Again I heard in my head the words of the boy who had taken me to the graveyard: If they don’t find anything to steal on you they rape you. I had more than twenty pesetas in my pocket. Will that be enough to protect me? Maybe the boy was right, but he was talking about what they do in the middle of the city. On the beach, or in a freight car, though, they could rob you first and rape you afterwards. They could even cut your throat. And on the beach who could hear? So it’s the freight car. I climbed the wall and let myself down. I could feel the sharp points of the gravel through the soles of my alpargatas, and I worried that they would cut through. I went along slowly, carefully, until I came to the first freight car. I climbed into it and lit a match. It was empty.
Suppose someone comes along and attacks me, I thought again. I jumped down to the ground and picked out the two sharpest stones I could find. As I climbed back up into the car I heard the soft sound of cloth ripping. My trousers.
Bad luck! I threw myself down on the floor. One stone was in my hand and the other lay beside me, near my head. I must buy a knife. Or at least a razor-blade. And I’ve got to find a friend somewhere in this city. What has become of the boy who saved me? Is he staying away from the graveyard on purpose? How long will I have to go on living by myself? Ought I to go on accepting this life as it comes up each day, or not?
8
We were in the Café Chato, and I had just lost my last centimo playing aaita. When we had begun to play, twenty-five pesetas left, and el Kebdani told me: This isn’t your lucky day. Stop playing.
Don’t worry about me, I told him sharply. I can manage myself and my money.
Now, a little after noon, el Kebdani had just lent me five pesetas. I bought three pesetas’ worth of kif and paid two for a glass of green tea. We were sitting up on the balcony; through the little window I could see the whole Zoco de Fuera in front of me. It was Sunday. The big square was crowded with circulating salesmen and buyers, as well as the others who were walking through without buying anything. The wind had come up and the sky was dark with clouds. All the Moroccan establishments were shut — restaurants, cafés and shops. Above each doorway there was a Moroccan flag, and tacked beside it a black flag. In some cafés the owners sat playing cards, treating the day as one of leisure. Earlier that morning I had asked Chato what the holiday meant. It’s a bad day, he answered in a voice that came half from his mouth and half through his nose.
And what does a bad day mean?
You don’t know?
No.
I’ll tell you. The thirtieth of March nineteen twelve was the day when the French began to protect Morocco. That was under Moulay Hafid. And today’s the thirtieth of March nineteen fifty-two, so it’s forty years of protection. And that’s why it’s a bad day.
But what do we want the French to do today?
Don’t you know what we want them to do?
No. What?
We want them to get out! The Protectorate was supposed to last forty years. It expires today.
Do we want the Spanish to get out too?
He looked at me with annoyance. Listen, I haven’t got time to talk about it now. Go up onto the balcony and ask one of your friends to tell you all about it.
El Kebdani had won about three hundred pesetas, when he suddenly announced he was quitting.
Finish the game with us, one of the players said angrily.
Suppose I don’t feel like it? I have to go on playing anyway?
No, but it’s not logical to stop now. You’ve won everything we had. Finish the game out to the end, since you’re the winner.
I’m hungry, el Kebdani said. I’m going to get some lunch.
We’re all hungry, they told him. Play cards.
If you don’t want to finish the game, divide your winnings.
That’s right. Makes sense. That’s the thing to do, unless you want to go on with the game.
El Kebdani laughed sarcastically, and took the sebsi I had filled for him.
I’m warning you. You’d better finish this game.
It looked as if there were going to be trouble. Chato yelled up: I don’t want noise in my café! Go out into the street if you feel like killing each other.
When the gamblers had thinned out, Chato had gone back downstairs. Usually he stayed on the balcony keeping track of the winnings so he could collect his commission. When he had left, I had thought to myself: He wants us out of here. The stakes aren’t worthwhile.
Suddenly a furious voice came up from the Zoco de Fuera. People! People! Moroccan patriots! This is a black day. Exactly forty years ago today, in nineteen twelve, the French signed the treaty of the Protectorate over Morocco. And we’re still not free.
We all crowded around the window. It’s crazy el Merouani, the one who sells the pastries in the Zoco Chico, said el Kebdani.
What’s he saying?
What can he say? He’s completely out of his head. He’s just having some fun with them.
They say he’s an informer for the Spanish.
It wouldn’t surprise me.
You shouldn’t say it unless you’re sure. Where’d you hear that?
I know. He belongs to a secret party run by some Spanish who want to get rid of the International Zone so they can run Tangier by themselves.
Again Chato yelled from below:
That’s enough up there! I don’t want to hear any politics in this café! Go out into the Zoco if you feel like talking politics or fighting.
El Merouani went on shouting in his wild voice, shaking his arms excitedly in the air. Out with colonialism!
Out! Out! shouted the crowd.
Long live free and independent Morocco!
Aache! cried the crowd.
Down with the traitors! screamed el Merouani.
Yasqot!
Holy war, in the name of Allah!
El jihad! El jihad ya ‘ibad Allah!
A Djibliya woman in a straw hat climbed up onto a wooden crate and began to scream: Youyouyouyouyouyouyou!
We ran downstairs and stood looking out over the barrage of benches and tables that were stacked in front of the entrance.
In his half-mouth, half-nose voice Chato said: Either go outside or back upstairs. Out or up!
I leapt over the barricade and stood outside. Are you coming or not? I called to el Kebdani. He hesitated a moment, and then jumped too.
Come back here! cried one of the players. Don’t listen to fuckface there.
The fuckface is your mother, I told him.
He spat at me across the barricade, and I spat back at him. Then he threw a bench out at me. I dodged it, and insulted his mother again.
We’ll see about this later, he said. I’ll show you who’s who. When I get hold of you I’ll spit up your ass!
I grabbed my groin and shouted: Come and get it!
Kill each other outside, Chato was saying. Go on out, all of you!
El Kebdani pulled me ahead by the arm. Shit on their mothers, I told him. They want you to stay there. They think maybe they’ll be able to get some of their money back.
I was born a long time ago, he said. I know what the sons of bitches want.
They were cheating. Did you notice?
I noticed, yes. But they’re idiots. I could follow everything they were doing.
El Merouani was beckoning to the excited crowd, trying to make it go in the direction he wanted. We came nearer to the multitude.
Most of these people are from somewhere else, said el Kebdani. They’re not from Tangier.