Miguel was holding Azel firmly by the hand while the guests filed past him, one after the other, pretending to caress the young man.
‘Now,’ Miguel whispered in Azel’s ear, ‘you’re going to dance. And you’ll dance like a whore. You remember the fellow at the fair in Tétouan, the one who sold lottery tickets dressed as a woman? You’re that man, a bearded woman!’
Azel could not understand why Miguel was trying so hard to show him off and humiliate him; for a moment he thought Miguel might have drunk too much, or smoked some hashish.
He began to dance to some Egyptian music, moving his buttocks and thinking about his sister, so talented at Oriental dancing, but her image gradually became confused with Soumaya’s. Despite the tension in the air, Azel tried hard to concentrate, telling himself over and over that he was an employee, working for a lunatic boss. Cursing life and fate, he was flooded with shame but determined not to give in to regret and despair.
Towards two in the morning, Miguel abandoned him amid all those men, some of whom were drunk while others had collapsed half asleep onto the couches, alone or with partners. A group of young musicians arrived, but instead of playing, they began to copulate here and there throughout the house. Azel headed for the door to go upstairs to his room but found the way barred by a black giant, obviously a bouncer from some nightclub…
Sensing the trap Miguel had set for him, Azel tore off his wig, scrubbed his face, and went off to hide in a far corner of the kitchen, where he fell asleep like a forgotten child amid the crates of food and the empty bottles.
The next day, Azel shaved off his moustache and gathered his belongings with the firm intention of leaving that house forever. He had nowhere to go, but the bitter memory of the party welled up inside him like something sour and fetid. He could not bear to remain entangled in that situation. For the first time in weeks, he felt he had to write in his notebook, but when he opened it, no words came to him. He just drew a line across the page.
A few days later, pretending that nothing had happened, Miguel summoned him and began talking about his future plans.
‘That party was a wonderful idea! Why don’t we throw one in Tangier, in our house — I mean in my house on the Old Mountain.’
Azel did not welcome the suggestion.
‘Right! And this time I’ll be disguised as a monkey, a brood mare, or a beggar — why not!’
‘Really, you have no sense of humor.’
‘Easy to say, when the joke’s not on you.’
The idea of returning to Tangier wasn’t entirely welcome to Azel. He did want to see his mother again, of course, to throw himself into her arms while she recited a few verses of the Koran … but he was afraid of confronting Kenza, who was still waiting for her answer. Afraid as well of seeing his old friends, who would certainly spot him when he showed up with the Spaniard. Azel thought of Soumaya, too, who would be unable to come with him.
‘It’s a good idea, Tangier. But you said “our” house?’
‘Yes, “our” house, the way I might have said ‘the’ house, I mean, you know perfectly well that you’re at home whether you’re here or over there.’
‘What does that mean, “at home”? Does it mean I can do as I like in the house, that I can do what I want with it?’
‘If you want to know whether half the house belongs to you, it doesn’t.’
‘Because it belongs to someone else?’
‘Yes: to my children!’
This was the first Azel had heard of them.
‘Yes, I have in fact adopted two children, orphans whom no one wanted. They call me Papa and I’m very happy about that. We see one another only over the summer holidays, because they don’t live with me during the rest of the year, of course: I send them to a boarding school in Casablanca.’
Azel was now completely intrigued.
‘What are their names?’
‘They’re twins, Halim and Halima. They’re lovely children and quite smart. You’ll be meeting them soon. I’m thinking of having them attend the lycée in Barcelona, where they would be close to me. I miss them so much…’
‘They have your name?’
‘Not yet. For the moment, while I’m waiting for some administrative procedures to be taken care of (and you can’t imagine how complicated they are!), I look after the twins as if they were my own. They haven’t any identification papers yet. This is something very close to my heart. I don’t talk about it, I wait, but it’s always on my mind.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Azel asked him why he had adopted the children.
‘I belong to a Moroccan association created by some remarkable women. They take care of unwed mothers and abandoned babies, and whenever I visit them, I feel as if I’ve been put through a wringer. I knew that it was difficult to adopt children in Morocco; you can help them, but I don’t believe you have the right to give them your name. A religious authority explained to me that Islam thinks of every eventuality, even the most unlikely ones — with an eye to avoiding, for example, the possibility that adopted children who do not know who their biological mothers and fathers are might unknowingly have sexual relations with their parents, which would amount to unintentional incest. But I was also told that there are always ways to make arrangements. To me, they are my children. On paper, however, that’s not yet the case. I even intend to convert to Islam, if that would help move things along. So, Azel, now you know everything. Well, no — there’s still one question: why do I absolutely insist on adopting them? I thought about their lives and my old age. My gesture is both selfish and generous. Yes, I’ve been thinking ahead to the time when I will need people around me. It’s only human, after all; I don’t want to die alone like so many little old men no one wants anymore. In your country, the elderly are never abandoned, but it’s different here. Today, you are with me, a presence by my side. We even make plans together. The day will come, however, when someone else will come along, a man or a woman, and suddenly you’ll go off, dropping me like an old rag. Until that time, though, make no mistake: I’m no angel!’
Azel didn’t know what to say. He looked at Miguel with an admiration tinged, ever so slightly, with anxiety.
In mid-August, Miguel and Azel returned to Tangier, where vacationing émigrés jammed the boulevards and avenues with their cars, making traffic sluggish. And how they loved their horns! The police had no idea how to cope with the constantly complaining pedestrians, whom young men hired by the city were admonishing to cross the streets only at the crosswalks. Standing at intersections with loudspeakers and shouting in classical Arabic, these youths dispensed advice ignored by absolutely everyone. The city was dirty and overflowing with people, but as Miguel observed, ‘Here, there’s life.’
Azel went off to see his mother, who greeted him as if he’d just returned from Mecca. As soon as she laid eyes on him she burst into ululations, while Kenza tried frantically to calm her down. It was the return of the prodigal son. The neighbours were out on their balconies or terraces, watching as Azel arrived with two huge suitcases crammed with presents, and the only disappointment was that he’d driven up in a taxi instead of a big luxury car.
‘He came by plane,’ shouted Lalla Zohra, ‘by plane, and he left the car home in Spain… He returned to see his mother just before she goes away on a pilgrimage!’
Kenza made her be quiet: ‘Aren’t you ashamed — you really think you need to tell the entire neighbourhood all about your life, our family life?’