The Bottom of the Jar (22 page)

This emancipatory momentum was accompanied by another phenomenon, which was considered more controversial for a different
reason. Example: the sudden craze for imported household goods. Chinese ceramics began competing with traditional pottery. Bronze, silver, and copperware were progressively supplanted by plastics and tins. Namouss had witnessed this particular transformation when Driss decided one day to get rid of what he considered old junk: teapots, kettles, ewers, candlesticks, tea and sugar caddies, as well as antique trays. The whole lot was sold off to a shopkeeper in Nejjarine Square and replaced by newer items. While the proceeds of this transaction certainly added much-needed income to the meager family coffers, what was more astonishing was that Ghita raised no objections to this ransacking of her heirlooms.

Yet another change: While Radio Medina remained the preferred source of gossip and word-of-mouth news, many increasingly started turning to more reliable outlets. Once strictly reserved for the wealthy, radio sets began to grace most households, taking pride of place in the middle of the living room, and often decorated by beautiful embroidered cloths and crowned by a vase of artificial flowers. One steered clear of Radio Morocco, which was the colonial government's mouthpiece, and instead tuned in to stations broadcast from Cairo or Moscow, as well as the
BBC
and Voice of America. People paid particularly close attention to the news but also took delight in listening to Oriental songs. Umm Kulthum, or the “Star of the East” as she was widely known, was already universally popular, but the radio facilitated the sensational rise of crooners such as Mohammed Abdel Wahab and Farid al-Atrash. It brought turmoil to formerly peaceful households, pitting brother against sister, sundering long-standing friendships – basically, it split society into two rival camps: those fanatics who pledged their loyalty to the Son of the Pharaohs and those equally fanatic fans of the Lebanese Druze. So it was no coincidence that moviegoing became astonishingly popular, and Namouss plunged headfirst into this craze.

T
HREE CINEMAS VIED
for the patronage of the people of Fez. The most popular ones by far were the one situated in the somewhat rural neighborhood of El-Achabine and the one way out toward Bab Ftouh. The third, in Boujeloud, was frequented by a more sophisticated clientele and allowed women to while away their afternoons there. The competition between cinemas was stirred by which films were being shown. The El-Achabine specialized in detective films, Bab Ftouh showed Westerns, and Boujeloud practically had a monopoly on Egyptian films. Namouss ran with the hares and hunted with the hounds. He needed his weekly fix on Friday afternoons, which demanded much effort on his part. He was now too old to get in free with one of his older brothers. Making himself small didn't fool the ticket inspector either. He had to pay. But securing the money was never a sure thing since Driss was the only one he could go to. The waiting game would commence at the beginning of the week and last right up until an hour before the start of the film on Friday afternoon. During this time, Namouss was on the lookout for any sign as to whether Driss was or wasn't favorably inclined. Everything would depend on how business had gone for him that week at the souk: whether enough orders had come in, whether he had paid his rent arrears for the shop, and whether the cost of his materials had gone up or down. These considerations were augmented by others, most notably the pressures Ghita faced in setting aside enough money each day for the family budget, pressures that understandably affected her mood whenever Namouss got too insistent. But most difficult of all was Driss's habit of taking a siesta right after the midday meal on Fridays. Was this a ruse to avoid dipping into his
choukara
? Namouss was sure of it. He was left with no option but to make his request at the most unpropitious time, running the risk of receiving a flat refusal. As a result, he would pester Ghita to intercede on his behalf.
She would begrudgingly consent but then pull out at the last minute. Namouss would be forced to approach the foot of the bed where his father was fast asleep. Driss would then sit up and, muttering some incomprehensible curses, would thrust his hand into his
choukara
and pull out a horribly crumpled ten-douro note, toss it on the ground, and immediately go back to sleep. Namouss would sheepishly pick it up and hightail it out of the house.

His destination on that day was Bab Ftouh, and he set off at break-neck speed. Namouss got there without a minute to spare. Dakhcha, a muscular man whose face had been ravaged by the pox, was just about to close the doors. Before letting the latecomer in, Dakhcha warned him he would have trouble finding a place. He was right, the movie theater was at full capacity. There was no hope of finding a seat. Namouss was forced to make do with the benches right at the front, which were almost on top of the screen. Even there, he had to haggle with the children already tightly squeezed into a tiny space for a sliver of bench barely large enough for one of his buttocks. For better or worse, he managed to wedge himself in. Then later he'd maneuver himself to create a bit more space. An opportune moment came when the cinema's manager walked in and was welcomed by a roar of applause and cheers.

“Long live Bel Mokhtar!” the spectators shouted.

Some of the people next to Namouss carelessly stood up to better express their enthusiasm, allowing him to nonchalantly make his move. Mr. Bel Mokhtar got up on the stage. He called for silence and launched into a speech.

“Gentlemen, you're only going to hear good news. You will love this week's film. We had it sent from America. It features great actors. No idle chatter in this one, only action, and plenty of it. A hundred fists and two hundred gunshots – with both revolvers and rifles – and seven
kisses. Have no fear,
laâribi
is going to face great dangers, but he will escape unscathed. At the end, he will marry
l-bent
who stood loyally by him through all his challenges. Next week's film, which you will see a trailer of, will also be to your liking. Don't worry. The same hero will return to take you on new adventures. He will marry a new heroine since the last one, poor thing – may God protect her soul – died in an accident. One last thing: Please remain calm should the reel snap or catch fire. We'll fix it right away. I don't want any mayhem, otherwise we'll cut the film short. There you have it, I'll leave you to it and see you next time.”

More cheering followed the end of the speech. Before long, the lights went out. Pathé's robust rooster appeared on the screen and sounded its triumphant cock-a-doodle-doo.

“May God cut your throat!” one of the spectators cried at the top of his lungs.

Another spectator took the joking further and belched, emitting a stupendous burp, letting everyone know – all messages were coded – how he would have loved to feast on such a fleshy-looking bird.

The images that followed made the audience shut their beaks. The magic of the incomprehensible. They spoke of troubles in faraway lands: a flawlessly choreographed military parade, a grand dame baptizing the hull of a ship with a bottle, important men shaking hands, a factory where machines had replaced workers, a castle ballroom where a dance was being held, an ancient street where a blind man was playing the accordion. The rooster then crowed again before moving on to local news, where the images became more familiar. The audience loosened up and reacted to the images ad hoc. The appearance of a fellow Moroccan astride a donkey that was trotting along in the open countryside caused an outburst of hilarity.

“
Cha
!” someone shouted at the donkey.

“
Rra
!” another shouted.

“
Tikouk
,
tikouk
!” cried a third with a straight face, convinced that he would be able to startle the beast of burden.

Snap! It rolled to another scene. The donkey driver was now in a room, bare-chested. A French doctor was examining him. He made him open his mouth, pressed down on his biceps, turned him this way and that, and then finally swabbed his forearm. Snap-snap! A ceremony taking place in front of a caid's tent. An officer heavily decked out in insignias and with a kepi on his head was pinning a medal to an official sporting a djellaba and a burnous. The voice-over specified that the Moroccan man in question was a close friend of France.

“Boo! Boo!” resounded through the room, then followed by a “Hush!”

Unable to hold it in any longer, some foolhardy loudmouth broke the silence and shouted, “Long live independence!”

The audience held its breath.

The next reel brought some much-needed relief before sparking allout jubilation. Could it be? Fez's municipal stadium came into view followed by a few highlights from the match between MAS and Roches Noires. The reel focused primarily on the goal scored by the visitors and accorded only five seconds to Couscous's equalizer. The whole room broke into the MAS chant to celebrate his feat:

The trailer advertising the following week's film restored a tenuous calm. Then came the long-awaited moment. The opening credits rolled, the atmosphere began to heat up. Thanks to his reputation as a man of
the law, Gary Cooper was greeted as a hero. Regardless of his actions, as far as the public was concerned he could do no wrong. They urged him on whether he killed bandits or Indians. They warned him about gunmen lying in ambush that he hadn't spotted, especially when they would sneak up on him from behind. When he gained the upper hand in a brawl and dealt his adversaries a decisive blow, they started to count the punches: five, six, seven . . . Needless to say, they were impatient to see the kisses too. Whistles and sucking sounds could be heard as soon as the heroine made her appearance. And when she hit it off with Gary Cooper and their lips drew close, most either sighed longingly or made quick-witted remarks that were accompanied by heavy slaps on their thighs.

“Drink up, cousin.”

“Oh take pity on me, little mother.”

“It's God who provides.”

Namouss didn't join in with these verbal excesses, but neither did they bother him much. He was a prude, though without being conscious of it. He would get swept away by the action, sure, but in between the shooting matches and fistfights, he'd take in other elements offered up quietly during the horseback rides and the dismounts: breathtaking mountains and rivers, the chiaroscuro sculpting faces at a campsite, and – why not? – the feelings that emerged, knotting and unknotting as the characters interacted on an emotional level. How free they were, tied down to nothing but where their thirst for adventure might lead them next. Could he not compare them with Driss, Ghita, and all the others? Which of these characters did he resemble the most? Who should he aspire to be? Not for a single moment did he question the reality of what he saw on the screen. In that sense, he wasn't that far removed from the others in the audience all around him, who took this theater of shadows at face value.

C
HANGE OF SCENE
. Destination: the Boujeloud cinema. A different kind of atmosphere, and the venue for a very special occasion: Ghita's initiation into the world of cinema, which Namouss witnesses in the company of his sister Zhor.

Driss spared no expense this time. He gave his wife enough money to purchase tickets for balcony seats so she could avoid mixing with the clientele on the ground floor, which consisted only of men. Namouss could hardly believe his eyes when the usher led them into an honest-to-God box, where seats upholstered in velour were waiting for them, and where he had an armchair all to himself that was larger and softer than the mattress he slept on. This uncustomary luxury was not without consequences. For a good part of the show, Namouss had to struggle against falling asleep and was only able to follow the narrative – and his mother's reaction to it – intermittently.

When the lights went out and the first images flashed across the screen, Ghita's reaction to it made her cinephile son smile.

“
Wili
,
wili
!” she exclaimed. “A power cut! We're off to a good start. Are we going to watch the show in the dark or what? It's as if we were at the hammam.”

Displaying a remarkable aptitude for pedagogy, Zhor shed some light on the situation.

“They have to switch the lights off at the cinema, Mother, otherwise we wouldn't be able to see the images.”

“Oh good, I didn't know that. But the dark makes my heart race, sweetheart.”

“Just be patient, dear Mother. Look, the film is starting. Here's Farid al-Trash.”

“Is that him? That's not how I imagined him. He has a crooked mouth. And he's cross-eyed, too. You see that?”

“Stop it! He has a golden voice. Just wait until he starts to sing, then you'll see.”

“What's he waiting for then? He's just babbling on and on and on. I can't understand a word he's saying.”

“He's telling his friend that he's going to meet a girl who has stolen his heart.”

“Where is she?”

“She'll show up soon. It's Samia Gamal, the dancer. You'll spot her.”

“Finally
someone's
going to show up! If you say he's doe-eyed, then she must really be something.”

“You haven't seen anything yet. Just wait until she starts dancing.”

“Why didn't they start with that? Singing and dancing is what I like, it soothes my heart. I've had my fill of idle chatter. Come on, fellas, get a move on and treat us to some hypnotic dancing!”

“Here we go! Look!”

“Allah, that's what I wanted! Oh yes! We haven't wasted our money. Give thanks to the Prophet! Her skin is like ivory and she's as slender as bamboo. Look at how she sways her hips! It's as if she didn't have any bones. May God make sure her parents guard her. But, tell me, is she going to marry that man with the crooked mouth? What a shame! He doesn't deserve her. His friend would be a better match for her.”