The Boy Who The Set Fire and Other Stories (11 page)

The bees filled all the hives along the walls with honey. Then they filled the corners of the room. The room was covered with honey, and he began to wonder how he was going to get it out without being stung.

And Bahloul asked his friends: How could he do it? How do you think?

He put on special clothes to do it.

No.

He opened the window and the bees flew out.

No, no.

He smoked them out.

No, said Bahloul.

How did he do it, then?

First he ate a lot of majoun and smoked a lot of kif. Then he took off all his clothes, and got out a jar of honey he had bought in the souq. And he rubbed honey everywhere over his body, over his hair and his skin, everywhere. And he took two pails and went inside the room and shut the door after him. The bees came and swarmed over him, but not one of them stung him. Then he pulled out the combs of honey from the hives and took them outside. A lot of the bees were stuck to him. They couldn’t move. When he stood outside in the wind for a while they began to drop off.

He put the combs into a barrel, washed himself off, got dressed, and went to wring the wax out of the honey. In the end he had about a hundred kilos of honey. Then he went out to the nearest shop and said to the baqal: Do you want to buy some pure honey? The baqal was sitting with the Djibli who owned the orchard, and they both began to laugh. Where would a hacheichi like you get honey? they said. But he told them: If you don’t believe it, try some. And he opened a jar he’d brought with him. If you can’t tell whether it’s pure, bring an expert, he told them.

The baqal took a taste of the honey and turned to the Djibli. You’re the bee man. You try it, he told him. And the Djibli tried it and said: That’s pure, all right. Then he sighed and said: I don’t know what’s the matter with my bees this year. They’re not doing very well.

Yes, the hacheichi said. I wonder what happened to them. They’re all in my house. I cleared out my bedroom for them, and I’m sleeping in the bathroom.

What? cried the Djibli. What do you mean?

That’s right, he said. You know, bees don’t like stingy men. You always kept all their honey for yourself and never gave any to your neighbors. They don’t like that, so they came to me.

If you’ve got my bees I’m going to the government, the Djibli told him.

What government? You tell the government and I’ll tell Allah. My window was open. The bees flew in and I shut the window. Is that the government’s business? Or yours? The bees are living with me now and I’m giving them food and lodging, and your government has nothing to do with it. Do you want to buy some honey? And the hacheichi sold ten kilos to the baqal. The Djibli waited a while, and then he went to his orchard. He walked over to the window of the hacheichi’s house and broke the glass with a rock. The bees were upset, and they came out and swarmed over his face and stung him all over, and he began to run through the orchard yelling. If he hadn’t had a well there he’d have been stung worse. When he jumped in half the bees flew off and the other half drowned. His sons came and fished him out.

When the hacheichi got home and opened the door of the room to feed the bees, they were all gone. He looked up and saw the broken window. Then he ran out into the orchard, and the Djibli’s sons came up to him, crying: Your bees almost killed our father.

He threw a rock at the window and the bees didn’t like it. They didn’t need any government. Allah takes care of them, and He’ll take care of your father.

Bahloul stopped talking.

That’s a new idea, they said. Rub yourself with honey. But which was talking just now? The aghrebia or the kif?

Both, said Bahloul. That night he said to Zizi: I’m going to eat with you here and go home to bed. I’ve got to get up at five tomorrow morning. I’m going to Tetuan.

Zizi bought a kilo of smelts and sent them out to the oven to be baked. They ate them together and drank a little tea. Then Bahloul gave Zizi the key to the house. I’m going to bed.

He went home, had two pipes of kif, and fell asleep before Zizi arrived. He did not hear Zizi come in, nor did Zizi hear him when he got up at four o’clock in the morning and left the house. He went to the Avenida de España where he found a taxi about to leave for Tetuan. He got in with the other three passengers.

This was the first time Bahloul had been to Tetuan, and when he arrived he began to wander through the narrow streets of the Medina. It was only about half past seven in the morning, and the air was still cold. In one of the alleys a man lay on the ground asleep. Bahloul stopped and looked down at him. He was old and dirty, and his djellaba was ragged and worn thin. Bahloul looked down at his face, and suddenly felt a great surge of pity for the man. He leaned over and woke him out of his sleep.

The man sat up and stared at him. What do you want, my son?

Sidi, I saw you lying there like that, sleeping on the stones in the cold, and I felt sorry for you.

That’s how Allah wants it, said the man. Hamdoul’lah!

You’re right, said Bahloul. Hamdoul’lah! Come and have breakfast with me.

The man stood up, and they walked together down the street to a café. Bahloul bought pastries and they drank tea. He pulled out his pipe, and he and the old man began to smoke together.

Tell me your story, said Bahloul. What happened to you? Have you always lived here like this?

No, my son. And I’m not from here. I’m from Tangier. I was married, and I even had a son. But one day my wife came to me and said she wanted to work. I was making plenty of money then working in the port. But I drank, and I went with the whores. And when she came and told me she was going to work so she could buy what she needed for herself, I told her she was not going to work. And we had a fight. Aoulidi, I left her and the boy, and we weren’t divorced, either.

Bahloul said: How old was the boy, sidi, when you left him?

He was four. Still very small. I don’t know whether he’s still alive or dead long ago. Some friends came a few years ago and told me my wife was working at the house of some Nazarenes on the Mountain.

The man went on with his story, and mentioned the name of the Nazarenes. Then Bahloul knew that the man was his father. What quarter did you live in? he asked him.

We lived in Ain Hayani.

Ain Hayani. What house?

Moqaddem Larbi.

Bahloul said: I know that house.

You do? cried the old man. And do you know the woman?

The poor woman died some time ago. I didn’t know she had a son.

Bahloul felt very sorry for the man in front of him. But when he told himself that this was his father, he decided to say nothing. He took out some money and handed it to the man. Come with me to Tangier and I’ll give you work, he told him. But first take this and buy some clothes and go to the hammam and wash, and have the barber shave you. Then come back here.

Yes, my son. I’ll go with you.

And Bahloul took the old man with him to Tangier. The first place they went was Ain Hayani. Bahloul stopped in front of the house where he lived. Was it there? he asked him.

Yes. It was there.

They went to Bahloul’s café. This is mine, he told him. Would you like to work here? I’ll pay you. You’ll eat what I eat. There’s a small room in the back where you can sleep.

Thank you, my son. You’re very kind.

Bahloul called Zizi over and told him: This old man is going to stay in the café and take care of it. You and I can have a good rest and travel a little. I’m fed up with the noise and people. We’ll get away from them. The new man can take of them for us all right. I trust him.

A
HUSBAND AND WIFE LIVED
in the country. When the woman needed water she went down the hill to a spring to get it. The spring water was sweet and clean. They could wash in it and drink it.

One day when the woman went to the spring she found a frog sitting on a stone there. She filled her pail and went back up to the house.

Her husband came in, and she said to him: Today when I went down to the spring I saw a frog there. In the five years we’ve been living here I’ve never seen a frog. And today I did.

If there’s a frog there, that is Allah’s will, her husband told her. No one knows His way. The poor thing probably came from somewhere else, and found the spring and liked it. Or perhaps it was thirsty. Don’t touch it. It won’t do any harm. If you see it there, just fill your pail and come back to the house.

The next day when the woman came up from the spring she said to her husband: I saw the frog there again.

Just leave it alone, he said. Don’t pay it any attention.

Ya, rajel, she said. If we leave that frog there, it will go into the water and maybe lay eggs, and then there will be a lot of small frogs. And when they grow larger, the water will be dirty and we won’t be able to drink it. It will always be dirty.

I’ll buy a chemical and spread it around the edge of the spring. That ought to keep it away. I’ll sprinkle it on the rocks outside, so it won’t poison the water. The frog won’t be able to get near the spring. If it tries to, it will die.

That’s a good idea, she said.

The next day the woman went down to the spring. The frog was sitting in the place where she always stooped down to fill her pail. She raised the pail and brought it down on the frog. And as the pail struck the frog the frog cried out, and it was like the cry of a person. She looked, but the frog was gone. She filled her pail quickly and went to the house.

I found the frog down there, she told her husband. It was right where I always fill my pail, and so I hit it. I hit it with the pail. And when I lifted up the pail again, it was gone!

Allah! cried her husband. That was not a frog you hit! It was something from the dark. I told you to leave it alone, and you wouldn’t listen to me. And now you’re going to have trouble. I even went and got the chemical. We could have put it there, and everything would have been all right. That way it wouldn’t have done us any harm afterwards.

Well, now I’ve hit it, she said. And it’s gone away without doing anything.

All we can do is pray to Allah that nothing happens, he told her.

The woman stayed away from the spring for ten days. Then one morning she said to her husband: Ya, rajel! I’m going down now to the spring and get a little water. It’s a long time since I’ve been down there.

All right, he said. Go down. Go on.

She took the pail in her hand and walked down to the spring. First she washed the stones in front of it. She dipped the pail into the water and filled it, but when she tried to lift it out again, she found that she could not move her arm.

She began to call to her husband. He heard, and came running down to the spring.

What is it?

I can’t move my arm!

Her arm was dead. Then it began to twitch and shake. Look, rajel! she cried. See how it’s moving!

That day the man put his wife on a donkey. He led it down to the road until he came to the highway. Then he stopped a Frenchman who was driving past. He asked him to carry him and his wife to the hospital.

He told the doctor the story. The doctor looked at her arm and took blood from it. He stuck needles into her and gave her many kinds of pills. None of it did her any good.

People told him: You should take her to Moulay Yacoub.

He took her to Moulay Yacoub. Nothing.

Then people said: You should take her up to Sidi Hassein.

He took her up to Sidi Hassein. Nothing.

Then they told him he must kill a black bull. He bought a black bull and led it down to the spring. There he cut its throat so that the blood would fall into the water, and then he cooked the meat without salt, and when night came he put a big dish of the unsalted meat in front of the spring.

He gave the rest of the meat to the poor and to holy men and teachers. And nothing.

One day a friend came to visit him. There’s a fqih in Beni Makada you ought to go to, he told him. He’ll be able to help you.

The man took his wife to the fqih in Beni Makada. The fqih read his books and looked at the woman. Finally he said: You must call in some Gnaoua once a year. If this is not done, you will get worse. Now only your arm is moving by itself like that, but in a little while it will be your whole body. The only thing to do is to have the Gnaoua in once a year and kill a black bull for them and eat its flesh without salt. No salt.

The man decided to do this. He bought a bull and cut its throat, and cooked it without salt. And he called in the Gnaoua.

The Gnaoua began to dance, and soon the woman entered their world, and was dancing like them. And the moment she began to dance, her arm stopped shaking.

The Gnaoua were singing and beating their drums, and she was dancing. And she ate the unsalted flesh. They brought a long platter heaped with slices of raw meat that was wet with blood. And while she ate she went on dancing, and she covered her face with the blood. She kept eating until she had cleaned the platter of all the meat and blood.

The chief of the Gnaoua got up and passed his hands over her face, but she danced and danced, and went on dancing and dancing, until she fell onto the ground. And she was screaming, and her legs were kicking and twitching. At last she lay still, like a dead woman.