The Tin Can and the Epaulette Stars

When we reached the small park, we sat on a cold stone bench. I looked up at the trees that towered so high above me, seemingly to infinity. A few birds were perched on the thinner branches which hung down in gray and colored clusters.

Khalil spread out the newspaper between us on the bench and put the sardine can on it. Breaking the bread into pieces, he handed me some. I was not paying attention, so he gave me a nudge. Lowering my gaze from the trees, I stared at the scant fare laid out between us. The picture of fish on the can looked far more appetizing to me than its actual contents. I’d never bothered counting the number of fish in such a can; I’d just eaten them. Depending on how hungry I’d felt, I’d either been satisfied or not. This time, however, my small share was clearly not going to be enough; I couldn’t even guess how Khalil would feel about the small number of sardines.

It was somewhere between twelve noon and one o’clock. We could tell because three young working-women were sitting opposite us on a bench, and two others on still another. There were other women around too, but they preferred to sit on the ground around a young man who had a transparent plastic bag full of French fries and sandwiches.

Khalil was still busy tearing the bread apart.

“How about moving over to the other bench near the girls?” I suggested. “Shall we offer to pool our food?”

“You must be joking. These sardines aren’t enough to satisfy a girl who’s not even hungry.”

“Don’t think I’m serious. I’m well aware that those sandwiches cost more than two sardine cans.”

Khalil started using his long, dirty fingernails to take his share of sardines and insert them carefully between the pieces of bread he had in his hand. I then tipped out the ones that were left, without even bothering to count; I think there were three. My problem was simply hunger; I didn’t care how many were left. One day it’s Khalil who buys me lunch; the next day it’s Jalil. Today one person buys me dinner, tomorrow someone else. When there’s no Khalil or Jalil in this world, I’ll still be clinging to the illusion that I can find someone or other. Khalil’s just like me, living on the illusion of being able to find a Jalil: two people who’ve lost everything in life except hope.

I got to know Khalil in a bar. I still had some money left from the job I had had at the Ministry of Post and Communications before I was fired following a violent strike. But he’d never had a job in any ministry, plant, or factory. He was both clever and socially aware, but he’d failed the graduation exam many times. In the end he’d decided not to live with his family, which was very poor. His three sisters were professional prostitutes, and his father sold mint and pepper. The first time we met in the bar, he paid for me. I duly reciprocated. We had started talking about women, songs, and compulsory military service. I’d told him that I hadn’t been called up because I was lucky. He told me that he’d paid some bribes and been discharged. We discussed the difficulty of getting a passport and talked about Europe and Ben Barka’s murder. We insulted the regime, then ordered still more rounds of drinks until we could barely stand up. Later, I invited him back to my house, and he decided to live with me.

“How long are we going to be poor?” I asked.

“Listen,” he replied. “We’re alive. It isn’t luxurious, but it’s a life.”

I stared again at the group of pale working girls devouring their sandwiches. Khalil looked at me, and I noticed he was smiling. I expected him to say something.

“They’re just as miserable as we are,” I said.

“But they’re richer.”

“I was rich once when I worked at the Postal Ministry.”

But what kind of richness was that supposed to be?! The paycheck would go up in smoke on the very first day of the month, simply paying the rent and the store, and sending money for the family. The whores used to take their cut in the form of household items: it might be a towel, an ashtray, shoes, or something else. Khalil was well aware of it all. I’d already told him. Maybe one of his sisters came and took some of the items. Who knows?

The sunshine began to filter through the branches, but it wasn’t particularly warm. Even so, I could feel sweat coursing down my spine. Khalil had nearly finished his food when he stopped and belched twice.

“Those gases are going to be the death of you. Your liver will disintegrate from too much booze.”

“And too little food.”

“How wonderful it’ll be when we can eat our fill and drink till we drop.”

“God willing. But mules will be giving birth and cocks laying eggs before that ever happens!”

“You’re a born pessimist.”

“No, I’m not, just a realist. If you want to eat till you’re full and drink till you drop, you have to work for it.”

By this time the young women had finished their lunch. I watched them as they sat there, laughing and playing with something. One of them had moved away from the rest and was standing in the shade with her hands on her hips and legs apart.

“Isn’t she gorgeous?” I said to Khalil.

“She can’t be bothered with people like us.”

Khalil started collecting the bread crumbs and putting them into the empty can, then crumpled up the newspaper and threw the entire package on to some small plants that were not growing very well.

At this point a policeman and an unarmed Garde Mobile man entered the park, walking quietly but with an arrogant air; the policeman in particular looked all puffed up like a rooster. The girl standing by herself now felt uneasy and quickly rejoined the others; with the police around, even the simplest of pleasures was forbidden. Even though the women were all behaving very modestly, the policeman still walked over and started chatting with them. At first the girls were shy, but soon the laughter began. The two policemen leapt at the opportunity, eagerly compensating for the cold-shoulder treatment they would usually get when out of uniform. I could imagine them having to use a third of their paycheck for rent, and another third for food; the rest would be sent to some poor family in a village far away in the countryside. But in uniform they looked powerful and prosperous. But what kind of prosperity?! Obviously, the same kind of situation as I’d found myself in when I worked at the Postal Ministry.

They were all talking at the same time; the laughter came in fits and starts. By now the policeman had abandoned his phony posture. I watched as his hands moved deftly to a spot under the breast of one of the girls. She backed away with a giggle; she almost tripped and fell backwards. Meanwhile, the Garde Mobile man was busy flirting with another girl.

“I bet you, they won’t have any luck,” said Khalil. “Women don’t like the police.”

“How do you know? They seem happy enough.”

I took out my pack of cigarettes; it was almost empty. Khalil took one and lit it with a fancy lighter. I don’t know where he got it, but he insisted on keeping it even when he had no money. But what I really wanted was girls; standing or sitting—I didn’t care. Even though I had no luck with women in general, I always gave my imagination free rein. I heard Khalil give a deep sigh and understood what he really wanted, as well.

The two men kept on flirting with the girls. By this time things had now gone far beyond the initial innocent phase. After initially just brushing bodies, hands had by now moved on to other more sensitive spots. The playful laughter was continuing too, and that made us sigh even louder.

Just then we heard a car door slam outside the park. An officer rushed past us, followed by two policemen in their khaki uniforms. The heavy bronze stars on the officer’s epaulettes tilted forwards. The girls stopped laughing and looked scared. The policeman looked behind him. When he saw the officer, his facial expression completely changed. Both he and the Garde Mobile man saluted. They were both looking very nervous, as though they’d been caught red-handed committing some terrible crime.

“Where do you think you are?” the officer asked, scratching his nose. “In a brothel?”

“The way we found them, Sir,” the policeman replied with a stutter, “it might just as well have been a brothel. This is a public park, not a brothel.”

“Who are those men over there?”

“It was those two men and these girls. We were asking to see their IDs.”

The officer seemed completely convinced by his story. The two policemen who had followed him came over and asked us for our IDs.

“What are you two doing?”

“Nothing.”

The working women started to cry. “We were just eating lunch, sir. We don’t even know those young men. It’s not true. He’s the one . . . tell the truth, Soumia . . . it was him. . . .”

The officer did not bother listening to any protests. They pushed us both towards the police car. The officer got in next to the driver. Through the small barred window I could see his epaulettes weighed down with bronze stars. As we left, the wails of those still-unknown girls were getting even louder.