Moroccan Writer
Mohamed Saïd Raïhani’s Website
WAITING FOR
THE MORNING
(A Collection of Short Stories)
(Stories versus Songs)
TEXT 4:
FOGGY
Purple haze all in
my brain
Lately things just don't seem the same
Acting funny, but I don't know why
excuse me while I kiss the sky
Purple haze all around
Don't know if I'm coming up or down
Am I happy or in misery?
What ever it is, that girl put a spell on me
Purple haze all in my eyes,
Don't know if its
day or night
You got me blowing, blowing my mind
Is it tomorrow, or just the end of time?
"Purple haze", a song by Jimi Hendrix
The thick morning fog reduces this
mythic square with all its lively evening spectacles to a mere blur, cooling
down the echo of the spectators’ applause and merry comments, dispelling
all the traces relating to yesterday's fantastic shows. Only the crow of
a cock which sounds somehow near defies the fog's blank deafness:
Cocorico!
Cocorico!
The resounding crow between these
zinc huts surrounding the square evokes disparate responses from distant cocks.
Cocks now are calling each other through this thick endless fog.
Cocorico!
Cocorico!
The strong crows shake the dew
drops making them slides slowly down the zinc panels, washing the words
scribbled on them:
-Drawings of hearts torn with
knives
-Interdictions of urination
-Numbers classified backwards...
Fog is all there is.
The crow of the cock grew shriller
behind an expression of interdiction:
“No garbage here!”
The final letters of the interdiction
swings back inside with a door opening and an old woman stepping out of the
hut, gripping from the wings a tremendous cock shaking her wholly whenever it
revolts between her hands. She watches
the little morning shadows sweeping the square clean with dry-weed bundles and
taking away bricks and scraps of newspapers which the spectators fetch to sit
on when the evening popular shows start…
An old popular song interpreted by
a childish voice somewhere near the fountain is waving along through the fog. The
feminine child voice sings:
O Jilali!
There they are chasing you
O Charming Jilali!
Riding his horse
Supervising his tribe
Revolting against the invaders
There they are chasing you
O charming Jilali!
The echo flows away, sweet and
smooth…
A group of men advances through the
fog towards the centre of the square and circles around the shortest member of
the group: a plump man jingling a bunch
of keys with one hand and caressing with the other his round belly .He draws
with his forefinger squares and rectangles in the air, gesticulates with his
short forearms, traces on the ground with the point of his right shoe lines and forms …
The old woman, whispering to
herself, in an audible voice:
- Who are these men?
The cock revolted so violently in
her hands that she nearly fell down. She recovers her balance and leans back
against the crackling zinc of the hut. The support behind her is not
trustworthy enough. She changes her attitude:
- Perhaps, the show-men have
claimed electric posts to light their evening pop shows…
The little girls, themselves, gave
up sweeping and watch carefully the workers absorbed in helping the cart-driver
get rid of the newly-come cargo: Bricks, cement, sand, iron sticks…
One of the little girls asks the
old woman:
-What are these men going to do,
granny?
-I don't know dear ones. We'll soon
know when their work is all over.
-Are you going to sacrifice this
cock for them?
The squeak of a neighbouring door
interrupts the little children's questions. Hardly has she seen an old man
stepping out taking hold of his hand drums when she burst out calling him:
- Jilali,
come here!
The old man took his match-box out
of his pocket, strikes a match and smells its smoke as he usually does when he
wants to concentrate on something. Jilali livens up
and congratulates the old woman. He gets nearer to feel the cock with his
hands, weigh it taking it by the feet:
- It will do you good, a sacrifice
on you doorstep!
The little children circle around Jilali, pulling him from the sleeves and urging him to
sing:
-Sing us something, Uncle Jilali! Please, do !
-Dear boys and girls, it's
morning-time. I must go to the railway station. Singing in the morning is
reserved to travellers. Do you still mistake the morning programme for the
evening one? You shall hear me sing here in the evening. See you later!
He gets rid of them. He takes the
knife from the old woman, tests it on his nail, checks its traces and asks for
the cock.
The old woman cannot stand looking
at blood. Rather, she finds occupation in pushing away children, shouting out
at dogs and cats.
Cats, now, are on the zinc,
watching the blood expressions sprayed on the ground by a sacrificed cock dancing
frenetically on the rhythm of the old popular song coming along steadily from
the fountain:
O Jilali!
There they are chasing you
O Charming Jilali!
Riding his horse
Supervising his tribe
Revolting against the invaders
There they are chasing you
O charming Jilali!
Jilali withdraws avoiding blood when the cock jumps forwards near him. He
looks amazed at an exceptional cock: A cock resisting death to the last drop…
Waiting for the cock to calm down, Jilali takes up his hand drums and begins to thrum a song.
The old woman watches the cock with her eyes and accompanies the rhythm of the drums
with nods of her head:
Can you hear the drums thrumming?
Come along the drums are thrumming!
Tonight, tonight
It'll be a white night
The show will go on until morning light
is on…
On the ground, the cock rolls about
in its own blood, stands up occasionally resisting fatigue and death, and then
slowly falls down before jumping again and again defying death: It flies,
falls, jumps up on its feet, runs, runs, runs...
The old woman pricks up her ears as
if she has found out an unforgivable mistake:
-What have you done, Jilali? The cock's still alive! Re-sacrifice it! It is going to die illegally. Come on! Put
your drums down, I say!
Children run after the cock. They
withdraw at its upheaval and crowd around it at its calmness. They pick it it up, at last. They hustle and jostle to touch its smooth
feathers. They carry it: Quiet and Dead. They hand it to the old woman who has
recovered her smile.
Jilali takes benefit of the new smile on the old woman’s face:
- So we're welcome to dinner…
- Tonight. I will prepare a
couscous plate for every circle…
- Do you know what I'll do if you
break your promise? I'll compose an epigram in which you'll be the protagonist…
- Please, don't! Not an epigram! I
beg your pardon!...
Fog is slowly fading away. The square,
now, is gradually recovering its distinctive features.
Workers are silently absorbed in
work.
The old woman to Jilali:
- Don't you find them really
strange, these men!
- They care for nobody ….
- What do you think they are doing?:
- They seem to build something that
doesn't concern us…..
- If we were concerned, they would
have asked us to help them or prepare breakfast for them……
-
Can’t you see they are building in the middle of the square!
- I am thinking of the evening
shows in the square. What a loss!
Workers, now, are putting the last
finishing touches on this cement rectangle built in the heart of the square. they cooperate to plant on top of the rectangle an iron
board. High enough. Out of frivolous
hands' reach. They make sure that the board is well established. They
support it with some strokes of cement and sand mixture. They climb down the
ladder, examine the position of the iron board, walk backwards to have a better
view of the board,
read it, climb up the ladder again to wipe away the scattered
cement on it ...
The iron board, now, is quite
higher and clearer.
The workers gather their clothes,
tools and stroll away.
The old woman spurs Jilali:
-Was all this fuss for that
nonsense erected down there?!
-I think we have to read it, first.
A child volunteered to read the
writing on the board for them:
- P. Pro, project …
The old woman kindly asks him to go
away. But the child insists on showing his brilliance at reading. She shouts at
him:
-I told you to go away!
Jilali strikes a match. He smells its tiny line of smoke and feels refreshed:
a habit which he has developed soon after his retirement from the armed forces
where he had spent his youth between gun-powder and the liberation frenzy.
He approaches the board to read the
writings painted on it:
"Tourist Complex
Project"
Bewilderment overwhelms the old
man's countenance. He re-reads the writings on the board once and twice. He
tries to understand it before explaining it to the old woman who does not stop
pricking him on the back.
the little girls the fountain, perturb his concentration by singing:
O Jilali!
There they are chasing you
O Charming Jilali!
Riding his horse
Supervising his tribe
Revolting against the invaders
There they are chasing you
O charming Jilali!
Fog, now, has completely faded
away. Vision, now, is clearer and the sun is brighter than ever. The man puts
down his hand drums. He shades his eyes with his hand, stretching his sight to
the horizon where land meets the sky, from the extreme right to the extreme
left, searching for the beginning and the end of the project.
CONTENTS
HOMEPAGE CULTURAL LINKS ONOMASTICS SHORTSTORY ANTHOLOGY
WEBMASTER CRITICISM FRANCAIS ARABIC
ALL
RIGHTS RESERVED
e-mail: said_raihani@yahoo.com
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