For Bread Alone

And Bouchra?

Bouchra’s her best friend. Sallafa goes crazy when she’s separated from her.

Hasn’t Bouchra got a lover?

I don’t know, he said slowly. I think the only one she likes is herself. She’s hard to get on with. But she’s a nice girl. Not a mean bone in her body. She only talks when she has to.

I saw that.

We lighted more cigarettes. I thought of telling him what had happened between me and Sallafa, but I was afraid he might turn out to be jealous, or might envy me for my good fortune. Or he might go out of loyalty to Qaabil and tell him.

When we went back into the shack the penetrating voice of Om Kaltoum was singing:

I’m jealous of the lucky glass that touches your lips.

And I would stop it from reaching them.

9

All morning Sallafa and I stayed at the shack. Qaabil and el Kebdani had gone without giving me any idea of their plans. Bouchra had decided to visit her mother, whom she had not seen in several days. I assumed that Qaabil and el Kebdani had gone to arrange for the passage of the contraband that we would be moving later.

Sallafa was cleaning the bedroom. I reclined in the sala smoking, uneasy in my mind. I called out to her: Have you got a glass of wine in there?

She loomed in the doorway. Wait a minute. We’ll open a bottle and drink it together. She smiled and disappeared.

We’ve really begun a game of love, I said to myself. The present situation here in the shack made me think of the morning long ago when the owner of the pear tree in Aïn Ketiout had shut me into his storeroom. But I also saw differences. At least I am free now to decide whether to stay or leave, even though leaving would mean breaking down the door.

I rose and stood on the divan, leaning out of the window and looking down at the sea below. The sky was cloudy and the water was rough. A few ships, both large and small, were going by. She came up and stood behind me, putting her hands on my shoulders.

What are you looking at? she murmured. I could feel the heat of her breath in my ear. Have I become her lover? Poverty and love go together. What a world!

I’m looking at the ocean. I’ve never been on a ship in my life, have you?

Who, me? Ask me instead if I’ve ever been outside Tangier. I’ve never been anywhere at all, either by land or water.

You’ve never been out of Tangier?

Never! Why would I? Where would I go? Who would I go with? I’ve got a feeling that if I should leave Tangier I’d never come back. Never! No, I’d never come back.

Why not?

I don’t know.

I turned to face her, and her eyes opened very wide, as if she were going to say: Isn’t that the right answer?

I could not go on looking at her, and I let my gaze drop. This girl was beginning to worry me. I looked at the door instead. Then she too turned towards the door, and said again: What are you looking at?

I’m looking at the door.

Why? What’s wrong with it?

Nothing.

What are you thinking about? You’re thinking of something.

I’m thinking of the door, I said.

What’s the matter with the door?

I don’t like to be locked in.

We sat down. She had put two glasses and a bottle of wine on the taifor.

It used to bother me to have somebody turn the key on me, but I’ve got used to it. She smiled.

I’m not used to it, I said. And I don’t want to get used to it, either. I might as well be in jail.

I was thinking that in the face of that locked door we were equally powerless, she and I. She’s Qaabil’s girl. And I’m his cargador, but one he still doesn’t trust. The idea came to me to go over and break down the door, but that would ruin everything: my friendship with el Kebdani, my affair with Sallafa, and the possibility of working for Qaabil and perhaps becoming as trusted a cargador as el Kebdani.

What are you thinking about? That’s enough thinking! Open the bottle.

I picked up the corkscrew.

I’ve got something to say to you, she went on.

I looked at her. What’s that?

Why don’t we leave Tangier? Run away together?

I looked harder at her. Where to?

Anywhere. Casablanca, for instance.

I thought of saying: What about your hair and eyebrows? But I was afraid of hurting her, so I said: And what would we do there?

Anything. All sorts of things.

I opened the bottle.

I’m not a skilled worker in anything, I said. And what would you do in a place like Casablanca?

I can do any kind of work, she declared.

I filled both glasses.

I could work as a maid with a French family, for instance. I have a friend named Fadila. She went to Casablanca. And in no time at all she found a job with a French family.

At this point I remembered what el Kebdani had told me the night before about how Sallafa became whenever she was separated from Bouchra. What about Bouchra? I asked her.

Oh, she’ll go with us too.

Is this girl out of her mind? I thought.

I see, I said brusquely.

She’s all right, objected Sallafa. What’s the matter with her? Don’t you think she’s all right?

I stared at her.

I didn’t say anything against her. I just asked you.

You don’t know her yet, she told me. When you get to know her, she’ll be just like your sister.

The way she is for you, I said to myself. I passed one of the glasses to her. She took it, and then held it out to my lips for me to drink from. At the same time, she directed the glass I held in my hands to her own lips. We drank slowly, our arms hooked. If I had broken down the door and gone out, I should not have had the pleasure of this moment. Never before had I drunk in this fashion with anyone. The expression in her half-closed eyes, plus a slight movement which she made towards me, said clearly that she wanted my lips. She began to give me, little by little, all the wine that was in her mouth. That also was something I had not experienced before. I am discovering all kinds of new things. This time it was I who led her into the bedroom.

We were already back in the sala when I heard the key turn in the lock. Farid el Atrache was singing: When will you return, love of my soul? Sallafa had been sitting pensively, listening, neither happy nor sad. I understand her only when she is laughing or quarrelling. It had been good in bed, better than yesterday, or so it seemed to me. Who knows what’s passing through her head at this minute? Perhaps she’s annoyed because I gave her no precise answer when she made her suggestion that we run away together to Casablanca. I watched el Kebdani come in, carrying a basket of food from the market. He seemed tired and depressed.

Ah, Qaabil! You’re back? I cried. He stared at me, and I began to stammer apologies.

I’m sorry. I was thinking of something else. What’s the news?

The news is bad. Terrible!

What? Kheir, insha’Allah!

He set the basket down in front of Sallafa.

Here. Qaabil says to fry all the fish.

She glared at him. Is this a time to be bringing back food for lunch? she demanded.

We were busy setting up a job.

I don’t care what you were busy doing. One of you could have brought the stuff back long ago.

Has something happened, or what? I asked el Kebdani.

It’s all clear now, he said. It was the Spaniards who engineered the riots. They hired the mob and brought it in from outside.

Ah, so what they said about el Merouani at the Café Chato was true, then.

Maybe. Who knows? All we know is that the Spanish started it.