Horses of God Read Free Page A

anymore. And if it were suddenly, magically, to vanish, Sidi Moumen would lose its soul. The air would probably seem bland and insipid; dogs and cats would vanish from the scene, as would the hordes of seagulls that besieged the place, preferring its contaminated, sweltering heat to sea air, its shadowy foragers to fishermen of the deep. Even the old people would be bored if there were no more flies to swat away, or mosquitoes or anything. Can you imagine: Sidi Moumen, stripped bare! Without its wild nights at the dump. Without its campfires, where random musicians, their petrol cans transformed into mandolins, unfurl their laments into a hashishscented sky; and those fields of plastic bags that sing in the wind, while the teasing half-light turns the rubbish dunes into infinite beaches . . .
    What? I’m rambling! Well, so what? What else can I do now that I’m consumed with loneliness and, like a strange ghost, skulk around my childhood memories? I’m not ashamed to tell you I was sometimes happy in that hideous squalor, in the filth of that accursed cesspit; yes, I was happy in Sidi Moumen, my home.

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    OF ALL THE Stars of Sidi Moumen, only Fuad was able to go to school, which was a few kilometers from the shantytown. He lived in an outhouse of the mosque where his father performed various duties: muezzin, caretaker, imam, as well as other more unpleasant but no less lucrative chores, such as laying out corpses, exorcizing the possessed (or presumed possessed), or reading the Koran at the cemetery. Fuad lived for only one thing: playing soccer with us, which he was categorically forbidden to do. Yet he was unquestionably a born striker; he alone could make the difference in a big tournament. As soon as he could escape his father’s clutches, he’d be back in the team, and the matches would be unforgettable. But Fuad was forever scanning the sky, because once he’d been caught right in the middle of the dump: from the top of his minaret,the muezzin had spotted him as we waded through the muck after a ball. I can still see Fuad now, petrified, almost fainting, the second the cranky loudspeaker sputtered his name. His father’s voice was unique and impossible to mistake, since we heard it five times a day. A shrill, artificial voice that made you want to do anything except go and pray. I reckon Fuad wet himself, knowing a beating was inescapable. In any case, after that incident, he disappeared from the scene for a long time. He’d been completely banned from going anywhere near us. And even from leaving home, except to go to school. We’d sometimes see him in the morning, his satchel on his back, being dragged along by his uncle like a condemned man to the scaffold. He’d shoot us a sideways glance, enviously, sending subtle signals to find out the results of the matches we were playing without him. If his uncle noticed, a vengeful slap would fall like lightning on his face. He’d growl at him, calling us every name under the sun. Under normal circumstances, a stone would have been sent flying through the air toward that creep. Hamid was a mean shot with his catapult. But he held off, so as not to make more trouble for Fuad.
    So several months went by and the Stars were a bit lackluster. We continued with our brutal confrontations every Sunday, and the rest of the week we’d all go back to our normal lives. Nabil had joined the teamand was doing pretty well. He’d finally built his shack, a humbler construction than originally planned, but we’d gotten used to it, since it was now our headquarters. All the Stars would meet there to work out match tactics. Nabil was happy he’d left his family home, though his mother still visited several times a week. She’d bring him a basket crammed with food that we’d all feast on. She wouldn’t stay long, since she knew her presence embarrassed him, especially if we were there. My brother Hamid had graciously donated