Where do you think they’re from?
The Rif, most of them. Can’t you tell by their faces? Look at them! They’re Riffians! Aren’t they Riffians?
You’re right. They certainly look like it. They’re from our country.
The crowd had begun to run towards the main bus stop.
Piles of stones lay here and there because the street was being repaved. The men were collecting the stones. Then they went in four principal directions: up the Calle del Estatuto, down the Cuesta de la Playa, through the gate of Bab el Fahs, and into the narrow Semmarine where the money-changers stood. There was another group that ran up to the police station at the top of the steps and began to throw rocks. El Kebdani and I followed the crowd that had gone into the Semmarine. They were stoning a policeman. Some of the stones hit his head. His white helmet fell onto the pavement. The blood ran down his face. He put one hand on the top of his head and the other on the holster of his revolver, and began to run towards the Zoco de Fuera, followed by the stone-throwers. One of them suddenly turned and hurled a rock at a large clock that hung over the entrance to an Indian bazaar. The clock said 1.15 when he smashed it. Then they broke the windows of a shoe store and a camera store beside it.
Let’s get some of those watches and cameras, I said.
No.
Why not?
Because we don’t know yet what’s going to happen. They could stop us and search us.
But look at them all grabbing the watches over there!
Let them grab, if they want. And if they jump into a well, are you going to jump in, too?
There was the crash of more plate glass being broken.
You’re crazy, I told him. You’re afraid! I didn’t think you were like that.
You’re the crazy one. Steal by yourself, if you want.
Shots rang out from the region of the police station.
The police have begun shooting, said el Kebdani. Look at what they’re doing to the Zapatería Rex!
A group of men came running in our direction, all of them carrying rocks. Women and children were screaming. The peddlers and stall-keepers were abandoning their merchandise and fleeing. El Kebdani pulled my arm. Come on! Run!
We rushed and hid behind the booth of a Jewish money-changer almost at the entrance of the market. The smashing of the shop windows continued in the Plazuela Pérez Galdós, and the sound of shooting was coming closer. Everyone is running and crying out. The shots are very near. I raised my head and peered out. A man was rolling on the pavement in front of us, blood pouring from him. A Moroccan policeman ran behind, nervously brandishing his revolver.
Duck! cried el Kebdani. Do you want them to kill us?
Look through this crack, I told him. Can you see all right?
Yes. I can see.
I think that one’s dead. He’s not moving.
I see him. But shut up.
People run and shout. The rapid gunfire comes closer.
A Moroccan youth tried to crawl in with us. We pushed him away. Find another place! Yes, get out of here! There’s no room here for you.
Or stay out there where you are until they shoot you, I added.
Three other youths halted in their flight and stood still near us. The two taller ones helped the shorter one climb up onto the roof of a shop. Once he was up there, he looked around quickly and called down: Let’s get out of here fast!
The continuous gunfire was louder. A cry, and there is the thump of a body falling to the pavement.
They’ve got another, I said.
I’m listening and watching, he told me.
A policeman appeared, carrying a machine-gun. As he passed, the short youth uttered a cry, and leapt down on top of him from the roof. We both raised our heads above the booth. The policeman is lying face down, with the young man on top of him, hammering his head with his fist as if he were pounding a nail.
Do you know who that policeman is? said el Kebdani.
No.
That’s Inspector Barcia. His father’s Moroccan and his mother Spanish.
The youth rose and picked up the machine-gun that lay a few feet away. Jerkily he turned it this way and that, trying to understand how it worked. But it was no use. He had no idea.
The Inspector lay there unconscious.
Suddenly the young man raised the machine-gun with both hands above his head and, uttering an oath, threw it to the ground with all his might.
Inaal dinek!
Then another policeman appeared, firing one shot after another. The short youth spun around, crying out. The policeman fired again, this time hitting him in the belly. He fell and rolled into the gutter.
He got it in the back and front, I said.
I’m watching.
I’ve never seen a man shot before, I said. Only in the movies.
Well, now you’re seeing it before your eyes, said el Kebdani.
They must be killing people like this all over town.
What do you expect them to do?
El Kebdani’s forehead was covered with sweat.
Keep calm, I told him.
What are you talking about? he demanded. I don’t need your advice.
You’re trembling, though, I said.
I’m not trembling, he whispered furiously. Can’t you shut up? Do you want them to spill our guts here, like that one out there?
What a coward you are, I murmured.
All right. I’m a coward. But shut up.
A third policeman came into view, shooting one shot into the air. He helped the other one lift the Inspector from the ground where he had been lying. The other picked up the machine-gun and put the Inspector’s cap on his head for him. How do you feel? he asked him.
I’m all right. Just dizzy.
I got that dog, the policeman told him.
They walked over to the youth. One of them moved him with his foot. Then they turned and began to run down the hill towards the Zoco Chico.
Let’s get out of here, whispered el Kebdani.
Where to?
Anywhere. If they find us in here we’re finished.
There was the sound of more shots approaching.
Come on. Fast, he said.
I climbed out first. Look! The boy’s moving. He’s still alive!
Hurry! El Kebdani pulled me by the arm. Do you want them to get us too?
We saw the three policemen running down the Siaghines. And we ran down the Calle el Mansour. Halfway down the hill el Kebdani stopped. Wait a minute. I’ve got to piss.
I felt the need, too. As we stood there leaning against the door of a shop, people came running by. Ahead of us in the Saqqaya we saw a young man lurching along, leaning heavily to the right under the weight of the bag he was carrying. We’re in luck, said el Kebdani. Here’s Qaabil. We’ll go with him up to his shack at Sidi Bouknadel.
El Kebdani had often spoken about Qaabil and how he had worked for him as a cargador.
Is that the smuggler you told me about? I said. The one who has so much money?
That’s the one. He’s got enough to bury you and me from head to foot.
He doesn’t look as if he had a hundred pesetas in the world, I told him.
The little square was empty of people. Occasionally a few men ran across it in one direction or another.
Qaabil! cried el Kebdani.
Qaabil stopped walking and set the bag down on the pavement.
Where are you going? el Kebdani asked him.
To the shack. Come on with me. Sallafa’s there with Bouchra. I’ve shaved the dirty bitch’s hair and eyebrows.
Qaabil and I carried the bag between us as we climbed the steps in the direction of Amrah.
What’s going on? el Kebdani asked him.
I don’t know. When I came out of the bodega there was a lot of running around. I didn’t see anything more.
Didn’t you hear the shots?
I heard a few, but they were a long way off, and I couldn’t find out what was happening.