Читать книгу Ben Barka Lane - Mahmoud Saeed - Страница 8

chapter 4

All along the short distance to where I met Qobb, as the street embraced me with its refreshing breeze, I kept thinking about how my eyes had deceived me. The first glance at the three girls had made me believe that “my girlfriend” was the least beautiful and fascinating of the three, but after a little examination she seemed to be the crowning beauty. Can the eyes deceive like this? Might I also be mistaken with respect to the one occupying my apartment with her bold and commanding behavior?

“Where did you wander of to?” Al-Habib’s voice was calm and deep. He continued, “ There’s no harm in your having secrets. If you don’t want to come, then turn back.”

I came to suddenly and assured him, “No, I want to come.” “That ’s the house.” He pointed to a wide door that stood open, and when we went into the little courtyard we were struck by a strong glare. It was the only spot I had seen empty, without a garden, outside of the Casbah. The white cement façade was divided by four doors, which deceptively led you to think they were the doors of gloomy bachelor rooms.

We stopped a moment; Si l-Habib must have wanted to make certain before knocking on the door. The glaring rays from the white façade increased and for a moment I thought that the breeze had died down in the whole city; were it not for the television aerials taking their pleasure by calmly bending on the rooftop, I would have believed that we were being held in a spot taken from the desert. But we entered the house, whose rooms extended lengthwise, divided by precise engineering to take advantage of every inch of ground, and found a tall French window open. The afternoon shade reflected on its gleaming white wood, and the breeze invaded the room softly, lightly teasing the curtains and releasing the air trapped in the room.

After we had sat for a moment I felt that we were alone, so I went to the window, where delicious little waves of moist breeze refreshed my face. The grass outside was amazingly fresh. The light had divided its blades with a magic sword into two parts, the color lightening to pistachio under the sun but a deep green in the greater part, overtaken by the shade, which swallowed the distance to the artificial forest that divided the city from the shore. I felt like someone discovering a new secret. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, becoming filled with the songs of the sea and the whispers of untrodden grass, filled with fertility. I cried: “How exquisite this place is!”

I was answered by a feminine voice whose presence I had not felt before: “The view from the upper room is more beautiful.”

After I entered I had noticed a staircase twisting to the left, but I had thought it led to the rooftop. The middle-aged woman added, afectionately, “Please come, Si….”

“Al-Sharqi.” Si l-Habib introduced us.

I declined, as it was not necessary to see something more beautiful, once I had expressed my admiration for one pretty view. Si l-Habib encouraged me: “Go ahead.” There must be something… but it would be some sort of secret.

I went up. Zahra was standing with her back to me, embarrassment burning her cheeks and paralyzing her tongue to the point that she did not return my greeting. The truth was that the view from above was astonishingly more beautiful, but I barely glanced at it, struggling with a feeling of ugliness that came over me as I enjoyed a poetic view while a young adolescent stood near me, dying of embarrassment. I quickly went down and took my place on the bench near Si l-Habib, beside the door. The breeze had become a strong current of delicious cool air, so I set a pillow against the wall and leaned back.

The mother, the wife of Bayad Ben Bella, was a stranger to me but Zahra was my pupil and so I knew a great deal about her. I admired her, in motion and at rest. She was no more than fifteen and had a degree of shyness I had never before witnessed, so I was careful not to agitate her. She concealed her beauty completely by keeping her head down, hiding behind her two thick braids; but her beauty shone like the sun in every direction, despite her efforts. What concerned me about her, in a fatherly way, were her two opposite characteristics: great intelligence and great timidity. Her blazing intelligence was hidden under the shackles of her timidity, for she would never raise her hand or volunteer what she knew. She would answer precisely and completely when asked, leaving the teacher no choice but to respect her, allowing her the freedom to sit down after answering, because her shyness and embarrassment increased when she stood.

Part of what really fascinated me was her unique ability to write miraculous compositions, which were beyond comparison with any composition that could be written by a person of her age or even older by any number of academic years. Therefore I had adopted a plan at a late point in the academic year in an attempt to overcome this terrible shyness of hers. As a result she had been able to read her marvelous writing to the other students, something I couldn’t have dreamed of at the beginning of the year; but the vacation caught up to me before I had gotten past this one lone step.

The wife of Bayad Ben Bella sat before us. Her position gave her an advantage, as her back was to the window, her face sunk in shade. The modest room with its thin cushions showed obvious want, concealed by a skilled hand and a mature mind that had created something out of nothing. She smiled, continuing to welcome us. “How is your health, Si l-Habib?”

I gave a short, foolish laugh, in an attempt to overcome the awkwardness of a first meeting and said, “I have been wondering, since I first saw Zahra, who inspires her in her beautiful writing. Now I see that her room is wonderfully poetic.”

Her mother had passed forty, with a severity in her look that was accentuated by a strange calm. When she smiled I noticed that her unadorned face showed the remains of beauty, arising from regular features which her only daughter had inherited from her.

“She admires you very much.”

I laughed in surprise and said, “She doesn’t show it. I didn’t think any of my students admired me so much!”

“She mentions your name all the time, and especially after the issue of the gold.”

One of the French female teachers had demanded strict enforcement of the ban on gold jewelry, after a student had been caught wearing dangling gold earrings and had been punished. But the issue had also been raised in the staff meeting that preceded the final exam, so I supported the suggestion, as did others, on the condition that it include the teachers also. That stirred up all the female French teachers against me.

“I regretted my rashness,” I said.

“ Why?”

“One person alone cannot change the way things are.”

The subject was new to Si l-Habib and a surprise to him, so he seemed to be using the time to collect his thoughts, preparing to talk to Sayyida Ben Bella about a long-term solution to a problem that was confronting her.

“This house…” She gestured to the floor with a nervousness that she cloaked in deep courtesy, though she did not succeed in hiding its bitterness. “This house is the property of the municipality, and they are taking it over.”

As the steam rose aromatically from the tea she had served, difusing the scent of fresh mint, I realized that I was still feeling the influence of the wine. It muddled my view and increased by enthusiasm for the rights of a widow arrogantly trampled underfoot by a stupid law.

Speaking with great emotion, she presented more details about the installments paid while her husband was alive. She had tried to explain her plight to officials, and had delayed payments on the property for several months, on the advice of a lawyer. But all of this only made the problem worse, as the sum had now reached 4500 dirhems, and all would be lost if she did not pay it immediately. There would have been no problem if her husband, the revolutionary hero, had been alive—or if she were willing to dishonor his memory by allying herself with the new government and becoming like others who now lived in comfort.

I nearly added: Or if Si l-Habib possessed that sum, because I knew many things about both Si l-Habib’s financial situation and his medical treatment; but I refrained, in order to allow him to act. His mustache was well shaved, showing the dark roots of the hairs surrounded by a thin band free of hair around his mouth. His steady smile and his attention to the woman showed no concern, except for the pressure of his hand on the glass of tea. The pressure made him lean forward with his right side, as if he were getting ready to have a picture taken in which he was required to look like a statue. What took my thoughts beyond the present moment was purely observing how he would solve the problem, despite his own straightened circumstances. As the effects of the wine made an orderly withdrawal from my veins due to concentrated, serious thought about the problem, I felt that I was witnessing a difficult situation demanding rare nerve. For dishonorable withdrawal from the battle was not among Si l-Habib’s characteristics, nor were lying promises.

“Permit me first to work on a delay,” he said. “Three or four months. In that time we will have arranged for the money.”

But this was not the only problem to torment her. She was in a constant state of watchfulness and hope. Her conversation was a mirror conveying with deep feeling the intricacies of her thoughts. “ What do you think will happen, Si l-Habib?”

Her question was a decisive announcement of a move from the private to the public.

He rubbed his hands and fixed his eyes on the floor. “No change in the short term.”

Her face darkened. For a moment it seemed as if the emotion had taken her back ten years. “Is the political situation hopeless?”

“Where there’s life, there’s hope.” “So?”

“Change won’t come about at our hands or in our time.”

She was falling into the depth of despair. Tears came to her eyes and her voice quavered: “And the sacrifices?”

I went over to the window. I was not in a state to follow the conversation, which began delicately, disconnected and filled with allusions. I knew Si l-Habib’s viewpoint in detail, and I was aware of public opinion, and perhaps my being with them was hampering a free spontaneity that would pull me into a life like that of the quiet countryside. In spite of that, bits of the speeches of “Al-Za’bul” and “Al-Sukkar” forced themselves on my ears, along with the everlasting struggle between the strong and the weak, revolutionary thinking, labor unions threatening to split with the National Union, and the necessity of arming the workers with revolutionary thought.

Some of the words were spoken in whispers, which made me imagine a secret operation distributing arms to the partisans.

On the way back Si l-Habib seemed grave. I waited until two men who were hurrying toward us had passed and we were free to talk. Then I cried in earnest, “I heard everything.”

I stared into his eyes and saw no effect. He answered coldly, “Those weren’t secrets.”

“You know, for some time I’ve started to feel as if I don’t know the ABCs of politics. If I were to start over I would choose another path.”

The pressure of dazzling light which wounded the eyes had begun to lessen, but it kindled the heat of the alcohol. What amazed me was the woman’s clinging to the memory of her husband and her repetition of the word “hero,” with the pride familiar to those who are wronged and who deify their dead. But Si l-Habib, who in the great uprising had lost his companion, famous for his skill in propaganda, insisted that the word “hero” was a dwarf-like description for a giant of unplumbed depths. For some reason this hero appeared before me as a statue of cast iron, his flaming eyes radiating fire.