Kindle Edition
Amazon
Category:
Action/Thriller
Type: Fiction
Pages: 180
Copyright: Jan 20 , 2015
Price: $0.99 (eBook)
When looking for how to secure a future, Mohammed had to confront the most severe drug traffickers. Will he succeed in his misión.
THE LAND OF CANNABIS. Set in the northwest of Morocco, a setting familiar to the American reader in the works of Paul Bowles, THE LAND OF CANNABIS not only reveals the secrets of the illegal trade, but also the historical and religious background of the area. It takes advantage of such a delicate theme, to depict a sensational portrait of the emotional and social changes that occur in the Jebala region.
Mohammed, a university graduate, is a victim of nepotism who will be obliged to go to Sumatha, his father’s homeland, to grow cannabis in order to earn a living. In this very strange context, the protagonist will suddenly find himself in direct confrontation with Ben Aisha, the most powerful cannabis tycoon in the area. The experience will drive him through a new world where hatred and greed are dominant. Mohammed will face a series of problems and difficulties which will make him grow conscious of the graveness of his acts. When his life and the life of his family are in danger, he decides to actuate rapidly so as to free his father from his abductors.
Excerpt
4
Mohammed woke up from his deep sleep due to a strange noise in the outside. He jumped out of bed, scared and giddy, and lit up the smoke-blackened lamp. He looked quickly at the watch; it was 2 am. He stepped towards the door of the room and stood still behind it, trying to hear what was exactly happening in the outside. He heard a voice coming from the courtyard, and then he heard a conversation of at least two men talking to each other. What he heard was that they were in distress because they had gone astray. The dogs, which were barking vehemently and relentlessly, made him unable to understand what the men were saying. Suddenly, the men stopped talking to each other, and were asking his grandmother for the house owner. He pulled the door open and got out. The lamp dangled in his hand as he walked. His grandmother was standing in the threshold of the small room.
‘Who is there?’ he asked, cautiously.
One of the men responded him, but Mohammed could not hear what he had said because of the high barking of dogs. He walked down to the courtyard and hushed the dogs first, and then he stepped towards the men and lifted the lamp up to the face of one of them. The stranger’s face was grim and expressionless. The two men bore the rifles on their shoulders, threateningly. The heart of Mohammed raced, but he succeeded in hiding his fear. He looked at the man defiantly.
‘What are you doing in my house?’ asked Mohammed.
The man smiled widely, and then he cleared his throat as if he were looking for the adequate words to start his conversation with him.
'Well, I beg your pardon for our boldness to have entered your house without your permission, but it's the will of Allah. We are in a serious dilemma and we want your help', said the man, hesitatingly.
‘What kind of help do you want from me?’ asked Mohammed.
‘We want to leave some merchandise in your confidence and protection, because we have certain information that the Jadarmia are in Sumatha tonight and we can run into them if we advance. For this reason, we want you to hide this merchandise here for some days, till things become calm and the way is safe’, the man suggested.
‘You can't leave hashish here’, said Fatna from her place.
The man turned towards her quickly, and shot a long glance of frustration at her.
‘I will give you money, a lot of money’, he said to Mohammed.
‘I don't need your money’, responded Mohammed. ‘How can you trust me? How can you be sure I will stay here waiting for you?’ he continued.
‘We will make a deal by means of which you will promise to be loyal to us and never betray us, and, in return, we will give you a great reward’,the stranger told him.
‘I am not prepared to enter in such an adventure. I am alone, you can see, and my grandmother is old and ill. You may look for another man to do you this favor’, said Mohammed, looking fixedly at his grandmother.
‘Listen to me. What's your name?’
‘Mohammed’.
‘My name is Abdurrahman. I am from Maggu. We were hidden in Sidi Slim when a shepherd informed us that Jadarmia have come today to Beni Abdullah, and then went to Sumatha. I don't know if they are still here or not but I can't go further. I did not choose you. It was for mere coincidence. I might have been talking to another man anywhere in this village, but it seemed that Allah has sent you for us. It's your opportunity at which you have to snatch with both hands. Our patron is very generous. Moreover, you must help us for the sake of solidarity, as we are in the same ditch. You seem to be an honest man’, the stranger told him, in a convincing tone.
‘How do you know that I am honest?’ he asked him.
‘It's written on your face’.
‘Are you a reader of men's minds?’
The man chuckled. He sighed deeply while he stared at him in a way to urge him to accept his proposal.
‘No, I am not a reader of men's minds, but I can assure you that life has taught me to distinguish between men. I have a discernment which never fails’, Abdurrahman said.
‘And what will happen if the agents of the Makhzen inform Jadarmia? I will end up in prison. The Makhzen has his informers here who will never let anything pass without informing the Jadarmia or the Caid’, said Mohammed.
‘Just be discreet, and don't talk to anybody about it. By the will of Allah, nothing will happen’, Abdurrahman answered.
He thought for a while. He was both afraid and ambitious. His greed for money was aroused in the deepest recesses of his mind. He was facing a very tempting situation. He felt the enormity of the mission, and he did not know how he would be able to hide this from his relatives; how he would be able to resist the temptation of selling the merchandise and become rich. What will happen if he sells the hashish to Ben Aisha and disappears? He will become rich! He will take his grandmother and disappears. He thought of going to Spain and be lost in its big cities. He stared at his grandmother. Her wrinkled face did not reveal anything for him; she looked expressionless and placid. He was in trouble and did know what decision he could take. He felt an urgent need to talk to her, to ask for her advice. She was old enough to see beyond things; to understand what is right and what is wrong in this situation. She was relatively in a neutral position; therefore she can see things with much lucidity. He seemed to be lured by the proposal, and he was afraid of falling in the temptation of money and this could have tragic repercussions. He hesitated.... He remained silent looking at his grandmother.
‘I have to talk to Mamma’, he said.
‘Okay, go ahead’, answered Abdurrahman,
They entered the small room.
‘Mamma, what do you think?’ He asked her in a low voice.
‘Tell him that we won't save the merchandise. We don't want problems with Jadarmia and with the Caid’, she said.
‘Don't be afraid of Jadarmia and the Caid. We can buy them with money. If we take it we can get a benefit and bribe them’, he argued.
‘What if this man is not sincere and can cause you problems’, she alerted him.
‘I will tell him to go’, he responded.
He opened the door of the small room and got out. His grandmother remained inside.
‘I am sorry, I can't do it’.
Abdurrahman stared at him sadly. Mohammed saw his frustration, and, at this moment, he realized that he was sincere. This moved into him a sense of regret. He felt as if he had let him down and refused to tend a hand to a man in distress. Abdurrahman turned away and made for the backyard where his men were waiting for him with the merchandise. His grandmother opened the door of the room and called him. She gave him three pieces of home-made bread and a bowl of olives and oil. He took the bread and the olives and ran after Abdurrahman who was pulling his mule out of the backyard; his men had already crossed the path towards the brook side.
‘Abdurrahman, wait! Take this bread and olives. You still have a long way to go. Moreover, we have to share bread. You entered my house and you must eat my bread’.
Abdurrahman stared at him for a long while without moving. Frustration and anger were clearly manifest on his face. Mohammed, who stood in front of him, with the hands still stretched out, was thinking rapidly, and was still considering the possibility to take the opportunity.
‘Can you tell me who you trust in this village? I must leave the merchandise here, tonight. It's a matter of high urgency. I have no other choice’.
Mohammed lowered his head and remained speechless. He was thinking of the repercussions most of the time, without giving himself the right to think of his situation and of the reason behind his presence in the mountains. Isn't it for money? Isn't he here in order to be rich? Why should he listen to the fears of his grandmother?
‘Eat my bread, and then we shall talk, for when you eat my bread, an unbroken bond is established between us, and we can guarantee that no one of us can betray the other’, Mohammed said.
‘The bond is already established between us, Mohammed. Believe me it will not take more than one week. I will give you a lot of money’ Abdurrahman told him.
‘How much?’ he asked.
‘I will give you two hundred thousand Dirhams’, he answered.
Mohammed rubbed his chin, considering the quantity of money which he would gain if he accepted. He smiled widely at Abdurrahman who was looking at him expectantly.
‘I agree, go and bring the mules’, he said, and he pointed to Abdurrahman to take the bread and share it with his men. Abdurrahman took the bread and the olives and went where the men were waiting for him. Mohammed went back and entered the small room where his grandmother was sleeping in her cozy mattress. She peeked out from under the corner of the woolen blanket and stared at him.
‘I have told him to let the merchandise here, Mamma. Listen to me; we will gain a lot of money; it’s only one week’.
Fatna remained silent for a short while.
‘Do whatever you want, my son’, she told him.
He went out and found that the men had already brought the mules. They were waiting in the backyard as he had told them. He did not want them to enter into the stone-paved courtyard, for the clopping of the mules would alert the neighbors. Abdurrahman entered into the house's courtyard with some of his men and asked Mohammed where they had to put the merchandise.
‘In my room, for it's the unique room which can be locked’, he answered.
The rest of the men were unloading the mules which were stationed under the shadows of high oak and olive trees in order not to be seen under the light of the full moon. Then they brought the sacks of hashish and heaped them in the bottom of the room. The men were ordered to drive the mules out of the backyard and walk down the Cork brook, for it was nearly dawn, and soon, cattle owners would herd their cows through the houses. The job was done rapidly and Mohammed took the big iron key and locked the door; he sighed deeply as if he had freed himself from a heavy burden.
‘Are you going to give me the money now?’ he asked.
‘I will give you the money when I come back to take my merchandise. I have no money now. I am sorry my friend. But don't worry, you will soon know the kind of men with whom you are working’, he smiled widely.
‘Do you want to have a rest?’ he asked him.
‘No, I will join my men, and after a week I will come back. Thank you very much, my friend’.
Abdurrahman went out while he remained motionless in his place, thinking of the enormity of what he had done. He had one ton and two hundred kilograms of pure resin in his room. It's a sword of two blades which could either make him rich, or take him to jail for ten years or more. His heart raced behind his chest bone. He had to be calm and not to talk to anybody about the matter. One thing he was sure of was that fear would only aggravate the matter. He was decided to be a brave man. He could not sleep in the room where the merchandise was placed and he went to the small room by the side of his grandmother. She was asleep, or at least she feigned to be sleeping. He lied down on an old mattress by her side.
In the morning, when the chirps of birds were heard over the zinc-roofed houses, and on the dew-drenched branches, he got up and went to the big fire room. He untied the cows that hurried out. He almost did not sleep because he was thinking of the unknown future. He had just lain on the mattress, hearing the low snores of his grandmother. Sometimes, he had entered in a light slumber, and he had dreamt horrible dreams: distorted faces, dogs trying to bite him........ He saw very repulsive things that made him wake up, scared and wet of perspiration. The cows, with the cords in their legs, walked rapidly towards the Cork brook. It seemed as if they had been confined for a long time, for they were unquiet and hungry.
What he wanted now was to think over what had happened the previous night. He was sure that his grandmother cannot talk to anybody about the matter, because she was conscious of the problems she might inflict on him; that any mistake would take him to jail or death. It was not a joke, he thought. The merchandise was the bread of many people. His relation with his grandmother was not perfect, for there occurred many disputes between them, above all, when he came to settle in the village for the first time in order to work in the land of his family. She did not accept his presence, but never brought the subject up with him, however, she had complained to other persons. He considered that it was a mere misunderstanding which never reached a rupture. On the contrary, they were united and there was a great affection between them. He could feel it and see it in her eyes. Perhaps, she had first refused his settlement with her due to the fact that she was old and sick, and she had felt a heavy burden on her as how she would be able to care after him. This might be the reason and not hatred, he thought, because she loved him; He was totally sure of that.
There were two men talking by the brook's side. The noise of the water splashing against the rocks made his approach to them unnoticed. The cows were calmly grazing in the entrance of an olive grove. Unaware of his presence, the men were talking about the land and its perfect state for being ploughed after two weeks without rain; how expensive were the prices of fertilizers and of plowing; how greedy were those who availed themselves of the situation and make money at the expense of the poor peasants. The men were two of his cousins Abdel Aziz and Ahmed. There was also a woman with them. He remained in his place without moving. He wanted to know if they had heard something during the night. There was a short distance between his house and their houses. Surely they had heard the dogs, or the clopping of mules. He stayed in his place nearly half an hour. They did not bring the subject up. He became certain that they hadn't heard anything.
Mohammed appeared suddenly from behind the shrubs.
‘Assalamu alaikum’, he saluted.
‘Wa alaikum assalam’, his cousins responded.
‘When did you come from Tangier?’Ahmed asked him.
‘Yesterday’, he responded.
‘Have you come to plow the land?’ Abdel Aziz asked him, but he didn’t respond.
‘But the Caid is sending messages that he will throw in jail all those who will violate the law and sow cannabis’, said Ahmed.
‘When was plowing cannabis a crime?’ The woman asked.
‘It is always a crime’, said Ahmed.
‘So why the Makhzen allows people to plow it?’ asked the woman.
‘Because the Makhzen knows that our land is poor and that without this plant we will die from hunger’, responded Mohammed.
‘Now, tell me! How much the Caid is asking for?’ asked Mohammed.
‘Thousands of dirhams, but the big dealers will pay him’, responded Ahmed.
He looked up at the cows. They were still in their place because the grass was abundant in that period of the year.
‘So, there will be no plowing until the Caid would allow it’, said Mohammed.
‘Yes. But some tractor owners have already paid him’, said Abdel Aziz.
‘Who is he?’ Mohammed asked.
‘Ould el Mokhtar!’ answered Abdel Aziz.
‘Do you know how much he asks for an hour of plowing?’
‘One hundred dirhams’, he responded
‘Okay, see you in the afternoon’.
Ahmed is not only his cousin but also his close friend whom he trusted much. In reality, he is the cousin of his mother.
He herded the cows down the brook, where the land was vast, and the grass was wilder and higher. He sat at the root of a huge oak tree, watching the cows from his place which was situated in a higher level. He thought on the situation in which Abdurrahman had landed him. The merchandise that was in his bedroom was huge enough to send him to jail for at least ten years without any parole. What would happen to his mother if he were imprisoned? Surely she would go mad. And what about his sister, his brother and his father, they would be humiliated. He shuddered at these black thoughts.
The sun peeked from now and then from between the thick clouds that covered the sky. The cows, whose back was the only thing he could see from his place due to the thickness of the shrubs and the brambles, were grazing by the brook's side. He was hungry and he started to think of the coffee with fresh milk which his grandmother had milked tonight. He imagined also the fresh butter being spread on wheat bread. He thought of the olive oil with salted olives spiced with cumin, garlic and lemon. He had always loved the breakfast of his grandmother. She knew it, and for this reason, he was sure that she was waiting for him with the breakfast prepared, exactly as he had imagined. Maybe, she would make some ftayar. His mouth drooled as he was thinking of the delicious breakfast.
The cows seemed to have grazed enough grass, for now, they were just smelling the earth, unable to nibble anymore. He stood up and drove them back home. Upon his arrival, he saw the coffee pot on the low table. His grandmother was in the fire room making ftayar. The cows went directly to the big fire room. He closed the door behind them and went to the bathroom where he made his ablutions.
He turned right and left, as he inserted the iron key into the lock. He got a little paranoid, thinking that somebody might have been observing him. 'What nonsense!' he thought. He unfolded the carpet and tried to pray, but the smell of hashish was too strong and suffocating that he folded the carpet and got out immediately. He decided that nobody could enter the room until he gets rid of the merchandise. He thought that Abdurrahman would come soon, and would set him free of this heavy burden. ‘What would happen if he never comes?’ he asked himself. He slipped the key in his pocket after he made sure that the door was locked. His grandmother was in the other side of the house, preparing the breakfast. The smell of the brewed coffee mingled with the smell of ftayar aroused his appetite.
After praying Al Subh in the platform of the big room, he crossed the courtyard and went to the opposite side of the house where his grandmother had already sat, sipping her coffee and eating ftayar with butter.
‘Good morning, Mamma. How are you?’ he asked her.
‘I am fine. I have a keen ache in my legs and my back’, she said.
‘She is always complaining. It is her habit’, he thought.
She poured him coffee and put a plate full of fresh butter which she had extracted from the recently churned milk; she served honey also. It was the best breakfast for him. However, his mind was bothered with thinking about the merchandise which was heaped in the bottom of his room. It was something to which he had never been accustomed.
‘My father brought us coffee from Al Casar. The first time I tasted coffee was when I was eight or nine years old. I remember that we were gathered in the fire room around a high bonfire, warming our thin bodies. My mother was with us when my father entered. He had a strange pot in his hand. My mother asked him ‘‘what is that in your hand?’’. ‘‘Coffee’’, he answered her. She seemed to have understood what he told her, whereas, we remained, our necks craned towards him, open-mouthed at the marvel he had brought’. Mohammed's mind was unable to concentrate on what she was saying. He seemed not to hear her, because she had already told him that story which he knew by heart. His grandmother always repeated her stories. It seemed that she liked to repeat them. He spread the butter on the hot ftayar, and then spread honey and folded the bread in two and ate avariciously. He thought of Ben Aisha and if he would buy the merchandise in case Abdurrahman wouldn't turn up. Fatna was still telling her story. He ate the ftayar and washed down with coffee.
‘The coffee was brought by the Spaniards’ she said. ‘The Spaniards had very beautiful things. My father brought us tuna cans he got as booty in the war, but we did not like the tuna oil, and we used to change it by olive oil. During the evacuation of Jebala, the Muslims had captured many soldiers. Once, my father brought a group of them to our house in order to pave the courtyard. I was very young. My sister Rahma was a baby of two years. The captain of the Spaniards gave her very sweet and big raisins. He was a handsome guy whose job was to organize his soldiers while they were paving the courtyard. He did not work, and he just sat in a room talking to men from the village that came to our house to see him. He was given meat every day, a whole roasted chicken, for lunch, while the others would eat what they called ‘Rancho’ which was mainly chickpeas or soup of beans. They served him the chicken in his plates which our men had gained when they had looted his camp. He looked at the plates wistfully, and he smarted over the loss of his camp and his soldiers’, his grandmother paused.
Mohammed was obsessed by the presence of the merchandise in his house. He thought that he must keep the secret deep into his heart and never talk about it, even to his cousin Ahmed, because the news could reach the ears of Ben Aisha who could tip him off to the Gendarmerie, or, at best conditions, would ask to buy the merchandise. He had a treaty with Abdurrahman which he could not breach. Moreover, Ben Aisha never paid immediately, because his custom was to send first the merchandise to Tangier or Spain and wait until the money arrives, and then pay his creditors at very comfortable installments. He had the market under his command, for he was the powerful and big dealer of the area. His control outstretched Sumatha and was rapidly extended to other tribes.
In the afternoon, he called his cousin Ahmed and they went to see Ould el Mokhtar. The man was short and strong. He was middle aged in his fifties with a constant smile on his face. The dogs barked as they knocked at the iron door. A tractor of the German brand Deutz was parked in the outside yard.
‘Mohammed, how are you? Come in’, Ould el Mokhtar received them with a smile on his face.
‘No, thank you. We just come to see if tomorrow you can plough my land’, said Mohammed.
‘No problem. Where are you going to plough?’ he asked him, airily.
‘In Al M'douara’, Mohammed answered.
‘Okay, tomorrow I will send my son Abdel Aziz to plough it’.
‘How much?’ Mohammed asked him.
‘A hundred Dirhams per hour’, Ould el Mokhtar responded firmly.
‘It's too much’, Mohammed tried to reduce the price.
‘No, it's not too much. Yesterday I gave the Caid ten thousands Dirhams. What do you think? We don't gain money. We just work for others’, he said with clear bitterness.
‘Okay, send him tomorrow. I will be there to show him the borders of my land’.
When the day broke, Mohammed took his breakfast with him in a plastic bag and went down to the fields. Al M’douara was some miles down from the village by the edge of the river whose name was taken after the name of the place. The river stems from the high mountains of Sumatha and flows in el Oued el Kebir. The sky was clear and the air was balmy. The sun was set above the top of Bouhachem, radiant and warm. The day was fit for a thorough plowing of the land, so he decided to plough not only in Al M'douara but also in other places such as Ramon and Guezira.
When he arrived, the tractor was already parked in El Bor, the most fertile and largest strip of land which his family owns in Al M'douara. Abdel Aziz was waiting for him there.
‘Assalamu alaikum, Abdel Aziz’, he saluted.
‘Wa alaikum assalam’, responded Abdel Aziz who was an introvert guy. He was taciturn and would not talk unless somebody asks him.
‘Are you going to start here?’ Mohammed asked him.
‘As you like; do you want to start in another place?’
‘No, you can start’.
Abdel Aziz ascended on the tractor and started the engine. He then lowered the plow down until it sunk into the soft earth, then he drove ahead, opening the earth in and throwing shards right and left. In spite of the softness and wetness of the land, some dust was flying in the air. Mohammed walked away to the border of El Bor and admired the fantastic and powerful plowing machine which, when introduced for the first time in the mountains of Jebala, men, women and children, looked at it open-mouthed from admiration and fascination; this made them think, especially the old generation, that the iron and fire with which the Christians had killed them seventy years ago, in the Rif War, had its good facet also, from which they can get a great benefit. The earth was soft, but once opened, it dried rapidly, and, for this reason, the irrigation would be necessary after the sowing. But he prayed that it would rain just after sowing, because otherwise, he must hire some men to help him pump the water out of the river and irrigate the land. Fortunately, most of the places of el M’douara are at the edge of the river, and the water was abundant, however he judged that it was too early for irrigation at this time of the year. Rain would fall abundantly during March and April. He was not worried about this matter.
Tachta, Bushuka and Lahcen Ben Ali were the other places he had to plough. He thanked Allah for His generosity, and for what he ordained on him and on his family. He considered himself fortunate to have a lot of land, and above all, on the river's edge which would allow him to irrigate it in moments of drought. It was true that he came from Tangier but he felt that he belonged to this land. He was not an intruder as many people considered him, for his origin was deeply rooted in this land. His grandfather was one of the brilliant men of Sumatha. He was aware of the dangers this might bring to him. He knew that some villagers hated him for the mere fact that he had come from Tangier to plough the land and get more crop than them. They could not understand how a city-slicker, who had lived in the city during his whole life, could exceed them and get better harvest. He was afraid of their envy which, he thought, could push them to weave any kind of machination against him.
The plow penetrated into the soft earth and lifted behind it big and black shards of earth. The smell of the damp earth stung his nose. He admired the good job that the ploughboy was doing and he insisted that the plough lines were strictly and professionally seamed. The sun warmed and dried the damp shards rapidly, which was a good sign because they would be easily grinded during the sowing. So far, Mohammed felt happy as everything was ready for a good and easy plowing.
The land must be worked well, he thought. His grandfather used to tell him that the land gives in proportion of what it receives. His grandfather never plowed with tractor, for motorized machines were not yet used in Sumatha. He had always plowed with the traditional wooden plow pulled by two bulls. After four hours of continuous plowing, the Bor was finished. They drove down the river to Bushuka. They plowed during two hours, and then they moved to Lahcen Ben Ali and finally to Tashta. The night fell when they were in Tashta. It’s a long strip of land just at the point where the river turns north. It is a fertile strip of land thanks to the silt which the river threw out when its course is abruptly twisted towards the north. In Tashta, the cannabis is always taller than that of the other places and the quality of resin is better. It was eleven p.m. when they finished. Mohammed felt hungry and tired. He paid Abdel Aziz and went home.
|
