For the six months prior to his dismissal Patricia’s mother had been staying with her. She was a small excitable woman with bulging black eyes. In her frequent arguments with Patricia she shrieked and sometimes wept, and he decided that it was her mother who had made Patricia crazy.
Abdelkrim’s job consisted of three distinct kinds of work. In the morning he had to walk two miles to the market in the city, buy the food for the day and carry it back to the house. Afternoons he worked in the garden, and at night he acted as watchman. Patricia had presented her terms at the beginning, and he had accepted them. Since then he had never been absent for an hour without permission.
It was not a good garden to be in on a hot afternoon. Since the house was new, there was not one bush or tree big enough to provide any shade. Abdelkrim did not mind working in the sun, but he liked to rest fairly often and smoke a pipe of kif, and in order for that to give him the greatest relaxation and pleasure, he must be sitting somewhere deep in the shade. As a boy fifteen years ago, he had known shady places nearby where he and his friends played. He had vivid memories of the pine woods at Moujahiddine, the grove of high eucalyptus trees that covered the hillside at Ain Chqaf, and the long shaded tunnels the boys cut through the jungle of matted vines and blackberry bushes outside his house. All this was gone now; new villas covered the countryside.
There did remain one place where he could find the sort of shade he had loved to seek out in his boyhood. Half an hour’s walk from Patricia’s house, around the long cemetery wall, over the fields, and down into the valley of Boubana, took him to the country club, nestling in an oasis of greenery. Behind the clubhouse lay a strip of the original forestland, with a slow-moving stream that meandered noiselessly through it. The golf course was more often than not deserted; he could run across the fairways without fear of being seen, and then follow the stream until he came to the forest. Where the big trees began, it was like entering a huge silent building. The screaming of the cicadas was left outside with the sunlight. Once inside, all he could hear was the stirring of leaves in the upper branches, a distant watery sound that seemed to him the perfect music for a hot summer afternoon.
One Friday Abdelkrim asked if he might be absent in the afternoon of the following day, since it was a national holiday. Without replying Patricia went into another room and began to confer with her mother. When she came out she said that they had been planning to go on a picnic with some American friends, but that they could arrange to go on Sunday just as well.
Saturday came up hot and still. Since there was to be a parade, his friends had gone off to the town to see it. When Abdelkrim had carried the food back from the market and left it in the kitchen, he went quietly to his room in the garage. There he put his bread, tunafish and olives into a small bag, along with everything else that would help him to pass a pleasant afternoon, and went out through the gate bound for Boubana. Probably he would not have undertaken the long walk in the heat of the day (for it was unusually hot) if only there had been a dark corner of the garden where he could have sat and smoked and drunk his tea in shadowed privacy. This sun is poison, he said to himself as he went along.
When he entered the forest he was already hungry. Not far from one of the paths that snaked through the underbrush, he found a large flat rock where he spread out his things and ate a leisurely lunch. This is the place to be, he thought, not standing in the sun on the Boulevard along with fifty thousand others, waiting to see a few floats go past. He smoked a few pipes of kif, and laying his sebsi beside him on the rock, he yawned, leaned back, and stretched. At that moment he became aware of a commotion in the bushes on the other side of the stream. There were grunts and wheezes, and then a heavy thud as something hit the ground. He remained immobile for an instant, then swiftly threw himself face downward, flat on the earth.
The sounds came closer. He raised his head a bit and saw, not far away, five men carrying a big black cube as they stumbled along the path among the trees. In another instant he knew that the object, which seemed to be almost too heavy for them to manage, was a safe. There was a crackling sound as they dropped it into a mass of bushes. Rapidly they uprooted plants and gathered armfuls of leaves, tossing them in piles, to cover all signs of the object.
With great caution Abdelkrim crawled in the opposite direction, still flat on his belly. A dry branch cracked under him as he slid across it. The sounds of activity behind him ceased. A voice said: Someone’s there.
Then he got to his feet wildly and ran. At one point he made the mistake of looking back. The five men stood there, staring after him. But he had recognized one of them, and in turn had been recognized.
He ran panting out of the woods, across a field, and into a lane bordered by thorn bushes. Three farmers were stretched out under a tree, eyeing him with surprise. He slowed his pace. When he was out of their sight he pulled off his sweat-soaked shirt. The police might easily question the farmers.
He was now certain that no one was following him. He got to the paved road, where an occasional car went by, and breathed more easily.
What he had seen in that brief instant of looking back was the brutal face of Aziz, the waiter in the bar at the Country Club. Everyone feared and disliked him, but the director kept him working there because one blow of his huge fist on the top of the head landed a troublesome client on the floor. They said of Aziz, and only half in jest, that the only times he prayed were just after he had killed someone.
If the farmers should mention that they had seen a young man hurrying along the lane, the police could find him and ask him questions, and no matter what he told them, if Aziz were caught, he would never believe it had not been Abdelkrim who had betrayed him.
It was even hotter once he had crossed the bridge and started to climb the hill. He had heard enough about Aziz to know that the most prudent thing for him to do at the moment was to get out of Tangier. His brother Mustapha would be happy to see him. Agadir was a long way off, but once he was there he would have no expenses.
He walked to the house with the afternoon sun beating down on his back. In the garage he threw himself onto the mattress and thought about his bad luck. His kif, his pipe, everything he had taken with him to the woods, had remained behind, there on the rock.
He would catch the night bus for Casablanca, the one that left the beach at half past eleven. Patricia and her mother must suspect nothing; indeed, his main consideration was how to get out of the garage and through the big gate without their hearing him, for at night the only sounds near the house came from the crickets. If one of them were to hear the gate click behind him when he crept out, he knew they would rush out and go screaming along the road after him in their bathrobes.
Soon Patricia knocked on the door, interrupting his meditations. I thought I heard you come in, she said with satisfaction. Afraid that his disturbed state might somehow show in his face, he forced himself to smile, but she did not notice because she had more to say. They had been invited by Monsieur and Madame Lemoine to attend a Jilala party at half past seven, and he could come too for a half hour if he wanted. It was to be at Hadj Larbi’s house, which was not far away, so that it would be easy for him to walk back before dark.
Abdelkrim nodded vigorously in agreement, an expression of unfeigned satisfaction on his face. He saw his problem being solved for him.
Now that he no longer dreaded the night, he was eager for it to arrive. The suitcase he would take with him was ready; he hid it in a dark corner of the garage. At precisely half past seven Monsieur Lemoine was outside in the road, sounding his car horn; Madame Lemoine sat stiffly beside him. Patricia, loaded down with chains and medallions, ran to the car and leaned in to speak with Madame Lemoine. Now and then she raised her head and shouted the word Mother! toward the house.
Abdelkrim could hear the older woman complaining in her bedroom as she got her things together. Finally she came out, looking more irritable than usual. He sat between them on the back seat.
Hadj Lar
bi’s garden was bounded at one end by a row of tall cypresses, black against the twilit sky. As they went in, one of Hadj Larbi’s sons, whom Abdelkrim knew, came up to him and led him to the musicians’ side of the courtyard. We have the Jilala in for my uncle every year during the smayyim, he told him.
Abdelkrim sat down on a mat beside the moqqaddem. An old man in a white djellaba came out of the house and stood facing the musicians. The drums began a leisurely rhythm, and he bent forward and slowly shuffled back and forth over the paving stones.
As the drummers increased their speed, the old man’s feet ceased to scrape and drag; his legs now seemed to be springing upward of their own accord. He strained at the end of the sash that was wound about his waist and held by the man behind him. His eyes were on the fire, and he wanted to hurl himself into it. The music swelled in volume, the drummers began to hit the ground with the rims of their benadir, and the old man’s frenzy increased. His face constantly changed its expression, distorted as if by waves of water washing over it. He was coming into the presence of the saint who would lead him far beyond the visible world to a place where his soul would be cleansed.
When he finally toppled to the ground there was a concerted rush of men to pull him away from the fire. They clustered around, touching his head, covering him with a blanket, lifting him carefully and carrying him away, out of sight.
Above the riad’s wall Abdelkrim saw the dark obelisks of the cypresses. If he himself were to invoke Sidi Maimoun or Sidi Rahal, he was certain they would pay him no attention; it was too late for young men to expect to get in touch with the saints. He slipped out into the garden, said good-night to a servant standing in the doorway, and was on his way.
At the garage he picked up his valise, locked the gate behind him, and set out for the bus terminal on the beach, trying not to imagine the scene that would ensue the next morning when they found him gone. He waited nearly three hours for the bus to open its doors and let the passengers in.
Two months later he had reliable word that Aziz and his accomplices had been caught the very day after the robbery, there in the same part of the woods while they hammered at the safe, trying to get it open. He returned to Tangier and went directly to Patricia’s house. But a maid whom he did not know brought him word that she would not see him.
The maid’s expression was apologetic; out of friendliness she added: The old one and the young one, they both say they’ll never forgive you. The idea of this struck her as strangely comic, and she laughed.
Abdelkrim turned to look with scorn at the garden. More to himself than to her he said: One real tree, and it would have been different.
But in any case she had not heard him, or had not understood, for she continued to smile. No, they don’t want to see you, she said again.
(1980)
Madame and Ahmed
VNLESS IT WAS raining very hard, Mrs. Pritchard spent roughly half of each day working outdoors in the garden. It was a garden to be admired, but not a place where one could sit. Her house was at the top of a cliff overlooking the sea; the winds sweeping through the Strait of Gibraltar struck the spot first, and blew harder there. If Ahmed thought of Madame in the garden, he saw her with her skirt fluttering in the wind and her hand over her hair, trying vainly to keep it in place.
The land sloped off at a moderate angle for a few hundred feet before the sheer drop, and the terraced garden followed it down to the end. On some levels there were long tiled pools full of goldfish; others were bounded by arbors sheltering small fountains whose water dribbled from the mouths of marble fish into basins.
She had planted the land in such a way that the flowers were superb throughout the year, thus transforming the bleak and forbidding strip of land, and she took pride in the result. Recently, however, certain large shrubs she had imported from England seemed to be doing very poorly, and since they were within sight of the house, she was upset by their sickly aspect. If guests peered out of a window she would beg them not to look, saying sadly: I’m ashamed of my garden this year.
Her friends commiserated with her, most of them advising her to find a new gardener. This worried her, for she shrank from the idea of getting rid of Ahmed. He had kept her garden in order for the past eleven years. In that time, she wondered how many hundreds of hours she had spent squatting beside him as, working together with trowels and clippers, they discussed the ways of plants. She felt that they knew and understood one another in a basic and important fashion, even though Ahmed never had learned even to pronounce her name. For him she was Madame.
One day she came to him in excitement and said she had just bought a large number of beautiful plants from a man in the city who would bring them in a truck tomorrow and, she added, help her plant them. Seeing Ahmed’s expression of hurt surprise, she explained to him that this service was included in the price of the plants. The cost, she confessed, had been extremely high, and she saw no reason not to take advantage of the man’s offer to assist in the work. Ahmed was unable to follow her logic; he understood only that she was allowing an outsider to come in and work in the garden. Yes, Madame, he said; no more.
The following morning a stout man in a gray business suit appeared with Madame at the top of the garden. They talked and occasionally pointed. Ahmed, squatting on a terrace some distance below, stared up at the man and recognized him as the chief gardener for the municipality. A little later, returning from a trip to the toolshed, he was able to pass near enough to the new plants to recognize them as having come from the Jardin Municipal. For a moment he was impelled to go and tell Madame that she had bought stolen goods, but then he thought better of it. During the years of working for her he had observed that if one Moroccan spoke ill of another Moroccan to her, she automatically took the side of the accused rather than that of the complainer. When the time came, he might make use of what he knew about the plants.
A second man was carrying in more pots from the truck outside, setting them down in rows on the top terrace. Madame was saying to the stout man: Now these will go here along the wall, and those there in that circular bed, and I think the tuberoses should go all the way down at the end of this path by themselves.
I know the best place for each plant, Madame, the fat man told her. You’ll see.
Wait! she cried nervously, glancing around as if for help. I’ll send my gardener up.
The man rejected this suggestion. No, no! My assistant and I will do everything. Each plant will be in the right place. You leave it to me.
Mrs. Pritchard seemed to wilt. She turned and went inside the house.
The thief had taken command of the garden, not even allowing Madame to have her plants where she wanted them. From the lower terrace where he knelt, Ahmed watched the two men. They were putting the plants in hurriedly, paying little heed to what they were doing. When they had finished, they began to walk back and forth along the two topmost terraces, examining the flowers. He tried to hear what they were saying, but they spoke too low. On seeing their prolonged stop beside the giant hibiscus Madame had brought from Hawaii, he suspected that the fat man would find a pretext for returning to see Madame.
After the truck had driven away, Madame came out of the house and called to Ahmed. Together they surveyed the hasty workmanship. Madame laughed. It doesn’t matter. We can replant them later. Give them plenty of water.
He glanced at the row of agapanthus without interest. When she mentioned the price she had paid for them, he was indignant. You could have bought bulbs, he said reproachfully.
But I wouldn’t have had the flowers until next year.
He nodded gloomily.
THAT EVENING JOHARA, the black cook, stopped him as he passed the kitchen door. Do you know what he was telling Madame, that man? He told her you weren’t a real gardener, and she should get rid of you and let him work here.
He’s a criminal! Ahmed shouted.
In the shack where he lived behind the greenhouse, Ahmed sat and thought. He must save his job, and he
must save the garden. Again he recalled the visitors’ scrutiny of the hibiscus bushes. If they came there to work they would methodically strip the garden of its most valuable plants.
Once he had convinced himself that he was acting partially in Madame’s interest, he felt less guilt about what he was planning to do. It was simple enough. He waited until long after all the lights in the main house had been put out. Then, taking up a sack into which he dropped a sharp knife, he stole out into the garden, to the end of the topmost terrace, and knelt down among the newly interred plants. One after the other he yanked them up, severed their roots or tubers with a swift stroke of the blade, and carefully replanted them exactly where they had been. The sack was full of roots and bulbs when he took it back to his room. He built a fire in his mijmah and charred them beyond recognition before carrying them out and scattering them over the compost heap. Then he went to bed.
In the morning Madame was out looking at the new plants. They’re very pretty, she said to Ahmed. Each one needs to be watered with a sprinkling can, and before the sun hits them. Just sprinkle a little around each stalk so it can soak in.
She watched for a while as Ahmed, in resentful silence, carried out her instructions. Then, apparently satisfied, she went inside. It was many years since she had stood over him like that, waiting to see if he did as he was told, and he understood that the fat man’s poison was working in her, that in spite of his open indifference to her wishes she had not rejected the idea of hiring him to run her garden.
By mid-afternoon some of the flowers were not looking as crisp as they had looked in the morning. Ahmed noted their state as he passed by them, and decided to put off reporting it until evening, when the sun would have carried its destructive work still further.