At the entrance of Derb ben Abbou I stumbled on one of the steps and fell, letting go of the handkerchief as well as the broken neck of the bottle, which I still had in my hand. It took my last remaining strength to get to the hotel door. The window was open and the light was on. I called hoarsely: Zailachi! Come down quick!
From the window above he leaned out. With him were Naima and Faouziya.
Mohamed! What’s the matter?
Come down.
A moment later the door opened, and he stood there barefoot and with a knife in his hand. What’s happened?
I wiped the blood from my face with the sleeve of my jacket. I got into a fight with a drunk, I said. I think he’s still after me.
BouChta leaned out of the window. What is it? he said. I’m coming down.
Come down fast, you pimp, said Zailachi. Then he said to me: Come on. Follow me. Was he by himself?
I spat out some blood. Yes. He was alone, the son of a whore.
Hurry up.
I slipped again in the street, trying to follow him. Where the alley turned he slowed down. Then he stopped, and peered cautiously around the corner. After that he began to run again, and stopped only at the entrance to the Place de la Casbah.
Where was he?
On the stairs of Djenane el Kaptane, I said.
BouChta caught up with us. He too was barefoot, and he carried a club.
We did not find him. The same girl was still in the window. He’s gone, she said. And you go away too. Be sensible. Do you want to wake up the whole neighbourhood?
She was right. Already a good many men and women were leaning out of the windows and bending over the balcony railings, to see what was going on. There was a pool of blood in the place where I had left him. We followed the trail of blood down the steps for several metres, until it suddenly ended.
Where’d he go? mused Zailachi.
Come on. Let’s go back. He’s gone, I said.
Lucky for him he got away.
Going back up to the hotel I told them the whole story, from the moment he had blocked my passage to the point when I cut him with the bottle and began to run.
BouChta walked along beside us, saying nothing. I knew he was the sort who would not even dare disturb a sitting hen, but in spite of that, his presence made us feel better, more ready to deal with whatever trouble might present itself.
Do you know that girl who was talking in the window? Zailachi asked me.
No, I said. Who is she?
Her name is Fatiha Cherifa. Her husband was a policeman who got tuberculosis and tried to cure himself at home. He had a friend who used to go and visit him, and it seems the friend used to smoke kif and get drunk with the policeman’s wife. Sometimes the man with tuberculosis would take a chance and smoke and drink with them, and half the time ended up vomiting blood. I think he knew his wife was playing with the other man, but he was patient. One night they drank more than usual, and the friend began to pay attention to her right in front of him. He went at the friend with a knife, but the friend pulled out his pistol and shot him.
He stopped talking.
Did it kill him? I asked.
He died when he got to the hospital.
What about her? What did they do to her?
What would they do? They questioned her and let her go.
BouChta spoke up. When women and love get mixed up, the story is always dirty.
She’s got two baby girls, said Zailachi. The Missionaries adopted her when she was little, and made a nurse out of her. She speaks three foreign languages. But her greatest talent is right between her legs, like all other women.
Naima Mesrara and Faouziya Achaqa were leaning out of the window above our heads. Naima, open the door, said Zailachi.
Push on it. It’s open.
There was talking and laughing inside. On the second and third floors some of the roomers were still up and around. The night-watchman came out of one of the second-floor rooms, a cigarette hanging from his lips. He must have been having a drink with the people who lived in that room.
Everything all right? he asked us.
Zailachi said: Yes.
We went upstairs, and he stood looking after us. Our room had been a very large one. The proprietor had made three rooms out of it by erecting partitions. It was my section where everyone liked to gather at night. They sat there even when I was not at home, because it was the only one of the three rooms that had a window in it. The window looked out into the alley of Derb ben Abbou.
Faouziya, go down to the kitchen and put some water on to boil, said BouChta. At that moment Zailachi noticed the rip in my trousers at the knee.
Come into the other room with me, he told me.
We went into his room. He took a pair of flannel trousers from his bag and held them out to me. Wait until Faouziya comes and washes your cuts, he said.
I told him to bring me a glass of cognac. He went back into my room. The door into the corridor opened, and Faouziya came in carrying the tea-kettle.
Here’s the cognac, said Naima.
Take off your clothes to wash, Faouziya told me. Are you afraid of us?
I took my jacket and trousers off in front of them both, and stood in my underwear. My left elbow was skinned and bleeding. I let the two girls rub my wounds with hot water and cognac.
Zailachi was busy opening another bottle of cognac. Suddenly there was a loud knocking on the door. I started to get up to open it. The girls had finished taking care of me.
Stay where you are, said Zailachi. He set down the bottle and rose. The knocking went on, very loud.
Who is it? said Zailachi.
A hoarse voice cried: Open the door!
Naima and Faouziya grew pale. The police! murmured Naima. Only the police knock like that. They’re the only ones who ever pound that way.
Hide the bottle somewhere, said BouChta.
I was sitting on the couch. I reached out and took the bottle. I sat there holding it. Then I got up and looked out of the window. Two policemen in uniform stood in front of the entrance door downstairs.
Zailachi opened the door, and we saw two secret policemen standing there.
What took you so long? Why didn’t you open up? one of them said. Well, say something.
He slapped Zailachi. The two came into the room. I still held the bottle in my hand.
Girls and liquor, is that it? Give me that bottle.
I handed it to him. He looked at it.
So you drink Terry, do you? Your papers.
I have no papers.
He turned to BouChta. And you?
BouChta took out his identity card and handed it to him. The man glanced at it and slipped it into his pocket. Then he turned to the two girls and said: Put on your djellabas. Quick!
The other one handcuffed Zailachi and me together.
We all went downstairs to the first floor, where we found three young men and two girls with another secret policeman. Two of the young men were handcuffed together, and the third had them hanging from one hand. The officer shut the open handcuff on BouChta’s wrist. The four girls walked out first and the rest of us followed. When we were outside, the police pointed in the direction of the Place de la Casbah, saying: That way.
Two of the youths were whispering behind us. No talking! yelled a policeman.
There were two jeeps in the Place de la Casbah. The girls got into one, and we got into the other.
They’ve caught a lot of game this time, I thought.
We were sitting very close together in the jeep. When we got to the Souq ez Zra, the other car continued down towards the Zoco de Fuera. Ours stopped there at the Brigada Criminal. There in an office they searched us one by one, taking away our belts, shoestrings and money. All they left us was our cigarettes and matches. One of the three other youths had a small knife in his pocket.