The city was changing, and its walls were cracking.
Azel stopped at the Whisky à Gogo, a bar run by a couple of Germans on the rue du Prince-Héritier. He hesitated an instant before pushing open the door. He was one of those men who believe everything that happens to them is written in the order of things, perhaps not in the great celestial Book, but written somewhere. What must happen, happens. He had very little freedom. He’d learned this at his mother’s knee, yet he occasionally struggled against determinism through action, finding pleasure in changing his routines simply to defy the tyranny of fate. That night, pausing for a moment at the door, he had a presentiment, a sort of crazy desire to rush towards his destiny.
The place was strangely calm. A bleached blonde was serving the men drinking at the bar. One of the two German guys was at the cash register. He never smiled.
In the dark room, men were alone with their whisky bottles. Everything was sinister and murky. Azel stopped short when he saw a stocky man drinking a lemonade at the bar. His back was turned, a back as wide as a flagstone, with a thick neck. Azel recognized him and thought, Mala pata! Bad luck: it was the caïd, the local gang leader, fearsome and powerful, a man of few words and no heart. People called him Al Afia, ‘the fire.’ A well-known passeur, he smuggled boatloads of illegal emigrants so determined to sneak across the straits — to ‘burn up’ the ocean — that they would set fire to their identification papers, hoping to avoid being sent home again if they were arrested.
Al Afia didn’t burden himself with feelings. That man from the Rif Mountains* had always been a smuggler. As a child, he’d accompanied his uncle on nights when boats arrived in Al-Hoceima to pick up merchandise. His job had been to keep watch, proudly handling the binoculars with expertise, like an army commander scanning the horizon. He’d hardly known his father, who had died in a truck accident. The uncle had taken the boy under his wing and made him a trusted lieutenant, so when this protector had disappeared in turn, Al Afia had naturally taken his place. He was the only one who understood how everything worked, knew the right people to see about a problem, had contacts in Europe whose phone numbers he’d memorized, remembered families who needed help because the father, uncle, or brother was in prison. Al Afia was not afraid of anyone and cared only about his business. People said he knew so many secrets that he was a walking strongbox. This was the man at whom Azel, primed by a few beers, now began shouting, calling onlookers to witness.
‘Look at that fat belly, a crook’s belly, and that neck, it really shows how bad this man is — he buys everyone, of course, this country is one huge marketplace, wheeling and dealing day and night, everybody’s for sale, all you need is a little power, something to cash in on, and it doesn’t take much, just the price of a few bottles of whisky, an evening with a whore, but for the big jobs, that can cost you, money changes hands, so if you want me to look the other way, let me know the time and place, no sweat, my brother, you want a signature, a little scribble at the bottom of the page, no problem, come see me, or if you’re too busy, send your driver, the one-eyed guy, he won’t notice a thing, and that’s it, my friends, that’s Morocco, where some folks slave like maniacs, working because they’ve decided to be honest, those fellows, they labour in the shadows, no one sees them, no one talks about them when in fact they should get medals, because the country functions thanks to their integrity, and then there are the others, swarming everywhere, in all the ministries, because in our beloved country, corruption is the very air we breathe, yes, we stink of corruption, it’s on our faces, in our heads, buried in our hearts — in your hearts, anyway — and if you don’t believe me, ask old Crook’s Belly over there, old baldy, the armored safe, the strongbox of secrets, the one sipping a lemonade because monsieur is a good Muslim, he doesn’t drink alcohol, he goes often to Mecca, oh yes, he’s a hajji* — and I’m an astronaut! I’m in a rocket, I’m escaping into space, don’t want to live anymore on this earth, in this country, it’s all fake, everyone’s cutting some deal, well, I refuse to do that, I studied law in a nation that knows nothing of the Law even while it’s pretending to demand respect for our laws, what a joke, here you have to respect the powerful, that’s all, but for the rest, you’re on your fucking own… As for you, Mohammed Oughali, you’re nothing but a thief, a faggot — a zamel … an attaye …’
Azel was shouting louder and louder. One of the cops at the bar, outstandingly drunk, went over to whisper in Al Afia’s ear: ‘Leave him to me, we’ll charge him with threatening our national security … securi-titty…’
Al Afia’s thugs would obey his slightest signal, and he had to shut this little loudmouth up. He glanced at him. Two bruisers grabbed Azel and tossed him outside, punching him savagely.
‘You’re crazy, busting your ass to piss off the boss — anyone would think you wanted to wind up like your pal!’
Azel’s first cousin, Noureddine, had been more than a friend — he’d been like a brother to him. Azel had hoped that one day his sister Kenza might marry Noureddine, but their cousin had drowned during a night crossing when Al Afia’s men had overloaded a leaky tub. Twenty-four perished on an October night the Guardia Civil of Almería claimed was too stormy for any attempt at rescue.
Al Afia had flatly denied receiving any money — even though Azel had been right there when Noureddine had paid the smuggler twenty thousand dirhams. That man had more than one death on his conscience — but did he even have a conscience? His varied business interests were flourishing. He lived in a huge house in Ksar es-Seghir, on the Mediterranean coast, a kind of bunker where he piled up burlap bags stuffed with money. People said he had two wives, one Spanish, one Moroccan, who lived in the same house and whom no one had ever seen. Since kif trafficking wasn’t enough for him, every two weeks he filled some old boats with poor bastards who gave him everything they had to get to Spain. Al Afia was never around on the nights the boats left; one of his men — a chauffeur, bodyguard, burglar, never the same guy — would supervise the operation. Al Afia had his snitches, his informers, and his cops as well. He called them ‘my men.’ Every so often, taking great care not to alert the police in Tangier, the authorities in Rabat would send soldiers to stop the boats and arrest the passeurs, and that’s how a few of Al Afia’s henchmen landed in jail. As long as they were imprisoned in Tangier, Al Afia looked after them as though they were his own children, making sure they had a daily meal, supporting their families. He had his connections in the local prison, where he knew the warden and above all the guards, whom he tipped even when none of his pals were in residence there.
He was a past master at corruption, expertly assessing every man’s character, needs, weaknesses, neglecting no aspect of anyone’s personality, and he had a finger in every pie. You’d have thought he had a doctorate in some outlandish science. Al Afia could read only numbers. For everything else, he had loyal and competent secretaries with whom he spoke a Riffian dialect of Berber and a few words of Spanish. Everyone considered him a generous man: ‘wears his heart on his sleeve’; ‘his house is yours’; ‘the dwelling of Goodness’; and so on. To one man he would offer a trip to Mecca; to another, a plot of land, or a foreign car (stolen, obviously); to yet another, a gold watch, telling him, ‘It’s a little something nice for your wife.’ He paid the medical expenses of his men and their families and night after night he offered drinks to everyone at the bar that had gradually become his headquarters.