Monarch of the Square

He sat on the doorstep next to the Tanagra Movie Theater. The combination of hunger and roaming the city’s alleys had made him feel totally exhausted. He’d searched through a few trash piles, but unfortunately had not come up with any food. All he could find were empty fish and condensed milk cans that people regularly threw in the trash after finishing with them. The city’s garbage trucks would be collecting trash at dawn. Later, workers would spray the streets and alleys with their black hoses.

The square in front of him was empty, although once in a while a car would pass by. Nice American-made cars were parked on the street where he was sitting. He knew almost all the owners because he was very familiar with the square. They were all feudal landowners, bazaar operators, or drug dealers. How he wished he could have grown up the same way they did, for they now had fantastic cars and women as gorgeous as rare pearls, the kind who would emerge from the bars located on the square or behind it. They were both Moroccan and European, and made a point of swaying their hips as they walked.

He’d tried to get a job, but in vain. The head shoeshine-boy, who was also a police informant, had refused to intervene on his behalf so he could get a permit and become a shoeshine-boy himself. In the meantime, he’d brought a number of villagers from the Qal’at Sraghna region and helped them get work-permits. He knew them all. Some of them sympathized with his plight and gave him some food, but others kicked him in the stomach or backside.

He really was unlucky. Even so, he still dreamed of one day becoming monarch of this square. He’d have his own bazaar, a wonderful car, and a crowd of sashaying women, especially European ones. He’d eat and drink well and always be plastered. He’d play pinball with French sailors or American soldiers the way the Caid’s son, Umm Hani’s son, or other people’s sons always did. When he’d become monarch of the square, he’d do all those things.

It was about one o’clock in the morning. Loud music emerged from the bars and swept across the square. He wasn’t feeling particularly drowsy because he’d slept all afternoon, although it hadn’t been very restful; he’d made himself a bed of cardboard under a staircase. He might well have gone back and used the same bed again, but the doorman of the building had cleaned the place up and thrown his bed in the trash. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d used trash to hide from the police. He certainly didn’t want them to take him away to the police station. He’d be assaulted by people older than himself; and he was always scared of falling into the clutches of a particular Corsican policeman. Those police were ruthless and violent. The Moroccan policemen who used to accompany the French police would always give him a kick, then let him go.

“Go home, you little bastard,” they’d yell.

They didn’t realize that he had no home or relatives. His mother had died in a camelhair tent in a city suburb. She’d told him that he had an uncle in a village near Sidi Kacem, but he’d never had enough money to go there and look for him. One day, when he would become a shoeshine or monarch of the square, he’d certainly go there. By that time, his uncle would certainly have passed away. But who knows? Maybe God would grant him a long life. Without his knowing about it, he might even be one of those feudal lords, just like the ones who staggered around the square every night. Anything is possible.

A skinny dog trotted past and was about to urinate on his foot, but he gave it a kick. The dog crossed the street to the other sidewalk and cocked its leg by the tire of a wonderful car under one of the streetlights. They stared at each other, but the dog looked utterly exhausted. Lowering its head to the ground, it stretched out its paws and either went to sleep or died. Again, anything is possible: sleep or death.

He too was exhausted and hungry, but that could easily be solved. When people got drunk, they’d leave their sandwiches unfinished. He’d be able to grab some scraps for himself as long as the waiter didn’t get there first. He shifted his gaze from the dog to the square, to a point near the Kasbah Bar with its black marble tile work. He watched as three men and two policemen got out of their jeep. One of the three men was a tall American soldier.

He was curious, so he stood up and went over to see what was happening. A Moroccan man was interpreting what the American was saying for the two Moroccan policemen. The American was totally drunk. The boy just stood there watching them. He gathered that the American had not paid for his drinks and the woman who managed the bar had called the police. There was a prolonged discussion involving the policemen, the American soldier, and the interpreter, while the other person present remained silent. Eventually, the American pointed at him and said something that he didn’t understand. The interpreter turned toward him.

“The American says that this boy’s the one who stole his wallet,” he told the two policemen.

The boy was stunned and frightened. The two policemen looked at him steadily

“Get in the jeep, son,” one of them told him. “We’ll let you go later. I’m sure you didn’t steal his wallet. What can we do about these disgusting American soldiers? How can you understand such things?”