Horses of God Read Online Free Page A

didn’t have much choice, since His Majesty was the only coal merchant in Sidi Moumen.
    His son Ali was the bane of his life—a gaping wound he cursed morning and night. In his eyes, that spendthrift was only out to squander the family assets and had no other interests besides squelching around in the mud behind a ball. And he never missed a chance to tell him so. Yet Ali didn’t suffer too much because, in time, he’d become used to his father’s bombast; he no longer even heard him grumbling or endlessly lamenting his fate. Ali would slave from dawn till dusk, in silence, lifting twenty-kilo sacks, bringing meals from home, washing the dishes, scrubbing down the shop front, and performing a whole series of backbreaking jobs. He’d barely stop for breath before he had to jump up for the next chore. His only moments of respite were at prayer times, when his father would go to the mosque: a good half hour, during which Ali hurriedly did his deals on the side, thus ensuring he had his dailypocket money. There were good days and bad days, but on average he’d get together about five dirhams, which earned him kudos in our group. Not counting my brother Hamid, he was the richest of us all. And the most generous, since his contribution to the team’s coffers far outstripped ours. Omar the coalman’s only means of controlling his son was to check the shopping of the people he passed in the street. If, unhappily, he spotted coal in someone’s basket, he’d rush to check the books. At the least suspicion of theft, the situation took a dramatic turn: grabbing the braided ox’s tail he used as a whip, he’d douse it in a bucket of water and crack it, ramping up the terror endured by Ali, who’d be crouching and shielding his face. He’d thrash him with all his might, until he drew blood. As a result, Ali would take serious precautions before doing any fiddling, making sure, for example, that a customer was going in the opposite direction from the mosque, or selling the coal half price to an accomplice. And if there’d been no customers while he was away, Omar would deliver a violent slap . . . just in case. Ali had adapted to this too, developing a surprising technique for evading slaps while seeming to take them: anticipating the hand’s trajectory, he’d sink his neck between his shoulders at the crucial moment, letting out a yelp like a dog whose tail has been trodden on. Eventually, like many of us, he’d gotten used to these blows. Nowthey were part and parcel of his life—like the bitterness of humiliation, the ugliness that pressed in on us from all sides, and the cursed fate that had delivered us, bound hand and foot, to this nameless rubble.
    When he came over to our place, Ali would insist Yemma let him light the fire. Like a real magician, he’d place an oil-soaked rag on top of a pyramid of coal and, in next to no time, the brazier was aflame. Yemma would sing his praises, telling me: “You should be more like your friend, look how talented he is!” Then she’d offer us mint tea and those biscuits made with salty butter that we loved so much. Though she could seem blunt, and sometimes obdurate, Yemma had a big heart. She seemed to be carrying all of Sidi Moumen’s distress on her shoulders. Never one to refuse food to a hungry friend, she’d always find him a little something: a bit of bread soaked in puréed broad beans, a bowl of soup, a hard-boiled egg, or anything else she could lay her hands on.
    Yemma showed Ali such tenderness I’d sometimes be jealous, especially when I caught her stroking his hair or whispering in his ear. Also, she’d mischievously call him Yussef, which was not his name. Ali’s face would instantly turn crimson and he’d look down to hide his eyes, which were filled with tears. I’d watch the two of them stupidly, unable to make sense of their closeness. It was a long time