The Son of the Market

By Ahmed Jalali

   In the early nineteen-seventies, in
a place much like a town, named Mechra Belksiri, in the Kingdom of Morocco, a male and a
female coupled in a manner resembling marriage.

From their union, a strange creature
was born.

Many long years later, this very
creature would itself bear a true monstrosity. No one, not a soul, could ever
begin to guess what would ultimately spring from the loins of that small,
fledgling beast.

His name was Almaaty but the folk used to call him Boujghadar. He came back
from the Tuesday market, very tired. It was late afternoon. He wanted to eat
and fall asleep. The Wednesday market had started early.

But his wife Haddoum had a son before he reached the door.

He hammered on the door, as always. Inside, the women of the neighborhood
were smiling. They were all there. He killed the surprise on his face. The dark
skin, nearly black, absorbed it. His expression settled, flat and hard for
anyone to see.

Almaaty left. He went to the nearest café. It faced the wretched shanties.
Before he sat, he lit a cheap cigarette. He drew the smoke deep into his chest.

News travels fast among the poor. Suwailih, who ran the place they called a
café, spoke. His congratulations were quick, poor. “Congrats on the
boy.”

Almaaty  understood. He had a new son.
He had feared a third daughter. A small lightness came to him. He almost
smiled. He ordered black coffee. He bought a new cigarette, a Marquise. He lit
it for the boy. With the first lungful of smoke, he named him: Al-Mukhtar.

Al-Mukhtar knew the alley well by age three. He loved the mud. The mud was
part of the street, and he became part of the mud. Rats and insects and filth
were the true residents there. The whole place lay near the river. It smelled
of old dumps and dead animals. It was the only air they breathed.

The cows, the goats and sheep moved through. You could not tell who owned
the white ones or the black ones. Only when you chased one, the owner appeared
from nowhere. The dogs and cats were worse. They fought, they multiplied. Their
litters were a confusion of color and kind. No expert could tell them apart.

Al-Mukhtar grew quickly. Nearing five, he did things for a bigger boy. He
was insolent. He bothered the girls. They watched him, astonished. He was a
small man already.

When his father circumcised him, on a cold winter night, he did not run. He
went to the barber. It took seconds. He cried a little. His older cousin looked
at him, trying to make him hurt more. He had bothered her often. Al-Mukhtar
answered her. With a finger. His eyes were small and wet.

His friends were bad boys. They were the rotten heart of the place. He
learned their worst and showed them his. He took the evil to school. He was
cunning there. But he also wanted to learn. He wanted to win.

He carried that devilish spirit to middle school. He hurt the girls. He
hated women in a strange way. In high school, he grew wilder. Most girls
avoided him. But his curiosity and his crude talk were too much for them.

 He put himself in danger. He sought out trouble. He should have been beaten.
He was lucky. His face stayed whole.

He went to a boarding school in another town after the first year. His stories
remained. They were history for the boys who came later. He was the son of the
truly poor. He knew hunger and lack. He met his hard life with sharp thinking.
He lied and joked to make a world he could live in. He was smart, but in a bad
way.

In his final year, a girl smiled at him. She was from a better class, a rich
family. Al-Mukhtar felt something. He called it love.

 He followed her. He found a way to a birthday party. He went into her
parents’ house. He saw the luxury. The cars. The clean floors. The food. He
decided. Na’ima would be his. He did not ask her.

He finished his exams. He went to the university. But his mind stayed in
Na’ima’s city. He spent his grant money calling her family s  house land line.

 The phone rang. It was her mother. She spoke. Na’ima had gone. Weeks ago. To
study in Russia.

 Al-Mukhtar lost what was left of his mind. He walked. A bus nearly hit him.
It was a very sad evening. The saddest.

 School was nothing. Life was nothing. His friends spoke. He did not hear
them. The old black hatred came back. His anger at women. He took his revenge
for Na’ima on every girl who met him.

 No one knew how many. Or what he did. But he confessed things. In parts. To
many people. He used all the worst kinds of badness. He was never full of
women. He could not forget Na’ima.

Al-Mukhtar was rash. Emotional. When he thought of marriage, it was only
because of his age. He wanted beauty and money. He jumped from one girl to the
next. He settled for none. His lust was stronger than his rules. It spoiled
every chance.

He finally married. She was not beautiful. She had no money. But his lust
had trapped him. He got involved. He married. They had a child quickly.

The son was strange. Yellowish skin. A difficult nature. Al-Mukhtar was
puzzled. He was glad the boy was impudent. But the disappointment was clear. He
wanted the boy to be dark like him.

The boy grew badly. His head was too big for his hips. His ribs were
strange. His shoulders were narrow. But Al-Mukhtar was proud of every rude
thing the boy did.

I saw the boy once. In a café. He followed his worried mother. A few steps
behind. He stopped. He made strange movements. For a boy of four. He did it
again and again.

I wondered what he saw. A child alone in the road, moving like that.

Al-Mukhtar’s lustful son, the one of the bad life before and after the
marriage. The son he named  Amer. He was
fucking the air.

 I saw him. He was fucking the void.