quickly and without a sound. In the cliff at the bottom of the steps was a door. The man removed the padlock and they went in.
“Let’s see if you can run the mamil.”
Amar let himself down into the opening in the floor, made himself comfortable on the seat which was on a level with the man’s shoes, and began to turn the large wooden wheel with his foot. It took a certain strength and dexterity, but none that he had not already used while playing soccer.
“Do you understand how it works?” the man asked, pointing to a smaller wheel that spun near Amar’s left hand. He piled some clay on the turning disc, squatted down. With manipulating and sprinkling of water the shapeless mass soon took the form of a plate.
“Just keep turning the wheel,” he said, apparently expecting Amar to tire and stop. “I’ll take care of this part.” But it was clear to Amar that the apparatus was arranged so that one man could do everything by himself, using his hands and feet at the same time. After a bit the bearded man stood up. “You’d better go home for lunch now,” he said.
“I want to make a jar,” said Amar.
The man laughed. “It takes a long time to learn how to do that.”
“I can do it now.”
The other, saying nothing, removed the plate he had been making, and stood back, his arms folded, an expression of amusement on his face. “Zid. Go on, make a jar,” he said. “I want to see you.”
The clay and the water were at his right hand, the revolving wheel at his left. There was no light in the room save that which came through the door, so that he had necessarily missed the finer points of the man’s work; nevertheless, he did exactly as he had seen him do, not forgetting to maintain a continuous sideward pushing with the flat of his bare foot on the big wheel.
Slowly he modeled a small urn, taking great care to make its shape one that pleased him. The man was astonished. “You’ve worked a mamil plenty of times before,” he finally said. “Why didn’t you say so? I’m always ready to pay ten rials and lunch to a good workman, somebody who knows something.”
“The blessing of Allah be upon you, master,” said Amar. “I’m very hungry.” Even though he would not be home for lunch, his father would be pacified by the good news he would give him at dinner time.
CHAPTER 4
A certain rich merchant, El Yazami by name, who lived in the quarter and had once sent his sister to Si Driss for treatment, was leaving for Rissani that afternoon. Already his servants had carried seven enormous coffers to the bus station outside Bab el Guissa, where they were being weighed and hoisted to the top of the vehicle, and there were many more crates and amorphous bundles of all sizes constantly being carried from the house to the terminus. El Yazami was making his annual pilgrimage to the shrine of his patron saint in the Tafilalet, from which he always returned many thousands of rial the richer, given the fact that like any good Fassi he was in the habit of combining business with devotion, and knew just what articles could be transported to the south and sold there with the maximum of profit. And it occurred to him as he stood looking up at the workers loading his merchandise on the top of the big blue bus that about five hundred medium-sized water jars would be a remunerative addition to his cargo. Allowing twenty percent for breakage, he calculated, the gain could still be about one hundredfifty percent, which would be worth while. And so, accompanied by one of his sons, he set out for Bab Fteuh to make a quick purchase. When he came within sight of the village of mud ovens and smoke, he sent his son to examine the wares on one side of the road while he went to investigate the other side. So large a quantity was not always available at such short notice. The first person his son ran into was Amar, up from his damp workroom under the fig trees for a breath of air and furtive cigarette. Amar knew the boy by
“Let’s see if you can run the mamil.”
Amar let himself down into the opening in the floor, made himself comfortable on the seat which was on a level with the man’s shoes, and began to turn the large wooden wheel with his foot. It took a certain strength and dexterity, but none that he had not already used while playing soccer.
“Do you understand how it works?” the man asked, pointing to a smaller wheel that spun near Amar’s left hand. He piled some clay on the turning disc, squatted down. With manipulating and sprinkling of water the shapeless mass soon took the form of a plate.
“Just keep turning the wheel,” he said, apparently expecting Amar to tire and stop. “I’ll take care of this part.” But it was clear to Amar that the apparatus was arranged so that one man could do everything by himself, using his hands and feet at the same time. After a bit the bearded man stood up. “You’d better go home for lunch now,” he said.
“I want to make a jar,” said Amar.
The man laughed. “It takes a long time to learn how to do that.”
“I can do it now.”
The other, saying nothing, removed the plate he had been making, and stood back, his arms folded, an expression of amusement on his face. “Zid. Go on, make a jar,” he said. “I want to see you.”
The clay and the water were at his right hand, the revolving wheel at his left. There was no light in the room save that which came through the door, so that he had necessarily missed the finer points of the man’s work; nevertheless, he did exactly as he had seen him do, not forgetting to maintain a continuous sideward pushing with the flat of his bare foot on the big wheel.
Slowly he modeled a small urn, taking great care to make its shape one that pleased him. The man was astonished. “You’ve worked a mamil plenty of times before,” he finally said. “Why didn’t you say so? I’m always ready to pay ten rials and lunch to a good workman, somebody who knows something.”
“The blessing of Allah be upon you, master,” said Amar. “I’m very hungry.” Even though he would not be home for lunch, his father would be pacified by the good news he would give him at dinner time.
CHAPTER 4
A certain rich merchant, El Yazami by name, who lived in the quarter and had once sent his sister to Si Driss for treatment, was leaving for Rissani that afternoon. Already his servants had carried seven enormous coffers to the bus station outside Bab el Guissa, where they were being weighed and hoisted to the top of the vehicle, and there were many more crates and amorphous bundles of all sizes constantly being carried from the house to the terminus. El Yazami was making his annual pilgrimage to the shrine of his patron saint in the Tafilalet, from which he always returned many thousands of rial the richer, given the fact that like any good Fassi he was in the habit of combining business with devotion, and knew just what articles could be transported to the south and sold there with the maximum of profit. And it occurred to him as he stood looking up at the workers loading his merchandise on the top of the big blue bus that about five hundred medium-sized water jars would be a remunerative addition to his cargo. Allowing twenty percent for breakage, he calculated, the gain could still be about one hundredfifty percent, which would be worth while. And so, accompanied by one of his sons, he set out for Bab Fteuh to make a quick purchase. When he came within sight of the village of mud ovens and smoke, he sent his son to examine the wares on one side of the road while he went to investigate the other side. So large a quantity was not always available at such short notice. The first person his son ran into was Amar, up from his damp workroom under the fig trees for a breath of air and furtive cigarette. Amar knew the boy by
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