Stenham glanced nervously up at the ceiling. Si Jaffar noticed his movement and laughed indulgently. “No, no, Monsieur Jean! The roof is not going to fall. The house is strong.” Stenham was not reassured, but he smiled and sat down on the mattress indicated for him, against the opposite wall.
“You must forgive my informality. I am late,” said his host, touching his pajama-top and his turban with a forefinger. “With all this disturbance I had not found the time to dress. But now with your permission I shall go and change. I have arranged for my cousin, Si Boufelja, to amuse you on the oud while you wait.
One can’t have one’s guests sitting idle. Just a small moment, please.” He went out across the patio, bent forward like an old man with his hands folded against his chest. Immediately afterward he reentered the room in company with a tall bearded man in a navy blue djellaba, who carried a very large lute in front of him as if it were a tray. Si Jaffar, beaming, neglected to introduce the two men, watched his cousin only long enough to see that he sat down and began to tune the strings, and then he excused himself.
The man continued to test the pitch of the strings, listening intently, never once glancing in Stenham’s direction. A cat went by in the street outside, wailing raucously; it was as though the animal were in the room with them. The man disregarded the noise, soon began to play what sounded like a wandering improvisation that consisted of short breathless phrases separated from each other by long silences. Stenham listened carefully, thinking how much pleasanter his other evenings might have been if only the cousin’s aid had been enlisted. One by one the other male members of the family came in, greeted him discreetly, and sat down to pay attention to the music. A good deal later Si Jaffar made his entrance, resplendent in white silk robes, with a dark red tarbouche stuck at a saucy angle on the top of his head. As if there were no music at all going on, he began to speak in a normal voice. This was obviously a signal for the volume of sound to be reduced, to pass to the background. The cousin now played softly, but he seemed to have lost interest: his expression of intentness relaxed, his gaze wandered from face to face, and he nodded his head absently in rhythm with his notes. When the servants brought in the dinner tables, they placed one in front of Si Jaffar and Stenham, who ate in uncrowded comfort while the six others sat surrounded by debris at the second table in the center of the room. Stenham presently made the bold suggestion that perhaps the cousin would be more comfortable at their table with them, where there was more space. Si Jaffar, smiling blandly, said: “We will all be happier this way.”
“I didn’t mean to be indiscreet,” began Stenham.
Si Jaffar, licking his fingers one by one, did not reply. Now he clapped his hands for the servant; when the latter had come in, gone out again, Si Jaffar grinned widely, showing a whole set of gold teeth, and remarked complacently: “My cousin is very timid.”
In the middle of the meal the electric light bulbs, which hung naked from the ceiling, went out. The room was absolutely dark; a husky voice from the other table muttered: “Bismil’lah rahman er rahim,” and there was silence for an instant. Then Si Jaffar called very loudly to the servant for candles.
“In a moment the light will be back again,” he assured Stenham, as the man came in, a burning candle in each hand. But they went on eating, and the power remained off.
The room was now mysterious and huge, with a theatre of shadows above, on the distant ceiling. During dessert the servant entered triumphantly with an old oil lamp which smoked abominably; everyone but Stenham greeted its arrival with murmurs of delight. Two or three times there was a flurry of conversation at the other table; on each occasion Si Jaffar tried to distract his guest’s attention by beginning a pointless story. Stenham, annoyed by the clumsiness of these attempts to keep him from hearing what the members of the family were saying, pointedly turned his face toward the other table now and then while Si Jaffar talked.
After they all had finished eating, washing their hands, rinsing their mouths and drinking tea, they sat back and launched into the telling of a series of comic anecdotes. As usual, Stenham found it impossible to follow these stories; he understood the words, but he never got the point. However, he enjoyed watching the family during their telling, and hearing the loud laughter that followed each tale. The only member of the family who enjoyed the prerogative of smoking was Si Jaffar; to emphasize his privilege he chain-smoked, plying Stenham with a fresh cigarette every five minutes, occasionally while Stenham was still puffing on the previous one. The others did not have the right to light up in his presence.
“Do you understand our nonsense?” he asked Stenham.
“I understand the words, yes. But—”
“I shall explain the story Ahmed just told. The legionnaire liked the lantern, but he imagined he could buy it for a hundred rial. You know what figs are?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the Filali had filled the lantern with figs, and his wife had hidden her bracelet at the bottom of the basket, so that the figs covered it up. That was why the Jew didn’t see it when he put his head under the bed. You see? If he had had time before the legionnaire knocked at the door he would have taken all the figs out, but of course there was no time. That’s what the Filali meant when he said: ‘A young eucalyptus tree cannot be expected to give the shade of an old fig tree.’ You follow this?”
“Yes,” Stenham said uncertainly; he was expecting some further clue which might connect all the parts.
Si Jaffar looked pleased. “And that’s the reason the Filali’s wife had to dress up as a slave of the Khalifa. If she had allowed the Jew to guess her identity, he would have told the legionnaire, of course, and made his commission, which as you remember was fifty percent. I don’t know whether you are acquainted with young eucalyptus trees? Their leaves are very narrow and small. So that what the Jew said to the Filali’s wife was a compliment of a high order. But it was really only flattery, not sincere, you understand?”
By now Stenham understood absolutely nothing of the story, but he smiled and nodded his head. The others were still repeating the important line about the shade of the young eucalyptus tree, savoring its nuances at length, chuckling appreciatively. “I’m not certain you have understood,” Si Jaffar told him after a moment. “There are too many things to explain. Some of our stories are very difficult. Even the people from Rabat and Casablanca often must have them explained, because the stories are meant only for the people of Fez. But that’s what gives them their perfume. They wouldn’t be amusing if everyone could follow them. Also some of them are very impolite, but we shan’t tell any of those tonight, because you are here.” He closed his eyes, apparently remembering one of the improper stories, and presently giggled with delight. Then he opened one eye and looked at Stenham. “I think the shocking stories are the most delicious,” he said coyly.
“Tell one,” urged Stenham. He was very sleepy, and he felt that if he should close his eyes for a moment like Si Jaffar, he would fall asleep directly. At his suggestion everyone laughed uproariously. Then the oldest son began to relate an involved tale about a hunchback with a sack of barley and a jackal. Before it had gone on for very long there was a lion in it, and then a French general who had lost a kilo of almonds. Whether or not the story was of the improper variety it was impossible for Stenham to guess; however, when it was finished he laughed with the others. A good deal later the cousin was called upon to play once again. This time he sang as well, in a tiny falsetto that was sometimes barely audible under the plucking of the strings. In the middle of the selection Si Jaffar seemed to become impatient: he pulled out his snuffbox and meticulously sniffed a pinch through each nostril. Then he took off his tarbouche and scratched his bald head, put it back on, tapped indolently with his fingertips on the snuffbox, and finally clapped his hands for the servant, bidding him bring a brazier. The cousin continued his piece imperturbably, even when the servant arrived carrying the vessel full of hot coals and set it in front of his master. Si Jaffar rubb
ed his hands in happy anticipation, and produced from the folds of his garments a packet containing small strips of sandalwood. With a spoon which had been brought for that purpose he poked the coals until he had uncovered the brightest ones, and placed the pieces of wood among them. Next he squatted over the brazier, so that it was completely covered by his garments, and remained that way for a minute or so, his eyes closed and an expression of beatitude on his face. When he rose, a cloud of sweet smoke billowed out from beneath his djellaba, and he murmured reverently: “Al-lah! Al-lah!” Then he sat down and picked his ears with a small silver earpick. The music continued. Stenham, comfortably ensconced in a mound of pillows, closed his eyes, and for a time did actually doze. Then he sat up straight, looking around guiltily to see who had noticed. Probably all of them, he thought, although no one was looking at him. Someone drove a squeaking wheelbarrow along the street on the other side of the open wall; the noise was so loud that the musician stopped to wait for it to pass. “Aha!” cried Si Jaffar. “That was very beautiful. Enough music for tonight, no?” He looked significantly at his cousin, who set the oud on the mattress and lay back against the cushions.
Stenham decided to seize this opportunity to announce his departure. Si Jaffar replied what he always replied at this point, regardless of the hour: “Already?” Then he continued: “Come and let me show you the damage. It is interesting.” Now everyone got up and began to move around the room distractedly. With the lamp in one hand—its chimney was by now black with soot—one of the sons led the way across the stricken room.
They examined the wall and the composition of the rubble, discussed the relative costs of trying to repair the present wall and tearing it down to build a new one, inquired of Stenham whether American houses often caved in when it rained, and when he told them that was not the case, wanted to know in detail why it was not. Nearly an hour later they moved slowly in a group out through the patio to the antechamber by the front door, where in the dimness a ragged Berber sat waiting.
“This man will take you to your hotel,” said Si Jaffar.
The man got slowly to his feet. He was tall and powerfully built; his inexpressive face could have been that of a cutthroat or a saint.
“No, no,” Stenham protested. “You’re very kind, but I don’t need anyone.”
“It’s nothing,” Si Jaffar said gently, with the modest gesture of a sultan who has just presented a subject with a bag of diamonds.
It was useless to offer objections; the man was going with him whether he liked it or not, and so he thanked them all together, separately, and together once more, and stepped through the doorway into the street. “Allah imsik bekhir,” “B’slemah,” “Bon soir, monsieur,” “A bientôt, incha’Allah,” they chorused, and one of the sons said shyly: “Gude-bye, sair,” a phrase with which he had been planning for some time to surprise Stenham, only now finding the courage to utter it.
CHAPTER 21
He was tired after his long walk back through the darkness of the Medina, and he did not feel like going downstairs again. Standing before the mirror of the armoire, putting his necktie back on, he reflected that this was the first time Moss had ever sent him a message at night. He looked at his watch: it was twenty minutes past one. From the doorway he cast a brief, longing glance at his bed; then he stepped out and locked the door behind him. The key had a heavy nickel tag attached to it; it felt like ice in his pocket.
In the lower garden it was very dark; the lanterns outside Moss’s door had not been turned on, but slivers of light came through the closed blinds. A stranger opened the door in answer to his knock, stepped aside stiffly to let him pass, and closed it again after him. Moss had been standing in the center of the room, directly under the big chandelier, but now he began to pace slowly back and forth, his hands locked behind him. Stenham turned and saw a second stranger standing by the wall beside the door.
Moss did not bother to introduce the two to Stenham. He merely said: “Enfin. Voici Monsieur Stenham.”
The two murmured, inclining their heads ever so slightly.
“Vous m’excusez si je parle anglais, n’est-ce pas?” said Moss to his two guests. It was only Stenham who detected the acid tones of mockery in his politeness, and he thought: It’s unlike Moss to be rude. He must have had provocation. Now he looked at the two men. One was short and plump, with round pink cheeks and large eyes; the taller one, who wore spectacles, was gaunt and yellow-skinned. Neither could have been more than twenty-five years old, and, he reflected, neither could have laughed if his life depended on it. It was obvious that for years they had insisted upon being serious, and the intensity of their effort had left its indelible mark; their common obsession showed in their faces and in the movements of their bodies. Immediately Stenham identified them as Nationalists. They were unmistakable.
“These two gentlemen have been kind enough,” Moss went on, “to come and warn us that we should leave the hotel at once. It seems the situation has suddenly become very grave indeed.”
“Ah,” said Stenham. The two young men stood watching them with alert eyes. He felt sure they understood English perfectly. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing to do but thank them. Tomorrow we can look into the matter and see what’s what.”
“But—at once, John! That means this minute.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Stenham snapped. He turned to the taller Moslem, and said to him in Arabic: “Why? What’s happened?”
The other looked first surprised and then pained, to hear his own tongue being spoken. With dignity he replied in French: “Things are going very badly. I can scarcely give you details, but I assure you there will be unpleasant events here in the Medina within twenty-four hours—very likely much sooner. The French will not be in a position to offer the hotel any protection whatever.”
“Why should we want the protection of the French?” demanded Stenham. “And why should anyone bother us? We’re not French.”
The young man looked at him with the searching stare of the extremely myopic, but his expression revealed the depths of his hatred and scorn. “You are foreigners, Christians,” he said. The plump young man broke in, with an attempt at affability; he had a rather strong Arab accent. “For the people in the street the enemy is the non-Moslem,” he explained.
“Why?” demanded Stenham angrily. “This isn’t a religious war. It’s a fight purely against the French.”
The near-sighted man’s face had assumed a frozen expression, the mouth slightly twisted. He breathed more quickly. “A religious war is precisely what it threatens to become. C’est malheureux, mais c’est comme ça.”
Stenham turned to Moss; he did not want to look at the grimacing face. Then he turned back and said: “You mean, that’s what you want to make it.”
“Easy, John,” Moss said quietly. “These gentlemen came as friends, you know, after all.”
“I doubt it,” Stenham muttered.
“The movement,” pursued the man with glasses, “is as you say, directed above all against the French imperialists. Likewise it is against all those who assist the French. Je vous demande pardon, monsieur, but the arms used against the Moroccan people were largely supplied by your government. They do not consider America a nation friendly to their cause.”
“Of course she is not an enemy either,” said the other in a conciliatory tone. “Had you been Frenchmen we should not have given ourselves the trouble of coming here tonight. What would have happened to you would have been your own lookout. But, as you see, we are here.”
“It’s very kind of you,” said Moss. He had begun to pace back and forth thoughtfully. A sudden flurry of rain spattered on the tiles outside the door.
“Oui, nous vous sommes bien reconnaissants,” Stenham said. He offered them each a cigarette; they both refused curtly. “These are English, not American,” he informed them lightly. They did not bother to reply. He lighted a cigarette and stood considering them.
“Enfin,” said Moss, “we are all very tir
ed, I’m sure. I think the time of our departure will have to be left for us to decide. It’s impossible for us to leave tonight. Where could we go at this hour?”
“Go to the station in the Ville Nouvelle. There will be a train to Rabat at half past seven in the morning.”
“Half past eight,” corrected the shorter one.
The other made an impatient movement with his head, as though a fly had alighted on his face. “The station is under the protection of the French at present,” he continued.
“Non, merci!” Stenham laughed. “There’s a train blown up every other day. I’d rather walk. You take the train.”
The young man with glasses lowered his head and thrust it forward aggressively. “We have not come here to amuse ourselves, monsieur. I see that it was a great waste of effort. Perhaps you would like to telephone the police and inform them of our visit.” He pointed to the telephone. “Yallah,” he said gruffly to the other, and started toward the door. Before he reached it he stopped, turned, and said furiously: “Your frivolity and stubbornness may easily cost you your lives. On ne badine pas avec la volonté du peuple.”
Stenham snorted. The man continued to the door and opened it. Without offering him his hand the other bowed slightly to Moss, and followed.
“The will of the people! What people?” Stenham shouted. “You mean the leaders of your party?”
“John!” said Moss sharply.
The two young men went out, leaving the door open behind them. Moss stepped across the room, closed it and locked it.
“I must say, John, that was a most unpolitic performance on your part. There was no need to antagonize them. I’d been doing my best to keep on their good side, and I’d managed quite well until you came. They left in a jolly ugly mood, you know.”