Free The Boy Who The Set Fire and Other Stories by Paul Bowles and Mohammed Mrabet

Hamdoul’lah!
    You’re right, said Bahloul. Hamdoul’lah! Come and have breakfast with me.
    The man stood up, and they walked together down the street to a café. Bahloul bought pastries and they drank tea. He pulled out his pipe, and he and the old man began to smoke together.
    Tell me your story, said Bahloul. What happened to you? Have you always lived here like this?
    No, my son. And I’m not from here. I’m from Tangier. I was married, and I even had a son. But one day my wife came to me and said she wanted to work. I was making plenty of money then working in the port. But I drank, and I went with the whores. And when she came and told me she was going to work so she could buy what she needed for herself, I told her she was not going to work. And we had a fight. Aoulidi, I left her and the boy, and we weren’t divorced, either.
    Bahloul said: How old was the boy, sidi, when you left him?
    He was four. Still very small. I don’t know whether he’s still alive or dead long ago. Some friends came a few years ago and told me my wife was working at the house of some Nazarenes on the Mountain.
    The man went on with his story, and mentioned the name of the Nazarenes. Then Bahloul knew that the man was his father. What quarter did you live in? he asked him.
    We lived in Ain Hayani.
    Ain Hayani. What house?
    Moqaddem Larbi.
    Bahloul said: I know that house.
    You do? cried the old man. And do you know the woman?
    The poor woman died some time ago. I didn’t know she had a son.
    Bahloul felt very sorry for the man in front of him. But when he told himself that this was his father, he decided to say nothing. He took out some money and handed it to the man. Come with me to Tangier and I’ll give you work, he told him. But first take this and buy some clothes and go to the hammam and wash, and have the barber shave you. Then come back here.
    Yes, my son. I’ll go with you.
    And Bahloul took the old man with him to Tangier. The first place they went was Ain Hayani. Bahloul stopped in front of the house where he lived. Was it there? he asked him.
    Yes. It was there.
    They went to Bahloul’s café. This is mine, he told him. Would you like to work here? I’ll pay you. You’ll eat what I eat. There’s a small room in the back where you can sleep.
    Thank you, my son. You’re very kind.
    Bahloul called Zizi over and told him: This old man is going to stay in the café and take care of it. You and I can have a good rest and travel a little. I’m fed up with the noise and people. We’ll get away from them. The new man can take of them for us all right. I trust him.

T HE S PRING

    A HUSBAND AND WIFE LIVED in the country. When the woman needed water she went down the hill to a spring to get it. The spring water was sweet and clean. They could wash in it and drink it.
    One day when the woman went to the spring she found a frog sitting on a stone there. She filled her pail and went back up to the house.
    Her husband came in, and she said to him: Today when I went down to the spring I saw a frog there. In the five years we’ve been living here I’ve never seen a frog. And today I did.
    If there’s a frog there, that is Allah’s will, her husband told her. No one knows His way. The poor thing probably came from somewhere else, and found the spring and liked it. Or perhaps it was thirsty. Don’t touch it. It won’t do any harm. If you see it there, just fill your pail and come back to the house.
    The next day when the woman came up from the spring she said to her husband: I saw the frog there again.
    Just leave it alone, he said. Don’t pay it any attention.
    Ya, rajel, she said. If we leave that frog there, it will go into the water and maybe lay eggs, and then there will be a lot of small frogs. And when they grow larger, the water will be dirty and we won’t be able to drink it. It will always be dirty.
    I’ll buy a chemical and spread it around the edge of the spring. That ought to keep it away. I’ll sprinkle it on