The police are shooting at the Moroccans, said el Kebdani.
What for?
It’s the thirtieth of March.
And what are the Moroccans fighting with? asked Qaabil.
Rocks. What do you expect them to fight with?
Are there many dead?
They’re shooting at everybody they see, if he’s a Moroccan.
A voice from behind us shouted: Clear the way!
A man was carrying a wounded friend on his back, while a third walked behind.
Who’s the friend with you? Qaabil asked el Kebdani. What does he do?
He used to sell soup and fish in the street, and he worked at a restaurant in the Zoco de Fuera.
Qaabil’s shack was built at the very edge of the high cliffs above the Sidi Bouknadel beach. One of its doors opened onto the cliff. The other gave onto an alley that led downward in the direction of Amrah. It was a real smuggler’s shack.
When we went in, Sallafa was groaning a song of Farid el Atrache’s: Forget him who forgets you, and don’t regret his loss. Her hair and eyebrows had been cleanly shaved with a razor, so that now she looked like a handsome boy. She wore a lightweight, black and white striped zigdoun. Bouchra was stretched out on the divan in a red and gold brocade caftan with a gauzy dfin over it. She had a sebsi in her hand. The girls put me in mind of the three days I had spent with Abdeslam and Sebtaoui at Sida Aziza’s house, back in Tetuan. I had a thousand pesetas in my pocket at that time, I thought. And today, holes in my pockets and no work.
A tajine of fish and potatoes sat on the taifor, ready to be served. Sallafa brought us the tas with a kettle of water and a cake of soap, so we could wash our hands. She nearly lost her balance while she was pouring the water for el Kebdani. When my turn came she smiled at me. She poured, smiled, and poured again, holding the kettle unsteadily. When she got to Qaabil she began to laugh. He seemed annoyed with her, and pulled the kettle away from her, crying: Let go of that, you dirty whore!
Always talking about your mother, she said.
He made as if to slap her. El Kebdani intervened, taking up the kettle and beginning to pour the water over Qaabil’s hands.
The next time I won’t just cut off your hair and eyebrows. I’ll drop you off the cliff out there.
Try it if you dare, she told him. Just try it, and we’ll see who goes over the cliff.
Aren’t you two ever going to stop? Bouchra cried.
The tajine was excellent, and very heavily spiced. We sat around the table afterwards, until five in the afternoon, mainly talking about the trouble in the streets as we drank our wine, smoked our kif, and listened to old records by Om Kaltoum.
I had already fallen asleep on the divan, when el Kebdani called out my name sharply. Mohamed! We’re going out. Stay here with the two girls until we get back. Go back to sleep if you like.
All right. I’ll sleep a little.
I heard them shut the door and turn the key in the lock. Sallafa and Bouchra both lay asleep, Bouchra on her right side facing the wall. Sallafa lay on her stomach, with her face also towards the wall. She lay like someone who had been dragged out of the sea. It seemed to me that her buttocks needed to be given first-aid treatment. As I was dropping off to sleep, I heard her move. Then she said: Has that dog gone out?
Slowly I opened my eyes. She had got up and was turning on the light. So you weren’t asleep after all, I thought.
She stretched in such a way that she managed to project her bosom and her buttocks at the same time. Then she stood up straight and looked at me archly. Her eyes seemed half-asleep.
Are you asleep too? she asked me.
I pulled myself up into a sitting position. I’m just resting a little, I said.
She lifted the half-empty bottle of wine and indicated the two glasses on the table. Come into the other room so we won’t wake up Bouchra.
Shall I go in or not? I said to myself. Why not? She’s the boss here, the mistress of the house.
When I got to my feet I realized that my head was heavy. There was a dull pain in my right temple. I glanced at Bouchra, wondering if she too were awake. She’s attractive, but I don’t dare go near her.
What difference does it make? I thought. I’ll follow Sallafa into the other room. Women have their own system. They know how to act in such cases.
I walked into the room. It was a completely furnished bedroom, not at all what I had expected to see in a shack. In one corner there was a high pile of cartons. Perhaps they contained some of Qaabil’s contraband. She was sitting on the edge of the bed. I sat down on a couch facing her.
Sit over here by me, she told me.
I hesitated.
Are you afraid of Qaabil?
It’s not that, I finally said. I just met him. El Kebdani and I were in the street when they were shooting. We were on our way down from the Zoco de Fuera to the Saqqaya.
Even if he finds you here with me, he won’t do anything. I know him. A dog that barks.
He might not do anything, I was thinking, looking at her. He might just throw me out of the shack and go on living with you, if he loves you. And there’s no doubt he loves you. From what I’ve seen and heard, it’s you who manages him, and that means he loves you.
I rose and went to sit beside her on the bed. She filled the two glasses herself. Then she reached out to the table beside the bed and lit a cigarette. Her eyelashes were black and her eyes were bloodshot. She placed the cigarette between my lips and lit a second one. I thought of Lalla Harouda back at the brothel in Tetuan, and of how she had done the same thing. Today everything is different. Today is better than yesterday.
And if Bouchra should wake up? I said.
She’s my sister.
Your sister!
Well, like my sister.
Ah! I see.
She smiled as she looked at me. Her lips are tiny, like a ring for the finger. I had heard that a small mouth on a girl indicated a very tight sex. I smiled back at her. She finished her drink. I was thinking of the boy who had been shot by the police. She took my hand and lay back, looking up at the ceiling as she smoked. From time to time she squeezed my hand. She too must be thinking of something. Her hand is warm. Her long slim fingers seem made to nibble on. I lay down beside her and smoked, staring up at a doll that hung on the wall. I press her fragile hand, thinking of the boy who had come and tried in vain to get behind the booth with us. I felt sorry now that we had not let him in.
The short young man sprang, landing on top of the policeman. He pounds his head as if he were driving in a nail. The second policeman comes, and he is rolling on the pavement.
We stayed a while quietly, she with her hand in mine. I wondered if Qaabil enjoyed tranquil moments like this with her. She stirred. So did I. We looked at each other and smiled.
Wait, she said. I’ll undress. She snuffed out her cigarette in the ashtray. Ideas of ecstasy tickled the inside of my head as she pulled off her clothing. Her panties are pink and she wears no brassiere. Her breasts are tiny, like two lemons. My mind went back to the time when I had sucked the oranges on the tree woman at Oran.
Get undressed.
It’s better if I keep my clothes on. If Qaabil and el Kebdani should come back I wouldn’t have time to get dressed.
They won’t be back for another three or four hours, she said.
Where do you think they went?
I don’t know. He never tells me where he’s going. But whenever he goes out he stays a long time, especially if he has one of his friends with him, because then he feels more daring and does crazier things. Maybe they’ve gone to the whorehouse together. That’s what I think, if you want to know.