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the French tried to buy the land from him, no matter how much they offered, he would refuse to sell to them. Then the peasants would have great respect for him; his name would begin to be known further and further afield, men would come to him as to a qoadi for help and advice, which he would give generously. One day a Frenchman would arrive with an offer to make him a caïd; he saw himself laughing good-naturedly, easily, saying: “But I am already more than a caïd to my people. Why should I change?” The Frenchman, not understanding, would make all kinds of supplementary, underhandedoffers: percentages of the taxes, girls of his choosing from distant tribes, an orange grove here, a farm there, the deed to an apartment house in Dar el Beida, and money in great quantities, but he would merely go on laughing pleasantly, saying that he wanted nothing more than what he already had: the respect of his own people. The Frenchman would be mystified (for when had any Moroccan ever made such a statement?) and would go away with fear in his heart, and the news of Amar’s strength would travel fast, until even as far as Rhafsai and Taounate everyone would have heard of the young djibli who could not be bought by the French. And one day his chance would come. The Sultan would send for him secretly, to advise him on matters pertaining to the region he knew so well. He would be simple and respectful in his manner, but not humble, and the Sultan would find this very strange, and be a bit resentful at first, until Amar, without saying it in so many words, would let him see that his refusal to prostrate himself was a result only of his realization that sultans, however great, were merely men, all too mortal and all too fallible. The monarch would be impressed by Amar’s wisdom in having such an attitude, and by his courage in showing it, and would invite him to stay on with him. Little by little, with a whispered word here and there, he would come to be more valuable to the Sultan than El Mokhri himself. And there would arrive a time of crisis, when the Sultan would not be able to make a decision. Amar would be ready. With no hesitation he would step in and take control. At this point certain difficulties might arise. He would solve them the way every great man solves his problems: by staking everything on his own force. He saw himself sadly issuing the order for the Sultan’s execution; it must be done for the people. And after all, the Sultan was nothing but an Alaouite from the Tafilalet—to use plain language, a usurper. Everyone knew that. There were scores of men in Morocco with far more right to rule, including anyone in Amar’s own family, for they were Drissiyine, descendants of the first dynasty, the only rightful one in the land.
    Slowly the distant figures moved up the hillside. They wouldprobably keep going all night, and arrive home only sometime after dawn. He knew well enough how the country people lived; he had spent long months on his father’s farm at Kherib Jerad, before they had had to sell it, and each year they had gone to collect the family’s share of the crops. In his case the amused disdain that the city dweller feels for the peasant was tempered with respect. While a townsman was announcing his intentions at great length, a peasant would simply go ahead, without saying a word, and do what he had to do.
    Still standing there, looking out over the great expanse of bare sunlit land, his eyes following the little figures that crawled up the face of the slope, he considered the extent of his misfortune. If only his older brother had not happened to turn his head at a given, precise moment three nights earlier in an alley of Moulay Abdallah, Amar could now have been swimming in the river, or playing soccer outside Bab Fteuh, or merely sitting quietly on the roof making tunes on his flute, without the weight of dread inside him. But Mustapha had turned his head, seen him there in that forbidden place among the