Raïhanyat,

Moroccan Writer Mohamed Saïd Raïhani’s Website

THE SEASON OF MIGRATION TO ANYWHERE

(A Collection of Short Stories)

SPRING-TIME BIRD

When the beautiful spring comes, I order nothing but mint tea on the terrace of this cafe but what I like most is the action of the waiter fetching very elegantly the small teapot with the fragrant sprig of mint flushing out of its spout. Having come to our table, he would raise his hand to the blossoms dangling down from the orange-tree above our head and pluck a few flowers to dip them carefully down inside the small teapot before going away.

When summer comes with its sun growing broader rand closer, ardour creeps into the souls of the ever-careful and ever-reserved beings, reviving in them the spirit of emancipation and leading them to seashores, riversides and streams. At this moment, yellow is my favourite colour, that of energy, strength and renewal. At this time, I enjoy ecstasy.

When autumn comes, with leaves and petals falling down, the winds of change blowing all around and the heavily grey sky coming down to converse with meadows and rivers. At this time, brown is my best colour: The colour of change. And I feel completely new and totally different.

When winter comes, with its heavy rain, earth is satisfied with water, offering small farmers a chance to express themselves freely by guessing their next harvest and comparing the possible crop with the previous one. With farmers’ redemption, at this time, I feel myself redeemed.

When spring comes back again, beauty covers the fields: Bees, flowers, birds, greenery, fervour, small insects, large animals, sensitive plants... All of them are looking for love and expecting offspring. All of them cover themselves with green and communicate in green. With spring, I feel reborn.

Earth is pulsating with singing and chirping and the sky is palpitating with brightly living wings: Swallows, messengers of freedom and rebirth, flying everywhere so freely that you never can guess their destination out of their flight. They fly rightwards, leftwards, frequently changing direction and speed whenever they will, absolutely happy to be resurrected...

People around here revere swallows and prohibit hunting them or even expulsing them from their nests mud-stuck in the ceilings of any house.

Accordingly, swallows here enjoy their spring to the last drop. They fly without fear and perch freely wherever they want: on branches of trees, on clotheslines, on electric wires and never hesitate to spit on top of passers-by and cafe customers down on the terraces below, who would powerlessly wipe away the spit with their sleeves and smile broadly as they look up to make sure that it was nothing but the spit of swallows, spring-time birds.

CONTENTS

SPRINGTIME BIRD

FOR EVERYBODY HIS OWN SKY

THE THREE KEYS

DANCING PARTY

Al-HAJJAJ CITY

HIS EXCELLENCY MR. THE PRESIDENT

DEVELOPMENT

A FUTILE MISE-EN-ECENE

OLD AGE

JEAN GENET

RABBIT MAN