Zabor, or the Psalms by Kamel Daoud

Author:Kamel Daoud [Daoud, Kamel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Other Press
Published: 2021-03-02T00:00:00+00:00

20

I started to scream when I woke up, around dawn. My eye revolted at the sight of a monster that had taken the shape of all the objects in the darkness around me, which had turned hard, horned, piercing my skin, screaming their strangeness. Squeezed against Hadjer’s breasts, I was sweating and trembling, invaded by a pillaging spirit. “Struck by the evil eye!” Hadjer concluded, before giving up on any explanation for my fits, which became more serious and kept me from pursuing my studies. For her the performance must have seemed like a possession, I would salivate with my odious bleating voice, point at things with a trembling finger, mangle the words, mix the language from school with her own deformed language. Ah, such a beautiful spectacle! She must have cried with disappointment and rage over the rumors that spread, recalling the fate of her father Hbib.

Mr. Safi, my schoolmaster, came to see me after a week but declared that the situation was beyond him. He advised my father, who accompanied him, to consult the imam, who was more equipped for this kind of problem. They washed me, covered me, and courteously invited Hadj Senoussi to come see me at our house. Young at the time but already amused by the spectacle of the world, he kindly answered the request and came to have tea in the very room where I was lying. He caressed my hair, recited entire verses, and concluded, without saying so, that I was more likely suffering from being abandoned than from being possessed. My family history was as well known in the village as a film. He examined me with affinity and intelligence, smiled at me, then whispered that the Prophet, before receiving the revelation, had experienced something very similar, and thus I must have been chosen by God. With a wink he slid some sweets under my pillow. I was reassured, to be honest, and I might have had the motivation to overcome my fears, but I understood instinctively that my fits guaranteed me an audience and affection. Cunning in the way intelligent children can be, I resolved to take advantage of the show and the cycles. Suddenly, the fragility that emptied my arms and gave me an awkward gait in the street took on meaning, a dreaded meaning.

I was seven at the time, I was in my third year of school and my unusual childhood, my defects, and my disorders had become an unfortunate legend that led to me being quarantined, sometimes happily. Suddenly, I was the center of the world, and a groan was enough to attract the attention of the neighbors, the relatives of my tribe, and distant aunts who came both out of compassion and to savor their poorly concealed vengeance. The house was filled for a short time with incense, gifted eggs, honey, names of marabouts, and the coins they stacked under my pillows. Of course, I enjoyed that fake convalescence, even if I was ashamed of it, as when I found my bed wet in the morning.

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