That afternoon he was sitting with Grida, Mesari, and old Afiouna, who supplied the kif and majoun to the café. I asked for a glass of black coffee and bought five pesetas’ worth of kif from Afiouna. They were discussing King Farouk, Mohamed Neguib, and the actions of Gamal Abd el Nasser in the July Twenty-Third Revolution. I was interested. I smoked a pipe of kif, and filled another which I offered to Grida. He refused it. I held it out to Abdelmalek. He did not take it either.
Put your kif away, he told me. We’ve got plenty of our own.
We want to talk quietly now, without being interrupted, Mesari added.
I saw that they were excluding me from their company. The qahouaji set a glass of coffee on the table. I asked Afiouna to sell me two pieces of majoun, which I ate as I sipped the hot coffee.
Kemal the Turk came through the door, drunk. I tried to get him to sit with me, but he refused. Then he leaned over and whispered in French into my ear: I’ve got half a bottle of whisky. I’m going up onto the roof. Do you want a drink?
You go up first, so Moh won’t notice.
I continued to sip my coffee for a while after he had gone on. Then, taking the glass of coffee and the pipe with me, I climbed the stairs. I found him drinking out of the bottle.
Ah! Fill the sebsi for me, he said. I handed him the pipe and the kif so he could fill it himself. In return he gave me his bottle, and I took two swallows.
How are things? I asked him.
I’m still waiting for my family to send me the money to go back to Istanbul. He filled the pipe and handed it to me. I passed the bottle back to him. We went on drinking, smoking, and discussing our troubles, until all the whisky was gone.
What are you doing tonight? I asked him.
Nothing.
He hid the bottle under his jacket, and we went back downstairs. Abdelmalek was standing as usual, lecturing on the afternoon news broadcast in Arabic from London, which had just finished. My magazine was still lying on the table. I sat down and asked Kemal to have something with me. He excused himself, saying that he had an appointment with Mahmoud the Egyptian at the Café Dar Debbagh.
He’s going to lend me some money, he said.
Moh came up to us suddenly, remarking: I don’t like drunks in this place. Kemal, not understanding Arabic, answered: Es salaam, Monsieur Moh.
I burst out laughing. Kemal signalled goodbye and went out. Abdelmalek glared at me angrily and sat down.
Go on, go on, Si Abdelmalek, urged Afiouna.
How do you expect me to go on with that kid laughing?
I’m not a kid, I told him. And you talk about Mohamed Neguib and Gamal Abd el Nasser as if you had a conference with them every day. Where do you get all that stuff about them?
Shut up! Illiterate! he roared, beside himself. You want to talk about politics, you, when you can’t even write your name?
Mesari was trying to get Abdelmalek’s attention. Don’t listen to him, he told him. He’s drunk.
It seemed to me that this was a good opportunity to get in a blow at Abdelmalek and his group of friends. They wouldn’t smoke with me, I thought, and I began to cast about for the words that would most annoy him. I could think of nothing to say. My mind was heavy with kif, majoun, and whisky. I’ll have to ask him to go outside with me and fight. It’s the easiest way. It involves no thinking of any kind.
I’m illiterate and ignorant, I said. But you’re a liar. I’d rather be what I am than a liar like you.
Ah, get back to your pimping, he told me.
If you have a sexy sister, send her around. I’ll find her somebody, I said.
No arguments in this café, Moh cried angrily, looking at me.
Why do you say it just to me? I asked him. Because he’s a great professor and I’m only a stupid lout?
Come on, that’s enough, said Grida. Get together and cheat the devil.
But the devil is people, I told him.
Then I turned to Abdelmalek. Listen, Zailachi. Come outside and I’ll show you who the illiterate pimp is.
He jumped up and ran towards me. The three of them, Grida, Mesari and Afiouna, blocked his way, but he shoved them aside. I got up, holding my glass in my hand, and dashed the coffee into his face. He put his hands over his eyes. Someone grabbed me from behind.
Outside, Zailachi! I cried. The man behind me let me go.
Be sensible, Grida told me. This is no way to behave to somebody like him.
Who does he think he is here? He’s just a student who couldn’t stay in school, and now he’s come to Tangier to live like a tramp.
I saw Mesari and someone else going up to the roof with Abdelmalek. I walked back to my table, and Afiouna sat down with me. He filled the sebsi, lit it, and handed it to me, saying: Here. Take it and smoke. It’ll make you feel calmer.
I’m not drunk, and I’m not m’hashish, I told him. This isn’t the first time I’ve had alcohol or majoun.
Then Grida went upstairs.
Nobody said you were drunk or kiffed, Afiouna said.
They think I am.
We all drink and smoke kif, he said.
I smoked the pipe and coughed a little. Afiouna got up and brought his glass of tea from the table where they had been sitting. I took a sip from it, and stopped coughing.
I’ve won the argument, I thought to myself. The other men in the café were discussing the altercation, and I noticed that certain of them agreed with me. They must already have felt the same way I did about Abdelmalek.
Grida came down the stairs, followed a moment later by Abdelmalek, Mesari, and his friend. Abdelmalek had washed the coffee from his face and clothes. Grida came over to me. You’ve got to make peace between you, he told me.
Yes, said Afiouna. Get up and talk to him. We’re all friends here.
They insisted, and I rose. Mesari and his friend pushed Abdelmalek towards us, and we embraced. I turned to go back to my table, but they made me sit down with them.
Come on, Si Moh, give us something to drink, said Grida.
Kemal came staggering back into the café. He had a black eye.
Kemal! I said. What happened to you?
Moh stared at him with annoyance.
I got up and went over to him.
There were two of them, he said. They jumped on me. At a whorehouse in Bencharqi.
Why?
They took me for a Christian. They wouldn’t believe I was a Moslem. They said how could I be a Moslem if I didn’t speak Arabic?
But why?
I wanted to take a Moroccan girl into bed.
All that trouble for a common whore, I said. Come and sit down with us.
No. You come with me.
Where?
We’ll go to the Zoco Chico and have something to drink. Mahmoud lent me a little money.
I excused myself to Abdelmalek and his group, and went out with Kemal.
We went to the brothel run by Seoudiya el Kahala.
I know the woman who runs the place, I explained. And all the girls.
Hadija Srifiya let us in. She took us into a room and we sat down. Soon Seoudiya el Kahala came in and greeted me. I introduced her to Kemal.
Es salaam, he said.