The Aïssaoua in Paris[a]

Come, see what's happened in this evil year.

The earthquake tumbled all the houses down,

Locusts and crickets have left naught behind.

Hear what has happened to those negro scamps,

Musicians--rogues, and Aïssaoua.

They spoke of nothing but their project great.

Bad luck to him who lacks sincerity!

On learning of the tour of Rayyato

They all began to cry and run about,

Half with bare feet, although the rest were shod.

The Lord afflicts them much in this our world.

'Twas only negroes, poor house-colorers,

Who did not follow them about in crowds.

The Christian Salvador put them on ship.

One felt his breast turn and exclaimed, "I'm sick."

A wench poured aromatics on the fire,

And thus perfumed the air. For Paris now

They're off, to see the great Abd-el-Azyz.

The Christians packed them like a cricket-swarm,

Between the sea and church, upon the wharf

He drew them, wonders promising, and led

Them but to beggary.

He takes them to

His land to show them to the chief of all

His masters, to the Emperor. He hopes

To get a present and thus pay them back,

Retaining all the money he advanced.

[A] Former student of the Medersa of Algiers, bookbinder, lutemaker, and

copier of manuscripts, Qaddour ben Omar ben Beuyna, best known among his

coreligionists as Qaddour el Hadby (the hunchback), who died during the

winter of 1897-1808, has sung for thirty years about all the notables of

his city.

This lively poem was composed by him on they occasion of the departure for

Paris of a band of musicians, singers, and Aissaoua, who figured at the

Exposition of 1867, under the direction of a professor of music named

Salvador Daniel. The original is in couplets of six hemistichs.

Perhaps they'll show themselves upon some stage

Or elsewhere as his fancy leads. The blacks

Begin to dance to sound of castanets.

The Christians bet on what will happen next.

They say a letter has arrived which says

That they've suppressed ablutions and their prayers.

One has been very ill--"I do not know

What is the matter with me"--but the cause

Of all his illness was because he fell

On the perfuming-pans that they had brought.

For Imam they have ta'en the dancing-girl

Who leads the dances. With her boxes small

In basket made of grass, a picture fine!

Come, see it now; you'd think it was a ghost.

The Christian works them all, and most are seized

With folly. Would you know the first of all?

Well, sirs, 'tis Et-Try, and he is the son

Of one Et-Germezlyya. Never has

He thought of doing well, he lives for crime.

The shrewd "Merkanty" made a profit on them.

Et-Try served them as an interpreter.

The Christian ought to make them this year gain

A thousand d'oros. But I pray to God

To send those two men to the fires of hell.

Now Aly Et-Try is their manager;

He runs about all day, with naught achieved.

The Christian kept them in a stable shut,

And like a squad of soldiers took them out.

He herded them like oxen there, and naught

Was lacking but the drover's lusty cries.

Consider now the plight of Ould Sayyd,

The big-jawed one. He gained ten thousand francs,

And lost them all at gambling. Naught remains

Except the benches and some coffee-grounds.

The leader of musicians, wholly daft,

Whose beard is whiter than the whitest wool,

Has gone to Paris gay to see the sights.

(I hope he'll bring up in the fires of hell!)

If he comes back deceived, at least he'll say

He's been abroad, and dazzle all his friends.

The oboe-player, Sydy Ali, was

Barber and cafekeeper, eager for

A change, and crazy to get gold. "This trip,"

He told his friends, "is but a pilgrimage."

There's nothing lacking but the telbyya.

"I've taken trips before and with good luck.

I was the master, with my art acclaimed.

I was director of the Nouba, at

The court, when Turkey held the reins of power.

I was a court buffoon and broke my heart.

O Lord, why send'st thou not thy servant death?

"I left a workman in my shop so that

I might not lose my trade. I went to show

My oboe, for someone might ask for it.

I used to travel with musicians once."

God bless him!--what a workman. He conversed

With all the customers who passed that way.

He took them in the shop and told his case--

"I'm here for a short while." Then he began

To praise his patron, who, he said, would have

A gift for him.

And his lieutenant, named

Oulyd-el-Hadj Oualy, is a fool

Who thinks his word superior to all,

And that there's no one like him in this world.

When he has gone there and come back again,

He will be perfect. All he contradicts

Who speak to him, and will not let them lift

A finger. Little love he hath for those

Who speak with candor, but he's very fond

Of liars, and always bids them come to him.

"My childhood was so pampered!" he remarks,

And flies into a passion if one doubts.

He only lives on semolina coarse,

And empty is his paunch, all slack and limp.

Yet every day he tells you how he's dined.

"I have discovered," he is wont to say

"A certain semolina lately brought

By a Maltese, who lives some distance off.

You never saw the like. I'm going to have

Some fine cakes made of it, and some meqrout."

And El-Hadj Mostefa was dragged along

By all these lies and by the love of gain.

If God had not abandoned him, he'd be

Still making lasts. But 'twas the crowd that led

Him on, and that is how it came to pass.

With them is donkey-faced Hamyda, who

Sold flowers in the market-place. He left

His family no coins to live upon,

But told them only: "Moderate your pace.

I'll buy a house for you when I get back,

And we shall live in plenty evermore."

Sydy Ahmed et Tsoqba timbals had

As big as goat-skin bottles. He desired

To play in unison, but the musicians all

Abhorred him, for he could not keep in time.

The heart of Sydy Ahmed glows with love

For Ayn-bou-Sellouf, who is very fair.

I hope that cares and fainting-fits may swell

Him out, and yellow he will straight become

As yellow as a carrot in a field.

I love Sydy-t-Tayyeb when he sings

And plays the tambourine. Such ugliness

My eyes have never seen. You'd think he was

A clown. He says: "No one could vanquish me

Were I not just a trifle ill to-day."

Qaddour, the little cock, the drummer-boy,

Who hangs on walls and colors houses here

Or tars roofs with his mates, exclaims: "I took

This voyage just to get a bit of air."

Koutchouk stayed here, he did not go away.

Fresh apricots he sells down in the square.

"Repose," he murmurs, "is the best of foods,

And here my little heart shall stay in peace."

When Abd-el-Quader, undertaker's son.

Falls in his fits of folly, he binds round

His figure with a cord and does not lie

Inert and stiff. But still they scorpions see

In Altai's hand, Chaouch of Aïssaoua.

Faradjy--fop--eats fire and fig-leaves now;

The while Hasan the Rat excites him on

To doughty deeds with his loud tambourine.

Playing with all his might and all his soul.

They dragged the hedge-rows green of El Qettár

To pay this tribute to the Emperor.

That fop, Ben Zerfa, who chopped hashish seeds

Among us here, said: "We have had good luck

This summer, and I'm going to pay my debts.

I'll execute my drill with stick and sword

And serve my sheik the very best I can."

If you had seen Ben Zerfa as he ran,

So lightly, bearing on his sturdy back

A basket filled with, heaven alone knows what!

It looked like cactus-pears, the basket closed.

El Hadj Batâta--see his silly trance!

With shirt unbuttoned and with collar off,

And cap on eyes, at beating of the drums,

He shows his tuft denuded all of hair.

Even Móstafa ben el Meddâh desired

To go to Paris and his fortune make.

"On my return," he said, "I'll buy a lamp,

A coffee-tray, and goodly sugar-bowl;

A big and little mattress, too, I'll buy,

A carpet and a rug so soft and fine."

Es Snybla, bellows-faced, who used to work

For our good mayor, off to Paris went

To make the soldiers' coffee. When he comes

Back home again, so much he will have earned.

He will be richer than a merchant great.

Oh, welcome, Sydy Omar! All of Paris

Is charmed to see you, O my Snybla dear!

If he would only go to Mexico,

And stay there it would be a riddance good.

He is a cafékeeper, and his son

A baker. For associate he has

Sydy Aly Mehraz, who does his work

Astride a thorn; he surely doth deserve

Our compliments. All three you see are dressed

In duck, in fashion of the Christian men.

There's de Merzong; the people say he's good,

But still they fear him, he is so uncouth.

Good God! When he begins aloud to cry

In Soudanese, it is enough to make

You fly to the antipodes away.

Oulyd ben Zamoum saw his cares increase--

Since he is a musician, as he thinks,

The world is rid of him. And when he starts

To play the first string of the violin,

The while the Jewess doth begin to sing!

With him two Jews departed, and the like

You never saw on earth. A porcupine

The first resembled, and the other one

Was one-eyed. You should hear them play the lute!

Some persons heard my story from afar,

Oulyd Sydy Sáyd, among them, and

Brymat, who laughed abundantly. And with

Them was the chief of Miliana. All

Were seated on an iron bench, within

The right-hand shop. They called me to their booth

Where I had coffee and some sweets. But when

They said, "Come take a smoke," I was confused.

"Impossible," I answered, "for I have

With Sydy Hasan Sydy Khelyl studied,

And the Senousyya. So I cannot."

Ben Aysa came to me, with angry air,

"The Antichrist," he said, "shall spring from thee.

I saw within that book you have at home

His story truly told." "You're right," said I,

"Much thanks!" And then I laughed to see

Him turn his eyes in wrath.

He said to me

'Tis not an action worthy of a man;

He glared at me with eyes as big as cups

And face an egg-plant blue. He wanted to

Get at me, in his rage, and do me harm.

With him my uncle was, Mahomet-ben-El-Haffaf,

who remains at prayer all day.

He heard this prelude and he said to them,

"It is not an affair." "Fear not," they said,

"For they will put you also in the song."

He's tickled by the urchins' eulogies,

Who praise him as the master of chicane.

"'Tis finished now for thee to climb up masts."

They add: "You're but a laughing-stock for all.

You've stayed here long enough. You'd better go

And teach Sahary oxen how to read!"

When I recited all these lines to Sy

Mahomet Oulyd el-Isnam, who has

To the supreme degree the gift of being

A bore he said to me, "Now this is song

Most flat." The mice in droves within his shop

Have eaten an ounce of wool.

He is installed

Within the chamber of El Boukhary.

In posture of a student, in his hands

Some sky-blue wool. "It is," he says, "to make

Some socks for little children, for I have

But little wool."

When I had finished quite

This dittyramb, and El-Hadj-ben-er-Rebha

Became acquainted with it, he began

To laugh, telling his beads the while, and then

His decoration from his wallet took,

Which had been there enclosed.

My song spread wide.

They found it savory. Respected sirs,

It is the latest Friday in the month

Of El Mouloud and in the year we call

Twelve hundred ninety-four, that I complete

This tale fantastic.

Would you know my name?

I am Qaddour, well known to all the world,

Binder to Sydy Boû Gdour, and attired

In gechchabyya-blouse. And if my back

Were not deformed, none could compete with me.

They told me, "When those folk come back again

Thou'd better hide thyself for fear of harm.

They'll break thy hump and send thee home to heaven."

"Oh, I'll protect myself," I said, "or else complain

To the police."

If I were not so busy

I'd still have many other things to say.

Those who have heard my prattle say it's good;

So say the singers and musicians, too,

Ez Zohra ben-el-Foul among them, who

Pays compliments to me, from window-seat.

He who hath nothing found that's useful here

Will find in this my song what suits him best.

But if he wants to see here something more,

Then stretch him 'neath the stick and give him straight

A thousand blows upon the belly; then

Take him away to the physician, who

Will bleed him well.

And now may hearts not be

Made sad by what I have so lightly said.

I've placed myself among you, so that I

May not incur your blame, O brothers mine.

I've told you my deformity, and all

My miseries unveiled before your gaze.