I went into a baqal and bought five Philip Morris cigarettes. I was approaching the entrance of the cemetery, and it occurred to me that a graveyard is the only place you can go into at any hour of the day or night, without having to ask permission. They’re right. Why should they have a guard here? There’s no money in here. The dead are not afraid. They don’t get angry or hit anyone. Each dead man is in his place. When his gravestone crumbles they put another dead one in the same spot.
The cardboard boxes were piled in their place in the corner. Have they caught him? What has happened to him? I spread out some boxes on the ground. Perhaps he will come. I lit a cigarette, took three wax matches and twisted them together to make a torch. Then I held them up to inspect the writing on the marble plaque. I saw from the numbers there that the person had lived for fifty-one years. The numbers were all I could read. He or she, I didn’t know which, was no longer living, and I was still here. But what does it mean, a man who was alive and now isn’t? What does it mean, that I should be sleeping here in this corner of a family grave? From the tiles and the well-kept plot I can see that the family was a rich one. What does it mean to allow a man sixty or seventy years old to suck on me and then give me fifty pesetas? There must be answers to these questions, but I don’t know them yet. The questions come easily, but I am not sure of the answer to any one of them. I thought the meaning of life was in living it. I know the flavour of this cigarette because I’m smoking it, and it is the same with everything. I smoked with great gusto, and then I threw away the cigarette and went to sleep.
I awoke early. A new boy lay asleep in the place of the other one who had saved me. Quickly I felt to see if what remained of the fifty pesetas was still in my pocket. My fortune was there. The boy had been right when he said there was no safer place than the cemetery. I think the human race respects its members more when they are dead than when they are alive.
At Bab el Fahs I bought a pair of rubber-soled alpargatas for fifteen pesetas. My feet were dirty. I had breakfast in a café and smoked the first cigarette of the day happily. A new day to live through. What shall I do during this new day? Will I manage to pick somebody’s pocket the way Sebtaoui and Abdeslam do in Tetuan? Why not? I must try before what money I have left gives out.
In the middle of the morning I walked into a market. A European woman was buying something at a stall. She paid and put her change purse back into her handbag. Then she caught sight of me, staring fixedly at the handbag. Her eyes seemed to be saying: Aren’t you ashamed? And so I felt ashamed, and went out of the market. I spent the whole day letting the alleys swallow me up and spew me out. In the evening I discovered that you could sleep in the Fondaq ech Chijra. You paid only one peseta at the gate in order to get in, and you could sleep where you liked. There are two levels. The animals sleep below and the people above. It was nine o’clock when I went in. A café, a restaurant, small rooms they rented out, shops, fruit and vegetable stands. The Fondaq is like a city. On the stairway I ran into a drunk. He reached out to touch my face, saying: Aha, gazelle! Where are you off to, beautiful? I pushed his hand away violently, ran up two steps and glared at him. He guffawed.
What are you so nervous about? Afraid of me?
In his hand he held an empty bottle. I’m going to fill up this bottle, he said. I’ll be back.
He went on downstairs, laughing, and I continued up, feeling more frightened each minute. He called back to me: Wait for me, handsome. I’ll be right up. I’m not going to let you get away.
There were scores of men on the balcony, some of them already asleep, but most of them sitting up, drinking, smoking kif, chatting and singing. I caught sight of a drunk hugging a boy. Then he kissed him on the cheeks. One of the others cried: Leave him alone! Not now! Later, later.
No. I’m not going to sleep here, I told myself. I’d rather sleep in the graveyard.
As I started to go back, someone called to me. Hey, beautiful! Come over here with us and make us happy. I did not turn to look. My heart was pounding. I must buy a knife or a razor. I ran down the stairs very fast, stopping only when I got to the animals’ quarters. Luckily human beings are not the only thing in the world. I walked over to a dark corner and sat down. Then I smoked a cigarette. Did Allah mean to make the world like this, with such disorder and confusion? The smell of the beasts was very strong. A mare stood beside me. I folded my arms on my knees, bent over, and fell asleep. I slept sitting up because I was afraid of being raped.
All at once I was being drenched with warm, pungent water. I jumped up, terrified. What’s that? I cried. The last drops of urine are still trickling from the mare’s puckering hole. She takes a step backwards. Quickly I get out of the way, in case she kicks.
At the door the guard asked me if I was coming back.
No! I cried with feeling. I’m not! I’ll never come back!
Why? What’s the matter? Did they do something to you?
Yes. A mare pissed all over me while I was asleep.
What were you doing sleeping down there? Why didn’t you sleep upstairs on the balcony? Go to a hammam and wash before you go to sleep, or you’ll be sick.
Keep your advice for yourself, I told him. He slammed the gate after me.
The air was tepid and the streets were empty. Where to go now? To the baths? And my clothes? I am soaked through. I began to scratch.
Three drunks sat singing in front of the entrance to the old Jewish cemetery. As I went past, one of them called to me. Come here! Where are you going?
I looked over my shoulder and kept walking.
Come on, gazelle! He stood up unsteadily and began to follow me. One of the others said: Let him go. Come back here.
The street leading up to the Zoco de Fuera seemed to be the best way out. As I ran I looked back and saw the drunk sitting down again with the others.
I bought a cake of soap in the Zoco Chico. The square was filled with drunks, whores, maricones and beggars. In the Calle de la Marina near the Djamaa el Kbira two Moroccan police stopped me.
Your papers, said the first.
I haven’t got any papers.
Where do you live?
In Tetuan.
Hearing this, the second one demanded: Where in Tetuan?
In Trancats. Behind the Jewish baths.
Do you know Moulay Ali?
He’s a neighbour of ours.
What are you doing here?
Nothing. I came to look for work.
And where are you going now?
I was sleeping in the Fondaq ech Chijra and a mare pissed on me.
A mare!
Yes, a mare. I was asleep downstairs with the animals.
The two men looked at each other, and the second asked me: Do you know where Dar Debbagh is?
No.
Come with us.
At the corner he pointed out the place, saying: Go in there. You’ll find a fountain. Wash yourself, and in the morning wash your clothes.
The water at the fountain was warm. After I had bathed, I washed my trousers and shirt by trampling them underfoot. Now and then from the nearby café there was the sound of men’s voices as they argued over their card games. A man staggered out and came over to me.
What are you doing? Are you crazy, washing your clothes at night?
I stopped stamping and explained why I was doing it.
A mare!
Yes. A mare.
Mmmm, he said at length. I see. Well, take a good wash.
When I had finished, there were my wet shirt and trousers on the ground in front of me. There was no other solution. I wrung them out as much as I could, and put them back on.
I stopped walking when I came near to the railway station. Shall I sleep in a freight car or go to the beach? On the sand nobody will ask me any questions, whereas a guard can come through the freight car. The main thing is: will I be able to protect myself against someone bigger than I am?