Antonio

He was sitting on the doorstep of the deserted club. As the sun moved to the west, it was still hot. His legs were spread-eagled, his pants hiked up to his knees. His sandals were completely worn through. Occasionally he would raise his head toward the north to a point where a picture of a female flamenco dancer still hung on the wall; it was etched on a metal sheet that was almost falling over. But as he stared at the picture, his expression showed a complete lack of interest.

I noticed two children playing near him; actually, they were not so much playing as fighting. The girl had beaten the boy by successfully pushing his head into the street sewer. He had started screaming and yelling for his mother. With that, the girl had let him go. She’d gone over to the doorstep of the building across the street and sat down.

Antonio watched the whole thing without displaying the slightest emotion. The street was empty. Once in a while a car or motorcycle passed by. The girl and the boy grabbed each other again; they started screaming, then pulled apart. Every time they started fighting, Antonio just stared at them with complete indifference.

I felt bad for the boy being beaten by the girl, but realized that he would certainly get his revenge when they both grew up—the way men usually do with women. But then, he might still turn out to be the loser. Antonio had certainly been a loser years ago. That’s just a guess, of course. But, given that such things are beyond human comprehension, everyone has the right to speculate about victories and defeats.

Once again, the girl managed to stick the boy’s head into the sewage drain. I listened to his moans as he croaked out his insults and cries for help. His tiny legs were thrashing in the air, but the girl was merciless and kept pushing his puny body into the drain. I was worried she was going to kill him. I was about to yell at her, but just then I noticed her fall back into the street on her backside. Her spindly, fennel-like thighs were exposed. The boy had managed to kick her and get half his body out of the drain.

Antonio still watched indifferently, but he kept talking to himself. The sun was in his eyes, so he couldn’t look westward; the slanting rays were glancing off his thin frame, and by now he was soaking with sweat. The hair on his pale legs was glistening. Oblivious to everything around him, he started scratching his legs hard with his long, black, dirty fingernails. He grabbed his hat with his other hand, took it off, and placed it upside down next to him on the doorstep. But even if he had put it down by his feet right in front of him, no one would have dropped a measly coin in it. After all, the street was completely empty. His bald pate was gleaming in the sunshine, and the dry wind kept ruffling the hair on his temples. He started rubbing his head with his hands.

Now I spotted another man carrying a bag and scavenging in the garbage. The garbage truck had not come round yet, and, in any case, garbage-men will sometimes ignore certain streets where the inhabitants don’t give them enough tips. The man scavenged for quite awhile, but all he dug out was half a doll; he put it in his bag. He crossed the street to where Antonio was sitting.

“Scram!” he said.

As Antonio stared wearily at the scavenger, the man repeated his threat. Antonio shook his head.

“Go on,” the man said again. “Get out, you lousy Spaniard. You’ll get sunstroke and die.”

“No,” replied Antonio. “Leave me alone. I’m not going to die of sunstroke.”

“Get up!”

“No.”

“I told you, you’re going to die.”

“No.”

The man shook his head. He left Antonio, crossed the street again, and started scavenging in the other garbage can. Antonio started cleaning between his toes; I can only imagine the stench. “Ugh!” I thought to myself. “That’s absolutely disgusting.”

He wiped his fingers on his faded pants, which were held up by a belt—even though the pants had no loops for it. At this point the girl and boy were moving closer to each other and talking. A temporary truce, at least.

The girl’s mother looked out the window and waved her fat, white arm. “Soumia,” she yelled. “What are you doing in this heat? Why don’t you leave that boy alone and stay inside? When your father comes home from work, I’m going to tell him everything. It’s time you were married. We need to find a man to take you in hand.”

The mother disappeared. The girl wasn’t bothered by her mother’s remarks. Meanwhile, Antonio kept rubbing his hand over his bald head, almost as though he could feel the sun’s effect on his scalp. He picked up the hat and put it on his head. Looking down at the curb, which was missing some of its paving-stones, he noticed a small hole a short distance from where he was sitting, with a plastic bag and a small stone in it.

Now the boy’s mother looked out the window. She was wearing a scarf. She began shaking out a sheepskin, utterly unconcerned as to whether there might be someone under the window. She noticed her son, who was now clutching the girl.

“You son of a bitch!” she yelled. “Isn’t it about time you gave up that little viper? But no, more’s the pity. You won’t leave her alone until you’ve caused a huge scandal in the neighborhood. Most people give birth to human beings, but I’ve produced a devil.”

She kept on shaking the sheepskin, then disappeared from the window. The street was still empty. The two children were still edging closer to each other, then moving back. The girl was clearly trying to employ her feminine wiles to get him back inside the drain so she could close the iron gate on him and relax. That’s just a guess. As long as things are beyond human comprehension, people have a perfect right to assess a human’s ability to tolerate spending time in sewers.

All that said, the boy seemed to have steeled himself this time so he would not have to get stuck inside the drain again. He would not have to scream; the girl would not fall in the road on her backside and show her naked, fennel-shaped legs; her mother would not yell at him; and his own mother would not call the girl a viper. Of course, that’s all guesswork.

Sometimes, Antonio stared up at the window across the street, shifting his gaze from the picture of the Flamenco dancer to his pair of sandals, to the curb, then back to the window. Soumia’s younger sister might be up there behind the window. Once he had given her a tiny turtle. I presume that he’s never had any children; Soumia’s sister is the only one he really cares about. She loves him too. But in fact, she wasn’t there. She may have gone to Sidi Abdarrahman beach with her elder sister.

Antonio stared up at the window; but he was dazzled by the bright sunshine and shielded his forehead with his heavily veined hand, which looked just like a hat-brim.

The girl picked up a pointed stick with irregular knots on it. As I stood there watching, she talked to the boy. Maybe he agreed with her idea, maybe not, but, when she started walking away, he followed her—implying that he eventually agreed. She walked slowly toward Antonio. Lying on her stomach on the curb, she started digging in the dirt as though she were searching for a worm. The little boy stood a few meters back, in the hot sunshine, watching her. Then he moved closer and sat on the ground. Now it was his mother’s turn to look out the window.

“You’re sitting in the dirt, you son of a bitch,” she yelled. “Your mother’s hands are already worn out from so much washing.” And with that she disappeared again.

From time to time Antonio looked at the girl as she was digging. Crawling on her stomach, she came closer and closer to Antonio till she was poking at his toes with the stick. He pulled his feet away as though he’d been bitten by a mosquito. The girl laughed and did it again. The boy kept watching her with a forlorn expression, but eventually he decided to join in the fun and egg her on. Antonio kept pulling his feet away wearily, but she kept on doing it.

“Go away,” he muttered.

As he opened his mouth, saliva glistened on his lips in the bright sunshine. The girl was scared. She stood up quickly and moved away.

“Is the turtle you gave to my sister male or female?” she asked Antonio.

At first he did not bother to answer, but started scratching his legs again. His pants were pulled up as far as his knees.

“It’s a female.”

“You need to bring my sister a male one,” she went on. “And a bag full of lettuce as well.”

Antonio kept staring up at the window, then at the sky, trying all the while to avoid looking straight at the sun. Once again the girl lay down on her stomach in front of him, and so did the boy. She started poking him with the stick again.

“I am talking to you,” she said. “But you won’t answer,”

“Don’t wear yourself out,” the boy said. “He’ll never talk,”

“I’m going to keep trying. He isn’t mute.”

Her mother looked out of the window. “What are you doing to that poor man, you little slut?” she yelled. “If you get your clothes dirty, I swear you won’t eat a thing today. Stand up, Monsieur Antonio. That little devil will poke your eye out with her stick.”

The girl and boy ran away and took refuge in the doorway of a building. The street was still empty. The mother disappeared from the window.

Now a Garde Mobile patrol car appeared, cruising slowly down the street. “We’d better go up to the roof,” the girl said, “or else they’ll take us to the station.”

They disappeared and shut the door behind them. When the patrol car came closer, one of the men jumped out of the back. He did not come from that particular town; perhaps an officer relative of his had put in a good word, so they’d hired him as a mokhazni. He grabbed Antonio by the shirt and yanked him to his feet. A group of beggars and homeless men could be seen staring cautiously out of the back of the van. The officer glared at the mokhazni.

“You ass!” he yelled. “Who told you to get out? Are you trying to arrest a European? Are you out of your mind? Do you want to cause us problems?”

The man immediately loosened his grip. Antonio went back and sat on the club’s doorstep, calmly observing the patrol car. For a moment his aged heart had been pounding, but now it had calmed down.

“Next time,” the officer continued, “don’t get out unless I tell you.”

“Yes, Sir,” replied the mokhazni.

“Get in.”

“Yes, Sir,” yelled the mokhazni.

“Load of donkeys!”

“Yes, Sir.” yelled the mokhazni.

The patrol-van went on its way. The men inside all wished they could be Europeans, too, so they wouldn’t get arrested. Antonio watched as the van drove away slowly down the street.

The scavenger had left the same street awhile ago, still searching through the trash bins.