Free A Riffians Tune by Joseph M Labaki Page A

my father to accompany me to Arkmane to meet
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout and his son, Maroine, so he could see for himself that I knew what I was doing and where I was going. It was from there that Maroine and I were supposed to start the journey. I had packed the blanket into a duffel bag and my few items into a small case. The donkey was just strong enough to carry the bag, the case and my father.
    Temperamental, the donkey tried to reject the load. He wriggled, his head down. My father was unwell, and I was constantly anxious he might fall, so I walked behind him as we wended our way to Kariat Arkmane.
    * * *
    KARIAT ARKMANE WAS A small village on an inlet of the Mediterranean Sea and had only three small streets forming part of a square. The main building was a police station, and there was neither a school nor a hospital, just a prison. Once a week, like a volcano, the village erupted, then died. One could buy and sell potatoes, tomatoes, barley, grains, bird traps, mousetraps, perfume and women’s make-up side by side in the open air. Herbal doctors sold all sorts of weeds and magical elixirs. The few cafés were crowded by men, but never a woman. It was in those cafés that men loved to gossip, share ignorance, talk politics and arrange marriages. Magicians often came to the village and entertained the mixed crowd. Snake charmers came to show their power over their snakes. With their flutes, they demonstrated how a big and dangerous snake could be seduced, tamed and pacified. The village was meaningful to my father and grandfather. It was here, many years ago, that my grandfather had been tortured by Spanish police for leading a guerrilla rebellion, and an order had been issued to arrest my father.
    On that hot Wednesday, like all other Wednesdays, the village was entirely besieged by thousands of donkeys – all tied up with no trees to protect them from the almighty heat and the power of the sun. Donkeys brayed everywhere, and as soon as some stopped, others took over. Hungry and thirsty, they lost their bold and blind sexual aggression. They could only express themselves by stomping the soil with their heads wilted. There was no water or food – the whole village was without water. Café owners had to go miles to fetch it and store it in a barrel for months, if not years.
    My father and I arrived at Kariat Arkmane in the early morning and, like other shoppers, tied our donkey against a few heavy stones, anchoring it like a ship at sea. There were only two coaches a day from Arkmane to Nador: one in the morning and the other in the late afternoon.
    Reaching the building and before entering
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout’s shop, I said, ‘Father, you can pick up my correspondence from this shop. Kariat Arkmane, Number 17.’
    My father lifted his head, looked above the door for the number, and squinted. I realised he needed glasses. ‘Good,’ he breathed a legato sigh with scepticism playing on his face. I entered the shop with my father behind me. Immediately, I smelled a rat; there was neither welcome nor smile from
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout. Maroine was sitting far back in the shop, smoking a cigarette and playing dominos with his friends. I went straightaway to
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout.
    â€˜This is my father,’ I said, proudly, but he did not look at me.
    He pulled his beard up in the air and grumbled, ‘Maroine is not going.’
    â€˜Not going?’ I bellowed with anger and shock. A sudden vertigo chilled me.
One could count the hairs in his beard, but not his lies
, I thought to myself.
    â€˜This is not a man’s word!’ shouted my father loudly, facing
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout.
    Chin up,
Sidi
Hadj Bahbout kept combing his beard with his fingers. Horrified that my father’s short temper might erupt into a fight, I grabbed his hand and said, ‘Let’s have a pot of tea.’
    There was a café just next door with tables scattered outside and people shouting to each other, enjoying