We Have Buried the Past Read online

  WE HAVE BURIED THE PAST

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ‘ABD AL-KARIM GHALLAB was a Moroccan political journalist and novelist. He was the author of five novels and three collections of short stories. In 2004 he was awarded the Maghreb Culture Prize of Tunis. Ghallab’s novels have been translated into many languages.

  WE HAVE BURIED THE PAST

  ‘ABD AL-KARIM GHALLAB

  Translated by Roger Allen

  Published in 2018 by

  HAUS PUBLISHING LTD

  4 Cinnamon Row

  London SW11 3TW

  Copyright © 2018 ‘Abd al-karim Ghallab

  Translation copyright © 2018 Roger Allen

  The moral rights of the authors have been asserted

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-910376-40-9

  eISBN: 978-1-910376-41-6

  Typeset in Garamond by MacGuru Ltd

  Printed in Spain by Liberdúplex

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Afterword

  1

  In the city of Fez, the Makhfiyya Quarter was the residence of the Tihami family. The family was middle class and well off, one of those that enjoyed its own share of wealth and prestige, coupled with a total adherence to traditional values and the maintenance of respect, all within the confines of the society in which it existed – one that did not transcend the boundaries of the quarter where the family resided. Whatever wealth the family members had, however, was both modest and deep-rooted; they remained unspoiled by luxury and felt content and secure within their own environment.

  Families like this did not hold themselves above poorer neighbours and workers who lived in the same quarter, nor did they aspire to quit the quarter in which they themselves had prospered. They were friendly with their neighbours and fully accustomed to being treated by them with all due respect. They made full use of the quarter’s facilities – the mosque, of course; the baths; the baking oven; and the merchants who sold foodstuffs. All these different elements tied them firmly to the quarter and made it a society of its own, duly esteemed, respected, and venerated by everyone who lived there.

  In the Makhfiyya Quarter the Tihami family had inherited a house with a huge, wide front door, where sheer neglect and a lack of attention had allowed time and decay to form a pact of their own. The crumbling high walls of the house gave evidence of both the extreme care that had gone into its construction and the total neglect that it had suffered ever since it had last had any contact with either builders or decorators.

  Anyone standing in front of these lofty walls would have few doubts that behind them was the kind of residence with which Fez was familiar in the days when it was a city for the rich, well off, and privileged – times when people were eager to build huge mansions more like palaces than ordinary dwellings. They too would have large rooms, courtyards, fountains, and other amenities. When owners built them, their idea would be for the houses to serve as major sources of inheritance for children, grandchildren, and near and distant relatives who were less well off.

  You would not be far off the mark if, in coming into contact with the Tihami family, you concluded that the house in which they lived had been their residence for generations. At certain times in the family’s history, the house had been as busy as a beehive, filled with family members – fathers, uncles, children, and grandchildren, all of them living in a single social network. It was as though, within the Makhfiyya Quarter, they constituted a state in their own right, all of them orbiting around different tables three times a day for meals in the rooms or in the courtyard: one table for men, another for women, and a third for servants. Later on, the women would all gather – wives, unmarried daughters, and servants – inside the huge kitchen, while the men and boys would all go out to their workplaces and shops. The young boys and girls would either cluster together, yelling and screaming as they played, or else, in the case of the boys, go to the jurist’s Qur’an school where they would learn how to read and write and memorise some suras from the holy book, and, in the case of the girls, to the lady’s house to learn how to sew.

  The exterior of the house hardly provided an accurate picture of the inside. Age and decay had not managed to do much damage to the spacious halls and wide rooms that the hands of skilled craftsmen had carefully decorated with mosaics, paintings, and other types of ornamentation. When the original owner had the house built, he was not planning a work of art but rather something that would show the extent of his wealth and luxurious lifestyle. In the house itself and its sheer size the women in the family – wives, daughters, and servants – all found a form of consolation from the highly restricted routine imposed on them by the life they had to live inside this extensive prison. The only time one of them might be prepared to leave the home was when she needed to go to the bathhouse or attend a wedding ceremony. For women and female servants, such opportunities arose only occasionally.

  Eventually this mansion, with everything and everyone inside it, had come into the hands of Hajj Muhammad, doyen of the Tihami family. He was a portly man, with a pale complexion and curly beard. When it came to the hair on his head, the local barber gave no one the opportunity to find out whether it was white or black: he came to the house regularly every Friday morning to shave heads and trim the beards of those who had them. The only people who managed to escape his sharp razor were some of the family’s playful children, who seized the opportunity of their grandparents and parents being shaved to take to their heels. That way they could avoid the rough hand that would otherwise clasp their young heads, douse them in soapy water using a decayed chunk of sponge, and then start on them with the razor, which by this time had lost its sharp edge.

  Hajj Muhammad tended to his manner of dress with all the attention of an ambitious man. In summertime it would consist only of a single loose-fitting shirt, usually made of a fairly coarse fabric, although repeated washing had somewhat mitigated the roughness. His wife made a point of decorating it with a silken collar, from which a silk cord hung down to create a bow by which the two sides of the collar could be tied together on the left-hand side. This bow took the place of a button, and with it there was no need of a button in any case: the entire arrangement had no need of buttons nor of the civilisation that had introduced buttons into this society. Not only that, but Hajj Muhammad could make use of the dangling part to attach his heavy silver watch, with its cover that pr
otected the glass from breaking. It also meant he did not need to wear a wrist-strap, as the younger folk did and which got in the way of them correctly performing the ritual ablution before prayer. Over this shirt he would normally wear a garment called the mansuriyya, which was really not much different in shape from the shirt itself, except that the fabric was less coarse, and the chest was decorated with a stripe of woven silk and silk ties of the kind made by Jewish women in the Mellah, which possessed a beauty of their own.

  During winter, between the shirt and the mansuriyya Hajj Muhammad wore a woollen kaftan of similar dimensions, either red or pink in colour. It could also be blue or violet, so it could be shared whenever his wife needed to borrow it from her husband upon being unexpectedly invited to a reception of some kind.

  Hajj Muhammad adorned his head with a turban that was tightly wrapped around a red fez. It was the very same barber who undertook the wrapping of this turban with tremendous skill and dexterity – it was something that only the most proficient barbers could do properly, being genuine specialists on everything to do with the head, even if it involved only measures to protect heads from extreme cold and heat. In addition to all this, there would be one or two jallabas, depending on the seasonal weather, topped by a burnous that in wintertime would be dark black – as protection against the severe cold for which Fez, and the Makhfiyya Quarter in particular, is well known among Moroccan cities. In summertime, when the temperatures were extremely hot, the top layer would be gleaming white. But, whatever the case, the appearance would always preserve a sense of nobility and convey an august demean-our. When it came to footwear, things would differ according to the season. In summer they would be white and light and thinly cushioned; in winter, by contrast, they would be yellow, heavy, and coarse, since they needed to be able to wade through the mud that covered the streets of Fez and to sink into the mire like duck’s legs stuck in a stagnant pond.

  Hajj Muhammad would hardly ever leave his residence until all the requirements of his august appearance and his mode of walking had been fully met. He would still criticise younger men who carelessly decided in summertime to drape their jallabas over their shoulders and tilt their fezzes to the sides of their heads. He would frown whenever he spotted them walking and rushing around, shouting and conversing too loudly – in his view, not showing their families in the best light.

  ‘God have mercy on Hajj al-Tahir,’ he would say. ‘If he were to set eyes on his grandson Hamid, that young man who tears along the street with his fez in his hand, he would not hesitate to strike him with his cane and make him change his behaviour.’

  This was the kind of thing Hajj Muhammad would yell to himself every time he spotted a young man who disliked wearing a fez on his head or pulled up his jallaba, ignoring tradition in the hope of shielding himself from the heat or hoping for a snatch of breeze on his legs.

  2

  It would be early morning when Hajj Muhammad left his house. Neither bitter cold nor pouring rain would deter him. Ever since he was a boy, he had grown used to observing the quarter as it woke up from the peace and quiet of slumber. As he rolled over in bed and gradually emerged from sleep, life with all its gentle quietude would begin to seep back into his limbs. One of his greatest delights was to wander through the Makhfiyya Quarter like an heir inspecting the properties of the two royal palaces. He would be delighted every time he walked around the quarter and noticed a new shop here or there, reopening in order to provide the quarter’s inhabitants with their daily provisions. During the course of his inspection tour he would make a point of dropping in on the flour and sponge vendors so he could observe the boys at work, providing food for their families.

  ‘All’s well in the world, and there’s a blessing for the early riser!’

  That is precisely what Hajj Muhammad told himself whenever he relished the way the lowly quarter roused itself in the morning. Such early bustle meant that life was still flowing through the limbs of the quarter’s inhabitants. That made him happy: life was still as vigorous and unruly as he had always known it.

  The tour used to start in the morning when Hajj Muhammad left his ‘mansion’ after confirming that life had resumed its normal daily routine. There was movement all over the place, and the various shops – butchers’, vegetable-sellers’, grocers’, and provision merchants’ – were all full of fresh produce. At that point Hajj Muhammad would leave his house and, with his habitual calm demeanour and slow gait – these being traits that managed to earn him respect and provoke feelings of confidence and joy – would pass by all those vendors. He would extend a greeting to each one in turn, always accompanied by his traditional smiles, which gave expression to his essential kindness and probity. However often he bestowed such smiles, they never lost their genuine intent. The people in the quarter sensed that behind the smiles were feelings of respect and love that linked them to Hajj Muhammad. For that very reason they used to welcome him cheerfully and greet him with a smile too, lowering their heads out of respect and esteem.

  When he went round the quarter, he would be fully dressed, with a burnous on top; he would never take it off in hot weather, nor would he wrap himself up in it for warmth when it was very cold. But, whatever the case, he could always manage to keep the basket hidden. Sometimes he would have to carry it himself, when he could not find one of his children to do it for him. His goal in using his children like this was to train them in the ways of the marketplace, to teach them how to tell good products from bad and haggle over prices. Most of the time, instead of one of his own children, he would use one of the many young maidservants who populated the various parts of the household.

  Hajj Muhammad would leave the house at this time of day in order to purchase supplies for the family. He would be welcomed in every shop, not simply because he had been their customer for a very long time, but due to the great respect in which he was held in the quarter. Indeed, he could be said to be the Makhfiyya Quarter’s mayor. For that reason he was always given genuine advice about purchases from the various vendors. He would be well treated, and the prices would be reasonable. Not only that, but more often than not the owner of the shop would advise him not to buy one product or another because the owner would know that the Hajj would not like it or would not feel comfortable about purchasing it. And he might well pause by the butcher’s, but then quickly move on because he had not found anything there that took his fancy, or else because the price of meat had gone up a piastre or two.

  In spite of the respect he had towards these vendors, he would never hesitate to quibble over prices, even though the vendor might swear an oath to the effect that he would lose at the price being discussed. Hajj Muhammad would regularly haggle with the butcher or vegetable-seller, something that had its own jocular side. He would never believe what they were telling him and would make every effort to win the battle by using his pleasant smile and swearing an oath (that he made sure never invoked the name of God, so as to avoid falling into sin). This haggling ritual occurred every single day, without causing the slightest anxiety or annoyance to the merchants from his constant arguing and attempts to get a lower price on things. In fact, they came to expect it from him; they may even have seen it as a token of pride and honour. Such was Hajj Muhammad’s status in the quarter that they did not find his haggling as annoying as they did that of other customers.

  No sooner did he return to the house than his purchases were subject to precise criticism. This piece of meat, for example, was unacceptable because it was not as good as the other one. This vegetable could not be used with the rest of them because it was of very poor quality. He would often weigh the meat on a small pair of scales that he kept in the house; he was totally unwilling to accept any meat or vegetables that were underweight, whether by a little or a lot. He would never hesitate for a moment to argue with the vendor in question; he would regularly return produce to the place where he had bought it if he detected the slightest problem in either weight or quality.

  But,
in spite of this ongoing quest for satisfaction, which almost amounted to stinginess, Hajj Muhammad was much loved by the quarter’s shopkeepers and much respected in all the various sectors that had contact with him. He was highly regarded by all the generations of people who shared the life of the Makhfiyya Quarter.

  He had lived his life with many people in the quarter and had become their friend; not only that, but he also managed to maintain such ties across successive generations. He would occasionally bump into such people and give them his usual smile: greetings would be exchanged, and he would chat with them and listen to what they had to say. He never rejected out of hand the many ideas and dreams with which younger heads were filled. But, as he listened to the aspirations of the gullible younger folk who had yet to experience life to the full and were only acquainted with those aspects of it that seemed bright and attractive, his responses were often laced with a certain harmless sarcasm, or a mocking laugh.

  He used to like stopping by the shops of the tailor or the flour-seller, conversing about events in the quarter, the day’s main news, and activities in the commercial sector, with prices going up or down. He enjoyed probing things in detail so that he would not lose his connection to the outside world. These conversations would provide him with information that would help him keep up with evening discussions and the comments of his friends. Most of these chats with shopkeepers would occur while they were waiting for prayer-time just before sunset, or else after the call to evening prayer.

  As a result of all this, Hajj Muhammad became a personality within the quarter, one that its inhabitants and merchants could not do without. Everyone had a sense of his qualities as a kind of father or shepherd and his overall courtesy. Whenever he was absent – due to illness or travel – they would all miss him; and if he ever changed his routine when it came to touring the quarter in the morning or waiting in the evening for the call to prayer, they would all ask after him.