Ghita replied that Siham’s private life was her own business, as long as it did not upset her relationship with Widad.
‘Don’t worry, Madame, there won’t be any trouble.’
The reunion was brief, but intense: they were wild with desire for each another. After lovemaking, a bottle of wine, and a few cigarettes, Azel made his confession.
‘I’ve become Miguel’s lover.’
After a long silence, Siham, who felt like crying, asked him if it gave him pleasure.
‘I don’t know. When I make love to him, I think really hard about a woman — you, for example. There: now you know everything. I’m naked in your eyes. And if one day I get married, it will be to you, because we understand each other, we talk to each other, and then, I’ve always felt comfortable with you.’
‘You know, to tell the truth, I kind of suspected. Don’t tell me any more about it. The important thing is that we should both be able to see each other, to breathe, regain some strength, and do our work well.’
Azel was ashamed. He asked Siham about Widad.
‘I’m glad to be taking care of the girclass="underline" it’s work that stimulates me, does me good. It’s a tough job, full of surprises, and violent, but I’ve discovered that facing up to these difficulties encourages me. Her parents give me a free hand. I’m building something positive for this innocent child who suffers so much. She was born like that, it’s no one’s fault. Even though I sometimes wind up doubting the existence of God … You know, it’s as if these children were sent to earth to spread humility and honesty among people. At the moment, not only am I earning my living and supporting my family, but I’m on a good path. Whenever I think back to El Haj’s parties, I get depressed. Here, at least I’m useful. Back home, I might have lost my way like so many other girls and become part of one of those networks — yes, it’s true — but I met you and fell in love with you. It didn’t last long, but at first I was out of my mind, you were all I could think of: you were considerate, attentive, not in love, of course, but you were around a lot … and here you are now with a moustache!’
‘Uh, Miguel’s the one who asked me to grow it, he said it would look good.’
‘Well, if it’s for your job …’
‘You’re so wonderful! I’d really like to see things as clearly as you do. But I’ve never fallen in love in my life: it’s an infirmity, something I was taught — that love was something for women. Men, well, they’re supposed to be strong, unshakable, you know, all those clichés. Now I feel guilty: I work for this man during the day, and at night I have to pleasure him. I don’t know how long I can hold out. I need to see you more often — I’m so afraid of ending up doubting my own sexuality.’
‘Don’t get upset — sexuality’s not the only thing in life. To me, you’re Azel first of all, the man I loved and still do. Whatever you do to earn your living, I’d rather not think about it.’
After holding each other in a long embrace, they parted.
That evening, Azel set out to explore the bars of Málaga. He met some compatriots, many of them undocumented, and bought them a few drinks. One of them even offered him some hashish, ‘pure Riffian.’ Azel smoked a little, politely refused the advances of an African whore, was approached by a Tunisian who tried to sell him a cellphone or a gold watch, and felt as though he were back in Tangier, in the labyrinth of the Petit Socco. He heard children torturing a sick cat, smelled the nauseating sewer odours of the kasbah, watched youths in suits and ties singing languorously on Moroccan television, glimpsed a former guide — now blind — drinking his café au lait, saw a beggar woman dragging two young children around with her, and above all, thought he’d spotted Al Afia with his long, bushy beard, sitting in his big white djellaba at a table at the Café Central next to Mohammed-Larbi. Azel felt as if he’d been caught in a trap. Unknown men had slipped a hood over his head and tossed him into a truck bound for Morocco. He was struggling, shouting, but no one heard him. Azel was hallucinating. The alcohol and hashish must have been taking their toll on him; he had to leave that neighbourhood infested with Moroccans, and right away. He took a taxi back to the hotel. In his room, he felt like continuing the letter to his country, but was much too wasted to write.
The next day, before going to the train station, he could finally reopen his notebook.
Am I a racist? Can you be a racist against your own side? Why do Moroccans exasperate me so much? They don’t like themselves, yet they show their vulnerability by flying into rages at the slightest criticism of their country. Why do I prefer to avoid them? Am I not actually avoiding myself? Fleeing from myself? I’m on the run. Hardly a glorious achievement. The Moroccans I met yesterday remind me too much of what I might have become. They spew hot air, buzzing around like bees in an empty honey jar. They’ve got almost no imagination. They put up with everything while scrambling for a way out with their little schemes, pathetic stuff, grubbing for next to nothing. And for that they need to re-create the joutya, the village souk, to be among themselves again even when they can’t stand one another, pretending at least to be back home, to feel safe.
I’m ashamed. I don’t feel proud of myself. O dear country, if you could see what I’ve become! I keep trying to find excuses, ways to justify myself. When Miguel touches me I close my eyes, I leave, abandoning my body to him: I go off for a stroll, I pretend, I fake it, and then I awaken, get up, and can’t face myself in the mirror. I’m so humiliated.
Oh, if my mother were to see me… I can hardly bear thinking about it. How can I tell her that her son is just an attaye, a faggot, a man who crawls on his belly, a cheap whore, a traitor to his identity, to his sex? In any case, she’s no fool, and has surely understood everything on her own. Her son is virile, all right — he makes loves to a woman, to a man… One can’t talk about such things.
And let’s be honest. Miguel is an admirable man, refined, attentive. He can certainly see that I’m uncomfortable with him in bed. The other day, he was absolutely furious when he found some condoms in my jacket pocket. He was shouting. ‘You’d better not be going with other men! I’d almost prefer — I said “almost” — that you screw some cow with huge tits rather than a man, which I will not put up with. You hear me? You Moroccans, you like big breasts, you’re still wallowing in nostalgia for your mama’s bosom.’
That was my chance to admit to him that I’ve been seeing Siham. Siham, with her tiny breasts!
That evening, Miguel shut himself up in his room. Me, I fell asleep in the living room, in front of the television, clutching the remote in my hand.
11. Mohammed-Larbi
MOHAMMED-LARBI was a quiet young man. Off in his corner, all alone, he was putting together his plans to leave the country at last and realize his dream. Twenty years ago his maternal uncle, Sadek, had gone to Belgium and found work, and he had promised to bring his nephew there one day. Sadek was now a leader of the Muslim community in the northern neighbourhoods of Brussels, familiar with all possible and imaginable networks for leaving Morocco, thanks to his contacts throughout most of the Moroccan émigré diaspora. When he left Morocco, Sadek had been twenty years old, remarkably industrious, and determined to succeed, but he hadn’t been a particularly observant Muslim. Nowadays he saw the children of immigrants ‘going bad’ time and again, their parents helpless, overwhelmed, and above all clinging desperately to a culture reduced in general to major religious occasions like Ramadan and Aïd el-Kebir,* although it was becoming increasingly difficult to cut sheep’s throats in a bathtub or backyard. Neighbours and animal protection agencies had protested, and the state had been obliged to intervene. Sheep now came from the slaughterhouses ready to go into the oven or be cut into pieces, which deprived the feast of some of its original meaning and spirit, but the faithful would have to adjust to this as best they could. Sadek could read and write, and one day he had drawn up a list of the typical cultural objects in his daily life: prayer rug, prayer beads, polished black stone for ablutions, Andalusian music, Arab and Berber pop songs, djellaba for going to pray, couscous after prayers on Friday, satellite dish to receive Moroccan television, honey pastries, brass teapot, mint tea, low table, incense, rose water, red tarboosh,* yellow babouches, clock with a picture of Mecca on the face…