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The Desert was Memmi’s fourth novel, which follows the adventures of a displaced Jewish Numidian prince, Al-Mammi, who is styled as Albert Memmi’s ancestor. Al-Mammi finds himself entertaining Tamerlane with a series of tales in the fashion of The Arabian Nights that form the content of the story. It resonates with The Scorpion in its experimental style, this time drawing upon techniques from North African oral traditions, and also because the main character’s lost country, “The Kingdom of Within” is invoked in the closing section of the earlier novel. Memmi once more blends history and fiction, truth and allegory, in exploring the search for wisdom, as is evident in the two framing chapters of the novel included here (selections one and two).
What Historians Have to Say
I promised—some years ago now—to bring out the chronicle of the Kingdom of Within fairly quickly.1 Life has not let me.
My few readers, those who still have faith in me, deserve not to be kept in suspense, so I have decided to bring out separately this portion devoted to the life and adventures of Jubair Wali al-Mammi. My readers may recall that this is my oldest known ancestor, with the exception, of course, of the Numidian prince who appears on horseback on Mr. Rousset’s Punic medal, the one I reproduced in The Scorpion.
You can see that The Desert is in the same vein as my previous novels. The subject is still the history of our family, or tribe, or whatever you like to call it. As always, I have tried to be as truthful as possible, and respectful of tradition.
Anyway, here is what historians have to say:
In the Gurara, in the extreme north of the Touat region between Tamentit and Sba-Gerara, there existed a small independent kingdom, the Kingdom of Within, which survived until the fifteenth century. We know about its language, customs, and institutions; we even have details about the disaster that brought about its end.
The credit for passing down this knowledge is mainly due to my ancestor, Jubair Wali al-Mammi, who did his best to write the chronicle of his native land, under circumstances that he himself describes.
It was in 1392, after a decisive assault by Tamerlane, followed by an almost total massacre of the population, that the Kingdom of Within ceased to exist. Eight years later, in 1400 to be exact, in the city of Damascus, which had been sacked in turn by the same conqueror, al-Mammi was paying obeisance to the victor.
My ancestor was by then a handsome old man almost in his sixties, they say; he was wearing “a turban of raw silk and a burnoose as finely woven as his wit, in its color resembling the first shades of night.” This garment attracted the attention of the great Conqueror, who said, “That man there is not one of ours.” Al-Mammi thereupon introduced himself.
Tamerlane, his interest aroused by his captive, invited him to his table and asked him to explain why the collapse of the Kingdom of Within had been so rapid. Since Tamerlane had just then conquered the illustrious city of Balkh, and was considering making it his capital, he asked for Jubair’s advice: what should he do to prevent this city, of which he had such high hopes, from succumbing to the same ill fate?
Al-Mammi was evasive at first: “Sire, one does not counsel a king.” Then, as his questioner insisted, he asked permission to retell his own life and adventures across the world. Perhaps the Conqueror would find his answer in al-Mammi’s own story.
Here is the tale that my ancestor, Jubair Wali al-Mammi, told Timur Lang, called the Lame Conqueror.
What Historians Add
Patient Reader (for so you are since you have borne with me until now), I must bring this story to a close, at least for the time being.
We can take it up again someday, if I have the leisure again and some strength left. Then I will tell you the rest of the adventures of my ancestor Jubair Wali al-Mammi; and perhaps what happened to his descendants, my more recent forebears—the noble Memmi Ettounsi, who was vizier of the king of Bardo, or Lippa Memmi, the famous painter mentioned in the Great Encyclopedia; or again the life of the sage Makhlouf, with which I regaled you in The Scorpion—but God alone is the master of time.
While we are waiting, would you like to know whether Tamerlane allowed Jubair to finish his work?
The answer is that he did.
Enthralled by the speaker’s intelligence, the sovereign suggested that he should stay in his court and become his historiographer. Jubair refused; he felt he was getting old and preferred to complete the chronicle of his own people. Tamerlane gave him his protection anyway.
Would you like to know whether Tamerlane followed my ancestor’s advice?
The answer is that he didn’t.
The great conqueror made Balkh his capital.
As for the rest, it’s well known; and I’m sure that you’re only asking me these questions out of modesty.
Later on, by way of thanking his illustrious conqueror, Jubair offered him a copy of his chronicle; which copy, placed in the library of Balkh, was to be discovered in the ruins of the city.
For Balkh was taken and razed to the ground when its turn came.
Tamerlane, however, did not witness the destruction of his capital. He had died a few years earlier, by curious coincidence in the same year as al-Mammi.
At least that is what some historians think, among them the highly knowledgeable Ayoun. Others, including the most perceptive al-Milli, one of the historiographers of my family, think they have found the traces of my ancestor as the founding sovereign of a new dynasty.
In the absence of decisive evidence, I shall adhere to the second version. I prefer to believe, in fact, that eventually my ancestor, with the aid of his powerful patron, regained the crown that he no longer sought, after having hoped for it for so long.
His judicious renunciation of it was, we remember, the condition under which peace was made with his royal cousin and spoiler. But al-Mammi never ceased to affirm that he would not decline the honor if his turn to reign did come. That is why his fellow countrymen turned to him.
The ideal monarch is the one who, while not refusing the duty of reigning, nevertheless does not aspire to it; who, having all the qualifications for glory, does not appear to be avidly seeking it.
Our hero won everything in the end, because he no longer claimed anything at all.