The Shadows of Ghadames (12 page)

At this hour, in their flowing gowns, the women have turned into nearly invisible silhouettes, so that once the sun has set, the men can go out on the rooftops again. My father unrolls his esparto mat, turns toward the east and says his evening prayer.

Then he climbs up the three steep steps leading to the highest part of the rooftop, the narrow platform above the storeroom, where I am sitting. This is where my brother and I used to sleep at night in the summer, before being separated because of our age, and it is the best spot for looking at the stars.

“We live in a perfect city,” says my father. “Our ancestors created it out of very simple things—water and earth, sun and shade, palm trees and desert stones. This is why they attained perfection.”

I smile at him. “It's true. I've never felt it as strongly as tonight,” I say.

“I am glad you feel it. You must always remember it, for it won't stay the same forever.”

“Our city won't stay the way it's always been?”

“No,” says my father gently. “Cities are like human beings; they develop, they change, they die. You'll notice it soon enough, little Malika, though you're not so little anymore.”

I understand then that my mother has spoken to him, and I stiffen. I already see myself as the bride, wearing the heavy jewelry for the wedding celebrations, and being told to stay still while makeup is applied to my eyes, cheeks and hands, reddened with henna. Papa must have sensed my recoiling, for he adds quickly:

“Your mother tells me you want to learn to read now. I am very pleased. Tomorrow, we'll look for a teacher who'll come give you lessons at home.”

I feel a thrill of joy, but I can't help thinking of Abdelkarim. For a moment I am tempted to tell my father everything, to relieve my conscience and for the pleasure of talking about him. I know that Abdelkarim would have liked my father. But would my father have liked him?

Instead, I stammer, sounding fearful. “W-w-won't this make the city gossip? People often say educated women don't make good wives.”

“You sound like Meriem, that's how she used to talk,” says my father in a gently mocking tone. “Only weak men are afraid of a woman who can read! But maybe
you're
afraid? Perhaps the fear of not finding a husband is stronger than your desire to read?”

“No, no! Don't think that for a minute! I really want to learn.”

My father nods. I can hardly see him now that it has become completely dark.

“Don't worry. You'll learn and you'll find a husband, because the times are changing—this I know—and change
will even come to Ghadames, despite its walls. Our city is very old, but after all, the Romans came here, and the Arab conquerors, and travelers from the northern mists.

“The only thing that never changes,” he says, raising his head, “are the stars and the way they move across the sky. Look, summer is approaching. You can see the Vega triangle more clearly: the Eagle-swooping-down-on-its-prey, Deneb the Swan, and Altaïr the Soaring Bird. And that great constellation that we call the Caravan, but which some other people call the Chariot.”

I listen and I daydream…. The moon has risen, chipped in a corner, its face thinner. Only a few nights ago, it was full and lit up the strange celebration in the palm grove. But that was a long time ago! Where is Abdelkarim now, on what roads? Later, with the metal and glass tube my father brought me, we will be able to examine the face of the moon and look at stars that can't be seen by the naked eye.

But I am thinking of something else.

With this tube, you can also see far into the distance in broad daylight. Who knows? With a bit of patience my vision will become more acute than an eagle's and I'll be the first to spot the silhouette of that traveler returning to Ghadames. Even before the lookout women posted near the city walls, I'll see his powdery silhouette floating in a heat haze far away in the distance.

Malika's story, which takes place at the end of the nineteenth century, is imaginary. But the city of Ghadames is not; it is in southern Libya, near the Algerian and Tunisian borders.

For the past twenty years the residents of the city have been living in modern houses built for them by the government. Their customs have completely changed as a result. Men and women mingle much more, and all the little girls go to school, just like the boys.

However, the Ghadamsi remain very attached to the old part of their city. I am greatly indebted to the people who guided me around the labyrinth of the old alleyways, opened their houses to me, and described their childhoods on the rooftops.

A French journalist based in Vienna, Joëlle Stolz reports for
Le Monde
and Radio France Internationale.
The Shadows of Ghadames
is her first children's novel.