over the frontier from Spanish Morocco. He was something of a hero, because people said that he and another Fassi had been singled out by the French press as being particularly dastardly and brutal in certain of the murders they had committed. Then probably Mohammed knew a good deal more than he would say, and he could not even be asked whether the story about the brother were true or false; etiquette forbade it.
“What are you going to do when the day comes?” he finally said.
“What are you going to do?” countered Mohammed.
“And,? I don’t know.”
Mohammed smiled pityingly. Amar looked at the shape of his mouth and felt a wave of dislike for him.
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” Mohammed said firmly. “I’m going to do what I’m told.”
Amar was impressed in spite of himself. “Then; you’re a—”
Mohammed interrupted. “I’m not a member of anything. When the day comes everybody will take orders. Majabekfina.”
Amar tried not to think of the scene that would ensue were he to say what was on the tip of his tongue at the moment. This was: “Including rich men, like your father?” It was too much of an insult to utter, even in fun. Then for a moment, like a true Moslem, he contemplated the beauties of military discipline. There could be nothing, he reflected, to equal a government which was simply the honest enforcement, by means of the sword, of the laws of Islam. Perhaps the Istiqlal, if it were successful, could bring back that glorious era. But if the party wanted that, why had it never mentioned it in its propaganda? While the true Sultan had been in power the party had talked about the rich and the poor, and complained about not being able to print its newspaper the way it wanted to, and indirectly criticized the monarch for little things he had done and other little things he ought to have done. But ever since the French had taken the Sultan away, the party had spoken of nothing but bringing him back. If he returned, everything would be the same as it had been before, and the Istiqlal had certainly not been pleased with the state of affairs then.
“Yah, Mohammed,” said Amar presently. “Why does the party want to see Sidi Mohammed Khamis back on the throne?”
Mohammed looked at him incredulously, and spat over the edge of the rock into the water. “Enta rrìdouagh,” he said with disgust. “The Sultan will never come back, and the party doesn’t want to see him back.”
“But—”
“It’s not the party’s fault, is it, if all the people in Moroccoare hemir, donkeys? If you can’t understand that, then you’d better begin eating a different kind of hay yourself.”
Mohammed’s head was tilted far back, his eyes were closed; he looked very pleased with himself. Amar felt his own heart suddenly become pointed in his chest. It was fortunate, he thought, that Mohammed could not see his expression at that moment, as he looked at him, for he surely would not have liked it. Some of his anger was personal, but most of it was resentment at having been allowed a sudden unexpected glimpse of what was wrong with his native land, of what had made it possible for a few Nazarene swine to come in and rule over his countrymen. In a situation where there was everything to be gained by agreement and friendliness there could be nothing but suspicion, hostility and bickering. It was always that way; it would go on being that way. He sighed, and got to his feet.
Mohammed sat up and looked across the water. The country boy was wandering among the rocks over which he had spread his pieces of clothing, feeling them to see if they were dry. Mohammed went on looking, his eyes very narrow. Finally he glanced up at Amar.
“Let’s swim across and have some fun with him,” he suggested. And as Amar did not respond, he continued: “If you’ll hold him for me I’ll hold him for you.”
The words that came out escaped from Amar’s lips before he had formed them in his mind.
“What are you going to do when the day comes?” he finally said.
“What are you going to do?” countered Mohammed.
“And,? I don’t know.”
Mohammed smiled pityingly. Amar looked at the shape of his mouth and felt a wave of dislike for him.
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” Mohammed said firmly. “I’m going to do what I’m told.”
Amar was impressed in spite of himself. “Then; you’re a—”
Mohammed interrupted. “I’m not a member of anything. When the day comes everybody will take orders. Majabekfina.”
Amar tried not to think of the scene that would ensue were he to say what was on the tip of his tongue at the moment. This was: “Including rich men, like your father?” It was too much of an insult to utter, even in fun. Then for a moment, like a true Moslem, he contemplated the beauties of military discipline. There could be nothing, he reflected, to equal a government which was simply the honest enforcement, by means of the sword, of the laws of Islam. Perhaps the Istiqlal, if it were successful, could bring back that glorious era. But if the party wanted that, why had it never mentioned it in its propaganda? While the true Sultan had been in power the party had talked about the rich and the poor, and complained about not being able to print its newspaper the way it wanted to, and indirectly criticized the monarch for little things he had done and other little things he ought to have done. But ever since the French had taken the Sultan away, the party had spoken of nothing but bringing him back. If he returned, everything would be the same as it had been before, and the Istiqlal had certainly not been pleased with the state of affairs then.
“Yah, Mohammed,” said Amar presently. “Why does the party want to see Sidi Mohammed Khamis back on the throne?”
Mohammed looked at him incredulously, and spat over the edge of the rock into the water. “Enta rrìdouagh,” he said with disgust. “The Sultan will never come back, and the party doesn’t want to see him back.”
“But—”
“It’s not the party’s fault, is it, if all the people in Moroccoare hemir, donkeys? If you can’t understand that, then you’d better begin eating a different kind of hay yourself.”
Mohammed’s head was tilted far back, his eyes were closed; he looked very pleased with himself. Amar felt his own heart suddenly become pointed in his chest. It was fortunate, he thought, that Mohammed could not see his expression at that moment, as he looked at him, for he surely would not have liked it. Some of his anger was personal, but most of it was resentment at having been allowed a sudden unexpected glimpse of what was wrong with his native land, of what had made it possible for a few Nazarene swine to come in and rule over his countrymen. In a situation where there was everything to be gained by agreement and friendliness there could be nothing but suspicion, hostility and bickering. It was always that way; it would go on being that way. He sighed, and got to his feet.
Mohammed sat up and looked across the water. The country boy was wandering among the rocks over which he had spread his pieces of clothing, feeling them to see if they were dry. Mohammed went on looking, his eyes very narrow. Finally he glanced up at Amar.
“Let’s swim across and have some fun with him,” he suggested. And as Amar did not respond, he continued: “If you’ll hold him for me I’ll hold him for you.”
The words that came out escaped from Amar’s lips before he had formed them in his mind.