socks; she’d buy me a pair of espadrilles or anything else she could find at the souk that was cheap and useful. I’d put on weight and had grown about ten centimeters. It was all going so well. But in Sidi Moumen, the moment an engine is running smoothly, a bit of grit will get in to jam it. Without fail. It was woven into the fabric of our destinies.