The Shadows of Ghadames (11 page)

t always starts with a cry, so far away that it blends with the other sounds in the city. Our hearts beat fast and we lower our heads for fear of being wrong. We can never be sure when we hear the first cry.

Then it comes closer, bouncing from rooftop to rooftop, carried and amplified by the mouths of a hundred women:

“He has returned …”

“Lord Mahmud!”

“Safe and sound from the desert …”

“Lord Mahmud!”

“His caravan is loaded with beautiful things …”

“Lord Mahmud …”

“Take out your jewels, Meriem and Bilkisu!”

That is how the wives in Ghadames learn about the arrival of the caravans; the news spreads across the rooftops throughout the city even before the travelers have had time to dismount. Soon they look up and see the city walls. In the last few days, they have endured fatigue, scorpions,
vipers and sandstorms, so that they could once again hear the voices of the invisible women, the concert they give for every return.

At home, everyone wakes up. Jasim runs to Uncle's store and rushes down the alleyways to welcome his father, who is supervising the unloading of the camels. Ladi has brought out the most beautiful pillows and is carefully sweeping the stairway. My mother and Bilkisu open the little wooden chests in which they hide their jewelry.

It is as if they had been in mourning while my father was far away. Now they can again wear jewelry and look beautiful. In their earlobes they hang silver drops that dangle gently against their cheeks; they slip on bracelets and anklets with resonant names—
tahadidiè.ne, khalkhal
—ornaments that punctuate their footsteps around the house.

Around their necks, they fasten necklaces made of fragrant grains, a blend of wood powder kneaded with rose petal, clove, nutmeg, scented water and ambergris. On their tunics, they pin a brooch in the shape of a scorpion, with a metal sting to protect them against misfortune and jealousy. Their smiles are full of secrets. As for me, I can't help wondering: doesn't each one, deep down in her heart, wish she were the only wife?

The morning light reflects off the mirrors, illuminating the large room ready to welcome my father. Above our heads, the rows of brass vases glow magnificently. Festive cakes, filled with pistachios and coated with honey, are in the pantry waiting to be served. Everything is all set.
Bilkisu starts singing the song of the return in her highpitched voice:

Yet it is my mother who plucks the strings of her oud and sings the last stanza:

Usually I hesitate to talk to my mother when I know she may get angry. But right now I am so furious that it gives me courage, as when I raced Jasim.

“Why do women sing of the doors and locks that prevent them from going out? Is that because they are actually pleased to be locked up?” I ask.

Mama looks at me, her eyes so dark under the black furrow of her eyebrows.

“No, they are not pleased,” she says. “But with time you will learn that no person who loves, whether man or woman, is ever completely free.”

I finally ask the question that has been tormenting me for three days. “Will you tell my father about what happened in his absence?” I say.

Mama hardly bats an eyelid, then shakes her head. “Not now. One day, I am sure, we'll find a way of telling him. I also know why you're worried. You're afraid of not learning to read anymore.”

I lower my head, relieved she has guessed my thoughts. “Don't worry, I won't go back on my promise. You'll learn, since it means so much to you! Your desire is so strong I can't go against it anymore. And then, Aïshatou told me it was time to accept certain changes.”

On the rooftops, the ululation concert continues, an indication the travelers are now inside the city walls.

“They've crossed the Aïn el Fars gate!”

“He has stopped at the Gâddous fountain …”

“He is greeting the old men on Mulberry Square …”

Here he is at last! Preceded by a Jasim who is overexcited and prances up the stairway. Poor Jasim. He has been unhappy ever since he was expelled from the rooftop and his face has looked somber, like a lamp which has used up its oil supply. Now he is beaming with pride; he feels like the king of the world again.

“Look at the dagger my father brought me from his trip up north! Look at the horn handle, and how sharp the blade is,” he tells me. “It isn't iron, it's steel, a very shiny, very hard metal. I bet you never saw this metal before!”

“And neither did you. I bet you never saw it before either!” I say, making my worst possible grimace.

But then I blush because my father has just appeared at the top of the stairs. He frowns.

“Is that the grumpy face with which you welcome your father?” he says. “Stop quarreling, at least when I am around.”

Yet he's not really mad. Just tired. I watch him surreptitiously as he sits down on the cushions, takes off his turban, and massages his temples and eyelids with his fingertips. He has rings under his eyes, his features are drawn from the long journey, and there are more gray patches in his hair than before. I realize my father is not as young as I thought. Or else it's me who suddenly feels older.

Huffing, puffing, and grumbling, Ladi has brought a large basket up the stairs. My father never fails to bring back gifts for each one of us whenever he makes a trip. Ladi, first in line, inspects the fabric of two remnants of purple cloth with white stripes, in fashion in the north. She will use them to make herself a dress for the next wedding celebration, she says, peering at me out of the corner of her eye. My mother receives about thirty skeins of fine wool in warm colors, including a saffron yellow and a red the color of pepper, colors which will look beautiful in the rugs she works on so patiently.

“And what's that?” exclaims Jasim when he sees Papa extract a strange object from a bag. It is a metal lamp and on it, he places a big glass tube, which had been packed separately in a cocoon of rags.

He shows us how to fill the tank with a yellow liquid
and soak a thick braided wick in it that will burn slowly, shedding a rather strong light.

Most astonishing is the little key affixed to the neck of the lamp that you turn to lower or raise the light—an improvement that doesn't exist on our oil lamps, which, it must be said, do not produce much light.

Everyone goes into raptures, but my mother looks at it disapprovingly.

“It smells bad,” she objects. “And where will we find this liquid you call kerosene? We don't have any here.”

“That's just it,” says my father, proud of his discovery. “I've ordered some from my associate. During my next trip to Tripoli, I plan to bring back a large quantity of liquid and many lamps to sell to the residents of Ghadames.”

Jasim and I jump up and down enthusiastically. We are sure this lamp will sell well, especially during the Ramadan evenings when people like to stay up late.

“What better light than the sun can ever be found for human beings?” asks Mama, always suspicious.

Then, from a goatskin portfolio, my father takes out Bilkisu's surprise: a printed book, with illustrations showing the monuments of Istanbul and the clothing of Turkey. All four of us gape at the pictures while he tries to answer our questions.

“Are those minarets, those tall, narrow towers? Won't they break? Why don't they build them square-shaped like ours? The sultan's palace looks huge. Did you say there are hundreds of rooms? That's impossible …

“Heavens, their women wear jackets and bouffant pants, like men! Isn't that indecent? That tall white headdress that covers everything except their eyes is really strange; it's like heads of Tuareg warriors on top of midget bodies. And those wooden, high-heeled mules; it can't be easy to walk perched up on those things. Do Turkish women walk from rooftop to rooftop like us?

“What huge turbans! How much time does it take for a man to wind such a long length of cloth around that funny pointed hat?

“So that's what ships look like…. You say the oars are operated by rows of prisoners chained to the deck? Is the Tripoli port as big and beautiful as this one?”

My father has already told us about Istanbul, where he has been twice. But it's very different to see the pictures with one's own eyes, the colors, silhouettes, the living shadows, almost, of reality.

We are so absorbed by the illustrations that it takes us a while to notice the written part of the book isn't in Arabic, but in printed characters we don't know at all. Why is this? Aren't the Turks Moslems like us? Yes they are, my father replies patiently, and their language is printed in Arabic characters. But this book was written in Italian, by Venetian tradesmen who do business with the Ottoman Empire. He has to confess he can't make heads or tails of this writing, which is read in the opposite direction from ours, from left to right.

“I think this is like our
alif
,” he says, putting his finger
on a much larger character than the others, a kind of point that widens at the bottom, and whose legs are held together by a crossbar as straight and rigid as the blade of Jasim's dagger.

I remain completely silent. There are so many things in the world, and I'll only get to know a minute part. Ghadames, which seemed huge to me till now, is actually tiny—a few dried-mud houses surrounded by palm trees.

“And what about you, Malika?” my father asks me gently. “Don't you want to know what gift I brought you?”

He takes out a long, thin object from the bottom of the basket, wrapped in a dark green, soft leather case with little gold motifs. When I see the care with which he handles it, I understand it is a rare and costly thing, possibly the most beautiful gift of this trip, and my heart starts beating fast. When he finally pulls out the object, I am disappointed. All I see is a dark metal tube, wide on one end and narrow on the other. What purpose can it possibly serve?

“It's called a telescope,” says my father proudly. “Ship captains use it at sea to spot the ships they want to attack, or to look over the details of their military defense, or to inspect the ports where they plan to take refuge. See how it enlarges things!”

He shows us the two glass lenses at either end. The larger end is rounded outward. The shape of the glass, he explains, and its perfectly smooth surface, enable human beings to see farther than nature intended. He urges me to
hold up the narrower end of the instrument to my right eye. What a surprise! The details of the little glass painting hanging on the upper part of the wall—a painting that has always intrigued me because my mother says it represents an angel—suddenly jump in front of my face. Details like the angel's languorous eyes, the crown on his black hair, the folds in his long, flowery tunic floating in the sky, everything is visible with unbelievable clarity, whereas before all I could see were colored curlicues.

Then I focus the telescope on Jasim, scowling on the last step of the stairway near the rooftop. I am quick enough to catch his pouting, vexed expression, and even the tears in the corners of his eyes. He turns his head away, but too late. He's jealous, upon my word, jealous of my gift!

“Tonight, we can look at the stars together,” says my father in a soothing voice. Then, for the benefit of my brother, who is still sulking, he adds, “After all, isn't it only fair that a girl who is restricted to the top of the house by our customs should be able to follow the paths of the stars in the sky with her eyes?”

I am waiting behind one of the pointy corners of the roof for the sun to set. The shadows are getting longer on the lower part of the rooftop. All around me the houses of Ghadames, with their pointy horns, seem pressed close together, like a large motionless herd.

The sky has turned my favorite colors, blue and gold; the birds are flying toward the gardens, their wings rustling.
I feel my heart bursting with joy in the presence of so much beauty. My father has stopped at the top of the stairway by the kitchen, where Bilkisu is fanning the fire for the evening meal.