5

Nezha left Salwa’s Salon fuming. She took a deep breath and headed in the direction of the bus station, a place she detested. It had been ages since she’d taken the bus. She had the mobile numbers of a handful of cab drivers who would drop everything, no matter where they were or who they were driving, to come pick her up when she called. But at that moment, she couldn’t indulge in this luxury. Salwa had only given her fifty dirhams, which was about enough for a pack of cigarettes and a bus ticket. As she stood there waiting for the next bus, she thought about what a terrible situation she was in. She was alone and afraid, with no one to protect her.

She fought back tears as she thought about her father. Despite his financial troubles and sickness he had always been there to provide her with love and support. He had sacrificed so much to give her what she wanted, however meager it was. She closed her eyes and pictured her father with his gentle, ever-present smile. She remembered how he would take her by the hand, stroke her hair, and embrace her lovingly. She thought about all the men she had been with since who had never really cared for her. Their hearts beat with cruelty.

She got worked up recalling these memories. As she tried to catch her breath she suddenly noticed her brother standing in front of the station. Was he spying on her? She looked at him suspiciously. Why was he wearing sports gear? He only wore those clothes when he went out jogging with friends. Why was he wearing the cap that he used to cover his face when he pretended to be sleeping? She squinted at him, examining his appearance as he crossed the street and walked toward her. As he approached, people waiting at the station turned to look at him. He was agitated and looked as if he were ready to pounce on her. She pulled back as he reached for her arm.

“What do you want from me?” she said in a loud voice, drawing the attention of those around her.

He stared at the onlookers who were now surrounding them, as if he were ready to take on each and every one of them.

“Where are you going?” he said through his clenched jaw.

“It’s none of your business where I’m going,” she said coldly.

She moved away, but he stayed close.

“You humiliated me in front of my friends—”

“You and your friends,” she interrupted, “do absolutely nothing except keep tabs on everyone else. All you do is stand around and gossip like women! Why don’t you look for jobs? If you don’t like the fact that I have a job, why don’t you go get one yourself! I’d love to stay home. I could use a break.”

She didn’t know where this courage and strength sprang from inside her. She noticed her brother’s irritation. He looked around, scared that some nosy passerby might have caught what she said.

“If I could find a job, I wouldn’t be standing here,” he said, trying to maintain his composure.

“Leave me alone, for our mother’s sake,” she said. “Or do you want her back in a hospital bed again?”

Ibrahim looked at his sister in disbelief, his anger intensifying. “You talk about your job like you’re some respectable employee.”

“I am a respectable employee,” she said firmly.

“Where do you work?”

“None of your business.”

“If your job is respectable then let me come along.”

She shook her head. “I’m not working tonight, but if you want to join me tomorrow, be my guest.”

“Where are you going now?” he asked.

“To a friend’s place.”

She backed away a few paces, but he closed in again. She was scared he was about to lash out, but instead a strange smile spread over his face.

“You were at Salwa’s Salon,” he said, leaning into her ear. “The bus you’re waiting for is headed downtown—what’s downtown except cafés, bars, and whorehouses? Do you think I don’t know what you do? Do you think I’m really asleep when you return drunk, smelling like cigarettes and beer? I’ve defended your reputation nearly every single day. I’ve been ready to fight anyone who has even thought about attacking you. You’ll never be able to understand how much I’ve suffered on your behalf. But yesterday, when they saw you get out of that car like that, you exposed it all. Your cover was blown.”

“What happened yesterday will never happen again, I promise you.”

He grabbed her arm so hard that she nearly screamed. He no longer cared what everyone around them thought.

“Come back to the house with me.”

She freed her arm from his clutch and looked at him. She could see sparks flying in his eyes.

“Get away from me!” she yelled. “Who are you? I don’t know you!”

Ibrahim froze in place, looking at her in disbelief. His heart raced and he could feel the blood rush into his face. He stood there mortified and could hear murmurs in support of Nezha. From the corner of his eye he saw a guy move forward as if he were about to intervene.

Nezha couldn’t understand exactly how she lost control, and how all this anger erupted. Her face went white, she started breathing heavily, and her limbs shook. Everyone watching assumed the situation was about to get worse. Then the bus pulled in slowly. Just before it stopped, Nezha caught a glimpse of Sufyan and Driss, who had been keeping an eye on the altercation from the other side of the street.

*

In the Ain Seba industrial area east of Casablanca there was a factory that specialized in manufacturing electrical cables for vehicles. The company was owned by a giant German corporation, which, like many corporations, preferred the lower labor costs and special tax deductions in Morocco, not to mention its proximity to Europe for easy export.

The factory had a typical assembly line where all of the workers, men and women alike, stood in their assigned place, adding their own little segment to the cable before it moved along the line to the next person. No one, no matter what, could leave their workstation or make a single mistake for fear of jamming the line and shutting down the machines, resulting in hours of repairs. In classic German style, the workers moved quickly, but with precision. Despite the physicality of the job, the workers were thankful that at least the machines were quiet—allowing them to chat with one another all day.

This week had been particularly grueling. The workers weren’t allowed to take any time off and worked extra hours for a rush order from a big contractor in Europe. As compensation, the company promised everyone an extra day’s holiday. Abdel-Jalil and Said, two of the employees, eagerly awaited the sound of the bell as they approached the last fifteen minutes of their shift. They were antsy. Not only were they in the first group to be given the following day off, but today was payday, and it included all of the overtime they had worked this month. Abdel-Jalil and Said had become close friends working together on the line. They were both overqualified for their positions—one had a university degree in physics, the other a degree in environmental science—but the lack of job opportunities in the country pushed them to employment that didn’t make use of their skills. That said, they were actually among the fortunate—at least they were able to get jobs in this factory.

They stood next to one another, their hands moving quickly. The monotony of the day had taken its toll. They looked haggard and ached to get off of their feet. They had discussed every topic imaginable and had nothing more to talk about except what they would do when they finished their shift—but the minutes were dragging.

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Said, without shifting his eyes from the workstation. “I’m not going to go with you to Fez. I’m not leaving my house. What I want, need, and dream of, is to relax and just sleep.”

Said was thirty, just like his friend. He had a large white mark around his right temple that drew stares and made him feel undesirable. As a result, he was cynical and antagonistic toward most people. Quite the opposite of Said, Abdel-Jalil was a likable guy. He was handsome, and always well dressed and clean-shaven.

“Why have you changed your mind so quickly?” Abdel-Jalil asked, disappointed.

Said didn’t answer his friend’s question.

“I’m tired too,” Abdel-Jalil added, sighing. “I don’t want to travel, but it’s the first of the month. I have to visit my family and give them some money.”

“Send them a money transfer like last month and apologize over the phone. Tell them we don’t have a break.”

“I promised them I’d visit. Also, I miss my mother and siblings.”

Said was the one who sighed this time, loudly, more like a groan, as he closed his eyes for a moment. He thought about the cold, family-less world he inhabited. His mother had divorced his father years ago and married another man. His one sister lived in Spain with her husband and children.

Abdel-Jalil sensed that his friend Said was deep in thought, which was his usual response when they had this conversation.

“What do you think about having dinner at our friend Baaroub’s restaurant?” he asked to lighten the mood. “Then I’ll head home to pack up some stuff, go get a ticket at the station, and come to your place and hang out until I need to leave.”

Said cheered up at this suggestion. The assembly line came to a stop and the bell rang marking the end of their shift. The workers swarmed to the exits of the building like they were running from a fire. They all lined up in front of the cashier to get their wages.

 

Baaroub’s restaurant was one of the most popular local joints downtown. It served up traditional Moroccan dishes, like tagines and kebabs, with a modern flair. They were known for their harira soup and maaqouda, a simple dish of fried potatoes, spices, and eggs. The friends each placed an order of both dishes. They sat at their favorite table in the corner, eating and chatting away. At a neighboring table sat a young man and a pretty, elegant girl, who kept laughing as she ate. The way the couple was positioned, Said was facing her, and whenever they looked at one another Said was struck with envy.

“I’d love to meet a cheerful girl like her.”

Abdel-Jalil turned around to check her out. He thought she was ordinary and unattractive. Abdel-Jalil knew that watching this couple was eating away at Said. Most women found Said unsightly and he had given up on trying to find one to marry.

“Do you think you’re the only one who wants to get married?” Abdel-Jalil asked to distract him. “I want to get married too, but I can’t seem to find anyone either.”

Said put down his food, feeling even more drawn to the girl across from him. “If I met a girl who liked me,” he said, “it wouldn’t be complicated. I’d recite the opening verses of the Quran and marry her on the spot.”

Abdel-Jalil finished his harira and chomped down on the last big piece of maaqouda. “We’ve said the same thing a thousand times,” he said.

“The next time will be different,” Said replied energetically. “As soon as I find a girl who likes me I’m going to propose on the spot. I’ll tell her directly: ‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Said. I’m thirty years old. I live in a decent place downtown, even though it’s a bit small and old. I work at a factory that produces electrical cables and I make three thousand dirhams a month. I’m a serious and reasonable guy. Will you marry me?’ If she said yes, we’d get engaged that same day, without a moment’s hesitation. I wouldn’t ask her about her past, who she is, what she owns, whether she works or not.”

Abdel-Jalil smiled, hoping to add a bit of levity to this tedious conversation that Said never seemed to tire of discussing.

“It’s like you bought a watermelon and you have no idea whether it’s sweet inside until you open it,” Abdel-Jalil joked.

The girl at the other table laughed loudly, almost as if she were mocking their ridiculous conversation. Said took this gesture personally and sank down further in his chair, as if the girl’s laugh had intentionally wounded him. He looked up to shoot her a nasty look, but she was already absorbed in conversation with her male companion. She was listening to him intently, and he seemed to be telling her a fascinating story.

“Don’t pay attention to her,” Abdel-Jalil said, snapping Said out of it.

Said shuddered like someone pulled away from watching an intense movie.

“Let’s go,” Said said. “On to our misery.”

Abdel-Jalil paid the bill as Said got a final look at the two lovers, who seemed to be in another world altogether.

*

Nezha rushed onto the bus as soon as it stopped at the station. She squeezed her way through the crowd, which was crammed like a can of sardines. She told herself: “If I don’t turn around, I won’t see what’s behind me. Stay calm. Don’t be afraid.”

Every time the bus stopped and passengers got off Nezha would act as if she were moving toward the front door, to see if anyone would follow her if she got up. She wasn’t sure if her brother or one of his friends had boarded as well. She was frightened, and was ready to bolt from the bus at any moment. As they approached the intersection with the busiest downtown street, the signal turned red. The bus stopped in the middle of a line of cars. Nezha stood and shuffled to the front, getting so close to the bus driver that he was forced to look at her. When he looked up she leaned in toward his ear and whispered: “Maybe you could let me off here?”

“Why not, beautiful?”

He pressed the button to open the door and Nezha slipped out before the door had fully opened. She made her way through the cars and then darted into a side street teeming with pedestrians. She smiled victoriously and said to herself: “Nezha can do it all!” Then, catching herself being cocky, she apologized: “Forgive me, Lord.” She passed a number of buildings before branching off into an empty alleyway, constantly checking behind her. She walked under the pale light of the streetlamps, passing the back doors of cafés, hotels, and bars. It was a warm night, like those November nights that increasingly seemed to be an extension of the summer during these years of drought.

By the time Nezha approached the back door of La Falaise she was strutting and feeling a bit bolder. “Whatever happens, happens,” she said to herself as she climbed the narrow, unlit back stairs. She found herself in the dressing room. It was empty and smelled of a mixture of cheap perfume and sweat. The floor was littered with used tissues. Nezha stared at herself in the mirror. She picked up one of the lipsticks from the counter in front of her and started painting the deep red onto her lips. She paused, leaning in to look at her reflection and questioning her decision to come here.

She entered the bar and found it empty except for a few girls she vaguely knew, who were flirting with customers. She froze when she saw Farqash at the bar with Warda. She watched as he lit her cigarette and caressed her hand. He wrapped his arm around her waist, drew her close, and kissed her. Nezha walked over to the booth closest to them and sat down. She slammed down her pack of cigarettes.

“Warda, one beer over here!” she shouted, intent on disrupting their embrace.

Farqash turned toward her in disbelief. Warda froze, awaiting Farqash’s instructions. Without even looking at her he shook his head, telling Warda not to bring her a beer, and walked toward Nezha. He grabbed a chair and sat in front of her.

“You have my money?” he asked in a threatening tone.

“I know you’re aware of what happened last night.”

Farqash gnashed his big, yellowed teeth, grumbled, and slammed his fist on the table. “Listen, you whore, I don’t care about your life story. If you don’t put the money on this table, I’ll wipe you off the face of this planet.” As he spoke his nostrils flared like a bull’s, filled with rage toward her.

Nezha thought about how everything in her life had gone downhill the day Salwa introduced her to this animal. Salwa had presented him to Nezha as her protector, as someone who would look after her. At the time, Nezha had no idea how the nightlife operated. Farqash had masterminded their whole relationship. He claimed her as his favorite and made her feel like the princess of La Falaise. He helped her earn a lot of money, taught her how to smoke, drink, and flirt like a professional. But once he’d gained control over her he began punishing her for any little slipup, no matter how trivial. He would beat her with his belt and throw things at her. One time, when she refused to have anal sex with him, he hit her on the head with a bottle, resulting in a cut so deep that she still had the scar. Another time he raped her so aggressively that she was left bedridden for a week. From that day on, he instilled such fear in her that she would do anything he asked, without resistance or delay. She knew he would be brutal with her if she made him mad, but he was so moody that it became difficult to predict when he would have one of his outbursts.

One night, when he was drunk, he confided that he had killed a man. He opened a case underneath his bed and showed her a long shiny sword. She thought he was going to kill her on the spot. But he satisfied himself with beating her instead, and warned her that he was watching her. He said he knew about her attempts to flee and work at other clubs. He warned her that all the other club owners in Casablanca were his friends, and no matter what she did, she’d never be able to escape. He reminded her of some of the girls with disfigured faces who begged for cigarettes and pennies outside the clubs. He told her they’d been just like her, but had disobeyed or tried to scam him. He reminded her of Farida, his most recent victim: she would put a hand over the top of her mouth to hide the nasty scar that made her smile from ear to ear like a menacing clown. After midnight Farida would be outside, begging for cigarettes or money to buy a bottle of cheap liquor from her old friends.

All the other girls in the bar constantly flattered Nezha and gave her fancy cigarettes and gifts, in hopes that if Farqash got mad at one of them, Nezha might intervene on her behalf. Her happiest days were when Farqash spoiled her, embraced her, and slapped her ass. She never thought that Warda’s presence would change things so quickly. Warda, that fat-assed Bedouin, was now sitting on the throne. She hated hearing the other women calling Warda’s name instead of hers. When Nezha first complained to Farqash that he wasn’t paying as much attention to her, he beat her brutally. To make his point, he took out his sword, placed the blade on her neck, and made it clear what would happen if she complained again. Farqash quickly changed all the rules, and started demanding that Nezha make a nightly payment to him, just like all the other girls. One night she picked a fight with Warda, who proved to be just as vicious as Farqash. She started thinking of leaving, but where would she go? As long as she was in demand at La Falaise, she wasn’t allowed to work anywhere else.

In the end, she gave in to her new reality. To cope, she started drinking more. She didn’t turn down a single request. She placed no boundaries on what she was willing to do with men. What does it matter what they do to me? she thought. Farqash would do the same or worse. Just when she thought that Farqash would stop making demands, he surprised her by insisting on a huge cut from her recent outings with Hamadi. He started threatening to kill her if wasn’t paid his fair share.

Now, sitting across from her, he was looking at her in disbelief. He was put off by her calmness as she took a cigarette out of the pack. She lit it, took a long, slow drag, and exhaled right into his face.

“I ordered a beer. Didn’t you hear me?” she shouted, looking past Farqash at Warda.

Warda remained frozen in place. The other patrons started to quiet down and look in their direction, sensing the tension between the three.

“Nezha is making a huge mistake,” Warda said to a client nearby. “She thinks she still holds sway in this place, but she’s dreaming, and these dreams are going to get her killed.”

“She’s just a whore,” replied the client, stammering in a drunken stupor. “Whores don’t have dreams.”

Nezha was determined to order a beer, as if her life depended on it. But Warda shot her a nasty look and turned to help other patrons.

“You’re ignoring me?” she shouted, jumping to her feet. “The Bedouin of La Falaise! Oh, don’t worry, your day will come, my dear.”

Farqash grabbed Nezha’s hand and squeezed it in his fist, nearly breaking her fingers.

“Get the hell out of here,” he said between his teeth, trying to control his anger. “I know exactly when I’m going to punish you for causing this scene.”

Nezha didn’t pay attention to his threat. She didn’t even feel her hand being crushed, as if it were numb. For the first time, she stood up to his intimidation.

“If you are a man, punish me right now!” she said, challenging him. “You’re an evil, controlling bastard who preys on the weak like me. What are you waiting for?”

Was it even thinkable to insult this man? Was this really Nezha the coward saying these things directly to Casablanca’s most dangerous pimp? It couldn’t really be her. Everyone thought that she must be high, must be on something really strong. But the truth was, she was high on the horrible memories of her life, which were running like a film reel in front of her. All she could see were scenes of humiliation, insult, fear, and the people who had so cruelly taken advantage of her. Farqash, shocked, looked her over carefully, unable to figure out what was going on. Nezha stared back defiantly, and he couldn’t say anything. The entire place was waiting on his next move, holding their breath.

He changed course, and leaned toward her, speaking in a soft, unthreatening tone, as if he were going to come to a friendly compromise with her. “I’m going to kill you tonight. And when they take your body to the morgue to do the autopsy, they are going to find that beer bottle you requested, jammed inside.”

Nezha burst out laughing, as if she’d just heard a hilarious joke. “Life doesn’t matter to me any more, you bastard. What matters is embarrassing you in front of everyone.” She looked around and started back in on him. “This bastard takes advantage of weak women. He steals their hard-earned money. If one of us makes a hundred dirhams, he takes fifty—and if we sell our bodies elsewhere, we still have to pay him. He prohibits us from working at other clubs. He’s a pervert who likes anal, and he deals coke too. He even admitted to me that he killed someone . . .”

Farqash’s heart started pounding, his breathing quickened, and his fists clenched. He tried to resist the urge to pound them into Nezha’s face. He didn’t care what she said about him, but he wouldn’t have his name dragged through the mud by this whore. He stood up, shaking with anger, and gestured to Warda, indicating that she turn up the music. As the song got louder, Nezha’s voice could no longer be heard. She didn’t know what would happen next; all she wanted was a cold beer. She headed to the counter where Warda stood.

“Give me a beer, Warda,” she said. “This is my last request in life.”

Warda looked at her with confusion and pity. She nearly carried out her request, but Farqash motioned to her, stopping her from reaching for a glass. Warda nodded, understanding his message, and drifted back toward the corner.

“Please, Warda,” Nezha said, looking at her imploringly. “One beer and I’ll head out.”

Warda looked at her, still confused. She was searching for an excuse to help her, as she started to realize that Nezha’s behavior might not be the result of being high on some drug. Farqash recognized what was going on inside Warda’s head. He moved to the counter, grabbed Nezha by the arm, dragged her to the door, and kicked her out as if she were a small dog.

Nezha found herself out on the street, hungry, disoriented, and penniless. She started walking. She had conquered her fear and exploded right in Farqash’s face—this was what she had long dreamed of doing. Now she was free, and if Farqash tried to control her again, she’d go straight to Detective Hanash and tell him everything she knew. She had enough information to send Farqash to jail for the rest of his life.

She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and lifted her face to the sky, letting the smoke circle her head. She burned down half the cigarette in three drags and threw the remaining half on the ground, stamping it out with her foot. A few steps later she emerged from the alley and was on Mohamed V Street, the biggest street in Casablanca. “Now I’m free,” she told herself, “and whatever comes will come.”

 

The bus station wasn’t very busy at this hour. Abdel-Jalil headed toward the ticket window with the sign for Fez and waited until the woman in front of him finished. He checked out her prominent ass before she left her spot at the counter.

“One ticket on the midnight bus to Fez, please.”

The employee at the counter handed him the ticket. “Want to know the seat number of the woman with the nice ass just before you? Number twelve.”

Abdel-Jalil looked at his ticket, and his eyes widened. “And you gave me seat number thirteen.”

“You’re gonna have the best trip of your life,” the elderly ticket man said sarcastically.

Abdel-Jalil left the station quickly, hoping he might spot the woman. Who knows, maybe she was by herself and didn’t have anything to do for the next four hours until the bus left. He raced out the door and looked in all directions. He cursed himself for not paying more attention to her when they were in line. He tried to recall what she looked like. He didn’t have a clear picture of her in his mind, having seen her from behind and been more focused on her ass than anything else. He had a feeling that she was middle-aged, wore a traditional jalabiya, and her hair was covered. Maybe she was more the type of the old employee.

Abdel-Jalil didn’t feel like heading back to the cold apartment. He had everything he needed in his jacket pockets. He wouldn’t be staying in Fez for more than a day, and he had clothes, pajamas, and shaving supplies there. He always preferred to travel without bags—it made him feel free. As he headed downtown he thought about when he had first come to Casablanca three years ago, after one of his cousins had gotten him the job at the factory. At the time, Abdel-Jalil was so disappointed because he was hoping for a more stable government position in the public works department.

He felt overqualified and out of place at work, and this always gave him the sense that his situation was temporary. Like other well-educated guys, he dreamed of emigrating to Canada, and he participated in the US visa lottery every year. He had looked into emigrating to Europe, whether legally with a job offer, or as a “harrag,” hiding away on a boat.

He had grown up in a poor but close-knit family. His father made ceramics and had a small shop where he sold clay pots. There wasn’t much demand for ceramics these days and there was a lot of competition, making it difficult for his father to earn a steady income. His mother was a housewife who spent her time doing the seemingly endless household chores. Abdel-Jalil had the nickname “the Sisters’ Brother,” since he had three sisters, all of whom still lived in the same rundown home in Fez’s Old City with their parents. The sisters were all on the path to becoming spinsters. Abdel-Jalil, at thirty, was the youngest sibling. He felt a deep responsibility to help his family, despite his meager monthly wages. And now he had a thousand dirhams for all the extra hours he had put in at the factory.

He fingered the bills in his jacket pocket as he strutted down the street dressed in his best clothes. He had combed his hair back and put on cologne, and looked suave. As he walked he was overcome with a sense of ease and satisfaction. He decided to just enjoy taking a stroll on Mohamed V Street. He wouldn’t think about the past or the future; he’d just live in the moment.

 

Abdel-Jalil walked down the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, whistling and checking out the women passing by. He stopped in his tracks in disbelief the moment he saw Nezha. She seemed to be in a daze, as if she were in another world. He looked at her and rushed toward her.

“Is it you?” he asked.

He moved in and planted two warm kisses on her cheeks. Nezha had still not come to her senses, and was about to reply impolitely, “No, I’m not who you think.”

But instead she inspected him, noticing how attractive he was, and the scent of his lovely cologne. She was a bit overwhelmed by this man’s good looks and his chipper mood. Then it hit her—she remembered the last time she had slept with him, about two months ago. She felt at ease, remembering that this guy, despite being a bit stingy—he’d never given her more than a hundred dirhams—always made her feel comfortable, and she liked spending time with him. She looked around, scared that there was someone on her tracks.

“Where have you been all this time?” she asked.

“I went to La Falaise one other time, but you were busy.”

She laughed. “My time there is over,” she said decisively. “I’m a free agent now. It’s probably best if you stop going there. If I told you what they do to their customers, you’d never set foot in there again. They’re all crooks.”

“I’m not a customer,” he interrupted. “When I used to go to La Falaise, it was to find you. Anyway, where are you going now?”

Nezha hesitated for a moment. What she really needed was to forget about Farqash and the problems with her brother. She felt that what she wanted right now was to get wasted and pass out. She looked up at Abdel-Jalil and was pleased to see that he was practically drooling over her.

“You’re looking sharp,” she said. “Do you have a date?”

“I’m heading to Fez on the midnight bus to visit my family.”

This response shattered her hopes. She stepped back a bit, visibly losing interest in him.

“I’ll see you when you get back, then,” she said, disappointed.

He seized her by the shoulders and drew her closer, his face full of lust. “I want to see you now.”

Nezha looked into his eyes and gave a coy smile, fluttering her fingers on his palm to cajole him. “Didn’t you say that you’re traveling to Fez at midnight?”

He took Nezha by the hand as if she would escape and swiftly looked at his watch. “I still have more than four hours,” he said.

He looked at her hopefully, and Nezha read the plea in his eyes. She knew exactly what this look meant in a situation like this: he was so riled up he would drop anything to get laid.

“What can we do in four hours?” she teased him. She had him in the palm of her hand.

“We can do everything in four hours. We won’t waste any time going to my house, which is too far away. Let’s go to my friend’s house. It’s really close.”

“There’s no way I’m going to your friend’s house,” she said decisively. Her refusal was firm. Experience had taught her that being alone with two friends ended in one of two outcomes: a fight, or they would try to have a threesome with her. “If you want me to join you for a beer at some bar, I’m up for it, but let’s leave the other things for when you get back from Fez. You have my number—call whenever you want.”

Abdel-Jalil drew her close again. “I suggested my friend’s place only to save a bit of time. But if you want to go to my house, no problem. Let’s take a cab.”

He stepped out to hail a cab, but Nezha stopped him. She knew that Abdel-Jalil’s house was way out on another side of Casablanca, and the cab fare there and back would be costly, and this would affect what he paid her. She reconsidered, thinking that everything would happen pretty quickly: he’d have sex with her and then drop her off on the corner.

“All right, I’ll go to your friend’s house. But you have to give me five hundred dirhams now, like a down payment.”

He went silent. This request embarrassed him. She knew he was just a factory employee. Even when he went to La Falaise once a month he’d arrive drunk so he only had to pay for a beer or two, while sitting alone for hours. Despite knowing this, she expected him to respond differently this time, since it was no longer his head making the decisions.

“I’ll give you a hundred dirhams in advance,” he said, imagining the amount of pleasure that awaited him.

She laughed deeply, thinking that this amount, were he someone else, wouldn’t even cover the cost of the cigarettes she smoked for the evening. But she gave in. Her plan was to head to a bar far from downtown after she left Abdel-Jalil. She’d keep drinking there, and find someone to take her on an adventure.

He led Nezha from Mohamed V down one of the alleys that took them right in front of La Falaise. He said it was the easiest way to get to his friend Said’s house, and Nezha didn’t protest. She was actually looking forward to bravely walking by the place.

“You know that my house is far from downtown. Plus, the neighborhood is full of nosy people. Here, the streets are empty and people mind their own business.”

That certainly wasn’t how Nezha viewed this neighborhood. She imagined a group of people watching and following them. When she dared look back, her mouth suddenly dry, she only saw random people crossing the street. When they reached the grimiest section of the street, Abdel-Jalil twisted into a narrow, dark alley.

“Here’s Said’s place,” he said, invigorated.

The apartment building was ancient and nearly collapsing. On the wall was a hand-painted sign: “No Urinating.” Despite this, a powerful, pungent smell of urine hit them from the corner. The building’s door was made of rickety wood. The stairway was unlit, so Abdel-Jalil had to use his lighter to lead the way. Nezha stayed close, as she felt the floor shift under her feet. Abdel-Jalil smiled at her, assuring her that he knew his way.

“Don’t be afraid. This building is from the days of the Roman Empire,” he joked. “Even though it moves around a bit, it’s stronger than the structures they build today. My friend Said is lucky because the monthly rent is really low.”

Nezha didn’t offer a reply, and when Abdel-Jalil extinguished his lighter she felt as if she were inside a coffin. He knocked on the door, and as soon as it opened light poured into the entryway. Nezha caught her breath and hurried inside.

The apartment was small but, in contrast to the state of the entryway, was quite beautiful and classy. The living room contained a sofa, chairs, and an elegant coffee table with an, albeit cracked, glass top. It was clear that the furniture was used. Nezha looked around, scanning the place, not even paying attention to its occupant, until Abdel-Jalil introduced his friend.

“This is my friend . . . well, my brother, Said. And this is Nezha.”

Nezha’s eyes went directly to the mark around Said’s temple. She noted how unattractive he was in comparison to his friend, but didn’t let that stop her from greeting him warmly, like she’d known him for ages. He rushed toward her and kissed her on each cheek, in awe as he inspected her from top to bottom, unable to restrain himself. A look of total fascination spread over his face, as if he’d seen something miraculous. Then he started moving around her, devouring her with his eyes, like a raging bull. Nezha looked straight back at him and mimicked his movements, laughing. Abdel-Jalil was getting annoyed with all this back-and-forth. He scanned the room, noticed a bottle of red wine that was nearly empty, and realized that Said was drunk. He tried to control his anger.

“You took down a bottle of red that quickly?” Abdel-Jalil said with a smile, mildly reproaching him. “Didn’t you say that you only wanted to catch up on sleep?”

Said didn’t pay attention to his friend. Instead, he got closer to Nezha, nearly touching her.

“Welcome, Nezha, to my home,” he said, cheerfully. “Let me show you around.”

He took her hand and led her to the bedroom. It was small, but very clean. It had a comfortable-looking bed and a new armoire, and the floor was covered with a thick red carpet, like a hotel room.

On one of the bedside tables Nezha saw an open envelope brimming with cash. She couldn’t keep her eyes off the envelope. If only I had that money, all my problems would be solved, she thought to herself. Said stepped away from her to grab the envelope and secure the cash inside it, and then shoved it into a drawer. He then took her by the arm and led her to another corner of the apartment, which was set up as the kitchen, and finally showed her where the bathroom was. When they returned to the living room they were both laughing and giggling.

Said looked at Abdel-Jalil, who had sunk into the couch. He had a hand on his cheek, unable to hide his frown.

“Don’t worry about him,” Said said to Nezha. “You’re a guest in my home. What would you like to drink, sweetheart?”

Nezha laughed, feeling like all of her troubles had washed away. After seeing the envelope full of cash in the bedroom and hearing him use the word sweetheart, she felt like she was floating on a cloud.

“What do you have to drink?” she asked.

Said moved in closer, stumbling a bit. “The refrigerator is full to the brim! I’ve got everything your heart desires.”

“What are we waiting for, then? Let’s drink! I’m dying of thirst,” she said, beaming with excitement.

Said let out a resounding laugh, but instead of heading to the kitchen he threw himself on the couch. “Hey Abdel-Jalil, my home is your home—you know where the fridge is.”

Abdel-Jalil hesitated, fighting back his irritation. He got up and headed to the fridge. As soon as he disappeared, Said lit a cigarette and offered one to Nezha. When she leaned in to get a light, he yanked her closer and sat her down next to him. She took a long drag and exhaled in his face, pursing her lips and eyeing him seductively. He bit his lip and she could see his chest rise with excitement as he inhaled. She moved away a bit and started looking around the room.

“It’s a beautiful place.”

“And you’re beautiful too,” Said replied, touching her arm.

Abdel-Jalil stood in the doorway carrying the bottles. He saw them next to one another and was immediately jealous. He looked at his friend, alarmed, and said to himself, “This whore wants to play schoolyard games with me? I’ll show her who she’s messing with.” He faked a smile and put the bottles on the coffee table. He wanted to down a few beers so that he could loosen up and not be so reserved. Then he wanted to take his revenge by pouncing on Nezha right on the couch. He envisioned giving it to her rough and then throwing her out on the street without giving her so much as a single dirham. He’d finish with her and then head to the bus terminal.

As midnight approached, empty bottles were strewn about the table, the ashtray was crammed with cigarette butts, and two empty packs were crumpled on the floor. The room was cloudy with smoke. Nezha was sitting next to Said, and they were both drunk. Meanwhile, Abdel-Jalil was sitting across from them, even further gone: he had consumed twice what they had. Abdel-Jalil felt jealousy tearing him up as he watched them next to one another. What really irked him was how they were colluding to get rid of him. They were intent on ruining his night by waiting until he had to leave. He was not going to give in to their plan and leave them to have fun. In his stupor he concluded that if he left after bringing over a girl for his friend, then that would make him a pimp.

Said looked over at Abdel-Jalil. “Did you forget that you have a bus to catch at midnight?” he said, slurring his speech.

Abdel-Jalil stretched out on the couch and looked at his watch. “I’ve missed it. I’ve wasted the cost of the ticket for nothing.”

They became frustrated with his response and Nezha really wanted him to leave. She liked Said, and knew that the discoloration on his face made him feel inferior, and that drinking had given him the confidence to be with her. She remembered the envelope full of cash in the drawer in his bedroom. She moved closer to Said, obviously encouraging him to kick out Abdel-Jalil as soon as possible. To help move things along, she grabbed one of the empty packs of cigarettes crumpled on the ground, and tossed it back down.

“We don’t have any cigs, and I need a smoke.”

Said caught her drift. “Go buy us a pack of smokes,” he said to Abdel-Jalil.

Bitterly, Abdel-Jalil guzzled the last of the beer in his glass and slammed it back onto the coffee table. “Where do you want me to buy cigs at this time?” he said, holding back his anger.

“There’s someone at the top of the next street who sells them.”

Abdel-Jalil hadn’t expected his friend to turn on him like this for the sake of a prostitute. All those years of friendship suddenly seemed to go up in smoke. He felt like he was the target of ridicule, from a nasty whore and his ugly friend, who he used to feel sorry for. He felt his desire for sex transform into a desire for revenge, and he was going to get his revenge no matter what. When Said got up and wobbled toward the bathroom, he had the opportunity to confront Nezha. As soon as Said left the room, he directed a scornful look her way.

“I missed my bus because of you, so you’re coming home with me,” he said.

She ignored him and sipped her beer straight from the can.

“Who do you think you are?” said Abdel-Jalil, boiling with anger.

“What’s it to you?” she said, stuttering from inebriation, her head swaying to and fro.

Abdel-Jalil didn’t know what he was doing as he raised one of the empty bottles and approached her. “I’m going to break this over your head so you’ll be able to speak clearly!” he yelled, losing control.

He raised the bottle in the air and would have brought it down on Nezha’s skull if Said hadn’t rushed back into the room, snatched the bottle, and shoved him away.

“Get away from her!” Said yelled.

Abdel-Jalil collapsed onto the couch, and then sat up and looked at his friend, shocked that he’d shoved him so roughly. He thought Said was rushing over to apologize and embrace him, but he stared him down, looking like he was ready to fight. Abdel-Jalil was utterly confused and didn’t know what to do, so he remained on the couch.

“Why do you want to ruin the night?” demanded Said, circling the room. “Go and buy us cigarettes. Stop being an asshole.”

Abdel-Jalil staggered as he rose. “Think carefully about what you’re doing to me, Said,” he said. “Are you kicking me out of your house for cigarettes, or for what? For this cheap whore?”

“Your sister is a whore, you fucker,” Nezha replied immediately.

Before she realized what was happening, Abdel-Jalil assaulted her. He threw her onto the couch and was about to punch her in the face.

“Stay right there!” yelled Said, and he joined in the fray, trying to pull Abdel-Jalil off of Nezha, who was powerless to do anything except stare at the two friends and wait to see what would happen. They were standing face to face and panting loudly, ready to fight. Suddenly, Said unleashed a devious smile, opened up the CD player, and put on a CD of popular songs.

“If you don’t want to go get us cigarettes, that’s fine,” said Said.

Said then grabbed Nezha, squeezed her, and they began dancing. He even started kissing her. Nezha responded enthusiastically, in order to infuriate Abdel-Jalil. Every once in a while they would both look at him, rubbing in how much fun they were having together.

Instead of leaving the apartment, Abdel-Jalil stayed in the kitchen, stewing over his friendship with Said. He was the only one who could get Said to open up, helping him get out of his isolation and instilling some confidence in him. Now Said was using this confidence against him! He was even trying to humiliate him—taking his girl, dancing with her, and kissing her right in front of him.

Abdel-Jalil heard Nezha laugh after the CD finished.

“Finally that jerk left,” she said. “I hate jealous people.”

Said hugged her, kissed her, and grabbed her ass. “Me too. We’re the same, me and you. Forget about him.”

He took her hand and they entered his bedroom. From his corner, Abdel-Jalil heard the sound of the bed shaking and creaking under their weight.