Horses of God Read Free Page B

a paraffin lamp and a radio-cassette player he’d unearthed in almost working order. We’d had it repaired for next to nothing, polished it, and placed it on an upturned crate in the middle of the room. What nights we’d spend in that shack, all huddled together, listening to Berber songs from the Middle Atlas and the furious rhythms of Nass el Ghiwane. Smoking spliffs, dreaming up fantastic stories . . .
    To our great joy, one fine Sunday in July, we spied Fuad on top of a mound of garbage in his soccer getup—meaning bare-chested, wearing plastic sandals—waving his bony arms: he was back, with no explanation, to reclaim his place as center forward, which no one was in any position to contest. It was only a week later that we found out about his father, who’d been struck down by a stroke that paralyzed his left side, invading his face to the point that he couldn’t speak—which is unfortunatefor a muezzin. Fuad’s uncle had taken over the role straightaway. As the eldest male, Fuad quite naturally became head of the family. He wasn’t yet fourteen. But being head had significant advantages: he immediately stopped school, had a mobile stall built, and began to sell cakes made by his mother and his sister, Ghizlane. He’d grown up overnight, though his puny body hadn’t followed suit. Not much taller than a twelve-year-old, he had thin, bandy legs and an angular face that was swallowed up by his African features, and he always wore the somber expression of those who are born to be unhappy. Despite that, on a soccer field, it was as if no one else existed. We were proud to count him one of us. He and I were the pillars of the team; our combined talents warranted its glittering name.
    We had many rivals; every slum had a team. The “Chichane” (which means Chechnya) shantytown had its Lions; “Tqalia” (guts) its Eagles; “Toma”—named after a Frenchwoman who was said to have had coffee there once—had its Tomahawks; scariest of all were the players from the village of stones: the Serpents of Douar Lahjar, the only ones who had a hope against us. On Sundays we’d assemble at the dump for legendary matches that would usually end in gladiatorial combat: ruthless fights that left everyone pretty mashed up. Still, we couldn’t stop ourselves going back for more the following week. We needed to square up to each other,smash a ball, or someone’s face. It gave us relief. Truth to tell, my brother Hamid was often waiting nearby. He’d protect me with a bicycle chain he wore as a belt, which he’d whip out in a flash if there was any trouble. If it did kick off, I’d hide behind him and nothing bad could happen to me; I’d emerge unscathed, apart from a few scratches or a black eye at worst. Hamid used to collect scars on my account, because other boys were frustrated and jealous of the way I played. My genius for stopping impossible balls earned me thundering applause. Countless Serpents, Eagles, and Tomahawks wanted me dead. Poor Fuad, though, had no one to defend him; he had nothing but his legs. He’d often get caught and seriously beaten up. Like Hamid, he’d amassed an impressive number of injuries. What he was most afraid of was the inevitable visit to the barber, who doubled as a bonesetter. That man was a nasty piece of work, who’d reset our bones with brute force. It was his way of punishing us. Most of the time we’d lose consciousness at some point. We could have wreaked revenge on that wild-eyed maniac, but we knew that sooner or later we’d be back in his dreaded grip . . . One day his shop was burnt to the ground; the culprit was never caught. Still, in Sidi Moumen, a hovel in flames isn’t exactly the end of the world. It gets rebuilt the same day and people rally round, offering the victim mats, blankets, clothes, and stuff for the kitchen. And life carries on as normal.
    The only