The Bottom of the Jar Read Free Page A

care needed to be taken over the immaculate whiteness of her skin, the fullness of her buttocks, the shapeliness of her breasts, the straightness and smallness of her nose, the shininess of her teeth, and even the tone of her voice, which should not be husky, or overly virile (or not virile enough), with not so much as a trace of a country bumpkin’s accent.
    This vast search, which was worthy of the finest sleuths, did not tarry in producing the longed-for result. Ghita set her heart on the eldest daughter of a sharif family, whose genealogical tree testified to their direct descent from the Prophet, peace be upon him. If only because of this distinction, the family was above all suspicion, and an alliance with them would be a blessing for ours, which was admittedly of common origins. Furthermore, according to my mother’s informants, she whom we would later have to call Lalla Zineb, as a sign of respect of her noble ancestry, gave assurances as to the flawlessness of her daughter’s physique, which met all the criteria. But Ghita was not the sort of woman who would make up her mind on the basis of an unconfirmed report. She practiced methodological skepticism. Hence she took steps to hire an emissary, tradition demanding that a visit by the suitor’s mother should be arranged by a professional matchmaker. The woman arrived unexpectedly, armed with a beautiful crystal vase, in which she had placed a bouquet of artificial flowers. Apparently her role was to make the marriage proposal and to fix a date for the visit. She took advantage of the situation, however, to surprise the family in the midst of their daily life so as to better spot any anomalies: poor housekeeping, sloppy appearances, questionable odors emanating from the kitchen, strained relations with the neighbors, or even worse, the unjustified absence of the girl in question at the moment of the intrusion.
    The test was clearly passed since, three days later, Ghita presented herself in person.
    G O FIGURE IF I was there or not. In theory, at that age I was able to take part in strictly female gatherings, whereas my eldest sister was already beginning to face difficulties in having me admitted to the hammam.
    â€œHave a good look at him,” she had insisted to the lady in charge of the hammam on one of our last visits. “He still has his mother’s milk stuck between his teeth. Poor little thing, he’s barely started going to school.”
    And just to prove her point, she didn’t hesitate to lower my trousers and exhibit my willy, and with an offended air exclaimed, “Have a look for yourself, there isn’t the slightest trace of hair on his little cockatoo!”
    â€œAll right, that’s enough for this time,” the proprietor conceded, visibly amused by the display.
    Anyway, present or not at the interview, the sights and sounds are all there, regardless of whether I heard or saw them.
    Y OO-HOOS ACCOMPANIED my mother as she entered the house. After the initial hugging and kissing, she removed her veil, took a deep breath, and throwing convention to the wind declared, “They are killing us with this veil. They don’t leave us women a moment of respite, whether in or outside the house. May God help us!”
    A little disconcerted by that speech, Lalla Zineb’s mother agreed out of politeness.
    â€œYes, Lalla, you are right. But what can we do?”
    On that note, Ghita sat down in the place of honor in the middle of the couch. As soon as she sat down, she started casually feeling the brocade that covered the mattress. Her hand lingered on the material and prodded it in order to test the thickness of the wool and to flush out the likely presence of the harami , the mongrel. This was the name given to the layer of leaf fiber that families of modest means placed insidethe mattresses to cheaply augment their thickness. Having encountered nothing but smoothness, with a knowing blink of her eyes, Ghita