A Tale of a Drunk

           According to Ibn Mas‘ud, if a man dies drunk, bury him in his grave, and then dig him up. If you don’t find him turned away from the Qiblah, then kill me!

A.

When the policeman handed me back my ID, I slipped 100 dirhams into his hand. It was dark and foggy, and the dim streetlight made no difference. Just a moment earlier, while I was still drunk, I’d felt a few raindrops splattering my hair, but it had had no effect at all—nothing did. I wanted to bed a woman, something I hadn’t done for ages. Maybe I had, but, if so, I’d forgotten. Sometimes when I drink too much, I can’t remember what I did the night before. However, tonight I’m certainly going to remember everything. I may even be able to recall other things I’ve long since forgotten.

The first policeman was standing by his jeep, while the second one was staring at us through rain-splattered glasses.

“Do you realize,” the first one informed me, “that if you’re taken to court, you’ll be immediately fired from your job? First you crash your way into a brothel, then you get drunk like this! I don’t need to be any more explicit, do I? You’re a teacher; you know all about it. The sentence will be harsh. How can an educator possibly behave this way? Your salary’s low, I realize, but the 100 dirhams is even less.”

“That’s all I have on me,” I said.

“Check your pockets.”

Mariam was craning her neck, trying to see what was happening. The young girl was shivering by her side.

“She’s my niece,” Mariam kept saying. “She’s not one of them. Please, Sir, I beg you.”

She did not have the courage to jump out of the jeep, and I didn’t dare run away.

“Shut up, you bitch!” barked the policeman. “We’ll get things straight at the police station. Let me talk to the teacher. Tomorrow he’ll find out he’s caught syphilis. I know your type.”

“I swear, Sir.”

“Shut up, you bitch.”

The policemen turned toward me. “You can leave now,” he said. “But I can’t guarantee you won’t run into other police patrols. Where do you live?”

I mumbled.

“Scram!”

Mariam kept talking to the policeman, trying to act sober, but all in vain. It was obvious that she was drunk. She was trying to look out of the police jeep, but the policeman kept prodding her. Meanwhile, the policeman in glasses was still acting polite; he was like a good student, never interfering with what his colleague was doing.

“Don’t touch her,” the woman said. “She’s my niece. How about me?”

“It’s her I want. She isn’t your niece. You’re a liar. Whenever I find a beautiful girl with you, you’re always inventing lies like this. You’re just jealous.”

Earlier she had staggered between the wall and the old closet, brandishing the empty bottle in my face. The little girl had looked scared and helpless, the way any normal girl would in such an unusual situation. She was standing over in a corner shivering.

“Are you completely drunk?” I had asked. “Put down the bottle and pour another drink. That would be best.”

“Who do you think you are, giving me orders? No one on earth can tell Mariam what to do.”

“Just don’t do anything crazy.”

But she did. She threw the bottle right in my face. The little girl jumped up and screamed. She covered her pale little face with her hands, then peeped at me through her fingers in wide-eyed panic. But Mariam was still not satisfied. Now she hurled the ashtray against the wall. It shattered, and the pieces fell all over the blanket on the bare floor. When she tried scratching my face with her nails, I poked mine into her side. There was a scream of pain, followed by banging on the door.

“Police! Open the door.”

Now the police car was setting off in the rain down Mont Ampignani Street. For my part, I walked in the opposite direction. I didn’t feel drunk and still had a few dirhams left; actually it was more than 100 dirhams. It was still early in the month.

B.

According to Al-Zahri, may God be pleased with him, the Caliph ‘Uthman ibn ‘Affan ( . . . ) once narrated as follows: A long time ago, a man ( . . . ) met a black woman. She ordered her maidservant to let him into the house, then closed the door behind her. Inside, the black woman had both wine and a young boy. “Don’t leave me,” she told the man, “until you have drunk a glass of wine and either made love to me or else killed this boy. If you don’t, I’ll let out a yell and tell everyone that you broke into my house. Who would ever believe you?” “I will not commit adultery,” the man replied, “nor will I kill a soul.” However, as God knows, he did drink the wine, and only left after he had made love to the woman and killed the boy.

C.

Poor man! He tried to avoid sin, but couldn’t help himself.

A. Again

The band was making a nasty noise. My head felt heavy from all the stuff I’d been drinking. The girl beside me sensed that I’d grown tired of this world. Picking up her glass from the comptoir, she went over to hug another client from behind. I watched the whole thing as though it were merely a dream. In front of me everything was a blur, men and women alike. The music still sounded awful, especially since it kept repeating a boring Arabic melody. I reached for the glass, but it felt heavy; it started shaking and fell to the floor by my side. The glass was empty. I felt like vomiting, but I was hungry. I pictured myself eating my own vomit, then spat loudly over the stool in the space between my legs.

One of the customers glared at me. Don’t spit on me. I didn’t. Yes, you did. No, I didn’t. You’re a liar. Your father’s the liar. The bottle is smashed on the comptoir, and the hand holding the sharp bottleneck shakes. Blood flows, then the ambulance arrives.

But nothing like that happened. The girl kissed him on his forehead while her hand proceeded to pick the pocket of his beautiful jacket.

“Don’t pay any attention to him. These days there are lots of country hicks in Casablanca.”

“They’re just like vermin. You run into them wherever you go.”

This time she was kissing him on the mouth while she fished into his pocket.

“I’ve no idea why they frequent bars. They’re impolite. But it’s these hookers, divorcees from the countryside. They’re the ones who keep attracting them. Where are the real Bidaouis, both men and women?”

“Exactly.”

Caressing his neck, she ordered herself a beer. By now he could definitely feel something down below, something warm that would cool down in a while, something that reached all the way to his toes. You could picture him falling to his knees and kneeling in front of her. The muscular black barman banged the glass on the counter and gave me a bitter, painful smile.

“You there!” he said “Do you think this is a hotel? If you want to go to bed, get out of here. Either have another drink or let someone else have your place. What are you doing here? Do you think I’m some kind of virgin or mermaid dropped from the sky? We’ve been here since morning so we can get something to feed ‘the kids.’”

“Did you hear that?” I heard the woman telling the customer. “I like the way Hmidu deals with those country folk.”

When I gave up the seat at the bar, my head was spinning; I didn’t think my legs would hold me up any more. As I headed for the door, I heard someone behind me say, “Good riddance.” Needless to say, I didn’t look back. I stood on the empty street for ages, waiting for a taxi, but it was hopeless. A few private cars were parked along the street. . . . I needed to urinate, so I walked over to the tree on the sidewalk; its overhanging branches and leaves created a large shady area. Just then, I heard a voice behind me, “Alms, O Muslim.”

There, she was peering over my shoulder. “Go away!” I said.

It was a filthy old woman who had left her face unveiled as far as the chin. Her jallaba was either black or blue, I couldn’t tell which in the dark.

“Alms, my son!” she said again.

“Can’t you see what I’m doing? Shame on you!”

“Sorry, son. I can wait. Take your time.”

Behind me I heard a door slam. It was another police car. A young policeman got out and grabbed me by the neck and the old woman by the arm.

“You, get in the jeep. And you, show me your ID.”

I gave him my ID.

“Are you kidding?” he said, pushing his cap back on his head. “I need the other sort of paper. Don’t you understand? Do you think you can fool us?”

I tried to understand. I fumbled in my pockets, but only ten dirhams were left, the cost of a taxi ride. I gave him the money. He pointed his flashlight at it.

“Are you trying to make fun of us?” he sneered. “We’re tired of you drunkards. Aren’t you ashamed? On top of it all, you’re committing adultery with this woman who’s as old as your grandmother.”

“I swear . . .”

“Get in the jeep. I don’t want to hear it.”

B. Again

Ibn Abi Dunya once said: “Once I saw a drunk on the streets of Baghdad peeing, then cleaning himself with his clothes. He was asking God to number him among the purified.”

C. Again

You know what happened to the drunk who peed on the streets of Casablanca.

A. One last time

For more information, please refer to the following:

       1.    The things that happen in Casablanca day and night.

       2.    The collection of tales and stories from the Prophetic narratives and others, especially the chapter entitled “The tale concerning the censure of wine-drinking.”