The Bottom of the Jar Read Free

cat, a seven-bladed sword. May itnever leave your son’s neck, not even in the hammam. Go now, Lalla, you won’t regret it.”
    But my mother never left things half finished. Many other elements had to come together for her ceremony to go off without a hitch. She thus went to call on an herbalist-apothecary at the Achabine souk, who brewed up the concoction recommended for such cases. Let’s examine the contents of that concoction. It was not for the faint of heart. Regardless, on the eve of Si Mohammed’s return, my mother burned the whole lot in a brazier that she schlepped around the house, going into every nook and cranny. The cloud of acrid smoke that emanated from the brazier was meant to chase all the jinn away, including those who were underground and even those who lurked in the waste pipes and sewers. As for me, who had often been treated for jinn by my mother, I legged it out of there and sought refuge on the terrace, not, I’ll assure you, because I was afraid but to get away from the suffocating smoke.
    As for the wedding, Ghita – it is time to call my mother by her name – began inspecting all potential candidates, turning her thoughts first to the young girls of our clan. Those whom nature hadn’t endowed with her gifts, and whose appearance, according to her, “frightened the sparrows,” were rejected out of hand. My mother’s taste was quite clear when it concerned a woman’s beauty, and she voiced it in a truly macho way.
    My uncle’s eldest daughter was promptly rejected because her breasts were no bigger than apricots.
    The same uncle’s youngest daughter was likewise bluntly dismissed as flawed because she was slightly cross-eyed and – shame of shames – her hands were shaped like paddles.
    My aunt’s daughter was to prove a dilemma for Ghita, who gotexcited by her long, silky black hair, whose braids bounced off her buttocks. Her mouth, which was delicately rounded, as well as a little fleshy, was another plus. Her large eyes, whose circumference achieved that of a crystal chalice, very nearly swayed the vote in her favor. But there was a snag. This young Amazon, in the frenzy of her emancipation, rode a moped to run her errands and to go to school. And Ghita, who was anything but prudish, concluded that, with all that coming and going and the repeated friction caused by the saddle, the girl must no longer be a virgin, and that if irreparable damage had not yet occurred, her poor privates must therefore be quite stiff. So she too was rejected.
    Only the daughter of Ghita’s stepsister was left. In her case, criteria other than beauty were considered. The young girl may well have had a bamboo-like figure, eyes so blue as to make even the most pious of imams mad with desire, and a stream of gold doubloons instead of hair, but it was all to no avail. Forgetting family ties and her own social standing, Ghita deemed the girl a bad match because her mother was a divorcée and, what was more, was living hand-to-mouth. I was taken aback by my mother contradicting herself here – she who in similar circumstances was fond of quoting the old adage: One poor person married another, and in doing so bothered everyone.
    Long story short, it turned out the family was not fertile ground. Other fields needed to be cultivated, and my mother resigned herself to exogamy. And Ghita was not afraid of hard work. Inquiring among her neighbors, she undertook a vast search, and while waiting to hear the results, recruited the local hammam’s masseuses to her cause, promising them a handsome reward. They had to keep their eyes peeled for a flawless beauty (it was difficult to hide one’s flaws in the hammam). To them was entrusted the task of vetting candidates for bandy or hairy legs, any signs of lameness, plumpness, verrucas, dubious blemishes – all the way up to halitosis. And if the chosen one was devoid of thesemonstrosities, great