Ghizlane’s life was no fun — far from it. She didn’t have any time to herself, she’d slave away all day long. She left the kitchen only to do the shopping, take the bread to the ovens, or fetch water from the pump. She’d make the meals, serve them, do the washing up, mop the cement section of the floor and sprinkle the rest. The afternoon was given over to laundry. She’d have to hang the washing on a line outside the house and, since they didn’t have a terrace, she’d sit on a stool all afternoon to guard it, not just from thieves but in case the wind got up; then she had to take it down in a hurry, otherwise the clouds of dust would mean she had to start all over again. Meanwhile her mother, who’d taken early retirement, spent her days sipping tea with the neighbors, hanging around the souk as soon as a consignment of contraband was rumored to be arriving, or keeping company with her oaf of a husband at mealtimes. The only contact she had with her daughter consisted of criticism and abuse, and usually ended in tears. Life might have gone on this way if Ghizlane hadn’t rebelled. And I played a part in it too. Together we worked out a clever counterattack, an unexpected strategy from a couple of twelve-year-olds. The plan was for Ghizlane to fall asleep on the job and make a mess of anything she possibly could: add too much salt to the tagines, leave it out of the bread dough altogether, put a pinch of killer chilli in salads, sweep before damping down the floor so that dust spread right through the shack, leave stains in the laundry or make new ones. . in short, as far as possible try to poison the sweet, peaceful life of her stepfather and her hag of a mother. In spite of the hell Ghizlane and Fuad were forced to endure for weeks on end, the plan paid off. They put up with the beatings, the humiliation and bullying. They were made to eat those revolting meals, the salads that were on fire with chilli, the gut-wrenching soups, while their mother and Uncle Mbark brought delicious sandwiches back from the market and shut themselves up in their room to eat them. This war of attrition might have gone on indefinitely had it not been for the intervention of Mi-Lalla, their paternal grandmother. Heaven had sent her to put an end to this situation, now become unbearable. She suggested to Halima and Uncle Mbark that the children come to stay with her until things settled down, explaining that it was normal for them to be upset by their father’s death, their mother’s remarrying so soon, and all the rest. A few weeks at most and things would be back to normal. Mother and uncle were only too willing, and it was salvation for all concerned. Ghizlane and Fuad packed their bags the same night and went to live with Mi-Lalla in Douar Scouila, a shantytown half an hour’s walk from ours.

The Stars of Sidi Moumen took the news badly, fearing Fuad would be tempted away by his new neighborhood’s local team. But that didn’t happen. Moreover, a little while later, he stopped sniffing glue and was back to his dazzling best as our center forward. A new life was beginning for Ghizlane, too, since Mi-Lalla had taken her under her wing. She banned her from setting foot in the kitchen and enrolled her in an embroidery school run by someone she knew. “You have to have a trade, child, it’s the only way to be free.” Free: there was a word that resonated in Ghizlane’s ears. It struck a chord, it consoled her. Yes, she would learn a trade and be free, vindicating the faith placed in her. She realized how lucky she was to have a grandmother like Mi-Lalla, who treated her so kindly, who fussed over her and spoke to her gently, who gave her the gold ring she’d been given by her own mother. She made her promise never to part with it. “You’ll give it to your own daughter one day!” she’d concluded. Ghizlane turned as red as a tomato.

Mi-Lalla belonged to what passed for aristocracy in Douar Scouila. The widow of a soldier who’d been killed in Indochina, she received a monthly pension, which, converted into dirhams, amounted to a tidy sum. And since she hadn’t stopped working and didn’t spend much, she’d managed to build up a decent nest egg. No one knew where she had stashed her money; her house, which was built of concrete, had been visited many times by burglars. One day she found her garden completely dug up, since the thieves believed she had buried her savings there. It was a waste of effort. Mi-Lalla’s fortune lay in a safe place known only to herself and God. Fuad used to say he’d rather not find out, or it would be too tempting. That made Ghizlane laugh. She’d reply that he had many faults, but stealing wasn’t one of them. And anyway, she was going to ask Grandma’s permission to start making cakes, as she used to do, and he could sell them at the souk. That way, he wouldn’t have to ask anyone for money. Now that he’d given up sniffing glue and had gone back to soccer, he didn’t have as many needs.

Mi-Lalla’s work, as unpopular here as anywhere else, made her a lot of enemies. She was a representative of the law. Since men weren’t allowed to enter people’s homes to make spot inventories of goods before they were confiscated, it fell to mature women to do the job. It was a painful duty and the grandmother performed it reluctantly. She felt for these people who were about to have everything taken away because they were unable to pay their debts. Even after thirty years in the job, she still had scruples. Sometimes she’d send a messenger to warn her victims she’d be coming the next day. That way, they had time to move their most precious things during the night: their radio, television set, wool-filled mattresses. . Even so, people avoided her like the plague. She was never invited to anyone’s home, for fear she’d suddenly ask them to account for their furniture. People were too unkind, because Mi-Lalla had a big heart. It was true that she made her living from other people’s misfortune, but it was a job, like any other. Gravediggers do the same, but they’re still decent, honest people. I should know. As for me, I loved her as if she were a member of my family. She’d adopted me too, since I often came to play with her grandchildren. I called her Grandma like they did. She could see I was crazy about Ghizlane and it amused her. Coming across us sitting in a corner, she whispered: “One day, I’ll marry the two of you.” But before that, we had to behave ourselves. “Don’t get up to any mischief, I’m watching you!” she called out, laughing.

Some temporary arrangements endure. The few weeks that Ghizlane and Fuad were meant to stay with Mi-Lalla turned into months, then into years. Halima came to see them less and less and they were none the worse for it. Her children avoided her. They’d be out when they knew she was coming. Soon the visits were limited to holidays and then they stopped for good. No one suffered too much, except perhaps Ghizlane, a little. She confided this to Mi-Lalla, who had a talent for soothing aching hearts with her magical phrase: “Tomorrow’s light will open a different door.” One tomorrow followed another and it turned out she was right: time eventually eased the little girl’s distress.

Fuad now had a mobile stall measuring nearly one square meter, mounted on wheels that a blacksmith friend had made with great skill. He sold sweets, chocolates from Spain, lollipops, and Ghizlane’s cakes. He’d set himself up at the entrance to the only school in the vicinity, and business was good.

Ghizlane had learned how to embroider and was working for the nuns, who provided her with fabric and good-quality thread. She’d make tablecloths, napkins, sheets, pillowcases, handkerchiefs, and linen of all kinds. You’d sometimes see luxury cars parked near the house. Women in European clothes, smelling strongly of perfume, would come to place orders with her. Mi-Lalla would tell her she ought to give some thought to her own trousseau, too, and Ghizlane would pretend to be annoyed.