Morocco, Its People and Places

by Edmondo De Amicis

This tribute was the mona or muna. Besides the heavy tax they pay in money, the inhabitants of the country are obliged to furnish all official personages, the soldiers of the Sultan, and all envoys passing by, with a certain quantity of provisions. The Government fixes the quantity, but the local authorities demand whatever they please, without reference to the quantity received, although it may be more than is required, and it is always a small portion of that which has been extorted the month before, or will be extorted in the following month after the presentation.

An old man, who appeared to be the head of the deputation, addressed, through the interpreter, some obsequious words to the ambassador. The others, who were all poor peasants clothed in rags, looked at us, our tents, and their tribute—the fruit of their labor lying at our feet—with an air of mingled astonishment and depression which betrayed a profound resignation.

A division having been quickly made of the things, between the ambassador’s larder and that of the escort, muleteers, and soldiers, Signor Morteo, who had that morning been named Intendant-General of the camp, rewarded the old Arab, who made a sign to his companions, and all silently departed as they had come.

Then began, what was to take place every day from that time forth, a great squabbling among the servants, muleteers, and soldiers, over the sharing of the muna. It was a most amusing scene. Two or three of them went up and down with measured steps, carrying each a sheep in his arms, invoking Allah and the ambassador; others yelled out their discontent and enforced their reasoning by beating the ground with their fists; Civo fluttered about in his long white shirt with the profound conviction that he was very terrible; the sheep baa-d, the hens ran here and there, the dogs yelped. Suddenly up-rose the ambassador, and all was still.

The only one who continued to grumble was Selam.

Selam was a great personage. In reality there were two of the Legation soldiers who bore that name, both belonging to the special service of the ambassador; but, as when we say Napoleon we mean the first of that name, so when we said Selam we meant one, and one only.

He was a handsome young fellow, tall and slender, and full of cleverness. He understood every thing at a glance, did every thing with all his might, walked in a series of leaps, spoke with a look, and was in motion from morning until night. Everybody came to him, about the baggage, the tents, the kitchen, the horses, and he had an answer for all. He spoke Spanish badly and knew a few words of Italian, but could have made himself understood in Arabic, so speaking and picturesque was his pantomime. To indicate a hill, he made the gesture of a fiery colonel pointing out to his men a battery that is to be assaulted. To reprove a servant, he fell upon him as if he were about to annihilate him. He always reminded me of Salvini in “Othello,” or “Oromanes.” In whatever attitude he presented himself, whether pouring water on the ambassador’s spine, or galloping by on his chestnut horse, nailed to his saddle, he was always the same bold, graceful, and elegant figure. The two painters were never tired of looking at him. He wore a scarlet caftan and blue drawers, and was easily distinguished from one end of the camp to another. His name was in every mouth all over the encampment. When he was angry he was a savage; when he laughed, a child. Il Signor Ministro was for ever in his mouth and in his heart, for he placed him after Allah and the Prophet. Ten guns levelled at his breast would not have paled his cheek, and an undeserved rebuke from the ambassador made him cry. He was about five-and-twenty.

When he had done grumbling, he came near me and began opening a box. As he stooped, his fez fell off and I saw a large blood-mark on his head. In answer to my question, he said that he had been wounded by a loaf of sugar. “I threw it up in the air,” he said, with gravity, “and it came down on my head.” I looked amazed, and he explained—“I do it,” he said, “to harden my head. The first time I fell down insensible, but now it only draws a little blood. A time will come when it will not break the skin. All the Arabs do it. My father broke bricks as thick as two fingers on his head as easily as I would break a loaf of bread. A true Arab,” he concluded, with a haughty air, striking his head a blow with his fist, “should have a head of iron.”

The encampment that evening presented a very different aspect from that of the preceding days. Everybody had fallen into their own habits of passing the time. The artists had erected their easels and were hard at work in front of their tent. The captain had gone to observe the ground, the vice-consul to collect insects, the ex-Spanish minister to shoot partridges; the ambassador and the commandant were playing chess in the dining-tent; the servants were playing leap-frog; the soldiers of the escort conversed sitting in a circle; of the rest some walked about, some read, some wrote; one would have thought we had been there a month. If I had had a small printing-press I could have found it in my heart to edit a newspaper.

The weather was exquisite; we dined with the tent open, and during dinner the horsemen of Had-el-Garbia shouted, and fired off their guns, while the sun went down in splendor.