At last, I arrived in Tafraout after Yuba, a very dear friend of mine , had implored me countless times to pay him a visit. Personally, I do not take any particular delight in visiting people, but Yuba was so special to me. It was in the early summer of 2010 when I did so. Soon after setting foot in Tafraout, Yuba came to drive me home. ‘Oh, what a marvellous town !’ I wondered. Then, he and I reached Toghza, his village, and everyone was happy about my arrival. I was very warmly welcomed. Actually, I had intended to spend the whole June in that exceptionally charming village.
Six days later, after having some rest and having had some traditional meals pertaining to that village, Yuba one day proposed to show me all the parts of his seemingly dilapidated house. It was traditionally attractive from the distance, though. He accompanied and showed me everything in the house, and only after some moments did I realise that he hesitated when we stopped at one big room. He skipped it and immediately avoided talking about it by suggesting that we would have a leisurely walk outside.
Though a trifle nonplussed and curious to know what made him hesitate the moment we got to that room, anyway, the walk we decided to have made me gave up the idea. We went to the nearby river, and I found water still flowing smoothly. I was enjoying the scenery, the landscapes and the golden rye plants. Ah, it was now the time of harvest. On the spur of the moment, that idea came back to me, and this time I made up my mind to ask him about the room.
‘ I think you forgot to show me one room, didn’t you ? ’ I asked at last.
‘ Well, that is a mere living room,’ Said Yuba.
‘ May I see it ? ‘ I asked out of curiosity.
‘ I don’t think you may, for I myself haven’t seen it yet, ’ replied Yuba, ‘ but I can tell you the whole story of it once we get home, ’ reassured Yuba.
Yuba had only his mother and one sister at home. His father died before his mother gave birth to him. Yuba earned his living by working as a pedlar selling natural milk. Well, he was satisfied with it, he once told me so. At that moment, I understood that the story he was going to tell me about the living-room was merely recounted to him by his living mother. One day as we sat down on the balcony , he suggested that he narrate the whole story to me from start to finish. I liked the idea, of course.
‘ Before my father’s death, my grandfather, who is still alive, had always warned my father not to open that room for us. At the time, I would think that he was afraid I might put it in disorder and the like. However, as I learnt later from my mother, in it, there is a window which looks on my grandparents’ porch where they sit together in the evenings. And because they did not want us to hear what they were talking about and to see them while enjoying themselves on the porch, they closed that window with bars, and it is still closed at the present, ’ recounted Yuba.
It was so unfortunate that I heard this real story from my best friend ever. Still, I was not yet convinced that this was the only reason why he and his mother were never allowed to enter this room even after his father’s death. And I was once again stimulated to probe more into other reasons. Then I asked Yuba if there were any more reasons.
‘ My mother once told me that my grandfather lives downstairs and the living room I am talking about lies above his bedroom. Soon after my father’s death, he came and changed the lock, and now he is the only one who owned the keys to it. From that moment on, he began to store his private belongings in it, and recently I heard that he was thinking of building another storey over it so that it would be the living room of his own forever. I believe that he doesn’t have the right to own it because my mother told me that it was my father who built it right after their wedding, ’ Added Yuba.
I was stunned to learn all these facts about the living room. Strangest of them is the fact that Yuba and his mother had never entered it.
Omar BIHMIDINE
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