We Have Buried the Past Read online

  The thing that further enhanced the affection that the quarter’s inhabitants and merchants felt for this beloved personality was his devoutness and close attention to preachers and spiritual guides. He would often attend homiletic gatherings and sessions of religious instruction which the shaykhs in the Qarawiyin Mosque or the Mawlay Idris shrine would regularly offer; there he would listen carefully to the commentaries on Muslim traditions and the biography of the Prophet. He heard so much of the Prophet’s sayings (prayers and blessings be upon him!) and accounts of his life that he knew them by heart. His speech was always a melange of quotations from traditions and wisdom literature which he would regularly cite, even though not entirely accurately. Although he regularly listened to a good deal of sermonising and instruction, he was still unable to train his tongue or polish his language. Even so, he was quite prepared to make mistakes or explain what he had understood in his own colloquial dialect. In spite of everything he still felt that he was the quarter’s legal expert and religious guide.

  The lessons that he attended had a profound effect on him. They combined with his age and august temperament to make him a devout and conservative person, always concerned in case a slip of the tongue would cause offence or aggravate someone; or that his eye would trick him, and he would see part of a woman that the veil could not keep concealed – her eyes or hands, for instance; or that his heart or mind would let him down, and he would fail to offer counsel to people whom he believed he had the right to advise. He regarded it as an obligation to advise all the quarter’s inhabitants, in accordance with the expectations of honour and religion.

  3

  Running the household alongside Hajj Muhammad’s wife were five official maidservants. That number did not include the unofficial ones who were not allowed to be called ‘maidservants’. The official ones were vestiges of the era of slavery. The eldest among them had come as part of the dowry of Sayyida Khaduj, the Hajj’s wife. At the time of her arrival she was still a young girl, tall, well built, and with strong muscles. She lived with the family as an obedient servant, working in the kitchen and doing other household chores. She took care of the children, tending to their needs, raising them, and relieving their mother of such responsibilities. This continuous hard labour and a life of absolute deprivation had had their effect on this elderly spinster and her psychological make-up. Her posture had sagged, and she rarely did much by way of exercise. By now she much preferred a life of ease and some peace and quiet – whenever, that is, circumstances permitted.

  The other female servants were younger than her and had more energy and drive. Each one of them had been acquired on some particular occasion. They were all Moroccan and had been brought from the far south when they were still young. They differed from one another in age and colouring, and they also varied in their degree of beauty. One of them had a dark brown complexion that was almost black, while another had white skin. The others had wheat-coloured complexions, that is, before the passage of time turned them a dull yellow.

  Within the household of Hajj Muhammad these servant-women constituted a separate society of their own. They were a central part of family life and knew its secrets. As a result they could discuss the history of all its members, men, women, and children; they were especially adept when it came to talking about personal histories and the important events in the life of each member of the family. Even so, they operated on the fringes of the family and did not possess the same status and social position as the family’s womenfolk. Nothing could ever happen without these servant-women, and yet they would never be consulted about any matter concerning the family or about significant events in family life.

  When they had some leisure time, they used to gather in a private room; because they had occupied it for so long, it had been dubbed ‘the servants’ room’. When they were not working, they would spend time chatting; sometimes there would be non-stop laughter as well, to accompany whispered comments. But that would only happen once they had made sure that the master was not at home and the mistress was not on edge but feeling quite relaxed. Their conversation usually revolved around the day’s events in the kitchen and the house in general – and sometimes the street as well, if it so happened that one of them was given a special task to go outside and contact one of the family’s female relatives. Street chatter was always a matter of shared gossip. Any number of men had no qualms about importuning female servants and shamelessly flirting with dark-skinned women within earshot of passers-by without finding the slightest degree of inappropriateness in their behaviour. Family traditions and the proper upbringing that these women had received may well have led them to show the necessary modesty and dignity as they went on their way. Even so, flirtatious expressions directed at them were bound to leave an echo in their ears that could only be expunged through an exchange of gossip and suppressed giggles that would emerge from the servants’ room every so often when there was time to relax.

  Memories were a frequent topic of the ongoing series of evening conversations among these servant-women. For each one of them, such memories sometimes acquired a patina of adventure, helped along perhaps by some basic but essentially human spirit of imagination. And they all enjoyed listening to the tales of kidnapping – that being the link that connected the two principal phases in their lives, the first of freedom, the second of slavery.

  Many of these women, black and white alike, had only the vaguest memory of their original capture, leaving no trace in their lives of a period when they were free, had a family, and enjoyed a mother’s love, a father’s kindness, or a brother’s affection. The only family they could recall was this new one in whose shadow they now lived, or the several families that had made use of them. They never remembered their original names, which their new ones had erased all trace of, even in the recesses of their minds.

  But there was one of them who remembered it all, including her kidnapping. She could recall every detail of the event, even though she was young at the time. She could recall every feature of the person who had stolen her liberty; time had not managed to let her forget the first strange face she had ever seen in the small village where she grew up.

  She had been a child of ten, living with her family in a small village in the south. She could still remember everything about life there, except for her own name – which had been Aisha. She used to go out with her brother and mother in search of water and firewood. Sometimes her mother would let her go with the shepherd or shepherdess to see where the best grazing places were, or to get her out of the house during household chores and to run off some energy, but only during the wonderful springtime when she was not worried about strong winds, extreme heat, or pouring rain. The sunshine would offer glimpses of the natural splendours to be found in the distant wilderness, far removed from the shade of houses, animal pens, tent tops, and bird nests.

  One bright day the girl went out with the little lamb she used to play with; sometimes she would carry it, sometimes she would pull it along gently. She was looking for fresh green pasturage, running through the wide-open spaces, singing shepherdess’s songs, and competing with them to tend the sheep, boasting that she was the owner of all the little lambs. Later in the morning she felt thirsty, so she headed for the stream to have a drink. There she went and never came back.

  She could still recall that day long ago as though it were only yesterday; she could remember every single detail. She had described it so many times and its echoes bounced around her memory so much that it was firmly rooted in her consciousness.

  Tripping lightly, she hurried to the stream, anxious to drink some cold water that would quench her thirst. When she reached the deserted stream, no peasants were to be seen and no shepherds were close by; the only sound in this refreshing scene was the twittering of birds. She felt completely safe, relishing the loneliness of the spot and actually enjoying the feeling of being on her own.

  Jawhara – that being the name she was later called by when she became part of the disti
nguished household of Hajj Muhammad – approached the stream, delighted by both the purity and the coldness of the water that she bent down and scooped up in her small hands to quench her thirst and cool her face, which had been scorched by the sun and was turning red. On the surface of the clear, burbling water she noticed the figure of a horseman who had come so close to the spring that the horse’s hooves were almost in the water. When she lifted her head, it was to see a strongly built man with a fine physique, bursting with youthful vigour. His face was red, his hair blonde, and his eyes blue; he was wearing a white turban, part of which hung down like a veil. Over his jallaba he was wearing a burnous, the two sides of which resembled the wings of a gigantic falcon. He was confidently holding the reins of a splendid horse with strong muscles, a wonderful gait, and delicate legs; it was nervous and was difficult to keep still – as though it were continuously ready to take off and jump.

  Jawhara stared at the horseman in panic, but she soon felt calmer when he smiled at her. She smiled back, as though she had known him for some time.

  She bent down over the stream again, feeling at ease, but she soon took notice when he asked her a question.

  ‘What are you doing at this stream, little girl?’

  ‘Having a drink, sir.’

  ‘Is it cold, clean, and nice?’

  ‘Very cold. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Yes, I would. But tell me, where are you from? Aren’t you scared to be on your own in this deserted spot?’

  ‘I’m not scared of anyone. I’m close to the pasture, and my small flock is waiting for me. I’ll be going back to them in just a minute.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather come with me to my city far away? It’s nice and a lot of fun.’

  ‘No. My mother and father will be waiting for me when I bring the flock back in the evening. I don’t like being away from the flock for too long.’

  ‘Fill this jug of mine with some of your cold water. I’m thirsty!’

  She took the jug from him, filled it up, and handed it back. No sooner had she done so than two powerful hands grabbed her, lifted her up, and put her at the front of the saddle. She hardly had time to realise what was happening before the horse was taking off with its rider and his captive, barely noticing the hills and valleys, high and low. One of the two falcon wings had enfolded her, and only her tiny face was exposed to any light. She found herself swaying in his arms, her body wedged between two powerful arms from which there was no possibility of escape. She tried calling for help, but her cries were lost in the infinite expanse. Looking behind her, she tried pleading with him, but found that his handsome face was buried in his head-covering; all she could see were his two blue eyes, rigid and determined. Outright panic robbed her of all strength, and she began to weep silently. Behind those tears the world was dancing, as were her own emotions, suppressed and paralysed with fear.

  All she could remember about what happened next was that the horseman took good care of her. Her young mind was incapable of dealing with the horror of the disaster that this dreadful kidnapping had caused her. The man was kind and polite and tried his best to make her forget the bitter sorrow that she was bound to feel at being snatched away from her parents and flocks of lambs. He tried to remove her worries, particularly about her father, who would be furious at her for running away or simply disappearing – he had always insisted that she not be left alone with any man, whatever his status might be. This was what she came to realise for herself once she was in the house of Ibn Kiran, the slave trader, as she listened to her fellow victims talking about unmarried girls and widows and the price they would fetch in the slave market.

  The horseman stayed with her for a while in a distant city, one that she heard was named Marrakesh. All she knew of it was a modest house in a shady part of the city that she entered and left at night. After that she was moved to Fez, the city where she was to spend the rest of her days. Once she had spent a few days in Ibn Kiran’s house, she was moved to the house of her new master, Hajj Muhammad al-Tihami.

  The horseman, whose smiling face she could still remember reflecting in the gently moving stream, had disappeared ever since he handed her over to Ibn Kiran. He had wished the trader well and urged him to take good care of her and demand a good price.

  4

  Jawhara could still recall that Ibn Kiran’s house was modest and dark; it had a wooden door like that of an old bathhouse or a deserted garden in a village far removed from the city quarters. Its wooden lock only worked from the inside. The old door had a hole in it through which you inserted your hand to open the lock. Beyond the door was a long, dark corridor ending in a small, dimly lit hallway. In a corner directly opposite the doorway was a wooden bench with some old, threadbare pelts on it, upon which sat a human pile of flesh and fat, wrapped in a variety of jallabas that might be white or black, only distinguishable by a flushed face enveloped in old rags whose only purpose was to keep the bloated red face warm. This was Ibn Kiran, the slave dealer.

  Over sixty years old, he was a short, podgy man with a white beard and a loud voice that could instil fear into the ears of his listeners whenever he chose to raise it. The unfortunate people who had fallen into his clutches could be made even more frightened when he became angry: his blood would start churning, his nostrils would flare, his eyes would bulge, and his face would turn scarlet. Then he would froth at the mouth, and spittle would fly from his wrinkled, toothless gums.

  He may have been quick to anger, irritable, and given to much shouting, but he would soon calm down: his features would relax, and he would start smiling. This would particularly be the case when he spotted a new customer, or one of his many guests. The general view was that a ready temper was one of the requisites for a slave dealer; his aim was to teach the slave how to obey, accept orders, and show an awareness of their humiliation. His method involved raising his voice and yelling threats whenever one of the arrivals in the house of Ibn Kiran was about to do something that was not to the great slave dealer’s liking.

  Jawhara could still remember that day when the horseman handed her over to Ibn Kiran.

  The door was opened in her face by means of a knotted rope held by a man sitting cross-legged on a wooden bench. This happened as soon as he heard the horseman banging on the ancient wooden door. After welcoming her, he pulled her towards him without even budging from his seat. The way he was sitting cross-legged made him look like he couldn’t walk; either that, or else the sheer bulk of his body made movement impossible. He pulled her gently and then grabbed her head between his fingers, which still had enough power in them; it was as though he were handling a costly piece of goods. He turned her head towards him and looked at her face and features with the expert eye of someone assessing value. He then checked her entire body from head to toe, allowing his eyes to pause for a while on her breasts. Next he turned her round to inspect her posture from the back, pausing for a while to check her buttocks. Eventually he grabbed her by the shoulders, acknowledging that she was sound and healthy. Yelling for one of the women in this remarkable household, he gave her a gentle push and instructed the woman to look after her and see to her clothing and especially her hair. Saada – the woman’s name – took her by the hand and led her to a room where she asked what her own name and family name was, and who had been her previous owner. It was clear that Jawhara did not understand the notion of a previous owner, so she did not respond to that part of the question, but Saada kept pestering her with questions that she could not understand.

  ‘Why did he throw you out?’ she asked. ‘What led him to sell you?’

  These were all words Jawhara was hearing for the very first time, and the way they kept battering her mind only made her feel more miserable and at a loss.

  She could not understand this continuing stream of transfer from one place to another, nor was she aware of the secret of this strange household. She had not understood what the horseman and the fat man sitting cross-legged on the bench in the courtyard were t
alking about. The strange movements that the man had used in exploring her face, chest, and back seemed peculiar to her. The conversation with this woman only increased her confusion; she kept using the words ‘master’ and ‘sale’. Saada did not wait for a detailed reply, but told her firmly to take off her clothes and handed her some threadbare rags.

  ‘Put these on for a bit while you’re washing your clothes.’

  Saada then turned her attention to the girl’s hair and body. It all reminded Jawhara of the care and attention that her own mother gave her. Within this remarkable household she now opened her eyes to find an aggregation of women and girls of a variety of ages and complexions, from pink to black and white. They were all involved in household chores, shuddering in terror at the huge figure of the master who never left his place on the wooden bench. His eyes were always watching, and he kept up a non-stop stream of shouts, screams, and threats, upbraiding someone here and admonishing someone else there. Woe betided any woman who disobeyed him. The whip hanging on the wall behind his back could easily undertake the task of bringing her back to the straight and narrow path of obedience.

  Jawhara tried to get closer to the group of women who used to gather for an evening of chatter in their communal space whenever the master chose to leave them alone. But she was so young that they all looked down on her and refused to let her sit with them. Even so, she was curious and attentive enough that scarcely a word uttered by one or another of the women escaped her notice.

  The evening chatter usually involved discussion of the day’s more trivial events, but the topic that most interested the women concerned the households of various masters, their treatment of servants, and the relationship of the mistress of their house to the servants. One of them spoke about the sheer uncouthness of the mistress and the jealousy that had churned her insides ever since the new maid had entered the household.