We were drifting nearer to the beach at Villa Harris. The waves rise and crash before rolling onto the shore. The water is full of sand. Fishermen have often assured me that sharks never go near cloudy water. We got ready to jump out. I was the first overboard. I swam underwater for as long as I could hold my breath. Then I raised my head above the water and turned. Boussouf was coming close behind me. The waves would raise me very high, and then let me drop straight down, into what seemed like an abyss. I’m carrying my death on my shoulders now, I thought. Once I had gone to visit my friend Manolo in the hospital, and he had cried out: Oh, my God! Take me out of this suffering! He had tried to commit suicide, because he had a fatal disease of the lungs. But the nuns in the hospital had managed to keep him alive.
I swallowed some water, and for an instant began to dog-paddle, as if I were swimming in a well. I got my breath back, and explored the bottom to see how deep it was. My feet touched the sand, and I stood up. A wave pounded over me. I swallowed more water. Then I ran up onto the beach.
Stand up! I yelled to Boussouf. It’s shallow! I did not know whether he had heard me or not. He kept swimming until he had landed on the beach. The boat was grounded a good way down the shore.
Boussouf stood up, looked first at the boat and then at me, frowning. He’s looking at me now as if I were a lamb he was getting ready to roast. If I let myself be afraid of him, it’ll be the end of me. If he beats me up he’ll take everything I’ve got on me. He’ll go off and leave me here naked.
He came nearer, and I backed up. Let’s go and see how the boat is, I said.
He began to walk along the beach, a few steps ahead of me. The boat was touching the sand and moving with the waves. We worked a while trying to pull it further up onto the sand. It was hard work.
When we had finished, he stood looking down at it. There must be some broken places, he said.
Where? I don’t see any.
I know! he cried. I know my boat!
What’s the matter now? I said.
This is going to cost you ten thousand francs!
Why should it cost ten thousand francs?
Are you going to pay me or not?
No, I’m not. I told you I’d give you six thousand.
All right!
His fist hit the left side of my face, and bright lights exploded in my eyes. I backed up a few steps so as not to fall. Then he attacked like a bull. If I let him get hold of me, he’s going to break my ribs, I thought, jumping out of his way, so that his attack ended in a clumsy swinging at the air. It had suddenly begun to rain, and it rained harder each second.
Come here, you son of a whore! he bellowed. Do you think you’re going to catch me off my guard now? Like you did in the boat? Come on!
I kept ducking his lunges, and he continued to follow me along, shouting and gesticulating. I mustn’t waste my energy, I thought. I’ve got to let him be the one to do the attacking.
He had begun to laugh and make gestures to entice me nearer to him, so that we would fight hand to hand. You’re a coward! he yelled. But who’s going to help you now?
I did not answer.
Suddenly he sprang forward and grabbed my hips. I seized his neck between my hands. Then I brought my right knee fast up to his face. He raised his head. I began to pummel his face. Suddenly he yelled and bent down. Then he fell over, holding his foot with both hands. The blood ran not only from his nose, but also from the under part of his foot. Then I saw something that glistened. It was a broken bottle buried in the sand, like an artichoke. The cut was very deep. I have no idea why it made me happy to see the blood being absorbed by the sand in the pouring rain. It made me feel that the rain itself was the sky bleeding. I thought of the sheep whose throat they had cut, back in the Rif, when they had filled a bowl with its blood and made my mother drink it. I counted out 6,000 francs in wet bills, folded them, and tossed them onto the sand beside Boussouf. Then I turned and walked away. Behind me I heard him crying: Come back here, you son of a whore! Come back here and I’ll spit up your ass!
As I got to the highway, I saw the bus from El Menar coming. I began to wave, and it stopped. The rear door opened. I got in and handed a wet 1,000-franc bill to the conductor.
What’s the matter? he said. What happened to you?
No. Everything’s all right, I said.
The passengers turned to stare at me as I went forward along the aisle. There were only seven or eight of them. I looked out of the window towards the beach. There he is, only now limping towards the rowboat.
After I got off the bus in the Zoco de Fuera I noticed many people staring at me. Two women walking under one tiny umbrella behind me were discussing me. One turned to the other. That poor boy, she said. And the other replied: Yes. What do you suppose could have happened to him?
They don’t know anything, I thought. All they know is how to be sorry for people and say hard luck.
At the hotel I found the watchman in the sala, joking with the cleaning woman as she scrubbed the floor. She dropped her rag, and they both turned to ask me what had happened to me.
I’m all right, I said, and I went upstairs. The door of my room was open. My things were not in their regular places. The whore who’s the daughter of a whore has played a good hand. Everything of any value is gone: my transistor, my alarm clock, five wrist-watches and a dozen cigarette-lighters.
I went downstairs to the sala. You didn’t see Naima when she went out, did you? I asked.
No. Why, is something wrong?
No, nothing, I said. But I think she’s gone for good, and without telling me goodbye.
But nothing happened?
I shook my head. Nothing’s happened. Then I went back upstairs to change my clothes. At least she left my clothes behind. Now she’ll probably begin a new life with another lover somewhere, just as she did with Hamid Zailachi and others long before that. Only a filthy whore like her could have done this. And yet, maybe it is just as well. Now I am forced to find a new pattern in my life, this one being finished.
That afternoon I went to the Café Moh. I had an Egyptian movie magazine with me, full of photographs of Arab actors and singers. I was in the habit of buying three or four of these publications each week, to look at the pictures of film stars wearing Oriental costumes. Sometimes I masturbated in front of the sexier dancing girls. Hamid Zailachi’s brother Abdelmalek would read me the captions when he felt in the mood. He had left his studies in Tetuan and come to Tangier, where he did nothing but smoke kif, eat majoun, drink wine, and look for whores and occasional boys. All the other men I knew in the café were illiterate. One of them could write his name, but with great difficulty. We all considered Abdelmalek the most important habitué of the café. He reads the Arabic periodicals to us in a strong, clear voice. If an article deals with the politics of an Arab country, the owner of the café shuts off the radio, and everyone listens intently. Sometimes he would stand up, lay aside the magazine or newspaper, and launch into a speech, merely to show off his learning. I noticed that he constantly quoted the Koran and the Hadith. Often one of us would interrupt him and ask for a clearer explanation. These were occasions for him to hold his knowledge over our heads, and he would make his explanation still more obscure. While he spoke, someone would hand him a pipe of kif. He would stop talking for a moment while he smoked, reach down to the table from where he stood and take a few sips of tea, and then continue from where he had left off. When he finished speaking, most of the men would congratulate him on his performance, and the owner of the café would hand him another glass of tea and some bread and butter. Some nights I invited him to eat with me in one of the restaurants. Afterwards we would go to a bar in the Zoco Chico to get drunk, or go and spend the night together with two whores in a brothel. I was very proud to appear in public with him.