‘Have you noticed that the same men who get drunk refuse to eat pork? They reject it, even though ham isn’t dangerous to either their balance or their dignity. Strange, isn’t it?’
‘Ah, but if you overindulge in ham, you’ll wind up with a cholesterol problem, although I doubt that’s the real reason why Muslims who drink alcohol don’t eat pork. Azel even claims to be allergic to that meat. That’s so hypocritical!’
After dinner, Miguel took Kenza back to her place, telling her along the way about the problems he was having with Azel and the gallery in Madrid. He’d just learned that in spite of his salary and the reimbursement of all his expenses, Azel was stealing from the till.
‘Azel thinks I’m Jean Genet, you know — that French writer who used to come often to Tangier, a rebel, a great poet, a homosexual who had served time in prison for theft; he loved to be robbed by his lovers, a betrayal he found reassuring or exciting, it all depended. It’s curious — even though I’m sure Azel hasn’t read Genet, he must think he’s pleasing me by acting like street trash.’
Kenza was shocked to hear Miguel call her brother trash, although she certainly knew how badly Azel was willing to behave, doing just as he pleased and disappointing everyone. Later, she tried without success to get in touch with him. That same evening, she received a call from their mother, who was also worried. Lalla Zohra had heard on the radio that the Spanish police had arrested some Moroccans suspected of belonging to terrorist organizations. When Kenza expressed astonishment that her mother would see any possible connection between Azel and those men, Lalla Zohra quickly insisted that her son could never be involved in anything like that! Now Kenza really wanted to find out exactly what was going on, but Azel was not to be found.
It was a long, sleepless night. Ugly, distressing images swarmed relentlessly through Kenza’s brain. Blood on a white shirt, shattered heads, severed hands, police everywhere, words in Arabic, in Spanish, anonymous faces moving through the night, Azel looking imploringly at an executioner, a snuffling voice reading verses of the Koran, a black cat leaping onto the bodies of abandoned children, shadows burrowing into walls, and desperate anxiety everywhere.
Sleep was impossible. She showered, dressed, and went out to walk in the streets.
Barcelona at the approach of dawn is a city that softens its sharp edges, becoming gentle, as generous as a dream in which all is well. The avenues are spotless. The houses are veiled in mist, which shrouds a few lights in the awakening city. Shaking off the robe of night, Barcelona welcomes the first passers-by; kiosks set out their displays, bistros arrange their tables on the sidewalks, the aromas of coffee and toast fill the air. The city wreathes itself slowly in the first glimmers of daylight. Filled with a quiet feeling of happiness, Kenza gave no more thought to her nightmares, and suddenly, in her mind’s eye, she saw Nâzim. She saw him in the crowd. She smiled, the way people do in those American films where a man and woman who’ve just met play out a fine romance, the kind that exists only in the movies. Kenza felt so buoyant that she was even convinced a camera had been filming her from the moment she’d stepped out her front door. A voice was telling her, ‘After all, you’re happy in this city, you were right to take your fate into your own hands and leave Tangier, your family, that burdensome daily routine; you’re beautiful, available, and lucky to have met Miguel, a gentleman, so whatever you do, don’t stop now, keep going! You’re at peace with yourself, you’re not responsible for your brother or guilty of whatever foolish mistake he might commit. Kenza, I’m talking to you, I’m the other Kenza, the one who has always pushed you to go straight ahead, to struggle, to resist giving up, the one who made you a liberated girl, so don’t listen too much to your mother, she’ll swallow you. Pay attention to yourself, to your life, don’t get caught in the grip of fate; look up and watch the migrating birds meeting overhead in this patch of Barcelona sky: observe how they follow the rhythm of the ballet they’re performing this morning just for you, before your eyes so thirsty for light. Life is beautiful in spite of the many idiots who create and spread disaster; you are safe, out of reach. Run, live, laugh…’
Kenza sat down at a café table and ordered coffee with melba toast. A moment of pleasure, a moment of lovely solitude. Then the sounds of the city began, and soon the usual hustle and bustle had claimed their morning hour. It was time to think about getting to work at the Red Cross.
That evening, she invited her girlfriends to dinner at the Kebab. She looked around for Nâzim. He wasn’t there; perhaps it was his day off. In fact, he was hiding, because he’d learned that employment inspectors would be coming by. When Kenza left, she wrote him a note: ‘We’re three women looking for you … and without you, the Kebab’s not so hot!’
In a little while, realizing that what she’d written had been rather forward, Kenza decided to go back to tear up her note, but after one last hesitation, she resolved to let things take their course. Later, on her way to Carlos’s restaurant, she heard footsteps coming up behind her: it was Nâzim, and as soon as he’d caught his breath, he apologized in impeccable lycée French for missing her at the restaurant.
‘Just one drink, a little drink or some herbal tea before you go home…’
He pleaded with her, but she couldn’t accept, still less tell him she was going off to dance in a chic restaurant.
‘Tomorrow; I’m too tired tonight. Nine o’clock at the Kebab, I promise.’
While she was adjusting the costume for her dance, she felt a touch of stage fright and thought of Nâzim. Then she went onstage, threading her way among the tables like an angel sent by the stars. The Egyptian music was perfect. She closed her eyes and followed the beat, imagining that she was at a wedding back home. The audience applauded warmly, especially at the moment when her whole body quivered delicately. She bowed, tossed her veils towards her admirers, and left the stage. She dressed quickly in the wings, autographed a piece of paper handed to her by one of the waiters, and went out into the night.
The next day she was late for her rendezvous at the Kebab. Nâzim was waiting for her with a smile.
‘Listen to what Nâzim Hikmet wrote about this country,’ he said the moment she arrived.
Spain is a bloodstained rose blooming at our breast.
Spain, our friendship in the twilight of death,
Spain, our friendship in the light of our indomitable hope.
And the ancient olive trees, shattered, and the yellow earth and the red earth pierced through and through.
‘He’s talking about Spain in 1939. Nothing to do with the wonderful democracy of today. People have changed, acquired a more modern way of thinking. Only one problem remains: certain Spaniards aren’t very fond of los moros. And on that point I’m unbeatable — here I’m often mistaken for a moro myself. When I explain that I’m Turkish, all they can think to say is that the Turks sure must be experts on los moros. One day I quoted our great poet to an Andalusian landowner I’d met on a train:
‘I have a tree inside me,
A sapling I brought back from the sun;
Fish of fire, its leaves sway gently,