The Spider's House by Paul Bowles

through the street he was being disrespectful to the memory of the exiled Sultan. If he smoked a cigarette in public he was contributing to French revenue, and he risked a beating or a knifing later in some dark alley. The thousands of students from the Medersa Karouine and the College of Moulay Idriss went so far as to declare an unlimited period of national mourning, and took to walking morosely by themselves, muttering a few inaudible syllables to each other when they met.
    For Amar it was difficult to accept this sudden transition. Why should there be no more drums beaten, no flutes played, in the market at Sidi Ali bou Ralem, through which he liked to pass on his way home from work? He knew it was necessary to drive the French out, but he had always imagined that this would be donegloriously, with thousands of men on horseback flashing their swords and calling upon Allah to aid them in their holy mission as they rode down the Boulevard Moulay Youssef toward the Ville Nouvelle. And the Sultan would get an army from the Germans or the Americans and return victorious to his throne in Rabat. It was hard to see any connection between the splendid war of liberation and all this whispering and frowning. For a long time he debated with himself whether to discuss his doubts with the potter. He was earning good wages now and was on excellent terms with his master. Since the night several weeks ago when they had gone to the café, he had attempted no further consolidation of intimate friendship, because he was not sure that he really liked Said. It seemed to him partly the man’s fault that everything was going wrong in the town, and he could not help feeling that had he never known him, somehow his own life would be different now.
    He decided finally to take the risk of speaking with him, but at the same time to make sure that his real question was masked with another.
    One afternoon he and Saïd had locked themselves into the upper shed to have a cigarette together. (No one smoked any more save in the strictest secrecy, because the Istiqlal’s decision to destroy the French government’s tobacco monopoly provided not only for the burning of the warehouses and all shops that sold tobacco, but also for the enforcement by violence of the party’s anti-smoking campaign. The commonest punishment for being caught smoking was to have your cheek slashed with a razor.) Being shut into this small space with his master, and sharing with him the delightful sensation of danger which their forbidden activity occasioned, gave Amar the impetus to speak. He turned to the older man and said nonchalantly: “What do you think of the story that the Istiqlal may sell out to the French?”
    The potter almost choked on his smoke. “What?” he cried.
    Amar invented swiftly. “I heard that the Resident, the civil they have there now, offered the big ones a hundred million francs to forget the whole thing. But I don’t think they’ll take it, do you?”

    “What?” the man roared, again. Amar felt a thrill of excitement as he watched his reaction. It was as if until this moment he had never seen him save asleep, and now were seeing him awake for the first time.
    “Who told you that?” he yelled. The intensity of his expression was so great that Amar, a little alarmed, decided to make the report easily discreditable.
    “A boy I know.”
    “But who?” the man insisted.
    “Ah, a crazy derri , a kid who goes to the College of Moulay Idriss. Moto, we call him. I don’t even know his real name.”
    “Have you repeated this story to anyone else?” The potter was glaring at him with a frightening fixity. Amar felt uncomfortable.
    “No,” he said.
    “It’s lucky for you. That’s a story invented by the French. Your friend was paid by them to spread it. He’ll probably be killed soon.”
    Amar was incredulous; it showed on his face. The man tossed his cigarette away and put his two hands on the boy’s shoulders. “You don’t know