As expected, the riotous engine burst through the dozy, paved streets, and soon out of the ramparts. In a few minutes, Rahal came to halt in front of the maternity. He drew his bike near the gatekeeper’s glass cabin and grumbled a greeting.
“No visit before 8:00!” The guard hit back.
The man, ill at ease, however, stood unyieldingly, unabashed and begging, with the palm of his hand on his chest and an appealing grin. The gatekeeper raised his eyebrows; then, given the name of the woman in labour, he took the telephone and called someone inside.
Rahal had to wait. He was willing to, though fidgety. He shuffled his boots toward a peppertree and parked his engine against the trunk. With a cigarette in hand he began to pace to and fro, lost in the labyrinth of his thoughts, and dragging a long shadow as the only companion. “Why do you worry, man?” He told himself. “What is due to happen will happen!” But, soon after, his thoughts began to tease and torment him. “Nonetheless, she must beware, less they would hand her the wrong babe!” That was something he all at once apprehended.
He winced at the burning butt between his fingers and threw it away. He felt that his throat was dry, but it was still too early for the cafés to reopen. Then he chose to crouch down in the semidarkness of the maternity wall and lit another cigarette. Minutes passed and more minutes. He could not form any mental image of what was going on behind those very private walls. He conceived, with a sigh, that it was the realm of women. Anchored there, in wait for happy news, his memory brought back previous chapters of his life, forever concluded.
How far was the two contiguous barracks where he was brought up. Made of wooden planks and covered with corrugated cement plates, they were built on a butt and hemmed in by a fence of prickly pears, on the bank of a large swamp, filled to the brim in watery winters, home of mosquitoes and frogs, and left as a barren, desert land during the years of drought. His father had the privilege to dwell in the main box, while he shared the second with his two elder brothers. As the youngster, most of the time, in the evenings, he could either bear their blabber and the knockout smoke of their pipes until he fell asleep, or pretend to have an urgent need and go out. He used to gather pebbles during moonlit nights and throw them as far as the middle of the swamp. He had been advised not to do so, for fear of the spirits of the water; the warning, on the contrary, made him defiant, and bolder. Therefore he learnt what to take for granted and what to reject. He began to look for answers to questions he could never ask his elders. Why did they live in that wretched place? Where did they come from? Why didn't they have a land to plough like the others in the neighbourhood? Why were his brothers at work while his father remained idle? Why should he always go to beg for water or go to the spring far down in the valley? He recalled the day, when Miloud, his eldest brother bought a TV set; they had connected it to a battery, and it was as if Pandora’s box had opened and whirled into the slender hut. Sweet angelic faces and nice brightly lit places started to haunt his sleep, public gardens with watery fountains and shade invited him, and daydreaming almost fatally veered his concentration and his thoughts out of the classroom. The city, somewhere yonder, was so near and so far, behind the hilly panorama. It attracted him, increasingly, with its buildings and its traffic. He began truanting school, and was often scolded or even beaten. Day after day, his secret monologues led him to the conclusion that he had to leave, and look for whatever remunerated task he could find in the nearby. By the age of fourteen, he could boast that he had visited almost all the barns that needed cleansing. The last one, not the least, was Mr Bouddar’s, Nadia's father.
His work was always satisfactory though underpaid. Mr Bouddar, who never let him out of his sight whenever he asked him to clean the barn, did not last long, and soon took the decision to bring him under his wing. The farmer appreciated the boy's eagerness and humility, and the teenager was seldom seen hanging around with the crowd of native kids. He was just fourteen but he was as strong as Addi, Bouddar’s unruly son. Bouddar, as a skilled horseback rider, had an eye for the good stalls. In the farm henceforth, Rahal learnt agriculture from the barn flour up. To the experience gained there, he further gleaned what he could at the market, from an old broker, the late Ba Bouchaïb. The latter was Bouddar's preferred broker and Rahal, by nature, applied himself to learn from the deeds and gestures of the old fox. While he sat in the stand and waited for the vegetables to be sold, Addi instead went to the café outside the market and wasted his time watching the sea and chatting with other customers. Rahal had witnessed the bargaining and the flow of cash money. He soon made a decision. Addi had no idea of what went through his friend's head. He was the boss's son, damn it! Ba Bouchaïb, on the other hand, had noticed Rahal's keen sense of observation. It was evident that the young man had a trained eye for the trade and could make out the quality of a vegetable from prima facie. The old fox did not know, however, that his own days were numbered. When he passed away, Rahal proved to be smart enough and quickly tried his luck, at random. He secretly ventured with the small amount of money that he had become accustomed to saving, to rent the vacant stand. He was blessed as the spot was just next to the main entrance; it was an option that offered a good customer traffic, all the day long. When he left the farm, later, nobody understood nor anticipated his departure to the city. He turned a wise broker who knew when to compromise and when to be adamant. In a short time span he earned substantial money and won a firm reputation that soon reached his native place. Of course, he never refused the vegetables that Nadia's father sent, though he could have made remarks to justify the prices he indexed.
Still at the maternity, his thoughts went to the times when he used to sit behind one of Nadia's father greenhouses and wait for her passage. She had that furtive step of a nymph, which never failed to surprise him as she always turned up unexpectedly. She used to throw a phrase or two which did not invite any answer, and he could never strike back an appropriate counter. That was enough, however, to make his heart bump in his chest, and sufficient to solace and make him look for better moments.
She took him by surprise yesterday, too, though he should have anticipated the coup. He shook his head and smiled, as he delved into another chapter. He had left home by dawn, as usual. It was to be a typical day, a predictable one. It had become the regular course of his life since he came to live in the city with his old mother. That day, around four o'clock in the afternoon, Nadia's call had just turned every thing upside down. “Hello! Rahal? Please, I need you here! Hurry up! I think... I think I'm about to give birth!” She said.
He didn't need more details; she had said enough, and he could feel her fear and her short breath. “Oh my God!” He puffed, raising quickly from his chair. In such unexpected moments, a man gets caught in a bundle of intermingled feelings, between fear, joy and uneasiness, care, unjustified foreboding, hope, and he just loses his aplomb. It took him some time to settle things down in the market which was still full of retailers. He still had several boxes to get rid of – tomatoes, zucchinis, potatoes, cabbage- as well as a heap of marrow squashes he could not refuse to an old fellow of his father. He quickly jotted down a list of prices on a piece of paper and handed it to his right-hand aide.
“Be careful, boy! I don't have to remind you. Take care, and open your eyes wide! It's no time for dozing. I won't be back today, so cover the merchandise with the tarpaulin as usual. And get up early tomorrow! Ah! Don't forget! Bring the bike home! I will need it! Salam.” He said and quit. He gave no further explanation to the boy who wondered what fly had suddenly stung his boss.
His feet were in the market, but his soul was already away, at home, with the pregnant wife. He nearly tripped a heavily loaded bearer. “Watch out!” A manly voice shouted as the man hurriedly dodged him.
Out of the market he had waved a taxi and asked the driver for a private drive to the Medina. He had explained the reason why and had promised to pay the price, and more if needed. The driver had just to hurry. The driver had kept talking about his own daughters all the way, and Rahal was forced to endure a monologue the fellow could have spared him. When they finally reached home, Nadia was ready to embark. Izza had been there all the time and had prepared what she could for the unborn's trousseau. He took his wife by the hand, and dragged her with care towards the car. Without delay, the cab headed for the maternity. Nadia was immediately carried away by a nurse and he was left there, ignored, mystified. He went out of the hospital, embarrassed, chose a place on the stairway, below the front door, and sat down. That was a situation he had never experienced. He remained there until he felt uneasy with his butts. Then he made up his mind and decided to return home, on foot. It was almost eight p.m.
Back home, he had thrown himself on the bed, and had remained lying, looking at the black, varnished wooden beams of the ceiling. The countryman felt out of commission. It was as if his wife had been snatched away, and that he could do nothing to bring her back. Worries he could never have imagined suddenly began to emerge and taunt him. He thought of her parents who would come as soon as they would get the news. He forgot to ask his wife whether she had already phoned them. He knew they would insist to take her back to the farm, and he would not be able to stop them. He would not be able to refuse, especially to Bouddar, her father, whom he now calls Uncle Ahmed.
His meditation was interrupted by his mother. She was thoughtful.
“Would you like to eat something, son?”
“Not now. I'm not hungry.”
She went out of the room but came back a few minutes later.
“You must bring something to cook for Nadia. A woman needs strength to suckle her babe, son, you know?”
“Ok! Don't worry. There's enough time,” he said. “I'll do anything you want. Just allow me some time.”
Of course his mother was not aware, he thought.
As a windmill, his mind would not stop thinking. At the farm, he used to stand next to the greenhouses and supervise the ongoing work, when the boxes had to be filled with vegetables, according to the season. He had a different way to foster cooperation between the workers. He never scolded but used jokes that instantly provoked laughter among them. They felt at ease with him; he was one of them. He also used to kid Nadia whenever she came near the site work. And he made her laugh and blush. There began to settle a kind of complicity between them. And it became an open secret among the workers, a secret that Bouddar and his son should be kept out.
Absentmindedly, as he spent his time waiting out of the maternity, another cigarette was lit. At that moment, a bus came to stop before him, and interrupt the perambulation of his thoughts. A group of passengers came down. They were mainly women. They crossed the street and headed towards the gate. “They must be nurses,” he thought, as the guard didn't bother to stop them. After a while, unwilling to linger there any longer, he paced to the cabin. Behind the glass, the man greeted him, cheerily:
“Congratulations! You've got a girl!”
Rahal stooped and stared at the man, in silence. He tried to make out the guard's message. “Are you sure?” He asked, unconvinced. He wondered whether the guard was not kidding him. Was it a joke?! He felt dizzy and carelessly tumbled aback as he retreated. He looked at the ground, at his boots. He gazed at twilight on his right, and his gaze flew to the cloudy, menacing sky. Then, surrendering to his fate, he slowly turned his fowl-helmeted head toward the cabin. The grin had gone, and he simply waved his hand as a goodbye. Izza would come soon to take care of Nadia and the babe until his return. He had to go to the market meanwhile.
He chose to ride on the winding road along the coast. The morning breeze and the high tide waves down the cliff have always cheered him up before work. He gradually became aware that something had changed in him and he particularly appreciated the ride that morning. It was a unique feeling, unlike the day of his marriage. Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, he rode, lighter, as if a burden had been taken off his shoulders. He beamed to the breeze and the morning light before him, and he just wished, like a child that has been offered his first bike, that the ride would not stop. “I just hope the baby will look like its mother!” He finally smiled. He remembered that he had to carry something to his wife, not a gift, not yet, but something that would give her strength after childbirth.
Outside the covered market hall, several lorries and pickups had already parked. The drivers were on the lookout, ready to intercept any worker to unload the goods. That was not Rahal's concern. Today, there was a new melody in his mind, a different song. There was the babe, and his wife. He had to sell early and return to the maternity. He had to pay the fees. He had to buy clothes for the babe. He had to hire a taxicab for his wife and the babe. He... He... He hanged his helmet to the handlebar of the bike, nodded a greeting to a lorry driver of his acquaintance and headed towards his stand. His employee was already there, a cup of coffee in his hand. That was all he needed for the moment.
