He feared any form of defilement, even accidental, that might diminish his pendant’s magical power.
Dahmane and I—both of us diligently took Quran lessons with Sheikh Adda—were the only ones who could actually read the sacred text; the others could barely decipher the alphabet. At Jeanmaire, Monsieur Henni—word was he was originally from Mazouna despite his strong Kabyle accent—would teach an hour of Algerian Arabic a week, which always made us laugh under our breath because local language wasn’t normally taught in school. What was the point of going to class if we were just learning street talk? Sheikh Adda warned us against giving up on Classical Arabic, saying that the French, with their satanic intentions, knew exactly what they were doing: demeaning the language of God, fixing our warped speech in a textbook written with their own letters. It was no laughing matter and of utmost importance to avoid their impious path—they want to turn us from the Quran, for us to not understand what is written! Over and over he’d remind us: we have sent it down, as an Arabic Quran, so that you may understand . . .
“It repels the Arabs’ evil eye!” Asri exulted. “It protects against theft and evil and danger—a real talisman! It has amazing powers when you wear it righteously and with pure intention. My uncle brought it back for me from Meknes, in Morocco. There are tons of sages and sorcerers over there who know all about Earth’s buried treasures and can even read upside down, and their satchels are full of amulets and magic spells. My talisman comes from there, I swear.” The schoolkids, astonished, didn’t say a word, but Zerrouki from the fifth grade retaliated, a look of disgust on his face: “He who swears commits perjury! Why are you such a liar? Your talisman there, they sell it for twenty douros at Place Thiers, chain included! You bought it right here in town! We can bet your little knick-knack on it if you want.” Enraged, Asri was just about to jump for his neck when the principal, Monsieur Esclapez, came swooping down on the group, delivering a series of ruler stick whacks to the head, pinches to the ear, and kicks to the backside. He confiscated the string with the medallion and made Asri stand in a corner in the bathroom. Lining up the rest of us under the playground shelter, he then vehemently repeated the ban on coming to school with religious objects: “The school of the Republic is entirely secular; it tolerates one denomination and one denomination only: that of reason! For that is what’s taught in the language of Molière and Anatole France. Superstition has absolutely no place within the confines of a school.” He used a lot of French words and proper nouns we had never heard before. We understood he was irritated, scolding us for an important reason we sensed but couldn’t define. The pendant incident was simply a pretext for his menacing tirade. The teachers stood behind him in silence; the Arab teachers, like the others, were completely quiet during his reprimand. Then, he made us stand in place beneath the hot sun for half an hour, arms crossed over our heads and forbidden to speak . . . Don’t move a muscle, under penalty of expulsion . . .
. . . That long penitent wait, that sensation where the being is slowly emptied of that which forms its substance—I sometimes still feel it, my body resisting, reliving that moment of total abandon where the motionless soul hangs by a thread, detached from its gravity. Far from driving a transformation or sense of uplifting ecstasy, the emptying returns, again and again, exhausting me more each time. Is it possible for a childhood memory, apparently trivial, to assume a more painful importance with age, to overwhelm and leave you completely disoriented? . . .
*
On our way back from school one day, Moumen, my protector—we both lived off 21st Street—explained at length how the French understood nothing of our religion, that they didn’t even try to understand it, that they believed we worshipped magical charms like the indigènes of the jungle in Tarzan or Akim. Speaking of which, they didn’t hold back from calling us that: indigènes! To Moumen, that label was more than an insult—it was a slur! The French considered us savages. To them, Allah wasn’t God of the universe, the Most Compassionate and Most Merciful, but a primitive deity for an ignorant people. He assured me the French didn’t like us, that their kindness was nothing but a ruse because they were scared to death of us becoming independent. They knew we were strong and intelligent, and that’s why they never missed a chance to humiliate us. Moumen resented Monsieur Ferry for failing him on his oral exam. “He hates Arabs! But soon, we’ll get revenge for everything. We’ll chase them from our home, we’ll exterminate every last one of them!” He confided in me that the jihad was prevailing in the Amour Mountains, that he was waiting on his contacts for the right moment to join the rebels. I didn’t dare ask him any questions, afraid that he’d head for the mountains and leave me all alone, without a bodyguard. I was afraid of fighting.
Monsieur Martin spoiled Kader and me in fourth grade. I loved Monsieur Martin, and nothing Moumen told me that day changed my admiration for him.
*
Asri had to stay in the corner for an hour after school let out. His uncle was waiting for him at the front gate, a metal-tipped cane at the ready. Asri narrowly escaped the beating thanks to Aunt Fatima, the old school janitor. Pounding her chest, she swore on sidi Abdelkader and sidi Affif that he was innocent and hadn’t done anything wrong.
When Asri caught up with us later that evening on 33rd Street, Zerrouki went off in front of everyone. “I was right all along! Those medallions are sold at Place Thiers. You all want to go check it out on Thursday? I know the vendors pretty well, you know. It’s all Asri’s fault—Monsieur Esclapez came down on him and then punished the rest of us for it. He lied with his hand on the Quran! The Ayah of the Throne would’ve protected us otherwise, right? His uncle never brought it back from Morocco, it’s all made up. Nothing would’ve happened if he hadn’t lied! He can’t deny that, or else the Quran would be pointless!” We cursed Satan in unison; only he, the Stoned One, had any interest in corrupting the sacred text and leading us astray, out of vice and hatred for humanity. Ashamed, Asri confessed he had bought the medallion from a black vendor at the Trois Ponts.
The case closed, Hmida began acting out the final duel scene in Vera Cruz, but this time with Burt Lancaster as the winner. He insisted Gary Cooper wasn’t the real hero because you never relate to his character. He didn’t make a single joke the whole movie, but Burt Lancaster was very funny whenever he showed all his teeth. Cooper was stiff as a board! Too noble, too clean. The audience’s sympathy was undoubtedly with the gunslinging Burt Lancaster, he explained. “So, the end of the movie’s pretty sad . . . ”
*
After dinner, I begged my grandfather for an advance on my weekly movie allowance—fifteen douros for a front row seat at the Cinélux. That, combined with my savings, would be just enough to buy a medallion like Asri’s. My grandfather thought my calculation was petty, not worthy of a bright and pious child like me—that wasn’t any way to get by! He preferred to see me go to the theater and learn the ayah by heart, instead of wearing it around my neck.
“The Ayah of the Throne is a revelation, one that comes from reciting with devotion,” he said. “Not from engravings on a knickknack! The words only have meaning when a devout voice brings them to life in a believer’s heart. It’s the voice, the divine organ that shapes the soul, opens the soul to the mysteries of the letter—God granted it to Adam for good reason, you know. Learn the ayah starting today. Recite it in times of need and sorrow and you’ll see how it works. Its secret will enlighten you, amaze you even, but remember, it’s not like casting a spell. Its words go beyond the simple magic of humans, placing us directly in the trust of God. A beautiful friendship. You may not quite understand what I mean here, but let me tell a story, an old story . . . Once, there was a cavalryman who found himself lost in the night—it doesn’t matter where, God’s land is vast! Worried and far from his loved ones, he searched and searched the desolate plain for a shelter to pass the night . . . Of course, my boy, there’s no such thing as evil ghosts, but an ignorant person’s fear can make them quite formidable. You must understand, from this moment on, the most terrifying monster of all creation was begotten by Adam himself. It’s the man left to himself we must fear, for he doesn’t understand his needs or limits. It’s the Pharaoh, hungry for power and claiming to be God! You still have some time to learn this . . . So, finding nothing, the cavalryman eventually climbed down from his horse, drew his sword, and traced a circle around him and his mount while reciting the Ayah of the Throne—God’s aid was valuable in times of solitude. Reassured, the cavalryman went to sleep there, and God built him a great big house for his protection; yet, in doing so, He left one window wide open because the man, in his haste, had forgotten one word of the ayah . . . I’m always telling you not to rush things, aren’t I! A single word! Nothing escapes the Most High. There’s only a thing as coincidence for non-believers! . . . That very night, a group of bandits passed near—there was no longer a Caliph or any laws at the time, so danger reigned in the world of Islam, God save us from discord!—and they noticed the house, lit from within, then saw the open window. Intrigued, they approached the house without making a sound. It was a godsend, one that they planned to empty immediately. And yet, they were unable to break the door down or slip through the window. The house had some sort of magical protection, repelling their assaults. One of the bandits finally succeeded, with great difficulty, in stealing the richly embroidered bridle from the horse. But that was it, nothing else! The next morning, the cavalryman was surprised when he noticed the bridle was missing. He searched everywhere, figuring it might have fallen off by mistake, but found nothing. After carefully looking back through his belongings, the bridle was the only thing missing from his inventory—precious indeed! But his horse, sword, and trading satchel were even more valuable. He wondered about this strange disappearance. It was inexplicable! He had surely removed the bridle the night before . . . Oh how humanity never asks the right questions! . . . When the cavalryman finally found his way back home, he immediately went to the town zawiya to request an audience with the master of the Shadhili. After the usual greetings, he recounted his adventure. ‘Recite the ayah for me,’ the master said. The man began reciting, and then suddenly, the master stopped him mid-sentence. ‘You skipped a word!’ he said. ‘You were reciting far too quickly. Yet, God rewards pure intentions; He only punished your omission so that you may learn and remember. You now have an opportunity—but as for those who disbelieve, they say: What did God intend by this as an example?’ He recommended that the cavalryman recite the ayah in atonement for the rest of his living days, to call upon the Beloved and the Standard-Bearer, Master of Baghdad, for intercession. After a short silence, the master then intoned the first two lines of Shushtari’s qasida:
Layla has stolen my mind
I said: oh Layla, have mercy on the dead
And the cavalryman, in total awe, praised God—may He be praised!” . . .
. . . I had fallen asleep that night in the middle of his story.
*
Since then, my grandfather has often told me this cautionary tale, which is said to be true, as well as other stories from local tradition. I ended up learning the Ayah of the Throne by heart, and I still know it well today. I’ve experienced its power many times, sometimes reciting it instinctively in moments of anguish and suffering. All the same, the very next day, when my grandfather gave me my movie money, I lied to him and ran to buy that pendant so I could look snazzy like a French zazou . . .
