I don’t know. I just live. I do whatever work I can find, wherever I find it.
I see, he said. Well, go on downstairs.
I left them talking together, and went out, shuffling in my open shoes. On the floor below I looked in vain for the guard. I stood in the corridor, with the door into the street open before me. I could see the people going past. Two men dressed in civilian clothes entered and walked in front of me. Secret policemen, I supposed. Zailachi was right when he said they would release me on Monday or Tuesday. It looks as if it were going to be today. A guard came out of an office.
Have you finished with the photographer? he asked me.
Yes.
Come with me. He took me into his office. There were two other men inside, both dressed in civilian clothes. They had me put my thumb-print on another sheet of paper covered with words. I told them my name and they gave me back my money, belt and shoelaces.
I wondered what they had written about me on this piece of paper. They can write whatever they want, since I have no idea what the ink marks mean. Nor do I dare ask them to bring someone who will read it to me before I sign it.
Get out of here, said one of the secret policemen.
I turned and stepped out of the office, having completely forgotten my fatigue and my nausea. As I went through the doorway I ran into a man wearing civilian clothing, and excused myself. He shoved me violently aside, so that I hit the wall.
Look where you’re going, you halfwit! he said. He went on, and I stooped to pick up one of my shoes, which had fallen off.
He must be a policeman. Only a policeman could behave like that.
When I got into the street I put the laces into my shoes and attached my belt to my trousers. It was a clear cold day with a bright sun overhead, and I breathed deeply as I walked along.
I went into Harouch’s restaurant in the Zoco de Fuera. He sold bean soup. I was thinking about the money Kandoussi had said he would leave for me with the owner of the Café Raqassa. And I also was casting about in my head for an idea for some sort of work. I must find a new way to live.
13
The alarm clock began to ring. I reached out into the darkness and shut it off. Then I got up and turned on the light. It was five o’clock. I could feel sleep still hanging there deliciously close, just inside my eyes. The boat will come into port in an hour, I was thinking. I glanced at Naima. She was sleeping quietly. I hate to live with a girl who never works. All she ever has to do is open her legs, to me or someone else. Does she expect me to marry her, the way BouChta did Faouziya? I haven’t gone that crazy yet.
I dressed rapidly, picked up the market basket, and snapped off the light. Then I went softly out of the room. Downstairs I washed my face in water that was like melted snow. I was careful when I woke the night-watchman. He began to pummel the air with his fists, as he always did when anyone woke him, and then he stared wildly at me, saying nothing.
Abdeslam! I said. It’s Choukri. I want to go out.
He gave a great sigh and got wearily out of bed. I followed him to the front door of the hotel. As I went out, he said: May Allah be kind to you this morning. I nodded at him and went down the silent alley. The day was violet-coloured now. The signs of poverty, blotted out by night, were becoming visible once again. The lucky ones are at home in bed at this hour. They don’t get up to work. They lie there, comfortable as excrement enfolded in the belly. There are many things for them to rely upon: Allah, their own personalities, love, power. But I can rely only upon my own health and the fact that I am young.
I stopped just inside Bab el Assa and looked out over the harbour. I could see that the water was rough.
When I got down to the waterfront I found Boussouf standing by a kiosk having a bowl of bean soup. I said hello, and ordered a bowl for myself. Between us we arranged the price. He would do the work for me for 3,000 francs.
I heard yesterday that the steerage is going to be full of Jews on their way to Palestine, said Boussouf.
I’m more interested in the French and Senegalese soldiers on their way to Algeria, I told him. They don’t bargain so much. But Jews! Most of them are businessmen themselves. Even the ones who aren’t know just how much everything is worth.
But they’re leaving Morocco for good, and they’ll be sure to want souvenirs from the last port of call.
We’ll see.
We walked out onto the breakwater and got into the rowboat. He began to row slowly. Watching the oars cut the water put me in mind of the time when I had been working in the vineyard at Oran with the old man, I ploughing the earth, he yelling and scolding. Come on! Watch where you’re going! To the left, you good-for-nothing Riffian! Come on! You’re still half asleep! I’m going to get Monsieur Segundi to put you in the kitchen peeling potatoes. Hit the mule harder! That’s all you’re good for, peeling potatoes and washing dishes.
It was at this hour that we used to go out into the vineyards to work. The old man complained without stopping, and the sound of his voice made my hands tighten on the reins. If it had not been for my attack on the beautiful boy in the field, I should still be there working. I remembered my mother’s face, my aunt’s face. I now understand why my aunt treated me with such tenderness. She had no children of her own. And I believe it was her husband who made her send me home in order to avoid possible trouble.
Look! said Boussouf. The ship’s coming into the harbour.
I’m looking, I said.
He stopped rowing, pulled one oar out of the water, and dropped the oarlock into a hole beside the plank where I sat. We began to row together.
The ship’s full of soldiers, he said.
As we drew near the side of the ship a Frenchman in uniform called down to us: Hé! Qu’est-ce que tu as là-dedans?
I signalled to him to wait a minute. Boussouf pulled out the coil of rope and got it ready to throw.
Catch it! I shouted.
Several hands reached out to grab the end of the rope, which was weighted with knots. Boussouf tossed up the coil with force, and a black soldier caught it.
Tie it tight! I called to him in French.
Come on. Climb up! cried several soldiers.
I started to climb up the rope, hand over hand.
That’s right! Keep it up! Bravo! Good! shouted the voices. A Senegalese soldier helped me onto the deck. Boussouf had tied the basket onto the tail end of the rope once I was aboard. I leaned over the railing and began to pull it up. Another black soldier approached me and said: What have you got for sale, brother?
Without turning my head towards him I answered: Swiss watches, shawls, Japanese handkerchiefs and cigarette-lighters.
It was a French soldier who helped me get the basket over the railing and onto the deck. Allez! Laisse voir ce que tu as là-dedans.
I took out the carton of watches, leaving everything else in the basket. Here are the watches, I told them.
How much is this one?
Five thousand francs.
It’s not a fake?
What do you mean? I don’t sell fake watches.
Three thousand.
Four thousand, I said.
No, no! I’ll give you three thousand.
Take it. It’s yours. I was thinking: If one of them buys something, they’ll all begin.
The watches were disappearing from my hands one after the other, and my pockets were filling up with banknotes. Suddenly a soldier appeared and planted himself in front of me. Give me back my money, he said.
If I do that, I thought, they’ll all start asking for their money back. I can’t.
Why? I asked him.
They say your watches are no good.
Listen, I told him. Whoever told you that didn’t have enough money to buy a watch, that’s all.