Desert (11 page)

Each time Aamma tells the story of al-Azraq, she adds a new detail, a new sentence, or else she changes something, as if she didn’t want the story to ever finish. Her voice is loud, somewhat singsong, it rings out oddly in the dark house with the sound of the corrugated iron cracking in the sunlight and the humming of wasps.

“He was called al-Azraq because before becoming a saint, he’d been a desert warrior far to the south, in the region of Chinguetti, because he was a nobleman and the son of a sheik. But one day, God called upon him, and he became a saint, he abandoned the blue attire of the desert and dressed himself in a woolen robe like the poor, and he walked barefoot through the land from city to city with a staff as if he were a beggar. But God wanted him to stand out from other beggars, and so God made the skin of his hands and face remain blue, and the color could never be washed away no matter the amount of water he used. The blue color remained on his face and hands, and when the people saw it, despite the worn woolen robe, they understood he wasn’t a beggar, but a true warrior of the desert, a blue man that God had called upon, and that is why they gave him that name. Al-Azraq, the Blue Man...”

As she speaks, Aamma rocks back and forth lightly, as if she were marking the beat to music. Or sometimes she is quiet for a long time, leaning over the large earthenware platter, busily breaking up the dough and bringing it back together again to flatten it out with her closed fists.

Lalla waits, without saying anything, for her to go on.

“No one from back in those days is still alive,” says Aamma. “Everything that is said about him comes from tales, his legend, what can be remembered. But now there are people who don’t want to believe that anymore, who say it’s all lies.”

Aamma hesitates because she’s choosing what she’s going to say carefully.

“Al-Azraq was a great saint,” she says. “He knew how to heal sick people, even those who were sick in their heads, those who had lost their minds. He would live anywhere, in the shacks of shepherds, small sheds of leaves built around the foot of trees, or even in caves high in the mountains. People came from far and wide to see him and ask for his help. One day, an old man brought his son who was blind, and he said, ‘Heal my son, you who have received God’s blessing, heal him and I will give you everything I have.’ And he showed him a bag full of gold that he had brought with him. Al-Azraq said, ‘Of what use can your gold be here?’ and he motioned out toward the desert, without a drop of water, without a piece of fruit. And he took the old man’s gold and threw it on the ground, and the gold turned into scorpions and snakes that fled into the distance, and the old man began to tremble with fear. Then al-Azraq said to the old man, ‘Are you willing to go blind in place of your son?’ The old man answered, ‘I am very old, what use are my eyes to me? Let my son see, and I will be happy.’ Immediately, the young man recovered his sight and was dazzled by the sunlight. But when he saw that his father was blind, he was no longer happy. ‘Give my father his sight back,’ he said, ‘for it was I whom God condemned.’ Then al-Azraq granted them both the gift of sight, because he knew they were good-hearted. And he continued his journey toward the sea and stopped to live in a place just like this, near the dunes by the seaside.”

Aamma remains silent for a moment. Lalla thinks of the dunes, the place where al-Azraq lived, she hears the sound of the wind and the sea.

“The fishermen gave him food every day because they knew that the Blue Man was a saint, and they sought his blessing. Some came from very far away, from the fortified towns in the South; they came to hear him speak. But al-Azraq did not teach the Sunna with words, and when someone came to ask of him, ‘Teach me the Way,’ he simply told his beads for hours without saying anything else. Then he said to the visitor, ‘Go and gather wood for the fire, go and fetch some water,’ as if the visitor were his servant. He would say to him, ‘Fan me,’ and he even spoke to him with harsh words, accusing him of being lazy and lying, as if the visitor were his slave.”

Aamma speaks slowly in the dim house, and Lalla believes she can hear the voice of the Blue Man.

“That’s how he taught the Sunna, not with spoken words, but with gestures and prayers, to force the visitors to become humble in their hearts. But when simple people came, or children, al-Azraq was very kind to them, he said very gentle words to them, he told them marvelous tales, because he knew their hearts were not hardened and that they were truly close to God. They were the ones for whom he sometimes performed miracles, to help them because they had no other recourse.”

Aamma hesitates. “Did I ever tell you about the miracle of the source he made spring up from under a stone?”

“Yes, but tell me again,” says Lalla.

That’s the story she loves most in the whole world. Every time she hears it, she feels something strange, like a feverish chill, moving deep down inside of her, as if she were going to cry. She thinks about how it all happened, very long ago, at the gates to the desert, in a village of mud and palm trees with a large empty square where the wasps hum and the water from the fountain shines in the sun, smooth as a mirror reflecting the clouds in the sky. There’s no one in the village square because the sun is burning down very hard, and all the people have taken shelter in the shade of their homes. From time to time, a slow ruffle of scorched air passes over the still water of the fountain, like an open eye watching the sky, and casts a fine white powder on its surface, forming an imperceptible milky veil that melts quickly away. The water is clear and deep, blue-green, silent, very still in the hollow of red earth in which women’s feet have left glistening prints. Only the wasps come and go over the water, skimming the surface, then turn back toward the houses from which the smoke of the braziers is rising.

“It’s the story of a woman who went to fetch a jug of water at the fountain. No one remembers her name now because it all happened so long ago. But she was a very old woman who had very little strength left, and when she reached the fountain she began to weep and lament because it was such a long way for her to carry the water back home. She remained there, squatting on the ground, weeping and moaning. Then all of a sudden, without her hearing him come, al-Azraq was standing beside her...”

Lalla can see him clearly now. He is tall and thin, wrapped in his sand-colored cloak. His face is hidden behind his veil, but his eyes are shining with a strange light that is both soothing and invigorating, like the flame of a lamp. She recognizes him now. He’s the one who appears up on the plateau of stones, up where the desert begins, the one who envelops Lalla in his gaze so firmly and with such insistence that it makes her dizzy. He appears just like that, as silently as a shadow, he knows how to be there when he’s needed.

“The old woman continued to cry, so al-Azraq asked her gently why she was weeping.”

Yet you can’t be frightened when he appears silently, as though he’s sprung up from the desert. His eyes are filled with kindness, his voice is slow and calm, light even streams from his face.

“The old woman told him of her sorrow, her loneliness, because her house was so far away from the water, and she hadn’t the strength to get home carrying the jug of water...”

His voice and his gaze are one and the same thing, as if he already knew what the future held, as if he knew the secret of people’s destinies.

“‘Don’t weep over that,’ said al-Azraq. ‘I’ll help you get back to your house.’ And he led her back home by the arm, and when they had arrived in front of her house, he simply said to her, ‘Pick up that stone by the side of the path, and you will never again be in need of water.’ And the old woman did as she was bidden, and under the stone, a source of very clear water sprang forth, and the water spread out until it formed a fountain, purer and more beautiful than any other in the land. So then the old woman thanked al-Azraq, and later, people from all parts came to see the fountain and taste its water, and everyone praised al-Azraq who had received such powers from God.”

Lalla thinks about the fountain that sprang up under the stone, she thinks about the very clear, smooth water shining in the sunlight. She thinks about it for a long time in the half-light, while Aamma continues kneading the bread. And the shadow of the Blue Man recedes, silently, just as it had come, but his forceful gaze remains hovering over her, enveloping her like a breath.

Aamma is quiet now, she says nothing more. She continues to punch and knead the dough in the large, wobbling, earthenware platter. Maybe she too is thinking of the lovely fountain of deep water that sprang up under a stone on the path, like the true words of al-Azraq, the true path.

T
HE LIGHT IS beautiful here every day on the Project. Lalla had never really paid attention to the light until the Hartani taught her how to look at it. It’s a very clear light, especially in the morning, just after sunrise. It shines down on the red rocks and the earth, brings them to life. There are places for seeing the light. One morning, the Hartani takes Lalla to one of those places. It’s a chasm that opens at the bottom of a rocky ravine, and the Hartani is the only one who knows about this hiding place. You have to know where the passageway is. The Hartani takes Lalla’s hand and leads her along the narrow tunnel that descends into the earth. Immediately you can feel the cool dampness of the shadows, and sounds cease, like when you put your head under water. The tunnel burrows deep into the earth. Lalla is a little frightened because it’s the first time she’s ever gone inside of the earth. But the shepherd squeezes her hand tightly and that gives her courage.

All of a sudden, they stop: the long tunnel is bathed in light because it opens right out into the sky. Lalla doesn’t understand how that is possible because they never stopped going down, but it’s true nevertheless: the sky is right there in front of her, immense and weightless. She stands motionless, breathless, wide-eyed. Here, all that’s left is the sky, so clear that you think you’re a bird flying through the air.

The Hartani motions for Lalla to come closer to the opening. Then he sits down on the stones, slowly, so as not to start a rockslide. Lalla sits down a little behind him, trembling with dizziness. Down at the bottom, all the way down at the bottom of the cliff in the haze, she can make out the great barren plain, the dried torrents. Out on the horizon, an ochre mist spreads: it’s the beginning of the desert. That’s where the Hartani goes sometimes, all alone, taking nothing with him but a little bread wrapped in a handkerchief. It’s in the east, where the sunlight is the most beautiful, so beautiful that you’d like to go running barefoot through the sand, leaping over the sharp stones and the ravines, pressing ever onward in the direction of the desert, just like the Hartani does.

“It’s beautiful, Hartani!”

Sometimes Lalla forgets that the shepherd can’t understand. When she speaks to him, he turns his face toward her, and his eyes are bright, his lips try to imitate the movements of language. Then he grimaces, and Lalla starts laughing.

“Oh!”

She points to a still black spot in the middle of the air. The Hartani looks at the spot for a moment and makes the sign of a bird with his hand, crooking the index finger, and spreading the last three fingers out like the feathers of a bird. The spot glides slowly along in the center of the sky, circling back on itself a little, dropping, coming closer. Now Lalla can see its body clearly, its head, its wings with spread quill feathers. It’s a hawk in search of its prey, sailing silently along on the wind, like a shadow.

Lalla watches for a long time, her heart pounding. She’s never seen anything as beautiful as that bird tracing its circles in the sky, so very high up above the red earth, solitary and silent in the wind, in the sunlight, and tipping down toward the desert at times as if it were going to fall. Lalla’s heart beats even harder, because the silence of the tawny bird is making its way inside of her, giving rise to fear. Her eyes are riveted on the hawk, she can’t tear them away. The awful silence in the center of the sky, the chill of the open air, most of all the burning light, daze her, dig out a dizzying void. She steadies herself, leaning her hand on the Hartani’s arm to keep from falling forward into the emptiness. He too is watching the hawk. But it’s as if the bird were his brother and nothing separated them. They both have the same look in their eyes, the same courage; they share the same interminable silence of the sky, the wind, and the desert.

When Lalla realizes that the Hartani and the hawk are one and the same, a shiver runs up her spine, but the dizziness has left her. The sky spreading before her is immense, the earth is a gray- and ochre-colored mist floating out on the horizon. Since all of this is familiar to the Hartani, Lalla is no longer afraid to enter the silence. She closes her eyes and allows herself to glide out on the air, into the center of the sky, holding on to the young shepherd’s arm. Together, they slowly trace large circles up above the earth, so high up that not a single sound can be heard, only the light ruffling of the wind in the quill feathers, so high up that the rocks, the thorn bushes, the houses of planks and tarpaper are hardly visible.

Then, after having flown together for a long time and having become inebriated on the wind, the light, and the blue of the sky, they return to the mouth of the cave at the top of the red cliff; they touch down lightly, without causing a single stone to roll, without moving a grain of sand. Those are the things that the Hartani knows how to do, just like that, without talking, without thinking, with his eyes alone.

He knows of all sorts of places where you can see lights, because there isn’t only one light, but many diVerent lights. At first, when he used to lead Lalla over the rocks, into the hollows, toward the old dried-up crevices, or else high up on a red rock, she thought it was to go and hunt lizards or rob birds’ nests, like the other boys do. But then, his eyes bright with delight, the Hartani would show her with a flourish of his hand – and at the end of his sweeping gesture, there would be nothing but the sky, immense, dazzlingly white, or else the dance of sunlight along the sharp broken rocks, or still yet those sorts of moons that the sun makes through the leaves of the shrubs. Those things were more beautiful when he looked at them, newer, as if no one had ever seen them before him, as in the beginning of the world.