Badawi

  Badawi

  Mohed Altrad

  Translated from the French by

  Adriana Hunter

  Copyright © Actes Sud, 2002

  English translation copyright © 2016 by Adriana Hunter

  Cover design and artwork by Anamaria Morris

  Author photograph by R. Sprang

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or permissions@groveatlantic.com.

  Badawi was first published in France by Actes Sud.

  First English-language edition published by Grove Atlantic, September 2016

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-0-8021-2579-8

  eISBN 978-0-8021-9016-1

  Black Cat

  an imprint of Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  groveatlantic.com

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  I started to seek a state of rest in compiling this book, and have made it a lament for home and for loved ones. It serves no purpose and will be of no help, but I have done everything my strength would allow.

  —Usâma Ibn Munqidh (1172),

  The Book of Camps and Homes

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  1

  The child waited till the woman lifted aside the blanket at the entrance to the tent and slipped outside. Then he got up quietly, pulled a length of cloth around his shoulders, and went out himself. There was no edge along the top of the hills. The occasional animal cry breaking the darkness seemed to trace their outline for a fleeting moment. But the velvet of the desert and the sky swiftly cleaved together again, as if the land were succumbing to the moon’s caress.

  The child watched the woman’s dark shape hurrying through the night. From time to time a star stole a muted spark from the little coins edging the gossamer fabric along her forehead, or picked out the sheen on the bleached chicken bone stitched close to her temple. Her veil and robes billowed around her bare feet. The woman untied the donkey and left the village, heading away along the path through the cotton fields. The child followed her. By the light of a reddish moon just tipping over the horizon, the woman and her donkey made brisk progress. The child followed behind, keeping his distance and ducking aside when momentary patches of light in the sky threatened to reveal him. With every step the path became less distinct, yielding to the sand of the dunes and the ebb and flow of stones that appeared in successive waves. This brought them to the foot of a hill where the world seemed to come to an end.

  Their shadows vanished. The child hurried on for fear of losing them but when he reached the top of the mound he froze. Below him glints of light flashed violently as if an entire army were being routed, and the sight filled his whole field of vision. This glittering stretched as far as he could see, and there was a feverish quality to its dazzling unpredictability.

  The great river sprawled beneath the moon. It trundled its waters slowly, reluctantly towing with it the glints of light, as if dragging the memory of hopes that refused to abate. Along the ill-defined boundary between the river and the desert, the water was edged with long trails of salt, and endless carpets of stone woven from pure metal. The donkey waited on the bank while the woman filled the water containers tied to its flanks. Once her task was done she turned to face the river and launched into a long slow incantation. She lowered herself and stood back up, stretching out her arms to trace the path trodden by men, the path of their expectations, and finished by raising her arms to the stars and offering up her face to them for several long minutes.

  Eventually the woman turned around and the child saw her face. Walking alongside the donkey, she started climbing up the bank to head back to the encampment. Droplets of water dripping from the containers gleamed in their tracks. When they reached the child, he hid behind a swell in the sand. The chill of the ground seeped through his thin clothes. He would have liked to stay there, melting into the ground, dissolving in the darkness, forgetting his sorrow and his fear. Not moving a muscle. As motionless as that barely breathing body back there in the village, under the tenting … But he was just a child. When he got back to his feet he realized he was alone. He ran to catch up with the shadows. As he raced along, he fled his thoughts, and the speed sharpened the raw cold still on his skin.

  Back at the village, the woman was drawing water from one of the containers. The child watched her carry it into the tent. He joined her, stepping into the tent and slipping back under the blanket, in the dark once more. But something had changed. There was a man crouching in one corner, a worn piece of cloth wound around his naked torso, and he was chanting monotonously, oblivious to the goings-on around him, rocking back and forth to the rhythm of his own voice. Every now and then his face appeared clearly when he leaned into the unreliable glow of lamplight, then it was swallowed by the semidarkness again. And yet it wasn’t the strange sight of this old man swaying between the shadows and the light that struck the child. Before he’d even had a chance to see any of this, his heart was gripped by the mournful words of the old man’s lament:

  She went out like a fire

  With no embers left to burn

  2

  The child understood the old man’s words but his tears wouldn’t fall. He would have liked to feel them roll over his cheeks, to rest in their warmth, to follow their progress from eyelid to lip and on down to his chin. But they stayed locked deep inside him. He felt strangely relieved, almost happy. He’d listened to the women coming and going all night. Now the waiting was at an end.

  He went over to the darkest corner of the tent and sat on an undyed wool blanket. The stub of a candle shed its trembling light over the middle of the tent. From time to time chattering silhouettes walked past, briefly masking its unsteady flame, their long veils wafting haphazardly, reminding him of evenings filled with feasting and dancing.

  The body had been laid out in the far corner of the tent, opposite him. But he couldn’t see it properly because
a fence of sunflowers had been erected around it to hide it. If he watched carefully, though, he could make out the women’s busying hands as they poured water and moaned softly.

  She went out like a fire

  With no embers left to burn

  The man carried on with his solitary droning. From where the child was sitting, he could now see the shadowy furrows cast by the candle flame between the man’s eyebrows and the wool scarf tied around his forehead. He could see the old man’s beard waving like a banner, his body unfailingly marking out the rhythm as he rocked.

  She went out like a fire

  With no embers left to burn

  The endless lament filled the space. As he listened to it, allowed himself to be lulled by it, the child managed to forget the women’s macabre bustling, even stopped hearing the splashes of the water they periodically sluiced over the body.

  On summer nights when work in the fields had stopped, dogs roamed close to the houses, near where people were, hoping for some attention or tidbit. But they never had their own place by the fire. They were driven away, sometimes with stones, until, resigned, they settled not far from the sleeping sheep.

  On those nights, people often gathered under a tent like this one. The men made themselves comfortable, folding their legs under them, and forming a square around the glowing embers in a fireplace. The women made tea, poured it into glasses, and put them on a tray which was passed from one man to the next. The constant hubbub of voices was sometimes smothered by the whistling wind that announced a storm. Then, out of nowhere, a long silence would settle over them. The storyteller had arrived. Making his way through the rows, he would sit in the middle, book in hand.

  His deep voice, filled with sunlight and clamor, served up songs, unheard news, and smells from faraway places and people. The women stood in the shadows while the children peered through the tight rows of men, trying to make out the storyteller’s face where they might read the reverberating depths of the stories they were listening to.

  The child loved these occasions. He too stood on tiptoe to peek through the shoulders and shawls. But he was still too small. Although he couldn’t see, he could hear. He listened intently to tales of horsemen from lands whose names no one knew, men who traveled over deserts and plains, crossed rivers and seas, always courageous, always conquering, subjecting other men to their laws by the thousand, killing them by the hundred, and carrying their standards and their faith ever farther.

  Sometimes the storyteller would flatter the head of the family playing host to him by giving the man’s name to the hero, and the story would catch the child by surprise. It made his head spin: these familiar people, these men he came across on dusty paths every day, they were suddenly being credited with fantastic exploits! These people he knew, whose weaknesses he knew … and yet for now, for a moment, they became great warriors.

  The following day, and for a few days after that, he would make a point of monitoring them, with a sort of respect mingled with suspicion. He hoped to catch them in mid-transformation and in a flash see them clothed in embroidered cloaks and flanked by huge black horses that they would mount and spur on toward the horizon in a single bound. He would spend hours like that, watching them, waiting for—and also dreading—the miracle. But the miracle never came and he ended up doubting there was any magic at all.

  Over in the far corner, the man’s voice grew shrill, waking the child from his reverie. The boy shifted, drawing his legs up to his chest and rolling himself up in the blanket, hugging his tightly crossed arms to his chest. A pleasant sensation tingled the tips of his fingers, a feeling as sweet as the one that had swept through him when that other hand had reached for his and brushed over it gently. The hand he would never feel again.

  3

  His mother had called him over.

  “Come on, come here.”

  He hardly slept at all now that she was ill. People came to see her, exchanged a few words with her. But she tired quickly. When they left, they lingered outside the tent, chatting. They never referred to the illness, hardly even mentioned it, and talked in the past tense: “She had a sad life.”

  A sad life! They talked about it as if it was inevitable. Which is why the child didn’t resent them for it. But the grandmother never disguised her rancor and this upset him. What did her complaining matter when he could see his mother was dying? Yes, his grandmother had done everything for her daughter. Yes, she had managed to find the best possible match for her, a man from the neighboring village, the only one with a solid house of bricks and mortar, standing facing the tents covered with “cob,” sun-dried earth reinforced with straw. A man who had the only radio in the region, and even a truck. Yes, she’d succeeded in putting her daughter forward, and this despite the hostility of a first wife with whom the man already had three children. But no, it wasn’t true, his mother hadn’t been ungrateful because she’d failed to keep this lucky match. No, his grandmother shouldn’t criticize her for being driven away and for coming home with only one of the two children she had from the marriage.

  Surely everyone in the village knew the match had been based entirely on the grandmother’s self-interest? Was there anyone who didn’t know she’d arranged it with the sole aim of showing off and being feared and respected? Besides, she hadn’t lost any time before trying to marry her daughter off again. But she hadn’t found anyone with enough land and a big enough flock; the few remaining possible husbands had refused to take a woman who’d already been repudiated. They knew perfectly well her repudiation had no basis—other than the jealousy and scheming of the other wife, who’d eventually won her husband over. But whatever the reason, a repudiated woman was a fallen woman. No one would want her.

  In desperation, the grandmother had agreed to give her to a man from a similar background.

  When the child’s mother had remarried, he’d been left on his own, in his grandmother’s care. He would sometimes accompany his young aunt when she fetched water with her donkey. But in the evenings, as the sun went down behind the hills, he lay awake in the dark and thought of his mother, far away, in a cob-walled house on the edge of the village.

  He went to see her as often as he could. He’d realized she wasn’t well. He’d never known her to be very strong: she’d fallen ill just after he was born. And then she’d had two children from her second marriage, a son and a daughter, and that had taken even more out of her.

  But one time when he visited her, a grimace of pain had cast a deep shadow over her face.

  “My stomach’s hurting a bit,” she’d said with a smile so as not to worry him. “I wish I could spread it out on the banks of the river like a djellaba, and wash it down with lots of water.”

  She screwed up her face again when she sat down. As time went by the pain grew worse, racking her stomach and making it difficult for her to talk for minutes on end. Then one day, she stayed in bed.

  “Come on. Come here.”

  In the quiet of the night, dogs could be heard calling to each other in long anguished howls, from one flock to the next. In the middle of the tent, in a hearth dug out of the ground, straw and dried cotton crackled, throwing up sparks.

  He’d gone over to her. She’d reached out her hand, trying to find his, and had turned to look at him. In her eyes he saw birds, and big white flowers bending to the wind, and cool shadows. He saw the memory of times when they used to talk to each other, when she would take him in her arms, a surprised little boy who didn’t understand what she was doing. She’d looked deep into his eyes without a word, but oh, how much he’d read in her gaze! It was then that she brushed his hand with hers with aching gentleness. The child was so moved he started shaking. Then his mother’s hand lolled slowly to the floor. She had fallen asleep.

  He’d stayed by her side watching her for a long time, then slipped away without a sound. Outside, the sky was motionless, the stars frozen in place, shining for themselves alone; the wind had dropped; and the dogs had stopped yelping. The desert had n
o soul.

  4

  The child had never really believed the storytellers, never really accepted that someone could always win like the heroic soldiers in their tales. But he’d listened to them so often he’d eventually convinced himself that, if you fought, you could always hope. And now, as the women carried on weeping for his dead mother, he’d just discovered that even hope isn’t always rewarded.

  Movements in the darkness, fleeting shadows, the old man’s keening, the lamp glimmering … it was all over now, propelled into the past. The sun had dissipated the anguish and the village was back to its usual occupations. There in the dust, a few devoted villagers were preparing the body. The child didn’t feel it had anything to do with him. This certainly wasn’t indifference, though. No, it was more that he seemed to be absent from the world. His hurts and ordeals bore down on his young shoulders and he was bending like a reed under the suffering.

  When he was born his mother was just barely fifteen. No one had come to her bedside to soothe her. No woman from her village had made the trip to come and support her, to help her cope with the pain. No one had agreed to keep her company, to calm her fears or wash the newborn baby. She’d given birth alone. With no friend or relation. Already excluded thanks to the other woman’s scheming.

  When a shadow was eventually cast through the entrance to the tent, she thought her husband had come to see his son at last. Too weak to sit up, she managed only a tentative smile. It was him standing before her, but he seemed preoccupied and had a group of uneasy-looking men with him. Without looking at the baby, without even asking after him, without any kind words, he delivered his message. Seven times over he told her he no longer wanted her as a wife. Seven times over he threw a stone onto the beaten earth before the witnesses he’d summoned to escort him. He’d respected the rules. The child’s mother was repudiated, forever. Just like that, for no reason.

  Not one of the witnesses protested. And she kept quiet throughout the repudiation ritual. She didn’t utter a single reproachful word. Didn’t shed a single tear. She waited till her husband had gone; then, despite her weakened condition, she wrapped her veil around herself, swaddled her baby in a scarf, and left. Hunched over her child, exhausted, she walked away, slowly, painfully, every step an ordeal. For a long, long time people could still see her heading deeper into the desert.