14. Azel
‘THE NEXT TIME you go see your whore, let me know; I’ll buy you a bottle of perfume to give her from me.’
Miguel wasn’t angry, simply put off by the all-too-obvious signs that his lover had been straying.
Without replying, Azel hung his head, then shut himself up in the bathroom. He knew he’d be sleeping in his own room that night. Actually, it didn’t bother him to be alone again. He understood that one day he would be leaving Miguel, although that was still in the future. And there was another consideration: his mother and sister had been nagging him lately, phoning him several times a week. When his mother called, she would speak to him in a murmuring voice filled with tenderness and longing.
‘How are you, my beloved son? You have everything you need, I hope? Are you eating well enough, at least? Tell me what you do all day. You think of me now and then? I wish so much that I could see you again! I never go to sleep without sending you all my blessings. God hears me, you know! Have you done what I asked you to do the last time, for Kenza? Have you spoken to him, to the Christian? He’s so kind, so generous, he won’t refuse to do that favour I asked of you, right? So, well, here’s Kenza and I give you a big hug, my darling boy.’
Kenza got straight to the point.
‘Did you ask him?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Look, I need to know! What are you waiting for?’
‘It’s not that easy, you see…’
‘But what is it with you? You’re waiting until he doesn’t love you anymore to ask him for this favour? Waiting for him to meet someone else, someone handsomer, smarter, more clever than you are?’
‘I’ll call you soon, I promise.’
Azel was at a complete loss over this problem. Before approaching Miguel with his request, he wanted to wait at least until the anniversary of their first meeting. Azel suggested to him that they throw a small party at the house just for friends, and Miguel liked the idea. A party to forget gloomy times, see a few people again, have faith that love is stronger than everything else: after all, why not?
Miguel, for his part, wasn’t fooled. He knew for a fact that Azel was not in love with him, that he was mostly taking advantage of the situation. Of course, it wasn’t that simple, and there were often real moments of affection between them, times when they felt close to each other, but Azel never let himself go. He was always watching himself, afraid of his impulses, and couldn’t manage to be spontaneous when they made love. When he was with women, there were pretty speeches along with the sex. With Miguel, Azel closed his eyes and said nothing.
Miguel had never considered the differences in their ages and cultures to be a problem. He saw Azel as a lost young man, destined to wind up among the dregs of Tangier in spite of his diplomas and intelligence. The boy was appealing and aggravating in equal measures, an incoherent collection of opposites with a distinct penchant for laziness, a readiness to coast along. Miguel often felt like shaking him, making him wake up and take more interest in what was happening to him. Miguel would have liked to see his lover change, take charge of things, the way he himself had done at Azel’s age, but he tried not to make comparisons. Life was even harder now, a constant battle; nothing was ever acquired or settled for good, whether you were a sexual outsider or the son of Catholic petty-bourgeois supporters of Franco.
Azel took care of things at the gallery in an uneven fashion. He astonished his employer with his sharp business sense and skill with people, charming clients, playing on his Oriental allure while at the same time relying on the Western efficiency he’d picked up from watching Miguel. Now and again, however, he would go off the rails, disappearing without warning for a few days only to return dirty, unshaven, and sad, not even deigning to explain himself to Miguel, who complained bitterly but helplessly. Miguel was growing convinced that Azel had fallen into the clutches of some drug dealer or pimp — but on that score, he was completely mistaken. When Azel went off on his own he was simply running to Soumaya, with whom he was discovering erotic delights he’d never had the time to explore with Siham. Soumaya was shameless, observed no taboos, and gave herself without hiding any of her passion for what she called ‘vice.’ She had a special way of languorously drawing her tongue all along Azel’s body, always lingering on his buttocks and between his legs. Whenever he asked her where she’d learned all these things that brought him so much pleasure, she told him it was intuition: freedom guided solely by desire!
One day, after Azel had returned from one of his brief stays with Soumaya, Miguel tried to put an end to his wanderings once and for all.
‘You smell of women! In this house, you hear me, no one is allowed to smell of females. And while I think of it: do not shave, and absolutely do not touch your moustache. Tomorrow we’re going to have some fun!’
Azel took a shower and awaited instructions. Miguel had invited some thirty people for a disguise party with the theme of ‘The Orient: Think Pink!’
Miguel was dressed as a vizier of the Arabian Nights, while most of his friends wore Moroccan djellabas or Turkish jabadors* and sarouals in every shade of pink. Shut up in the maid’s room, Azel didn’t know what to expect; he could hear the noise of the party but sat still, waiting. Then Carmen brought him a caftan, a wig that was almost red, a belt embroidered with gold, babouches, and a veil. Nothing but women’s clothes! Azel realized immediately what Miguel had in mind.
‘You get dressed, and you come downstairs only when I’ve rung for you,’ Carmen told him.
‘At your command, you old bag!’
Pretending not to have heard, Carmen disappeared. And then Azel abruptly saw, in his mind’s eye, his friend Noureddine, who had drowned in the straits. Terrified, Azel rushed to his mirror but saw only his own face, so tired and drawn it was almost a mask.
Rising to the challenge, Azel decided not only to play his employer’s game but to astonish him as well. He made himself up like a bride, took care to dress properly in the women’s clothing, adjusted his wig, and sat down again to wait. The little bell finally rang around midnight. Azel left the room and went slowly down the four flights of stairs. When he pushed open the door to the living room, everyone fell silent, gazing at him in admiration. Then the men began to compliment him.
‘But what a lovely statue!’
‘And such a perfect mélange — half woman, half man! Isn’t Miguel just spoiling us!’
‘Oh — the moustache! And look at that stubble! It’s simply so exciting!’
‘The loveliest catamite of the Maghreb!’
‘No, no, open your eyes, this is no pickup, and not some passing fancy, this is serious, I can tell you!’
Azel advanced like an actor or a dancer poised to perform his ballet.
Miguel was amazed, and agreeably so. Seizing Azel’s hand, he addressed his guests.
‘My friends, I’m delighted to present my latest conquest to you: the body of an athlete sculpted in bronze, with a piquant soupçon of femininity. Quite a stud! Educated, but familiar as well with the underworld of Tangier, that city of bandits and traitors. Neither bandit nor traitor, of course, Azel is simply a most beautiful object, an object to tempt every eye. Just look at his magnificent skin! You may touch it. Get in line, but don’t push, he’s right here, he’s not going anywhere. Run your hand along his hip, for example, and do restrain your impulses. He belongs to me, and I won’t have any fighting over him!’