Free A Riffians Tune by Joseph M Labaki

contrastingly, smart brown loafers. While talking, his hands were waving constantly in every direction, and he was continually struggling to roll up his sleeves. Listening and watching him, I was busy trying to find out what kind of boy Maroine was. Could we share a room? Suddenly, Maroine thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out a pack of cigarettes. I couldn’t read, and Maroine told me they were called Camels. ‘They are much better than Bastos,’ he said. He generously offered me a cigarette with his left hand and in his right hand, he held a lighter.
    â€˜No, thank you. I don’t eat cigarettes,’ I said.
    Maroine insisted. His father smiled, looked at me first, then at Maroine. ‘Maroine,’ he said, ‘Jusef has never smoked. If he had, he would say, “I don’t smoke”, not, “I don’t eat”.’ They both chuckled; I turned red and started to sweat. Kindly,
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout began talking about Fez and the trip.
    Sidi
Hadj knew nothing about the journey as he had never ventured south. Nevertheless, he warned, ‘Once you’re in Fez, be constantly on your guard. Everybody cons everybody.’
    The meeting was brief, but the essential achieved. Maroine was going. ‘We’ll meet at the start of September and set off the following week,’ Maroine and I echoed to each other and shook hands.
    On the fifth of September, I went to see
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout and his son, Maroine, to confirm the departure. I met them in their shop and was anxious about what we might face – accommodation, registration, the journey, and possibly a test. Since I had no idea what the test might contain, my ambition went beyond my ability, and I didn’t speak Arabic, French or Spanish. Neither
Sidi
Hadj nor his son Maroine wanted to discuss anything concrete, but they confirmed the departure for the tenth of September.
    Ecstatic, I went home. The moment I set foot in the house, I was assigned a task: water, water, water. ‘Couldn’t my brother-in-law get water?’ I asked in a whining voice, as he, my sister and their family had been living with us for over a month.
    My mother ran toward me and shouted, ‘Don’t disgrace me!’
    I had no choice but to ride our young, new, untrained donkey five kilometres, adding to the day’s already long journey. As I went to the spring, I felt the days were still expanding and the nights contracting. On my way, I marvelled at the night sky. Millions of stars were crystal clear, and sometimes I saw a shooting star. I wondered what all that was about. However, it didn’t take long for me to come back to where I was: not in the sky, but on earth, not on the bright moon, but in the dark valley on my way to the spring just one week left before I was due to leave home. Nearing the house I heard the family feasting, voices like waves filling the air.
    In the courtyard of the house, I joined the family sitting on homemade rugs, admiring the moon and the stars, with two lights lit nearby. My mother was busy going in and out, cooking and keeping her cauldron alive, as the fire kept dying and her eyes watered with gentle smoke. ‘Jusef!’ she called me in. ‘Because you insist on going to Fez, we will give you some money,’ she said, hoping my madness would fade.
    â€˜Where did the money come from?’ I asked.
    â€˜Don’t ask,’ she replied, paused, and looked down thoughtfully. But then she added, ‘The bull.’ Thrilled, I divided the money into piles and hid each part in different quarters of my clothing, and the largest part went into a tiny pocket in my trousers below my abdomen; I stitched it in.
    â€˜Could I have a blanket?’ I asked her.
    â€˜Yes,’ she replied. With the money sewn in my pockets and the blanket, I felt confident about the move from north to south to seek my education.
    On the tenth of September, I was about eleven years old when I asked