4

FOR THREE DAYS, I have not had enough sleep. Around here everyone stays up late. You encounter people everywhere; they talk to you easily, spontaneously, and without fear. Some share a sandwich with you, others a soda or a cup of tea; still others invite you to travel with them to the North or South for free. These days lots of cars appear one day, only to vanish the next.

I used to love wandering around aimlessly, walking from one alley to the next. There were hippies everywhere, living mostly in cheap hotels or small dark rooms, in neighborhoods such as Ahl Agadir, the old Mellah, Bni Antar, Haddada, and Sandio. They all seemed just like mice, coming out of their holes to eat and then going back.

During those three days, I did not see Fatima; she seems to have been traveling somewhere else. I don’t know. The only thing I do know is that, after that night, I went back to the hotel by myself early in the morning, drunk and exhausted, and stayed in bed until the evening. I tried to vomit but without success; all that happened was that I belched up the stench of cheap wine, sardines, and cigarettes. The thing that I was afraid might happen did. When I finally woke up, I did not want to eat anything. By now it was evening, and I don’t like that because it reminds me of the end of the universe. Everything goes to bed so that the farce can continue—the great farce, that gigantic circus where all dispositions assemble and repeat themselves throughout the course of history: love, hatred, justice, tyranny, hypocrisy, theft, and good behavior, all wrapped in motives that at least initially may be genuine.

Now it’s evening again. Everything has happened today, but I’ve been away. Actually, even when I’m fully awake, I’m almost always not present. How many things that happen get repeated one time or another. This is evening: for them it marks the end of things, but for me the beginning. But without them those same things can’t be mine too; they make me feel that those things are mine as well. It’s a nice, ancient game, part of the great farce, the comedy, the big circus. I’ve had to adopt a role in this circus; I don’t know how to do the bear, lion, or tiger, but I can manage the donkey and mule very well. However, since humans despise both of them, I’ve preferred to be a fox tonight, especially since after a long day the flock is exhausted. When I was a child, I read a lot about wily foxes in school textbooks and heard a lot as well. The flocks of sheep kept walking along the narrow alleys in groups, while a few dawdling scabby ewes kept dragging their feet and sticking close to the walls; they were chewing over their daily worries and thinking about others to come and how they would go about solving them. Who knows, maybe death will surprise them and put an end to it all. For ewes, problems never end. No sooner is one solved than another one crops up. Even if you don’t possess that almighty, invisible hand that plays its part in creating these problems, ewes can still manage to create them for themselves and others as well. Out of a sense of compassion for these ewes that have not learned any lessons from the dwindling and disappearance of previous flocks over years gone by, that same almighty, invisible power has created something called death, which is true wisdom, the eternal lesson that is still trying to teach every single ewe but in vain.

So now here they are, walking all around me. They have been grazing on someone else’s daily grass without a single pang of regret. I have just remembered the words of the Arab poet Umar Ibn Abī Rabi’ah who said, “It is only the weak who do not oppress.” Even so, tonight I have insisted on keeping my fox role, not a ewe. But no one has paid any attention to my snout or tail; at any moment I might pounce on one of them. But whether their heads are raised or lowered, they seem completely oblivious. They keep walking slowly along the alleys in groups, although a few of them seem to be in a hurry. They keep barging into each other with their shoulders and craning their necks to reach out to their fellows. It’s evening!

I found myself in the Taghart neighborhood, with its wide open spaces, the expanse of the sea, and the island that looks like a rock in the middle of the sea. The street-lights in Taghart have been turned on, and from the deserted island comes a faint light, maybe drunkards or fishermen, or even a wolf that prefers to be isolated from the pack. Never mind! This too is something beautiful, the exception to the rule.

I walked towards the sea, went into the Chalet café and ordered a cold beer. The Chalet was a cage in the circus, where different species of animals come together for the time being but might well change their temperament at some point in the future. I sat by the edge of the counter, downing my beer with gusto. I don’t need to describe everything inside this cage, but that doesn’t prevent me from noting that the entire place was filled with a quiet chatter that managed to combine both fear and caution. That may well have been because the customers felt they had been caught out: the injunction “selling alcohol to Muslims is forbidden” dated from colonial times and was still very much on their minds. But, beyond all that, these particular animals preferred to get away from the flock, like the bear on the island. It was simply an impression they all had. Just as the sheep flock can envisage its own grass and that of others as well and work out how to get hold of it, so have I the right to envisage the bears on the island. They have all chosen a different way of life. That’s even though I am a fox; I’m already well aware that the bear on the island has a better life than the flock of sheep. Bears and the various other animals in the Chalet café despise the very idea of eating ewes; that is simply good behavior. And why shouldn’t such a thing happen for the very first time during this entire period when the strong have always oppressed the weak? Ewes are stupid and naïve; that’s the way they have always been through the ages. So let’s leave them to stay far away, making their way toward the barn. It won’t be long before they fall asleep, ready to wake up again in order to go out and graze the next day and the day after that. That’s not important. But I have to hide my tail, in case the animals inside this cage resume their original temperament and discover that I’m a fox. I’m not a fox; at this particular moment I’m simply an animal just like them. Whatever is going to happen can happen. End of story.

“Another beer, please.”

“Excuse me?”

“A beer.”

“Another cold beer?”

“Yes. A cold beer.”

He said that without even glancing at the waiter. The beer was right in front of me, cold and inviting. I realize that carbonated drinks are bad for me, but never mind. Let me have a drink, and whatever happens will happen. I remembered a Spanish sailor in a Casablanca bar, downing one beer after the other and dipping bread in hot sauce. When he guessed that his behavior surprised me, he turned and looked straight at me. His face and jowls were bright red, and he was sweating profusely. “Are you surprised I’m eating it with such relish?” he asked with a smile.

“No, sir, I’m not,” I replied. “I’m just absent-minded, that’s all. I can stare either here or there; it makes no difference.”

“Do you have problems?”

“Could be.”

“Forget the problems and have a drink,” he said. “The time you’re living in, that’s all you have. Let me tell you something. I’m a sailor and I own real estate, thanks be to God, Jesus, and the Virgin Mary! But that’s not what I’m getting at. Over ten years ago, I contracted a disease; I’ve no idea what it is. I’ve been to see doctors, and they have all insisted that I need to quit using the substances I’ve been addicted to—coffee, smoking (I don’t smoke), drinking beer, and eating hot chili. If I didn’t stop, they all told me, I’d be dead in six months at the most. That’s what they all said, and yet here I am, as you can see, still alive. If the Virgin Mary so wills, I’ll live even longer. Doctors talk too much. They all advise you to quit drinking tea, coffee, beer, citrus fruits, cigarettes, and stew, and instead to take walks. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “That may be the case where you are, but exactly the same thing happens here too.”

The image of the Spaniard and the bar in Casablanca disappeared. I gulped down the second beer and asked for a third. I kept turning around to check that tail of mine on the stool in front of the wooden counter. I must have done it several times because it was the café owner who spoke to me when he opened my third beer and not the waiter.

“You keep fidgeting on that stool. What’s the matter with you? Do you have hemorrhoids or something? Don’t even mention hemorrhoids, I have them too. Let me give you a piece of advice: I’ll bring you some ice cubes. Take them with you to the bathroom and put them on your anus. You’ll see the result for yourself.”

“Actually I don’t have hemorrhoids. It’s my tail, my fox tail.”

“What are you talking about? You aren’t even drunk yet.”

“No, I’m not. I’m just talking about my tail.”

“I understand. That’s fine, talking about hemorrhoids that way, calling them your tail. It’s fine for people to feel bashful about it.”

The owner went out, came back with some ice cubes, and thrust them into my hand.

“Go to the bathroom,” he told me. “Don’t be embarrassed. You should take care of your health. Go to the bathroom and do as I’ve told you.”

I felt scared that my situation might be discovered—he might figure out that I’m a cunning fox, so I gave in to him. If he did find out, he might well be a lion himself. I went to the bathroom and threw the cubes in the toilet. After pissing and smoking a cigarette, I came back to my place.

“How do you feel now?” he asked me.

“The pain’s going away.”

“Didn’t I tell you? Ask someone with experience, not doctors. Now you’ll have a beer on me.”

He put another beer in front of me. Outside it was nighttime, the master of all creatures who belong to half the Earth, while the sun is the master of the other half.

“Are you from Marrakesh?” asked one of the animals next to me.

“No. Casablanca.”

“How come you’re so dirty then?” he asked. “Get yourself a job and leave the hippies to themselves. Why are you behaving like them? Cut your hair and come work with us as a fisherman. Lots of youngsters from Essaouira have gone crazy, smoking hashish and getting stoned all day long. Be sensible. One day you’ll get old, and there’ll be no one to take care of you. You’ll turn into a commodity, a disused piece of trash that’s been tossed away by the roadside. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, I do,” I replied. “Thanks! I’m going to follow your advice. The genuine Muslim is someone who can give advice to his fellow Muslims.”

I watched as he looked at me, staring down at my feet and behind my back. I touched my face to make sure it did not have a fox’s snout and ran my hand down behind the stool to make sure that my tail was still out of sight. When I had reassured myself that I looked just like everyone else, I tried to run for my life and leave the café.

“Get a beer,” the animal said, “and let’s chat for a bit.”

“No, thanks, I’ve an appointment.”

“God help you!”

Leaving the café, I made my way warily through the Taghart neighborhood. By now the ewes had all left, but some lambs were still frolicking around, apparently unaware that there was a fox in their midst. Who knows, maybe some of the other foxes are smarter and more dangerous. For my part, I know how to keep my own cunning out of sight. I reached the Café de France and sat at the counter. When the waiter came over, I ordered some cake because I could not drink any more after swigging all that beer. Next to the café there was a newspaper kiosk. I noticed some newspapers hanging there and thought about buying a few, but then I changed my mind.

“Ali!” I heard a voice just behind me. “What are you doing alone?”

It was a young unemployed man from Casablanca whom I had met at the Comedie café. The only thing I know about him is that he lives off his two prostitute sisters and occasionally foreign homosexuals. I had also run into him in Tangier, Marrakesh, and wherever else homosexuals were. I stood up immediately and went over to sit with him. He had four girls around him who kept nodding their heads nonchalantly. Only one of them gave me so much as a welcoming glance.

“Hello,” she said. “Have a seat. You’ve got beautiful long hair. If you washed it, it would be even nicer.”

I nodded.

“You’re a lucky man!” said `Abduh in Arabic. He was sitting on a chair but kept shifting his entire body with long arms dangling. “That bitch hasn’t said a single word to me. I only met them this morning.”

“Why don’t you have something to drink?” she suggested in poor French.

“I had a beer not long ago.”

“Oh,” she said, “I don’t like alcohol. My father belongs to an anti-alcohol group in Sweden.”

The square was almost devoid of Moroccans. Groups of hippies made their way across it, with and without shoes. In front of the café, there were some cars with a variety of foreign license plates; they were not luxurious or modern, but the rugged kind that can put up with any kind of road. I finished the cake and lit a cigarette. From inside the café, I could hear the TV blaring; there were some words in Egyptian dialect, but I could not make out a single sentence. It was obviously one of those Egyptian movies about love, the Prophet’s biography, or famous figures in Islamic history, they being the favorite topics for Eastern Arabs or, at any rate, what is regularly shown on Rabat’s TV channel.

`Abduh kept trying his best to attract the girls’ attention, speaking in a Parisian French accent and occasionally in English as well. The girls kept smiling.

“You don’t have much to say,” the Swedish girl told him. “You look as though you’re suffering somehow. You’re so gloomy.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’m sad because I don’t have any money. Somebody stole it.” (That’s what the fox told her, not me. If you happened to frisk me, you’d spit in my face.)

“This bitch isn’t like the other ones I’ve met here,” Ali said. “She’s crazy and very pretty. Don’t you think so? She’s fond of someone who lives in a shack near Dyabat who has been raving on and on to her about religious stuff.”

“What’s he doing in that shack?”

“It’s just that he’s illiterate. He begs in Jamaa Lafna in Marrakesh, then comes back to the shack and . . . manages to kid stupid women like this that he’s a prophet. You should take her away from him. You deserve her more than he does.”

“She’s really cute. She looks a bit weird too.”

“She’s nuts! There are too many crazy people in Essaouira.”

“They are not crazy. If they were, they would not have been touring the entire world without a single penny in their pockets. They’re really smart. Their upbringing is different from ours.”

“You may be right. You’re a teacher, so you know more about those things.”

As he talked, he kept fidgeting; once in a while, his long, thin arms would take over the communication.

“`Abduh,” one of the girls asked, “are you going to come to Dyabat with us?”

“Sure. Every night there are parties in the open air.”

“We know that.”

“Have you ever visited Dyabat?” `Abduh asked me.

“No,” I replied, “but I’ve heard about it.”

“It’s a fishing village. All the hippies live there; it’s dirt-cheap. You can rent a shack and be as free as you want. It’s better than the hotels here. I know how hotel owners operate, not to mention police harassment. In Dyabat, even the gendarmes get stoned so they can join us in making passes at the hippy girls. But the girls resent them. I have never seen a gendarme manage to land a single one of them.”

A cart passed by carrying a folk band and bags of flour and sugar. The musicians were playing, while a man in woman’s clothing was shaking his backside. A few people were clustered around the cart clapping, and a few children as well. Occasions like this usually attract lots of children, but at this time of night most parents prefer to keep their doors closed with children inside.

The waiter came over, and each of us paid for his drink. When we all stood up, she latched on to me. She was wearing a loose-fitting, colored dress; to me she looked like a gypsy or even something nonhuman—anything but, in fact. As long as the imagination can envisage things at will, it can muster any kind of being to represent her.

“Of course. You’re going to come to Dyabat with us, right? Have you been there before?”

“No.”

“It’s a beautiful village. But I prefer another place near it called ‘An-Nab.’” A man called Omar lives there. He has a close relationship with God and talks to him like Moses. Don’t you think that’s wonderful? He might be in Marrakesh now. Sometimes he’s away for three or four days a week, and occasionally it’s even longer. Do you know this young man with us?”

“Not much.”

“I’m not happy with him.”

“He is a poor, miserable young man.”

“More than that, he looks like a liar.”

“I’ve no idea.”

“I’m just guessing. Come on, let’s get in the car with the girls. I don’t own a car even though I’m not poor.”

We all squeezed into the back seat, and once again she nestled up to me. She felt warm and had a special scent to her. Her body felt fresh and inviting. The very idea made me shiver all over. All the barriers separating human beings collapsed. That eternal entity that haunts us while we’re alive now called; we may try to escape it, but it haunts us nevertheless. I could not stop myself raising my arm and encircling her neck and hair. She surrendered and put her head on my shoulder. `Abduh was still fooling around. I had no idea what he was saying because I was dreaming of something else. As the car passed through the Taghart neighborhood on the road to Agadir, the girls’ voices kept getting louder and blending with each other.

“My name’s Salma.” she told me in a low voice.

“Salma Lagerlöf.”

“Oh, you know the name. She’s the writer, the Nobel Prize winner. She’s from my country. I had this hunch that you’d know everything; it didn’t let me down. It can never be wrong. Have you read any of her work?”

“Yes.”

“What have you read?”

“I can’t remember any more.”

“Have you read any other Swedish authors?”

“Yes, but I don’t remember their names. I remember Salma because Arabs use the name.”

“Right, that’s true.”

“Yes!”

The car turned on to a dirt road between overgrown trees. There were a lot of potholes, so the car was having a difficult time. Salma’s head kept bumping my chin. She heard my teeth chattering and sat up straight. Even so, she still seemed fresh; beneath the thin dress she was wearing, her body still felt warm and soft. Her bodily warmth was being transferred to mine and getting warmer by the second. On either side of the road, the trees lined up in the car’s headlights. Elena handed us a joint; I took a drag, then handed it to Salma. She took a deep puff, then gave it back to one of the girls. Soon after, we arrived at the Dyabat village beach. There was a series of small buildings huddled together in the dark. `Abduh jumped out and so did we. The sound of music echoed through the quiet night, and the sea waves glistened beyond the trees.

“Shall we go to the Danish girl’s house,” one of the girls asked, “or to those other folk? She always gives new people a warm welcome.”

As she talked about “those other folk”, she pointed to an isolated old building, a mansion a few meters from where we were standing; the music we could hear was coming from there. No one bothered to answer her question, but we simply started walking toward the mansion. I was at the back, and Salma was glued to my side. I did not realize that she was barefoot, but then her foot crashed against a stone and she yelled. We found ourselves facing a big gate. We made our way down some stone steps and walked in the dark along narrow streets. There were buildings on either side, but we could not tell whether they were houses or shops. No one was around. We got closer to the source of the music, and I started hearing human voices mixed with the sound of drums. Eventually we reached a square where a group of male and female hippies were gathered. It was circular in shape; in the middle was a fire burning wood and branches that managed to light up the whole place.

“Let’s sit,” Salma suggested. “Here’s better. I don’t like crowds.”

I agreed without saying a word. She sat on the ground and so did I, while the other girls sat a bit further away from us, behind the circle of people clustered around the fire.

“No doubt, this is the way primitive people used to do things,” I thought. “It’s all assembled here now: water, air, fire, and the earth I’m sitting on.”

Salma began nodding her head in time with the music. Her hair was flying all over the place and covered her face. But then she stopped and moved closer to me. I kept staring at the strange world all around me. Some people were asleep, while others were dancing and singing in a language I did not understand. Several couples were clutching each other without attracting anyone else’s attention. Salma lay down on her back and put her head on my thigh. I did not like that and dearly wished that it could be the other way round. If we were behaving like everyone else, I would have been thrusting my hands between her breasts. She felt a particular sensation and turned over on the ground. Now I too stretched out on my back, and she moved until we were face to face. I gave her a hug, and we became entwined, two in one. However, a muscular man carrying a bucket stood right in front of us.

“You’re from Casablanca, right?” he asked, handing me the bucket. “My name’s Mustafa, and I’m from Marrakesh. Welcome. How did you manage to get this one?”

“Do you all know her?”

“Who does not know this little fool? She’s beautiful, though. I wish she’d fall in love with me. She’s not like the other girls. Help yourself, take some ma’ jun, it helps in bed.”

Salma put her hand in the bucket and grabbed some ma’ jun.

“I love ma’ jun,” she said. “How about you?”

“Me too!”

I followed her lead. The man went over to another group. My tongue kept searching my mouth for the remains of the ma’ jun. I adored its taste. I kept staring at the fire, the people all around me, and the shadows reflected on the walls with their fading whitewash. Everyone was sitting, but three people kept vaulting over people’s heads. I had no idea what they were doing or saying. These were rituals I knew nothing about. Apart from the music, everything else was normal, except for the extraordinary beauty of some of the girls. As long as a beautiful female was by my side, I preferred lying on my back and staring up at the stars. Salma did the same thing. I sensed that she was still chewing on something.

“Tasty, isn’t it?” I said.

“Great, awesome,” Salma replied. “I love it. It is better than LSD. I don’t like synthetic stuff. I like it natural. But then, I’m not a drug addict.”

“I’m like you,” I said. “But I like a drink occasionally.”

“I have the impression,” she commented, “that you could give up drugs, but not drinking.”

“People can never give up drink,” I replied. “It’s like sex, air, water, and food.”

“I didn’t realize that,” she said. “Didn’t I say a while ago that you know a lot of stuff? Even so, I won’t drink.”

Rhythms always spread in space; once in a while there’s a short break. Then the music starts again, and voices get louder. We paid no attention to all that. When I brushed Salma’s eyelids with my fingers, she closed her eyes. For sure, she was not asleep. My eyelids felt heavy as well. The stars started to dance in the sky before my very eyes. When the darkness began to turn into iridescent colors, I decided to close my eyes and let my fingers do whatever they wanted with Salma’s body. She was quiet and warm, desirable and wise, full and fresh, a dreamer and other things as well; the rest can come from your imagination. Later I opened my eyes to the first rays of sunlight. There were only about ten people left, stretched out on the ground, and ashes in the middle of the square. Every couple was a unit. Following their lead, I put my head underneath Salma’s armpit so as avoid those first rays of sunshine . . .