The Shadows of Ghadames (4 page)

Carrying the wounded man to the rooftop, up those steep and narrow stairs, is not easy, but between the four of us we succeed. He can't walk at all anymore, his bandaged head rolls from side to side, and he groans every time we pull him by the shoulders to hoist him up.

Finally when we manage to lay him down in a corner of our pantry, Ladi removes two large baskets of dates so that we can make a bed for him on the ground. The room isn't
large, but it is well ventilated thanks to two small skylight windows fitted with wooden shutters. Bilkisu immediately sets off to find Aïshatou, who lives in another neighborhood, north of the city.

As for me, I stay near the man. My mother has taken a seat outside the doorway and has started to grind today's portion of barley, for here we say that grinding flour ahead of time brings bad luck. She is crushing the grains between two stones, making a squeaky noise. It is one of the many sounds that punctuate our daily life, like the hammering of the big wooden pestles with which the servants reduce date pits to a powder fed as gruel to the goats.

Occasionally she looks up from her work and glances boldly at our wounded man. Now we can finally see him in daylight: he is a very pale young man, with well-etched features. We can't see the color of his eyes, but his beard, hair and eyebrows are jet black. I can't help finding him handsome and I wonder whether my mother would agree. But I once heard her get indignant when she heard a woman talk about a man's beauty, so I decide to keep my thoughts to myself.

Suddenly, there is a shadow at the doorstep. It is Aïshatou!

She is even taller than I remember and as broad as a tower. Her skin is so dark that it looks bluish around the temples. Whether she is young or old, it is impossible to tell. She has hardly any wrinkles on her forehead, and her eyes are a surprising light brown— the golden color of certain
leathers—but she knows so many things that she could easily be a hundred years old. She is wearing big silver bracelets that fit snugly around her wrists and make her powerful hands, with their nimble fingers, look even bigger. Her hands are the hands of a healer or a killer, I think with terror.

The tall woman greets my mother, then bows as she crosses the threshold to the pantry. Instinctively, I step back against the wall.

“Don't be scared,” she says, smiling. “I don't eat children. At least, not yet.”

Her smile broadens. She is making fun of me! Furious, I decide that from now on, I won't show any sign of fear in front of her. I will remain impassive, come what may.

“In fact you're no longer a child,” she adds, looking me over with a penetrating glance. “If you don't mind please go stand on the rooftop, because I take up a lot of space and the poor man will have trouble breathing with both of us present.”

I back out of the room, putting on my most dignified air, the queenly air that so irritates my mother. But Aïshatou isn't the least impressed; she has already turned her back on me and is leaning over the wounded man. With expert gestures, she raises one of his eyelids, feels his neck, and checks his heartbeat in the inside fold of his elbow. Finally, she removes the bandage from his forehead. First she inspects his wound very carefully, then the color of the cloth that was covering it.

“Bring me fresh water,” she says without turning around.

When I return with a brass ewer and basin, she extracts a small leather pouch, softened from years of use, from her ample dress, and takes out a faded cloth sachet. The sachet contains a brownish powder that she pours into the palm of one hand. Then, with her free hand, she traces mysterious signs into the powder. So it is true that she is a witch? In spite of my resolutions, I prefer to sneak away and join my mother, who is waiting for the diagnosis in silence, sitting very straight in her blue-black veil.

She draws me to her bosom, and I recognize her fragrance in the folds of her dress, a blend of honey and warm biscuit. Now I remember! One day, a long time ago, as I was snuggled against my mother, I could smell her very distinctly, and I recall a tall woman next to us who was tracing signs with her finger in some flour on the ground, muttering incomprehensible words.

Tanit! The mysterious name that had popped into my head while I had been racing on the edge of the rooftop— I am certain I heard it then. And the tall woman was Aïshatou.

Finally here she is, coming out on the rooftop, bending down. Even when she sits cross-legged, like us, she towers above us majestically.

“I don't think he has fractured his skull,” she says, “but at this point I can't guarantee that he will live. I've administered a powder on the wound that will prevent the flesh
from becoming infected. If he wakes up before this evening, you should have him drink two cupfuls of the medicine I prepared in the brass pot.”

“And what if he doesn't regain consciousness?” asks Bilkisu, who has come nearer.

Aïshatou opens her powerful hands, palms facing upward. “It will be God's will.”

“I hope you understand …,” says my mother hesitantly.

“Don't worry,” says Aïshatou. “I won't tell a soul about his presence here. It will be a well-kept secret. But beware too, Meriem!”

“What do you mean?” my mother asks, troubled. “You will be tested,” says Aïshatou in her deep voice, looking at my mother as if she could see through her. “But you have no reason to be afraid.”

With those obscure words, she takes leave and walks away. I watch her silhouette for a long time, gliding from rooftop to rooftop, becoming smaller and smaller on the horizon, until it disappears behind a wall.

The wounded man regains consciousness before sunset. I am the first to notice because I am in charge of watching over him. My mother and Bilkisu rush in from the kitchen as quietly as possible, careful not to attract the attention of the neighboring women at the hour when they are preparing the evening meal.

He finally opens his eyes —his very dark eyes—and
looks around in vain for something familiar. But all he sees are three strange women in a room cluttered with earthenware jars, baskets and food supplies.

He tries to speak but is too weak; no sound comes out of his mouth.

“I am the one who found you last night in the passageway,” says Bilkisu. “Don't worry, nothing bad will happen to you so long as you're in our house.”

The young man nods, looking exhausted. He shuts his eyes once again.

“We'll let you sleep, but first you must drink this medicine,” Bilkisu says firmly, pressing a cup against his lips. It contains some of the liquid prepared by Aïshatou.

He closes his lips tightly and opens his eyes again. What if this were poison? What if we wanted to kill him? His eyes roam over us anxiously, then settle on me. I smile at him encouragingly, and suddenly he relaxes, drinking from the cup Bilkisu is holding. He seems to have decided to put his fate entirely in our hands.

t is true that the stranger's fate is in our hands. The Aïssaouïa men are on the lookout for him. They don't believe he disappeared into thin air and wonder who helped him escape. This is what our uncle, an influential member of the brotherhood, tells us when he accompanies Jasim home that evening.

We did not expect his visit. Usually when someone is traveling, even the men of his own family refrain from entering his home when the women are by themselves. But this uncle is my father's eldest brother. He has authority over our entire family, and, because of his age, his presence here will not give rise to gossip.

My mother and Bilkisu lead him into the reception room, the most beautiful room; the cupboards are decorated, the floor is covered with rugs and pillows, the mirrors have vermilion designs around them. We are especially proud of our brass vases; we have dozens of vases with long necks that are lined up on shelves, extending nearly all around the room. When the morning sun lights up the
walls, the vases shine like gold. When their surfaces tarnish, it's like a lamp turning off. The women spend hours polishing them! These brass vases represent the fortune of every self-respecting family, and we would have to be reduced to dire poverty before ever selling them.

My uncle accepts the lemonade we serve him, and then launches into the usual subjects of conversation: births, marriages, funerals, the next date harvest and the price of camels. My mother and Bilkisu listen to him with respect, sitting unobtrusively off to the side. They are both dressed simply, unadorned of any jewelry, as is proper for women of Ghadames whose husbands are far from home. In a word, they are irreproachable.

We sense that Uncle has something to tell us but does not quite know how to broach the subject. He beats around the bush for a while, praising Jasim, a good boy who shows an aptitude for commerce.

“He helped me at the store all day, and I really have no complaints,” Uncle says. “Jasim knows how to read and count, and soon my ledgers will hold no secrets for him. Mahmud can be pleased to have such a son.”

My brother puffs up with pride on hearing this praise. Uncle sighs.

“Oh, some families would be happy and thankful to have a son like him, thankful instead of being ashamed …” he says.

My mother arches her beautiful black eyebrows. “Whose family are you thinking of, Uncle?”

Uncle turns glum. “Don't you know what happened last night?” he asks. “The whole city is talking about it. And you women, up there on the rooftops, are usually the first to spread the news. You usually know everything well before we do!” He looks at the stairway as though expecting to see someone suddenly appear there. “Well before we do!” he repeats.

Bilkisu puts on her most innocent air. “Actually we don't know much. We were told that there had been a chase in the city, and in fact I was woken up, as was Malika, by all the noise they made down in the street. What exactly happened, Uncle? Whom were they chasing?”

“A man called Abdelkarim, a no-good son from the Beni Ulid clan whose parents died many years ago,” Uncle explains. “When the boy was orphaned, he was sent for his education to a distant relative who lives in Cyrenaica. Since he showed an interest in religious matters, they thought he should become a
taleb
, a learned man who would open a good school here. But he fell into the clutches of the Senussiya, the brotherhood that wants to conquer the Sahara just as it has conquered Cyrenaica. According to them, we must return to the purity of Islam at the time of the Prophet and fight against superstitions! What they call superstitions are simply our traditions, as old and respectable as our city. These young people lack piety and respect; they think they can teach us lessons. But we immediately made it clear to him that he wasn't going to lay down the law here. Let him go preach elsewhere!”

“You mean he came back here to preach?” asks my mother softly.

“He came back a month ago and turned down his cousins' hospitality,” replies Uncle. “Instead, he went to live in a little room outside the city walls, where servants and visiting strangers stay. Disgraceful behavior! He started stirring up young people against their elders, explaining that the true meaning of religion had been forgotten and that they alone had the energy to restore it. But I am keeping you for too long talking about things that don't interest women.” He looks at each of us. “So you say you saw nothing last night? Because we lost his trail not very far from here, and though we've searched high and low, we haven't found him. No one knocked at your door last night?”