Saâda the Moroccan

XIII

Meanwhile, the beautiful Saâda wandered the streets of Blidah . . . She continued straight ahead, without purpose or thought.

She went . . . She found Blida banal with its one-story European structures replacing little by little the tiny Moorish houses; its multicolored stores with their sparkling display windows taking the place of the dark old shops, so narrow that, as the saying goes, a mouse would have been obliged to leave its tail outside. The intrusion of Western things shocked her; the closeness of the mysterious past and the soulless present, there side by side, their proximity only accentuating their differences, seemed hideous to her.

The only thing that remained unchanging was the African sun. Under the intense blue, in the luminous air, the little town of roses still kept its look of a city seen in a dream. Its dazzling minarets above the terraces, its centuries-old orange trees, still spoke of ancient Islam. There, on the horizon, the hills of Chréa, that magical land of gold, vermillion, and purple, recalled the glorious ancient capital of festivals, pleasures, and perfumes. . . .

Saâda crossed Algiers, the town’s main street, full of noise at that hour of the day. On the sidewalk, dark-skinned gypsies with pockmarked faces were selling lace from baskets hanging on their arms.

“Lace here! Lace here! . . .”

Their nasal call was off-putting.

Some Spaniards, yellow kerchiefs around their necks, held big tinplate trays bearing Russian omelets against their thighs. They called out “Kalentita! Kalentita!”¹ And would strike the edge of their trays with a knife blade.

From an enormous accordion, a blind Maltese coaxed a shrill, familiar tune.

A Jew in a duster offered round sweets with almonds, and nougat with peanuts, displayed on a small table.

Meanwhile, the crowd flowed back toward the nearby Place d’Armes, where the town crier called out a “municipal notice” to the Blidean populace. One could hear distinctly the rolling of drumsticks on the sonorous drum heads, the deep voice of the crier announcing food rationing. . . .

A group of street urchins had gathered around a fountain. They maintained a completely Muslim indifference toward this sort of demonstration. Forming a circle, with their threadbare tasseled caps over an ear and their copper amphorae under an arm, they began to sing one of those wartime sabir songs:

A few steps more, and Saâda noticed on her left a white alleyway, narrow and tortuous. This was the beginning of the completely eastern Bécourt quarter. In the shadows you could make out an uninterrupted series of Moorish houses, bleached-white walls, windows with grilles, low doors with copper knockers. A few beautiful Fatimas, adorned in gold and satin, were seated in the doorways. Cigarettes in their mouths, hands on their hips, they were laughing with one another, making strange gestures with their painted, bejeweled hands. They had thick, sensual features and pale flesh, softened by pleasure. . . .

But Saâda was approaching the Arab market. She could already hear the calls, the animated conversations, a buzzing-like sound that became more distinct as she advanced. She soon discovered, among the trees, the Rahba Plaza.

It was a rather large traffic circle below the city ramparts. Plain trees cast pale shadows there. It was full of Arabs. White burnooses stood out amid the dark kachabiyas.² On the ground covered with mats, piled-up merchandise formed domes of white, green, yellow. . . . There were carrots and bulging, short-tailed Arab turnips, calabash gourds in the shape of fantastic terra cotta goblets, knobby Jerusalem artichokes, fleshy cardoons from Médéa. [ . . . ]

The crowd of buyers was composed of Arabs, old Moorish women, Jewish and Spanish women. There were few French women, for they found the native market repugnant. They were disgusted to see all that merchandise thrown pell-mell on dirty mats, those women from the mountains with their bare, sunburned legs, those dusty camels, and those mules covered in bald patches. They preferred the European market, with its anemic fruits carefully placed in baskets, its gamy chickens, and its three-day-old vegetables sold by chubby fruit merchants with white aprons and simpering attitudes. . . .

The Jews and Spaniards, in contrast, were in their element. They came and went with carefree ease, some wearing their dark caftans, in their gold-colored sandals, others wearing their yellow shawls, in their espadrilles. They were walking in circles around the square, among the piles of wilting foodstuffs. They would meet and lose themselves in conversation. In loud voices, they would comment on the events of the war, how expensive oil and semolina was, the misfortunes of their relatives or people they knew. . . .