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TANGIERS 123
longer tires me; it stimulates me; my enervation has
been succeeded by excitement, my excitement passes
into delirium. Some of the fakirs are completely
bathed in blood, and the two men who distribute the
axes have had to take them away from the fakirs.
Some of them have not one ax only, but three axes tied
in a bundle, which clashes in the air and strikes three
wounds at once. The axes have very thin blades and
are very light; they do not fall with great impact; but
they are sharp and can leave an ugly wound. Occas
sionally a fakir will fall and find it difficult to rise
again. The sacred loaf is placed over his head, and
he at once gets to his feet; then he prostrates himself,
beating his forehead against the ground.
The cursed wail of the clarinet continues to pierce
my brain incessantly; I have the sensation of being
about to perform some insane act in order to liberate
myself from this sound. These mad wretches with
their naked torsos, sullied with blood, sweat and dust,
and their bald heads covered with a profusion of red
wounds, are no longer repulsive to me, not even the
wretch who delicately caresses his own cheek with three
ax edges, cutting triple scars. The color of blood is no
longer the color of blood, but simply a fiery red, vo-
luptuously splendid in the sunlight.
I am unable to tear myself away; I cannot do other-
wise than follow the procession through the outer gate
and on over the flat hills of the road toward Fez. The
crowd is left behind, and returns to the city; the axes
are taken from the wild fakirs, one after the other; the
spectacle draws to an end. The last thing I see is the
figure of a man who will not give up his ax. He strug-
gles with the other men and kisses the edge of his
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