‘You’ve got to laugh, at least once a day. Okay, let’s get serious again. Seems Hallouf is on the run, Hmara and Dib are locked up and along with them, a whole lot of kids who haven’t done anything, although you never know. I’m giving you friendly advice: get out of here, go home, and stay there for the time being, because something doesn’t smell right. It’s like that often here in Morocco: they leave you alone for years and one day decide to pounce, to make an example, so you’d better make sure that example isn’t you! You remember that business with the middle-class kids the king had arrested for using drugs? No, you were too young; he went after the children of the bourgeoisie simply to show that he could, that no one was safe, and at the same time to send a signal to the drug dealers.’
Just as Azel was getting ready to go, undercover cops poured into the bar.
‘Identity cards, get out your ID cards, and fast!’
Azel didn’t have his on him. He felt guilty immediately.
‘Those who don’t have one, get in the van, come on, speed it up, we’ve got a full night’s work ahead, Rabat’s orders.’
Azel obeyed and waited in the police van with a few other unlucky souls: two street bums, a whore, and five young men, a couple of them with bloody noses. Azel remembered that Abdelmalek had given him a bit of kif, but right then one of the cops came over and screamed at him, ‘Don’t move, you sonofabitch!’
The cop frisked him and found the kif — not much, but enough to justify his arrest and a lengthy interrogation that allowed the police to expand their investigation, moving from the hunt for drug traffickers to anti-establishment kids with diplomas but no work. Everything was getting mixed in together. It was a long, cruel, painful night. Azel was worn out from telling his life story and insisting that he wasn’t a dealer in anything, that he had no connection to Al Afia, that he’d even gotten beaten up because he’d insulted him. Nothing doing: the police had orders to find drug dealers, and Azel was the ideal patsy. The interrogation resumed the next day, this time with other cops as well, sent specially from Rabat. The atmosphere had changed.
‘Whom do you work for? Who hired you? Who’s your boss?’
Azel did not reply. He was slapped so hard his head rang, then strong hands shoved him back onto his chair and punched him in the stomach.
‘I’m going to make it easy for you, you bastard,’ said the cop. ‘Your boss is Al Afia, Hallouf, or Dib? Who’s the guy you get the drugs for, the stuff that goes out at night to Europe? Confess! Which of the three is your boss?’
Again, blows, increasingly savage ones.
‘You’d better get this, you smarty-pants graduate: our-beloved-king-may-God-keep-him-and-grant-him-long-life has decided to disint … disaff … anyway, to clean all the sons of bitches who bring shame on our fatherland out of northern Morocco. His Majesty is fed up with seeing our nation’s good name slandered in the international press because some fat pigs are filling their pockets selling drugs. It’s over, all that careless laissez-faire. So you’re going to assist the police and His Majesty our-beloved-king-may-God-keep-him-and-grant-him-long-life by telling everything you know about that scum, where they’re hiding and which one you work for!’
The cops were imitating actors in American movies. They were chewing gum while they slugged him, thinking that was macho.
Bent double with pain, Azel had a sudden idea.
‘I work for Monsieur Miguel.’
‘That’s not a Moroccan name!’
‘No, he’s from Spain, his name is Miguel Romero López.’
‘What we want is any Moroccans involved in the drug trade, not the others. What’s he do, your Miguel?’
‘He doesn’t have anything to do with drugs. He’s an art dealer, he has a gallery in Spain. He lives on the Old Mountain and I work there as an assistant, a secretary.’
A few more punches to the ribs knocked Azel from the chair. One of the cops made a phone call using some kind of coded language, and when Azel heard Miguel’s name a few times, he understood that the police were checking up on him. Then the two cops from Rabat tackled him again, cursing him, furious because they’d just found out that Azel wasn’t a trafficker after all, so they still had to find at least one before dawn. Leaving Azel lying on the floor, they went out to smoke a cigarette. That’s when the two local guys decided to take action.
‘You’re some cutie, hey, tell us, zamel, does he fuck you or is it you fucks him? I’ve always wanted to know who’s the top and who’s the bottom in those pervert couples. Anyway, we don’t hand over our asses, we do the screwing and you’ll find out what we do with guys like you!’
They locked the door and took turns hitting Azel. After that one of them held him down on the ground while the other pulled off his trousers. Then he tore off Azel’s underpants, spread his legs, spat between his buttocks, and tried to penetrate him. To make it easier for him, the other policeman knocked Azel out. They spat on him some more, then shoved a kind of broomstick up his anus, which was so painful it brought him around. The men kept hitting him, spitting on him, and taking turns entering him.
‘Take this, zamel, pansy, little scumbag, you’ve got a cute ass — an intellectual’s ass is like a big open book, but us, we don’t read, we ride, hey, here’s some more, bitch, slut, yes, this is what you do with the Christian, he gets on his belly and you stuff him, well, we’re stuffing you and you’re going to love it, you’ll beg for more until your butt becomes a sieve, a real train station, here’s more, goddamn intellectual, you’re crying, crying just like a girl, tell me, tell us that you’re sobbing with pleasure, ah, dinemok, fucking whore, you’ve got a girl’s ass, not even any hair, you’re just made for pulling a train…’
The floor was splattered with blood, vomit, and urine. Half fainting, Azel could not stand up. Opening his eyes a few hours later, he vaguely recognized Miguel, who had come to get him. The cops explained that they’d saved Azel just when some crooks were about to rape him in a hotel room on the rue Murillo.
‘It was a fight over some kif; we intervened because the hotel concierge called us. Luckily, we got there in time. We found him on the floor, trousers down… Have to watch out who you hang with, in this city!’
Azel’s face was grossly swollen and he walked with difficulty, supported by Miguel’s driver.
‘I can guess what happened,’ said Miguel when they’d gotten back to his house. ‘I’ll call a doctor.’
‘No, definitely not, I’m ashamed, ashamed!’
‘Listen: we absolutely must get a medical certificate and prosecute them. I have a few excellent contacts in Rabat. What they did was intolerable — the king did not give them carte blanche!’
‘But a policeman’s word is worth more than mine! The king doesn’t give a damn — what he wants is for nothing to change, he doesn’t bother with the details.’
‘All this is bad for Morocco’s image! If the press finds out, there’ll be hell to pay!’
‘The press? If the papers ever tell the truth one day, they’ll be shut down.’
Azel remained at Miguel’s house for several days to recuperate. He phoned his mother to reassure her, explaining that he was in Casablanca looking into a job offer. When Kenza came to see him, he told his sister the truth and begged her not to tell anyone. Feeling as humiliated as Azel did, she promised she’d do everything she could to help him get out of Tangier and the country.
The disinfection campaign was grinding up its victims. Some drug traffickers were arrested; others managed to get away. Bank employees involved in money laundering were sent to prison along with customs officers who’d closed their eyes to what was going on. In the collateral damage, a few innocents were convicted of threatening the security of the state. The minister of the interior took advantage of the situation to arrest a few of those troublesome jobless intellectuals on various charges and send them to prison. The press played along, reporting on the progress of the campaign. Trials flew by at top speed as the whole country held its breath. Businessmen predicted a grave economic crisis, explaining privately that the nation functioned in part thanks to all that dirty money, and that now the traffickers would stash their wealth in foreign banks, and no one would be safe. A politician argued that the indictment of innocent people was useful because it spread doubt and fear, thereby dealing an indirect blow to the opposition. Questioned by deputies after his speech, the minister of the interior justified his action.