Desert (5 page)

When the sheik had finished telling his story, he embraced Nour once again and returned to the cool shade of his home.

The next day as the sun was going down, Ma al-Aïnine came out of his house to say the last prayer. The men and women in the camp had hardly slept, for they hadn’t stopped chanting and stamping their feet. But the great journey across the desert had already begun, and the feeling of abandonment inspired by the march along the trail of sand had already entered their bodies, its scorched breath was already filling them, making mirages shimmer before their eyes. No one had forgotten the suffering, the thirst, the relentless burning of the sun on the infinite stones and sand, or the ever-receding horizon. No one had forgotten the gnawing hunger, not only hunger for food, but all sorts of hunger. Hunger for hope and for freedom, hunger for everything that is missing and that digs out a dizzy hollow in the ground, hunger that pushes a man forward into the cloud of dust amongst the dazed animals, hunger that makes him climb all the way up hillsides until he must start back down again, with hundreds of other identical hills stretching out before him.

Again, Ma al-Aïnine was squatting on the tamped earth in the middle of the square in front of the whitewashed houses. But this time the tribal chieftains were sitting by his side. He had placed Nour and his father very near to him, while Nour’s older brother and mother remained in the crowd. The men and women of the camp had gathered in a semicircle, some of them squatting, wrapped in their woolen cloaks to stave off the chill of night, others standing or walking around the walls. The musicians plucked the chords of their guitars and struck the skins of small earthen drums with their index fingers, making a sad music echo through the square.

The desert wind was now blowing intermittently, pelting the people’s faces with grains of sand that stung their skin. Above the square, the sky was dark blue, almost black already. The city of Smara was surrounded on all sides with absolute silence, the silence of the stony red hills, the silence of the deep blue night. It was as if there had never been any other humans but these, prisoners in their minuscule crater of dried mud, clinging to the red earth around their puddle of gray water. Out beyond was stone and wind, waves of dunes, salt, and then the ocean, or the desert.

When Ma al-Aïnine began reciting his dzikr, his voice rang out oddly in the silence of the square, like the distant bleating of a goat. He chanted in almost a whisper, rocking the top of his body back and forth, but the silence that was in the square, in the city, and lying over the entire valley of the Saguiet al-Hamra had its source in the barren desert wind, and the voice of the old man was as clear and steady as that of a living animal.

Nour shuddered as he listened to the long appeal. Every man and every woman in the square stood motionless, as if their eyes were turned inwards.

Already, above the broken rocks of the Hamada in the west, the sun had made a large red stain. Inordinately long shadows had crept out over the ground, then had all run together like rising floodwaters.

“Praise be to God, the living God, the undying God, praise be to God who has no father and no son, who stands alone, who is one and of himself, praise be to God who guides us, for the Messengers of God came to bring truth...”

The voice of Ma al-Aïnine wavered at the end of each invocation, breathless, frail as a flame, and yet with each long syllable distinct and pure, shattering the silence.

“Glory be to God who is the one and only provider, the one and only lord, he who knows, who sees, he who understands and commands, glory be to him, giver of good and evil, for his will is the only desire, for his word is the only safe haven from the evil that men commit, from death, from illness, from sorrow created along with the world...”

Night was gathering slowly, first on the earth and in the hollows of sand, around the foot of the mud walls in front of the motionless men, in the holes where dogs slept, under the roofs of the tents, in the murky depths of the well water.

“It is the name of the protector, the name of he who comes to me and gives me strength, for his name is the highest, his name is such that I have nothing to fear from my enemies, and I repeat his name within myself as I go into combat, for his name is the name that reigns on earth and in heaven...”

Up in the sky the sunlight was fleeing westward as the cold rose from the depths of the earth, seeped up through the hard sand and into the legs of the men.

“Glory be to God, the infinite, there is no strength or power but in God the most high, God the infinite, God the most high, God the infinite, he who is neither from the earth nor the heavens, he who lives beyond my sight, beyond my knowledge, he who knows me but whom I cannot know, God the most high, God the infinite...”

The voice of Ma al-Aïnine resounded far into the desert, as if it were reaching the outer edges of the desolate land, far beyond the dunes and the rifts, beyond the barren plateaus and the desiccate valleys, as if it had already carried out as far as the new lands on the other side of the Drâa Mountains, to the fields of wheat and millet where the people would at last find their nourishment.

“God the almighty, God the most perfect, for there is no other divinity but God, the wise gifted with power, the most high gifted with benevolence, the friend gifted with knowledge, the ever-providing, the only generous one, the forbearing who commands the armies of the heavens and the earth, the most perfect, the loving one...”

Yet the feeble, distant voice touched every man, every woman as if on the inside of their bodies, and it was also as if it were coming from their own throats, as if it were mingling with their thoughts and their words to make its music.

“Glory, praise be to the ever-living, glory, praise be to the one who does not perish, to the one whose existence is supreme, for it is he who hears and knows...”

The air entered Ma al-Aïnine’s chest, then he breathed out forcefully almost without moving his lips, eyes closed, the top part of his body swaying like the trunk of a tree.

“Our God the lord, our God the highest good, our God the light of light, the night sun, the dark of dark, our God the sole truth, the sole word, glory and praise be to the one who holds battle in our battle, glory and praise be to the one whose name overthrows our enemies, the lord of God’s land...”

Then, without even realizing it, the men and the women began reciting the words of the dzikr; their voice rose each time the voice of the old man came to a trembling halt.

“He is great, the all powerful, the most perfect, he who is our lord and our God, he whose name is written in our flesh, he the revered, the most holy, the manifest, he who knows no master, he who said: I was a hidden treasure, I wished to be found, and to that end, I created the living creatures...

“He is great, he knows no equal nor rival, he who preceded all existence, he who created existence, he who is everlasting, who owns all, who sees, who hears, and who knows, he who is perfect, he who is without equal...

“He is great, he is magnificent in the hearts of the faithful, he is pure in the hearts of those who recognize him, he is without equal in the souls of those who have reached him, he is our lord, the highest of all lords...

“He knows no equal nor rival, he is the one who dwells at the pinnacle of the highest mountain, the one who is in the desert sands, who is in the ocean, in the sky, in the water, the one who is the path, who is the night and the stars...”

Then without even realizing it, the musicians began to play, and their airy music spoke with the voice of Ma al-Aïnine, murmuring with the faint, sharp notes of the mandolins, with the fluttering beat of the small drums, then suddenly bursting forth like the cry of birds to accompany the pure melody of the reed flutes.

The voice of the old man and the pipe music were now answering each other, as if they were saying the same thing, over and above the voices of the men and the sound of feet thudding on the hardened earth.

“He knows no equal nor rival, for he is the all powerful, he who was not created, the light which gave life to candles, the fire which lit other fires, the first sun, the first star in the night, he who is born before all births, he who brings life and death to all earthly things, he
who fashions and breaks down the forms of creatures...”

Then the crowd was dancing and shouting, making a rending sound – “Houwa! Him!” – and shaking their heads and turning their uplifted palms toward the dark sky.

“He who brought the truth to all the saints, who blessed the Lord Mohammed, he who gave the power and the word to our Lord the Prophet, God’s messenger on earth...”

“Ah! Him!”

“Glory be to God, praise be to God, the infinite, the most perfect, the heart of the secret, the one who is written in the heart, the all high, the infinite...”

“Houwa! Him!”

“Glory be to God for we are his creatures, we are poor, we are ignorant, we are blind, deaf, we are imperfect...”

“Ah! Houwa!”

“O he who knows, give us the truth! O you, the gentle, the loving one, the patient, the generous, you who needed no one in order to exist!”

“Ah! Him!”

“Glory be to God who is the king, the holy one, the powerful, the victorious, the magnificent, who exists before all life, the divine, the infinite, the one, victorious over all enemies, the one who knows, who sees, who hears, the divine, the wise, the infinite, the witness, the creator, the only one, the infinite, all-seeing, all-hearing, the magnificent, the generous, the strong, the most perfect, the most high, the infinite...”

Ma al-Aïnine’s voice was shouting. Then it suddenly stopped, like a cricket singing in the night. Then the rumor of voices and drums stopped too, the guitar and flute music ceased, and again there was nothing but the long awful silence, tightening around the temples, making the heart beat faster. Eyes filled with tears, Nour looked at the old man bowing toward the earth with his hands over his face, and deep inside, quick as a stab, he felt the uncharted threshold of anguish. Then Larhdaf, Ma al-Aïnine’s third son, began to sing also. His strong voice rang out in the square, no longer with the pure clarity of Ma al-Aïnine’s, but like a sound of anger, and the musicians immediately began playing again.

“O God, our God! Welcome the witnesses of faith and truth, the companions of Moulay bou Azza, of Bekkaïa, the companions of the Goudfia, listen to the words of remembrance as our lord Sheik Ma al-Aïnine has dictated them to us!”

The muttering of the crowd suddenly changed to shouts: “Glory be to our sheik, Ma al-Aïnine, glory be to the messenger of God!”

“Glory be to Ma al-Aïnine! Glory be to the companions of the Goudfia!”

“O God, listen to the remembrance of his son, Sheik Ahmed, he who is called al-Shems, the Sun, listen to the remembrance of his son Ahmed al-Dehiba, he who is called Particle of Gold, Moulay Hiba, our true king!”

“Glory be to them! Glory be to Moulay Hiba, our king!”

Now the feeling of exhilaration had once again taken hold of the crowd, and the hoarse voice of the young man seemed to awaken their anger and dispel their fatigue.

“O God, our God, may you be pleased with your companions and your followers! The men of glory and greatness, may God be pleased with them! The men of love and truth, may God be pleased with them! The men of faith and purity, may God be pleased with them! The lords, the nobles, the warriors, may God be pleased with them! The saints, the blessed, the servants of the poor, the homeless, the suffering, may God be pleased with them! May God grant us his great blessing!”

The din of the crowd rose, and the names being called out were echoing off the walls of the houses, were being indelibly inscribed in memory, in the cold bare earth and in the star-filled sky.

“May the great blessing of the Lord, Messenger of God, be bestowed upon us, O God, and that of the Messenger Ilias, the blessing of al-Khadir, who drank at the very source of life, O God, and the blessing of Ouways Qarni, O God, and that of the Great Abd al-Qâdir al-Jilani, the saint of Baghdad, the Messenger of God on earth, O God...”

The names burst forth in the silence of the night, over the music that murmured and swayed as imperceptibly as a soft breath. “All of the people of the earth, and the people of the sea, O God, the people of the North, the people of the South, O God, the people of the East, the people of the West, O God, the people of the sky, the people of the earth, O God...”

The words of remembrance were more and more beautiful, words that came from the farthest corners of the desert and had at last found their way back into the hearts of each man, each woman, like an old dream starting over again.

“Bestow upon us, O God, the great blessing of the lords Abou Yaza, Yalannour, Abou Madian, Maarouf, al-Jounaïd, al-Hallaj, al-Chibli, the great holy lords of the city of Baghdad...”

The light of the moon appeared slowly above the rocky hills to the east of the Saguiet, and Nour watched it, swaying his body, keeping his eyes rooted deep in the black sky. In the center of the square, Sheik Ma al-Aïnine was still bowed forward, very white, almost ghostlike. Only his thin fingers were moving, flicking his ebony beads.

“Bestow upon us, O God, the blessing of the lords, al-Halwi, he who danced for the children, Ibn Haouari, Tsaouri, Younous ibn Obaïd, Basri, Abou Yazrd, Mohammed al-Saghir al-Souhaïli whose teachings revealed the words of the great God, Abdesselaam, Ghazâli, Abou Chouhaïb, Abou Mahdi, Malik, Abou Mohammed Abdelazziz al-Thobba, the saint of the city of Marrakech, O God!”

The names were the exaltation of remembrance itself, as if they were the eyes of the constellations, and from their far-away gaze, great strength descended, there, upon the freezing square where the people were gathered.

“God, O God, bestow upon us the blessing of all the lords, the companions, the followers, the army of your victory, Abou Ibrahim Tounsi, Sidi bel Abbas Sebti, Sidi Ahmed al-Haritsi, Sidi Jakir, Abou Zakri Yahia al-Nawâni, Sidi Mohammed ben Issa, Sidi Ahmed al-Rifaï, Mohammed bel Sliman al-Jazoûli, the great lord, God’s messenger on this earth, the saint of the city of Marrakech, O God!”