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Book: The Boy Who The Set Fire and Other Stories by Paul Bowles and Mohammed Mrabet
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Authors: Paul Bowles and Mohammed Mrabet
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me my money they will. If they don’t, Allah will know what to do with them.
And we’ll stay together up to the last franc, said Zizi.
They were sitting in a café. Suddenly Bahloul said to the owner: Do you want to sell your café?
Now that you mention it, I do. Do you want it? I’ll sell it to you.
How much?
Cheap. A hundred thousand pesetas with the chairs and everything.
That’s not cheap, said Bahloul.
And how much can you give?
Seventy thousand.
The man thought for a while, and then he said: I’ll sell it. They went that day to the adoul and arranged the papers, and the man sold Bahloul the café. The following morning they took possession of it. Bahloul made the tea and coffee, and Zizi served it. Business was very lively. All the young men of the neighborhood began to come regularly. Let us say that fifty young men came every day, and twenty of them never paid.
Bahloul always brought an aghrebia with him from the house, which he shared with Zizi. Usually they made one cake last for two days. This way they were always happy, no matter what the hour of the day. But each time Bahloul went over the accounts, he flew into a rage. Finally he could not stand it any longer.
Zizi, he said. You go on working. I can’t work here anymore.
Ouakha, Zizi said. You take care of buying everything, and I’ll do the work in the café. See if you can earn any money. I don’t believe it.
Bahloul did not work anymore. He sat in the corner smoking kif, drinking tea, and eating his aghrebia. His friends would gather round him and listen to his stories. Sitting there with them one day, he said: Now I’m going to tell you a tale, and it’s a true one.
Who’d it happen to? You?
If it didn’t happen to me, it happened to somebody just like me, Bahloul said.
What’s the story?
This one smoked kif, lots of it, and took hashish, even more of it. And when he was alone in his house with his head bubbling with kif and hashish, he would go into an empty room to drink his tea. Afterward he would take the wet mint and tea leaves out of the teapot and scatter them over the floor. There was one window in the room, and it looked out onto an orchard that belonged to a Djibli. The Djibli had built bee-hives under the trees. So this one would open the window and let the bees fly into the room. They would all come in and light on the floor where the mint leaves were because they liked the sugar. And he did this every day. But at the same time he was busy building a whole set of hives along the walls of the room. One day when he opened the door into the room he saw everything black with bees. He went over and shut the window. Then he shut the door and bored a hole in it, and fitted the hole with a cork. The bees stayed in the room, and he threw sugar and other food for them through the hole. And the light came in the window for the bees.
The bees filled all the hives along the walls with honey. Then they filled the corners of the room. The room was covered with honey, and he began to wonder how he was going to get it out without being stung.
And Bahloul asked his friends: How could he do it? How do you think?
He put on special clothes to do it.
No.
He opened the window and the bees flew out.
No, no.
He smoked them out.
No, said Bahloul.
How did he do it, then?
First he ate a lot of majoun and smoked a lot of kif. Then he took off all his clothes, and got out a jar of honey he had bought in the souq. And he rubbed honey everywhere over his body, over his hair and his skin, everywhere. And he took two pails and went inside the room and shut the door after him. The bees came and swarmed over him, but not one of them stung him. Then he pulled out the combs of honey from the hives and took them outside. A lot of the bees were stuck to him. They couldn’t move. When he stood outside in the wind for a while they began to drop off.
He put the combs into a barrel, washed himself off, got dressed, and went to wring the wax out of
And we’ll stay together up to the last franc, said Zizi.
They were sitting in a café. Suddenly Bahloul said to the owner: Do you want to sell your café?
Now that you mention it, I do. Do you want it? I’ll sell it to you.
How much?
Cheap. A hundred thousand pesetas with the chairs and everything.
That’s not cheap, said Bahloul.
And how much can you give?
Seventy thousand.
The man thought for a while, and then he said: I’ll sell it. They went that day to the adoul and arranged the papers, and the man sold Bahloul the café. The following morning they took possession of it. Bahloul made the tea and coffee, and Zizi served it. Business was very lively. All the young men of the neighborhood began to come regularly. Let us say that fifty young men came every day, and twenty of them never paid.
Bahloul always brought an aghrebia with him from the house, which he shared with Zizi. Usually they made one cake last for two days. This way they were always happy, no matter what the hour of the day. But each time Bahloul went over the accounts, he flew into a rage. Finally he could not stand it any longer.
Zizi, he said. You go on working. I can’t work here anymore.
Ouakha, Zizi said. You take care of buying everything, and I’ll do the work in the café. See if you can earn any money. I don’t believe it.
Bahloul did not work anymore. He sat in the corner smoking kif, drinking tea, and eating his aghrebia. His friends would gather round him and listen to his stories. Sitting there with them one day, he said: Now I’m going to tell you a tale, and it’s a true one.
Who’d it happen to? You?
If it didn’t happen to me, it happened to somebody just like me, Bahloul said.
What’s the story?
This one smoked kif, lots of it, and took hashish, even more of it. And when he was alone in his house with his head bubbling with kif and hashish, he would go into an empty room to drink his tea. Afterward he would take the wet mint and tea leaves out of the teapot and scatter them over the floor. There was one window in the room, and it looked out onto an orchard that belonged to a Djibli. The Djibli had built bee-hives under the trees. So this one would open the window and let the bees fly into the room. They would all come in and light on the floor where the mint leaves were because they liked the sugar. And he did this every day. But at the same time he was busy building a whole set of hives along the walls of the room. One day when he opened the door into the room he saw everything black with bees. He went over and shut the window. Then he shut the door and bored a hole in it, and fitted the hole with a cork. The bees stayed in the room, and he threw sugar and other food for them through the hole. And the light came in the window for the bees.
The bees filled all the hives along the walls with honey. Then they filled the corners of the room. The room was covered with honey, and he began to wonder how he was going to get it out without being stung.
And Bahloul asked his friends: How could he do it? How do you think?
He put on special clothes to do it.
No.
He opened the window and the bees flew out.
No, no.
He smoked them out.
No, said Bahloul.
How did he do it, then?
First he ate a lot of majoun and smoked a lot of kif. Then he took off all his clothes, and got out a jar of honey he had bought in the souq. And he rubbed honey everywhere over his body, over his hair and his skin, everywhere. And he took two pails and went inside the room and shut the door after him. The bees came and swarmed over him, but not one of them stung him. Then he pulled out the combs of honey from the hives and took them outside. A lot of the bees were stuck to him. They couldn’t move. When he stood outside in the wind for a while they began to drop off.
He put the combs into a barrel, washed himself off, got dressed, and went to wring the wax out of
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