A Newspaper Report

We were enjoying a cold beer at “Juana di Arco.” It was half past eleven. My English friend, who always looked tired, still had far more energy than me. He asked me whether there was a bus to Asilah. I told him that taxis were available. Looking out the window, he raised the glass to his lips. The street was deserted, except for some teenage girls who were laughing their way to the beach, with towels on their shoulders or under their arms.

He didn’t seem to be bothered about either the world in general or the girls. But they got me excited; perhaps I was younger than he, or maybe there are lots of gorgeous blondes in his own country.

“Did you say something?” he asked abruptly as though he had been pricked by a needle. “Are you talking to me?”

“Those girls are beautiful,” I said. “That’s what I was saying.”

“Who?” he asked.

“Those girls,” I replied.

“Yes, they are,” he commented. “Your country’s changed a lot. Finish your beer. Do you feel like having another one?”

“No thanks,” I said.

“Drink as much as you want. Do you want to eat something, or shall we wait till we get to Asilah?”

“Whatever you like,” I said.

“No, whatever you like, not me. I’ve already had enough to eat this morning. Tell me, do you think the people there will help us?”

“I know them well,” I replied. “They’re as courageous as they are nice.”

A sock-peddler came by, and dangled a pair of socks in front of me.

“New stock from Gibraltar,” he said. “Pure wool.”

“No, they’re not,” said the waiter. “They’re from the Canaries. Didn’t you go to Las Palmas a week ago? Listen, ‘Abdu, you have to be honest if you want to get customers.”

“Let me earn my living my own way, Hmidu,” the peddler replied.

“Then find somewhere else to earn your living. Tangier is a big city. I’ve an idea. Why don’t you go to Fes, Meknes, or some other inland city?”

“That’s where goods smuggled through Ceuta and Melilla arrive,” the peddler complained. “God save me from this lousy job! Give me some tapas. I haven’t had any breakfast and, at this rate, I won’t be getting any lunch, either. This season there aren’t many tourists. I haven’t sold a single thing since early morning.”

The waiter handed him a plate of kofta and poured two small platefuls of tomatoes and potatoes onto it.

“What’s this mess supposed to be?” asked the peddler.

“What do you want, you naked idiot?” replied the waiter. “A ring if you please, my lord, sir? Eat, you pig! Go on, fill your stomach. Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

The peddler started eating ravenously; he was really hungry. He was about to wipe his hands on the socks he’d put on the counter, but instead he grabbed a piece of paper in front of him. Once he had cleaned his fingers, he carried on eating.

“Shall we go?” asked my English friend.

“Just as you wish.”

Putting his bag on his right shoulder, he paid the bill. I picked up the leather suitcase from the corner where we had been standing. Passing by the Rembrandt Hotel, we went downhill toward the Asilah taxi station, hoping to head for Dar Chaoui as soon as possible. He was hoping to be able to tape some interviews with the people who were fighting with Franco against the Rojos. He said he worked for a magazine in Manchester. I wasn’t too sure about that. All those European types could be journalists, artists, or nothing at all. What was certain was that they were better off than me. I’d been trying very hard to get a passport to travel anywhere in Europe or the Arab gulf.

“Why are you rushing?” I asked my English friend. “Dar Chaoui isn’t far. It’s just a few minutes from Asilah.”

“I’m sure you’d like to have a swim,” he said. “But I need you to translate for me.”

“I don’t like the sea very much.”

“OK. I know what you want.”

“What?” I asked.

“Another beer,” he replied.

I told him it was a good idea; after all, such opportunities don’t get repeated very often. We went into the nearest café, and he ordered a tonic. I could tell he didn’t want what I did, so I decided not to impose. That’s why shortly afterward we found ourselves in Dar Chaoui, where a young man from the mountains was waiting for us. He was wearing a short jallaba and a colorful sun hat, and he spoke English. Apparently they’d met a short time before.

Now my task is over, I thought. “Are you from Asilah?” I asked the man.

“No.”

“Where are you from? Tangier or inland?”

“Neither. I’m from Ksar Sghir. I went to high school in Tangier, but I didn’t pass the exams.

“There are lots of people like us. Personally I’ve decided to live and move from one city to another. I’ve lived in London and Stockholm. I spent six months in jail in Sweden. Here I can live in total peace. Do you know Tom well?”

“No, we met quite by chance in Tangier.”

“He’s a courageous man. We meet two or three times a year. If you’re trustworthy, you’ll find out what kind of man he is.”

“Does he always come here to interview people?” I asked.

“Interview people? What interviews? Oh, I see.”

He fell silent and took out a packet of cigarettes from his jallaba pocket. We were walking along a dusty road full of potholes and solid white stones. All around us, birds were chirping in the wide-open spaces. A few small trees and thorny cacti were scattered here and there, exposed to the scorching heat. The man from the mountains took the suitcase I was holding.

“You have to wait here,” said Tom. “They might be on their guard with you around.”

“Why would they be?” I asked.

“When they talk about sensitive issues like war, they’re very wary of people they don’t know, especially Moroccans like themselves. This man is one of them.”

“As you wish.”

With that, he threw me the packet of cigarettes.

I jumped over a small dry ditch where crickets were jumping, and stretched out in the shade of a fig tree. I watched the two of them climb the hill till they disappeared. The sky was very clear. From time to time, some birds flew by, but that was the only sound to be heard. I let myself be lulled by a light easterly breeze and dozed off under the tree. I don’t know how long I slept, but eventually I woke up when I heard a noise over my head.

“Did you have a good sleep?” Tom asked. “You must be hungry by now.”

“I thought you must have eaten all the figs in that tree,” the other man said with a laugh.

“I don’t like figs.”

The young man only walked part of the way with us, then went back and disappeared between some houses. Once we reached the paved road, I sat down on the milestone. Tom remained standing for awhile, but when he got tired, he too sat down on the ground. The young man had assured us that the Asilah bus would be coming soon. In fact, fifteen minutes later, the bus did indeed arrive. Some barefoot men and women from the mountain regions got off; the heads of their babies dangled from their mothers’ backs like ripe fruit.

“How did the interview go?” I asked Tom once we were on the bus.

“Fine.”

“All those old people must feel proud of killing a large number of Rojos.”

“Indeed.”

“They must be proud, too, of the number of women they’ve raped in churches.”

“Indeed.”

“Not to mention the number of children they’ve killed and cut to pieces.”

“Oh, absolutely. I’ve recorded it all.”

The suitcase was nestling between my knees. I started picturing the stories, real or imaginary, that were stored inside the recorder. Those old fighters sometimes lie and claim credit for other people’s actions.

About ten minutes later, the bus stopped on the road to Asilah. No one got off, but the bus’s front and back doors opened and gendarmes climbed aboard. I could sense that Tom was really scared. The two gendarmes opened the suitcase I had between my legs. There was no recorder; it was packed full of hashish.

“So, you want to get rich from hashish,” one of the gendarmes chided me as he put the handcuffs on. “You do that while we have to die here in the heat.”

“I swear, I . . .”

“I don’t care.”

I felt a hard kick in my back as I was propelled off the bus. As I fell to the ground, my mouth filled with dust.