Mohamed bought a sheep, a cow, and a dozen roosters. He even wanted to buy a camel but M’Barka stopped him.She was afraid of the evil eye. She knew what certain womenin the village were capable of. She suspected they wouldinevitably cast a spell on her. She was used to the jealousy ofothers, even of people who had nothing, and she knew howto distance herself from it.

Abdelkébir had to be celebrated. One had to give him a sense of joy upon his arrival in the world, but, at the sametime, protect him.

Like all Moroccan women, M’Barka had her fquih, whom she could count on in case of danger. He was simply calledEl-Hadj, an old man known both for his piety and for hiscontact with the invisible world, the world of the djinn, andfor his power as a sorcerer. She went to see him. He preparedthe protective hjab she was to permanently leave aroundAbdelkébir’s neck, especially during the celebration of hisbirth. He also taught her mysterious incantations and advisedher to say them regularly during the celebration.

Everything turned out fine, in the end. Happiness came easily, seemed close at hand, eternal. Evil no longer existed. SidiMoulay Brahim protected them all, his baraka guided them.

Later, Abdelkébir was even granted a rare privilege: since M’Barka no longer had milk in her breasts, my uncle’s wife,Fatéma, nursed him in her place for at least four months and,through this link, became his second mother. Several yearslater, when kids from an opposing clan took it out on me forthe thrashing my clan had given them, slamming my headagainst a wall, and blood flowed incredibly red for a long timefrom the right side of my skull, Fatéma cared for me tenderly,putting sweet red pepper on my wound. Finally, to calm medown and stop my tears, she took her right breast out and putit in my mouth. I never understood this mystery: Fatémaalways had milk in her breasts, even as an old lady. All my lifeI would remember the very sweet taste of her milk, its consistency, its smell that strangely brought to mind the scent offlowers in the public garden at Hay Salam. I can still seemyself sucking like a baby, Fatémas strong milk invading mymouth, my palate, my throat, my stomach, my intestines. Iliked it. I love it: this connection and this liquid, this feelingof well-being and this love, this pleasure and this sorrow. Iwas eight years old when this double event took place.