Thinking for a moment that her visitor had come to ask for Kenza in marriage, Lalla Zohra called her daughter, who arrived, blushing and lovely, to shake Miguel’s outstretched hand and express her gratitude.
‘Azel has told me about you. Thank you for all you have done for him!’
‘But it was only natural. Tell your mother that I’m delighted to meet her. Azel is a friend, and I would like to help him.’
Lalla Zohra was perplexed. Who was this man, as elegant as a woman, and perfumed like one? And so good-looking, too! What did he want?
Azel asked his mother to prepare a good lunch for them, but Lalla Zohra begged off, explaining that there was not time enough to do the meal justice and insisting that Miguel come eat with them the next day.
A light scent lingered in the family’s little house after Miguel was gone. Lalla Zohra had understood, yet struggled to convince herself that he had come there for Kenza.
‘Don’t you think, daughter, that he’s a touch old for you?’
‘Yes, but what does it matter — he’s a kind and sophisticated gentleman. There are not many Muslim men as generous and refined as that Christian.’
‘What you’re saying is stupid,’ said Azel bluntly. ‘It’s not a question of being Muslim or Christian. Anyway, we’re experts at disparaging others and criticizing our own community. The Arabs have agreed never to agree about anything, everyone knows that, so we must throw out all those clichés.’
‘I only meant that I like the man,’ protested Kenza, ‘but as you know, I’m not the one who interests him!’
Pretending not to have heard that last remark, Lalla Zohra asked Kenza to go buy a white tablecloth at Fondok Chajra, the bazaar where she sold all her smuggled merchandise.
‘Tomorrow, my children, this luncheon must be perfect. And now, Azz El Arab, you will tell me everything.’
Laughing, Azel gave his mother a hug. She had tears in her eyes, and so did he.
The next day, Lalla Zohra’s modest home was filled with joy. She had repainted the entrance with blue-tinted whitewash and now awaited impatiently the arrival of the man she considered a stroke of good fortune. Although she said nothing, she so hoped that Azel would find work anywhere at all, with anyone! To her, Miguel was at least an ambassador or a consul — someone influential somewhere, in any case.
Lalla Zohra did not leave the kitchen during the entire meal. She ate nothing, and waited until teatime to make a brief appearance. Miguel was happy, brimming with constant praise for the delicacy of her cooking. He kept calling her Hajja; each time she corrected him, saying, ‘No, no, not yet: next year, Insha’Allah!’
Miguel invited Azel and his sister to the party he was giving to mark his coming departure, and asked Azel to arrive a little early to help out. Everything had to be impeccable. No false notes.
‘Elegance and flamboyance,’ said Miguel. ‘Flowers, ah, flowers: the whole house must have flowers! Table service entirely of silver, of course! The champagne, chilled, but not too much, just enough. The servants must be on their very best behaviour. Jaouad and Khaled, you must be clean-shaven. Above all, do not wear perfume, and do not serve almonds or tidbits that satisfy hunger. The aperitif should stimulate the appetite, not cut it!’
Everyone who was anyone in Tangier was there, the luminaries of the city as well as Miguel’s closest friends. The dinner had been prepared with extraordinary attention to detail; everything had to be in the most exquisite taste, and Miguel would not have allowed the slightest imperfection. By nightfall, the villa was thronged with a beau monde that seemed to have stepped from another era. An elderly princess from a distant land might rub shoulders with a former government minister or a few film stars long faded from memory. People discreetly pointed out an old lady dressed all in blue, said to have been for many years the king’s mistress, but that was a secret, of course. It was even said that she’d had a child by him, but that was only a rumour, naturally. She was a lovely lady who had made a few movies for a while, until the king, apparently, had asked her to stop: a wise decision, moreover, because her acting … Wearing one of Miguel’s fine white gandouras, Azel was welcoming guests and showing them around, and he looked like an Oriental prince or a character in the black-and-white films of the fifties. Suave and reserved, he circulated among the crowd as if he lived there. Noticing his good manners, Miguel was pleased to have lured him into his circle, and yet he was uneasy, feeling a pang in his heart he could not explain. Watching this handsome young man, he suddenly felt like crying, but let nothing show and busied himself taking the most attentive care of his guests. That evening, his life was taking a new turn: Miguel was not so much celebrating his departure as he was presenting his new friend. His guests whispered, laughing as they watched the servant in the white gandoura: Not bad, that young man, even rather classy! Miguel has lucked out for once! Think it will last? Who knows? But you don’t know what you’re talking about — the fellow’s just a servant, not Miguel’s new lover, don’t be silly! Listen, me, I’d try him out. Maybe he likes women, too… Hush, quiet, here comes Miguel!
Cocktails were served on the terrace, which overlooked the straits. Miguel had indeed put flowers all through the house. Wearing a pistachio green caftan of his own creation and a superb coral necklace, Miguel was resplendent. He talked about his recent trip to India and his desire to return there as soon as possible, even hinting that he hoped to take Azel along with him. Since things were now clear to his friends, they wanted to know who this new boy was, to approach him, chat with him, find out what he was like. Azel, however, hid in the kitchen. As for Kenza, she was bored. She had come because it would have been difficult for her to refuse Miguel’s invitation. But just what did he intend to do with her brother? She hadn’t been fooled, and abruptly she, too, felt like crying, but she forced herself to smile. In this worldly company whose existence she had never suspected, the men were inaccessible. ‘One day, yes,’ she told herself — ‘one day I’ll meet the man of my dreams. He’ll be tall, and kind, and good, and sexy, and it won’t matter whether he’s a Muslim or a Christian. In this country, though, it’s all so difficult. If I don’t go along with what’s expected, I’ll end up an old maid and be looked down on as a hboura, worn out and useless.’
Miguel came over to Kenza, took her arm, and introduced her to Ismaël, the only straight single man at the party. She noticed that he had clammy hands. That was a sign: this man was not for her. She went through some polite conversation anyway: Tangier-the-east-wind-the-houses-on-the-Old-Mountain-the-Europeans-who-snap-them-up-the-rise-of-Islamism-Spain-seen-from-afar-in-clear-weather …
She was irritated with herself for babbling so tritely to a man with sweaty palms and empty eyes to boot. Kenza changed her approach, becoming provocative.
‘Tell me frankly, Ismaëclass="underline" what are you doing here tonight?’
‘I’m a guest, like you!’
‘Yes, but what do you have to do with this crowd? I mean, are you here to blend in, to join their tribe?’
‘I’m here because I like to treat myself occasionally to a nice piece of Christian ass! So there!’
Kenza was pleased to have ticked him off, and with a smile, she disappeared. On the way home, she kept seeing all those faces from a Tangier frozen forever in the 1950s.