Numidia

Tarek Bakari is a Moroccan novelist known for his bold and introspective narratives that delve into themes of identity, exile, and personal transformation.

Numidia, shortlisted for the prestigious Arab Booker and Sheikh Zayed Book Award, follows the journey of Murad, written by his former girlfriend Julia, a Frenchwoman. An orphan, Murad is cursed by the people of his village. Ostracised, insulted and beaten, he turns to love in an attempt to take revenge on fate: first with Khawla, who becomes pregnant; then Nidal, his classmate and fellow comrade in resistance; then Julia, seen as the French coloniser, and with his final love Numedia, the mute Berber. The rich story of Numedia unfolds against the backdrop of the real-life historical, political and religious landscape of Morocco.

 

That question carved trenches in my heart. When the psychiatrist handed me that solution, he told me that what was in that bottle would stir his memories to the point of making him confess everything. He also added that it would happen under the influence of many hallucinations.

Was Numidia one of his hallucinations, or was she real, flesh and blood? I don't know. All I know is that Murad was so fascinated by her that he would mutter her name in his sleep. Even while awake, he would constantly cry out her name.

He was a true lover, so it didn't matter whether she was merely an illusion or real. However, I believe this sudden love, which his subconscious might have fabricated, was as positive for him as it was negative for me.

Numidia was a false hope that gave him a temporary attachment to life, but it was crucial during that phase. Without it, Murad would have broken down and bled his entire life away before me.

At that time, the massive collection of papers I had gathered about him seemed insignificant compared to even a word or two from Murad about his life. Had he spoken, I would have at least achieved one-third victory and two-thirds disappointment.

But this Numidia was an angel of mercy. If Murad's mysteriousness was what gave him power over all women, then the one thing that explains his weakness and defeat before Numidia is that he confessed everything to her. Numidia, this enchanting specter, was the biggest winner.

My attempts to lure him into confession, and those injections that planted madness in his blood, were merely preparation for a victory I would ultimately present to Numidia on a golden platter.

Yes, I must admit that this beauty, whether born from his imagination or someone he actually met, defeated me. Not because she was more beautiful or smarter, but because she came at the right time, when I had prepared Murad for complete weakness. Without leaving me any chance to finish him off, she did it without hesitation.

Numidia was a false cloud. But no matter how fake she was, she saved him from me and, in return, cost me everything.

Numidia was Murad's mirage, and he chased after her with his heart as his shoes. With every step he took toward her, she moved further away from him, and he moved further away from me.

At the moment I thought I would crown all those torments with a decisive blow, Numidia emerged from the trees of this strange village, or from its mountains, or from his imagination, to ruin everything.

But now, after all these years have passed and many things have changed, if I were ever to meet Numidia—which is impossible, of course—I would certainly thank her, because she shared with me the responsibility of killing Murad..."

 

From the drafts of the novel "Murad the Mountain Goat" by Julia (K)

"The point of all this is that no intelligent man today wants to write a single honest sentence about himself, unless he belongs to the category of brave madmen."

—Nietzsche

 

"And I asked the Lord without fear, whether he thought humans were made of iron to endure all this pain and suffering."

—G. G. Márquez

 

"I smell you in others' embraces...

As if you never left,

your fragrance remains in my life

I smell you in my betrayals of you,

and the scents suffocate me

When I embrace another,

I smell your perfume

And I realize I've failed and your love prevails."

—Murad Al-Wael (Murad the Mountain Goat)

I knew that my reckless return to this village was a grave mistake, and that this return would inevitably stir up all my buried memories with resentment.

I return to Ighrem, stained with new pains, hoping to awaken a weariness I had thought, until recently, permanently extinguished.

In Ighrem — this strange and beautiful village — the fuse of memory will ignite, and that thin rope will burn bit by bit, until its fire reaches the explosive belt wrapped around my weary heart.

Here I am, returning to you, Ighrem, pushing before me a wheelchair carrying my damaged heart. I haven't grown much older; the child Oudad still lives within me. Pay no attention to my body, for like flowers and trees, it is fleeting and prone to drift away.

I return to you, my lady, not to search through the excavations of my childhood for something meaningful, nor to interrogate the betrayals of place. I've simply returned following my psychiatrist's advice, returned to rest from my heavy list of ailments. Of course, I also returned because one evening, I recklessly searched the Internet for a village suspended between mountains called Ighrem, only to find images of a beautiful, newly built hotel that was up for public auction.

That day, my mind ran far from me, wrapped itself in a sheet, and slept, while my heart dragged me here by my ears. On my first arrival after so long, I tried to overlook this village's charms as I cautiously slid toward it. I visited the hotel and examined it eagerly, then fled to the neighboring town of Midelt where the auction would be held, filled with mysterious emotions that had stealthily spread within me as I tried to restrain my eyes from swallowing Ighrem whole.

At the auction, I thwarted many conspiracies being woven in secret, and raised the price to a ceiling before which my opponents could only surrender. Naturally, I didn't see the hotel as an investment project so much as a secret cord pulling me back to Ighrem, a losing battle against memory, and another reckless step that might lead me to a better end.

Ighrem, my first wound...

I haven't returned to ask about the woman who vomited me out here on your slopes one sad day and went about her business. I've asked you repeatedly, clutching like a child at the hem of your fields, begging you for the truth, but you would flee or evade whenever the question pressed upon me.

Here is Oudad, returning to his first sorrow and first misery. I never recovered from you, O enchantress who awakens at this moment, and now I face the violence of your morning beauty from my room's balcony in what has become my hotel.

You awaken, beautiful one, just as you have since the pains of simple laborers cast you between these mountains. Your mornings haven't changed much; if not for the electric lines sprawling like wrinkles across your beauty, I would say time moves far from you. The beautiful places that inhabit us neither age nor succumb to time's dry hand— at least in the eyes of those afflicted with loving them. They remain forever young, and when they die, these places die with them.

I took a final, hungry drag from my morning cigarette and tossed the butt away, watching as the wind greedily sucked it up until it extinguished. Morning cigarettes are appetizing and strong, rich with the curse of the first smoke—they invade the arteries as if for the first time, shaking off the lethargy left by sleep in the body.

More than a quarter century has passed since our parting, you miraculous village.

Do you remember that summer morning so much like this one, when a strange hand pulled me away from you while my baggy bundle of clothes danced between my hands? I left you that day with tearful eyes toward my unknown destiny. The city wasn't content just to change my beautiful name given by your people—Oudad, meaning mountain goat in Amazigh—but carved up my being with its scalpel until I became Murad, attaching to me the surname of the man who adopted me.

I never understood why Dr. Benhashem, my psychiatrist, insisted I return to you, saying:

“Go back to her and you will never return to me.”

I left his clinic that day, fidgeting with the prescription he handed me until I let it slip from my hands and disappear. I preferred death over living with a box of medicines under my arm.

I couldn't understand why he insisted I return to Ighrem, when he knew better than anyone about my childhood sorrows and what pain this adventure would stir up. I was supposed to wait for summer's arrival and the end of the university term to embrace Julia's hand and escape with her to here.

When we embraced for a long time at the airport, she whispered in my ear, "Where are you taking me, my love?"

I didn't answer. I was captivated by her body's warmth and the scent of crazy Parisian perfume that easily penetrated me, for no reason except that it was the scent of Khawla's favorite perfume.

I clung to her embrace that day like a woman clutching her husband's feet after committing infidelity. In her, I smelled Khawla, and afterward, I grieved for a long time over these hateful coincidences. I knew that the curse begins with such simple coincidences, multiplies stealthily, and consumes our lives until it leaves us on the edge of the abyss.

I crept into the room on tiptoes so as not to disturb Julia's sleep. I looked at her; she was lost in the chaos of the bed, her beautiful face buried in the pillow. I approached the bed, pulled the sheet over her glowing bare back, and caressed her golden hair strands with my fingertips.

I first met her by chance at the university. She said she was working on a sociological study about the concept of sexuality in the East. I accompanied her to the library and tried to translate some Arabic writings on the subject for her.

On one rainy night, we stayed up together in her hotel room translating literary passages. We drowned in endless conversations, and I watched as she drowned her heart in wine. Despite my heart being full of love for Khawla, I succumbed to Julia's repeated temptations and ended up in her bed.

That night was a grave mistake, yet I could do nothing but see it through to the end.

She left after we promised to meet every summer. I knew well it was a horrible betrayal of Khawla, but some curse urged me to follow this madness to its conclusion.

During my last trip to see her in Paris, I didn't know I would return to find the armsa of madness arms wide open. I didn't know my stay at Dr. Benhashem's clinic would be prolonged after the news of Khawla's suicide tore me apart.

I was absent for too long and left her in death's wind.

The worst part was that I never felt I was betraying her with Julia; even in moments of emotional and physical climax, I saw only Khawla. I knew well that a malicious infection and a mountain-goat-horned devil nested within me.

I paced around the room, and Julia woke up. I watched her fierce beauty awakening and lingered, observing her nakedness as she fled from the bed to the clothes scattered everywhere from yesterday's unstoppable physical desire.

She said, "Good morning, my love. You must have woken up early?"

I approached her, saying, "Good morning, my blonde one... Yes, I woke up early."

I gazed long into her blue eyes and saw forgotten seas. I saw a pregnant Khawla floating for a moment before being swallowed by the waves.

Despite everything, I wasn't happy. At the peak of joy and beautiful pain, Khawla clung to the holes of my memory and surfaced, and I would see only my exhaustion and her dead beauty.

Ah, what's the use of your life, Murad, when you've been running in circles and swimming against the current since the beginning?

Afterward, Julia and I slipped down to the hotel café, which was crowded with many foreigners and few Moroccans. But they all can't see beyond their noses in Ighrem. Only those whose hearts have been injected with its opium can understand this village's magic and beauty.

We sat at a table, and I called Hamid, who hurried over.

"Good morning, Mr. Murad. What can I get you?"

"Good morning. Please, I'd like an authentic Amazigh breakfast."

"Right away."

He withdrew quickly.

This Hamid is a son of Ighrem, whom I chose to manage the hotel, café, and restaurant.

Julia's question caught me off guard:

"Why this village and not another?"

(You ask me why? Oh, ask the one who abandoned me here as an infant, like someone discarding a banana peel or something worthless. Or if you prefer, ask this village itself; it might tell you a little about the nights I bled in silence, fighting against the thorns of questions alone...)

I said, "Because this village is beautiful, as you'll see. And because this hotel is now mine."

She gaped in disbelief and exclaimed, "Really, my love? Since when did you become an investor?"

We laughed madly together and promised each other eternal love in that moment of fleeting joy. I secretly laughed at this emotional hypocrisy I couldn't shake off, despite its heavy cost.

We often make promises bigger than ourselves, knowing we won't live up to them, yet we entangle ourselves in their swamp just to give the moment of promising a different taste. Lovers' promises, like their roses, wither quickly.

When Hamid returned with breakfast, I was lighting one cigarette from another, escaping memories triggered by the aroma of Amazigh bread and the teapot stretching skyward, pouring tea in a steady stream into the cup, its white foam growing larger as the pot rose higher.

Such simple things confirmed that returning to Ighrem was an adventure my heart hadn't yet adapted to.

"Darling, could you eat a bit faster? I want to show you Ighrem."

"Yes."

I watched her features occasionally lighting up as if laughing inside, and I regretted disturbing her joy.

When she finished breakfast, I took her hand and we hurried out. The moment Ighrem's morning struck me, I felt like walking above an abyss on a thread thinner than a hair and sharper than a sword.

The village lay there, stretched like a grape cluster resting on the hill. In official documents, they call it "Qasr And," but all who love it know it only as Ighrem. How beautiful those yellow houses are, standing and embracing each other, flowing down the hillside in a chaos whose order only locals understand.

We passed through cornfields standing proud like my pain, watching farmers toiling and raising their hoes to touch the sky, then bringing them down to split the earth's belly in what seemed like revenge against something I neither know nor think they know.

It pained me that when they leaned on their hoes and curiously looked at us, they didn't recognize me at all, finding nothing of themselves in my features. They lost me in the rush of their days. Just as the stranger once passed through here, so does the stranger return.

When Julia clung to my arm, I suddenly became aware of her presence. She saved me—if only temporarily—from a quickly awakening pain.

"Murad, please tell me quickly, what's the secret of this place? Surely you didn't choose it randomly?"

I felt she was trying to pull me into a whirlpool I'd only escape with a weeping heart. Julia doesn't know she's holding onto a ruin of sorrows, a man made of ink and pain.

At the height of my amazement and wonder at this place shaking off nearly three decades of dust, I remembered the psychiatrist's advice.

Try to get a little closer to others. They're not the hell you think they are. Tell them what you can about your ordeal. If you can't, invent another person. Name them whatever you want and tell their story. It is you. It's your image that you need to get rid of.

Julia pressed my arm, reminding me she was waiting for an answer. I hadn't properly arranged my thoughts, so I acted rashly—yes, rashly—and told her, "Because it's the place where I was born and raised."

She stopped me, her face showing all signs of bewilderment. She was radiant at the height of her beauty, and the blue of her eyes carried me away.

"So, you're from here! That's beautiful, wonderful."

We turned toward the village. On the way, she asked me many questions. Because most foolishness comes from a slip or passing mistake, my statement led me to construct another life, different from the one I lived—perhaps one I could have lived. I filled myself with lies, choosing for myself parents, a home, a sheepdog, and other things.

At the village entrance, I don't know what curse compelled me to tell Julia, "I'll tell you later about a stranger who passed through here as a child. They found him wrapped in white after one of the women abandoned him. They named him Oudad, an Amazigh word meaning ‘mountain goat.’ We grew up together and sat side by side in school... He is Oudad."