I see! They used the anniversary as an excuse to start things, and then they used the Moroccans as pawns.
It looks that way.
That’s very bad.
We know dozens of people were killed, and yet only six or seven funeral processions have gone through the Zoco Chico on the way to the mosque.
And all the other bodies?
They must be hiding them so the public won’t see how many there are. Most of the ones who were killed are from out of town. That’s why it’s so easy for them to bury them in secret.
I thought for a moment. Then I said: Are they letting people walk freely around the city?
Yes, but there are guards everywhere. It’ll probably go on like this for several days. The soldiers are working hand-in-hand with the police. They search anybody they think looks suspicious, and take whoever they want to headquarters for a grilling.
Where’s Qaabil?
He went to his father’s house. Hasn’t Bouchra come back yet?
Not yet, Sallafa said. Why don’t you go and get her? She may be afraid to come back alone, with all the police and soldiers in the street. Go on, Kebdani, she coaxed.
I don’t know where her mother lives, he said.
In Dar el Baroud, near the Café Makina.
But I don’t know the house.
Ask anybody down there. There are always children playing in the street. They all know her.
Wait a while. She’ll be along. I tell you there’s nobody in the street to ask. In times like this nobody goes out unless he has to. And as for children playing in the street, I didn’t catch sight of one anywhere all morning.
Khlass! she cried. Come on! Life has suddenly changed? It’s the end of the world? Just say you don’t want to go. That would be enough.
That’s not true, he began.
Don’t try to talk!
After a moment she went on, but as if speaking to herself: I know what I’m going to do. I swear, if you find me still around here you can spit on me. You can piss on me!
Everything’s all set, he told me. Expect to work tonight. There’ll be three other cargadores going with us, and we’ll be using two cars, one to hold the stuff and the other for the men. I’ll be bringing the stuff in from the ship in a rowboat. You’ll be on the shore with the other three, and you’ll carry it up from the beach to the car. You’ll need all your strength, because you’ve got to move fast the whole time. And you’ll need your nerve. The Customs men may be there on the shore somewhere, or stop us at the edge of town. If that happens, you’re to do whatever either Qaabil or his partner tells you. You’ll meet his partner. The secret police could come up while you’re emptying the stuff out of the car, once you get to town. I like to tell you right out. The job is dangerous. It’s a job where anything can happen. They may shoot at us. You understand that?
Yes. I understand.
Sometimes the leader is able to bribe them. But usually they can’t get together on the amount, and that’s when the trouble begins. That’s the point when things begin to get rough.
How rough?
I mean they shoot it out.
So Qaabil has a pistol, I thought. That’s something to know. I must be very careful with Sallafa. What was there to stop him from firing on us both if he found us in bed together?
Has Qaabil got a gun? I asked him.
Ah! That’s none of your business. I’m just telling you what may happen. It doesn’t matter one way or the other to you and me whether Qaabil and his partner have guns or not. You understand?
I was just asking.
I tell you things I couldn’t tell any other cargador, he said.
I know. And thanks.
He turned and called out: Where’s the sebsi, Sallafa?
She was in the kitchen. I don’t know, she shouted. Look for it.
She’s getting even with him, I thought. I suddenly remembered that we had smoked a little kif while we had been in the bedroom; nevertheless I pretended to look for the pipe along with him there in the sala. Then he went into the bedroom and called out: Here it is! I’ve found it!
I went and put on a record. It was Mohamed Abd el Wahab singing ‘When Afternoon Comes’.
10
I got into the car with the three other young cargadores and the old man who was driving. I was the youngest. In spite of the strong smell of wine that came from the driver, he drove carefully. The speedometer never showed more than seventy kilometres an hour, and on curves and inclines it dropped to forty or thirty. We got to Cape Spartel about two in the morning, and drew up behind a large black sedan that stood there.
The door of the other car opened, and a tall, powerful-looking man got out. I guessed that he was about forty-five years old. He came casually over to our car.
How’s the road? he asked the driver.
Fine. We didn’t see anybody.
We all got out, with the exception of the driver. From their conversation I understood that they were referring to the police and Customs men. And I realized that this tall man was Qaabil’s partner.
Now’s the time to be men, he told us. Then he put his hand on my shoulder and looked intently at me. What part of the Rif are you from? he said.
Beni Chiker. My name is Choukri.
I know the Chikriyine. The Riffians are tough.
He removed his hand. I know the Riffians, he said again.
I was with them in the Civil War in Spain. I hope you’re a real Riffian like the others.
I smiled.
He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and held it out to each of us in turn. It’s a good beginning, I thought. He looks like a good man to deal with. Compared to him, Qaabil seems like a boy. He too may be a good man, but you sense his weakness. Whereas it would be easy to feel loyalty to this man.
Are you ready? he asked us, and we all said: Yes.
The path downward was hard to negotiate. We squeezed between trees, crashed through bushes, and clambered over boulders. Are we going to try to carry the stuff back up this same path? I wondered.
Call me Kandoussi if you want to call me anything, said Qaabil’s partner.
I decided that this was probably not his real name. It might be only his business name. The path went on being difficult. Several times I stumbled into holes and scraped myself on the sharp rocks.
You’ve got to be very careful not to fall once you’ve got the stuff on your back, he said. What we’re carrying is fragile.
What could be in the cartons? I thought. Something breakable. What could that be?
When we reached the strip of beach at the bottom of the cliffs he pulled a flashlight out of his pocket and began to make signals with it in the direction of the water. The signals came back from the darkness out there.
We found Qaabil sitting alone on the sand. Beside him lay a pile of sacks and a coil of rope. Ah, you got here! he cried. Everything ready?
Everything’s perfect so far, replied Kandoussi.
Soon we heard the sound of a motor. More messages flashed from the water. Kandoussi sent back the same succession of flashes. The sea was rough. The motor came nearer.
Get ready, said Kandoussi.
The sound of the motor stopped.
After a quarter of an hour of silence, there were more signals, which Kandoussi answered.
The rowboat’s on the way, he said. Get down to the edge of the water.
Two of the cargadores took off their trousers and sandals. The rowboat hove into view, rising and falling with the movement of the waves. The two cargadores waded into the water and guided the craft inward, one on each side of it. Kandoussi ran down to the water, and they pulled the boat up onto the beach. There were nine cartons. We began to carry them to a spot not far from the edge of the water, where we stacked them on the sand. The cartons were not as big and heavy as I had expected. Whatever was in them must be very valuable. Watches, perhaps? Rapidly we emptied the boat.