Goat Mountain. Habib Selmi
the door. “If you need anything, please inform me. I am the government’s representative in Goat Mountain.” Astonished by his words, I stood motionless and suddenly the image of him standing beneath the carob tree, weeping for a grandfather long dead, flashed through my mind.
My home was made ready in a single day; the spiders webs obliterated, the walls painted and the door and windows polished. Years later, as I watched the noontide light filtering through the small window of my cell, I recalled the first moments of my life in that house.
***
I spent the first days alone, keeping to myself. At nightfall, I would light my lantern and compose long letters to my family, telling them how the residents of Goat Mountain grew exceptional potatoes, how their children were intelligent and how terribly alone I felt. Their letters always took a long time to reach me. I would wait expectantly for the day when Ismail went to collect them from Al-‘Ala, the last delivery point. Within a short space of time, we grew very close. He introduced me to every family in the village, taking me round from house to house. But, in spite of that, I remained wary of him. Whenever we passed the mulberry tree, he would assure me that it was his grandfather who had planted it. He had bought the seedling in the city, Ismail told me, and, as it grew, he had built protective fencing around it to guard it from the cows and goats. It was he who had pruned it back every year and this, Ismail asserted, entitled him to exclusive rights over its fruits.
The isolation that he occasionally imposed on himself also intrigued me. For days on end he would remain in his house, talking to no one. In order to save money so as to accomplish his grandfather’s dying wish, he often consumed only boiled potatoes, larks caught in snares or wild plants uprooted from the vegetation surrounding his house. On other occasions, however, he would embark on a lavish shopping spree in Al-‘Ala, returning laden with shoes, socks, trousers and saddlebags stuffed with tins of his beloved sardines, as well as vials of perfume which he lined up on the bookcase. The residents of Goat Mountain observed him with ironic smiles.
“He’ll meet the same end as his grandfather,” they murmured to one another.
At the beginning of every month, Ismail went from house to house, noting down all new births, a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles inherited from his grandfather perched on his nose. With utmost care, he recorded the names of the babies, their fathers, mothers, grandfathers and grandmothers in an imposing logbook and, on Thursdays, he copied them into the official government files in Al-‘Ala. He would often grow agitated when the new parents could not specify the exact time of birth and sometimes he would even remove the coverlet from the baby and flip it over to confirm its sex.
The citizens of Goat Mountain, he informed me, only thought of such matters when their babies had already begun to crawl around.
At the end of every month, meanwhile, Ismail would gather everyone beneath the mulberry tree and read to them from a newspaper, which was always a week out of date. After reviewing everything of import, he would tell his audience that the soil of Goat Mountain was fertile, that it produced the world’s finest potatoes and that the government would soon add new rooms to the school, build a hospital, and lay a wide road through the mountains, connecting Goat Mountain to Al-‘Ala. They would pave the streets and exterminate the insects and rodents, and Goat Mountain would be transformed into a great city frequented by ministers, circuses, famous bands and tourists eager to experience their exceptional potato farming.
Ismail would begin his monologue softly but his voice grew gradually louder as he progressed, his eyes glowing and spittle flying from his mouth.
***
Then one day everything changed. I often try to reconstruct the exact details of the scene in my head. At first, it remains hazy but I pursue it stubbornly until I can almost inhale the scent of the wooden chairs. I was standing in the classroom facing the blackboard. Moving my head slightly, I caught sight of Ismail. He moved through the chairs to the back of the class and took a seat. That night I found him at home, totally absorbed in writing, soaking his lower legs in a bucket of water. Seeing me hovering in the doorway, he lifted his head. Fatigue was written plainly across his features. He gave a forced smile then looked down again.
“I’m writing a report about you,” he said, “about your teaching.”
He shifted his legs about in the bucket and gave another smile. I stood rooted to the spot, feeling a cold shiver down my spine. Saying nothing, I gazed intently at the rainbow of colours cast by his oil lamp. Ismail seemed to relax, leaning back against the wooden chair.
“You understand . . . don’t you?” he asked, putting his pen down. “It’s my job.”
He fell silent for a moment and then continued, toying with the pen.
“I cannot remain silent . . .”
“About what?” I interrupted him.
He sprang instantly to his feet.
“Don’t think me so gullible,” he roared, “I know your tricks.”
He fell silent. I saw his right hand slacken. He sat back on the chair, looking at me as though he would like to continue speaking.
The next time he came to the school, I stood blocking the doorway. I was furious and was determined to confront him. He did not attempt to push past me but simply grinned broadly and turned on his heel, walking slowly away and glancing left and right. I continued watching him until he had crossed the courtyard.
As he disappeared I felt as though I had won a victory, and the idea that Ismail was my enemy became embedded in my mind.
Several days later I discovered that he was no longer talking to me. My letters began to arrive later and later. I would receive only one a month. Then they stopped altogether and my isolation was complete.
It is not easy to live alone in a small village like Goat Mountain. I awoke to this reality after my initial burst of enthusiasm. I buried myself in study but could not dispel my loneliness. One night I decided not to light my lantern, and remained in darkness. Anger seized me and I tossed and turned feverishly on my mattress, sinking into a long spell of delirium. I had read and reread all the books I had brought with me and they no longer offered any respite or consolation.
Sometimes, I would spend hours tending to my hair, combing it to the right before ruffling it up and brushing it back to the left. Other times, I would clip my nails or stand in front of the mirror examining the colour of my eyes, trying to decide whether they were blue or green or yellowish green or bluish yellow. I developed strange new pastimes: counting all my notebooks with black covers and then all those with red ones; measuring the length and breadth of my bedroom; taking my razor apart and putting it together again; or simply gazing at my hands and trying to determine which was larger.
When my depression grew particularly severe I would take out my letter of appointment, contemplate it, then fold it back up and return it to its place.
During that same period, Ismail went into one of his periods of retreat. He would wake early and go for a short, lonely walk through the fields adjoining his house before disappearing inside once again.
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