You are my intoxication
I’ve never drunk my fill of you
I can’t drink my fill of you
I don’t ever want to
Kenza laughed, wishing Nâzim could take her right away, but that just wasn’t done, it’s frowned on, especially coming from a woman, and an Arab woman at that. But surely he could understand — even though she’d noticed that he was almost as jealous and possessive as Moroccan men. They were now holding hands as they walked, and as they walked, she whispered in his ear, ‘I want you.’ He stopped, smiled, and backed her up against a wall, where he stood kissing her ardently. Passers-by pretended not to see a thing. At the hotel Nâzim paid for the room in advance and asked for a bottle of water. There was a bottle of arrack in his overnight bag.
The room was small and ordinary, nothing special. It smelled musty. The carpet was worn, the light dreary, but their desire was blind and not to be denied. Nâzim asked Kenza to follow his lead, then blindfolded her with his black tie and began to describe their room in his own way.
‘The room is small, but quite charming: the walls are covered with salmon-colored silk, and there’s a leather couch in one corner next to an antique armoire; a reproduction of a pretty painting in the Orientalist style hangs next to the window; the bedspread is of fine velvet; a large Persian carpet covers the floor. Now I’m going to undress you the way one would pluck the petals from a lovely rose — don’t move, whatever you do… I’m taking off your jacket first, then your blouse, your skirt, your shoes, stockings… Wait, wait, let me undo your bra … but you’re not wearing any panties, not even a thong! That’s wild, it’s driving me insane! You’re unbelievable, you guessed what I wanted … and how beautiful you are… Our love is so strong and you’re an absolute pearl, I don’t know how I can possibly deserve you, be worthy of you, I’m so lucky! I can hardly keep from shouting!’
She reached out for him but he eluded her, laughing, and she called out to him. They were happy. With Kenza still blindfolded, they fell onto the bed and made love for a long time.
The lights were out, the curtains closed; they awaited the dawn in silence. Then, suddenly, the sky became white.
‘Look, my beauty: this is the moment when the horses come down from the heavens to wreathe themselves in the colours of autumn and gallop around a great mountain of clouds. You see that camel bearing a wardrobe full of silk and satin dresses? He’s crossing the horizon seeking the lovers who were joined together this night. Daybreak has scattered itself among the tallest trees, and you — you are as beautiful as that caress of light: you are here and I am singing so that you will never leave me again. Oh, Kenza, in the name of this lovely morning, this dream stirring up the sky, will you marry me, and be my wife?’
Kenza removed the blindfold and looked up at him.
‘Do you mean that?’
‘I love you. You know, where I come from, a man finds it hard to confess his love to a woman, such things are left unspoken, barely hinted at, but I feel that I am not in Anatolia but here in Spain, and we’re different, no longer hemmed in by our taboos, our traditions, and I’m certain it’s because we each left our own countries that we’ve been free to become ourselves: we love each other without fear of prying eyes or the cruel words of nosy neighbours and hypocrites. Spain is setting us free, so you and I, the Moroccan woman and the Turkish man, we will get married and forget where we came from.’
‘Wait, wait, don’t go so fast! You never forget where you come from, you carry that with you wherever you go: you can’t cut your own roots that easily. People often think they’ve changed their way of thinking, but it resists, and I know what I’m talking about! Here, an Arab woman is called upon to change her behaviour, and if she doesn’t change, she is ground down, bullied, despised. Don’t you see, the question is much bigger than we are. As for the two of us — I need to think, and to take care of certain problems. Let me have some time. And as you know, I’m already married…’
After they parted in front of the hotel, Kenza felt herself wavering. ‘I’m so eager to be happy,’ she thought, ‘and to forget the past; I want to live, to do any number of things. And now I have to make up my mind.’ But she didn’t know quite what to think about Nâzim’s proposal. She knew hardly anything about this man. Whenever she asked him about his life in Turkey, he was always evasive. She had learned to be careful. Of one thing, at least, she was certain: she felt good with him in bed, where each time they were together her body discovered a new kind of pleasure. She had feelings for him too, of course, perhaps she even felt love, yet some doubt still remained. What was this man of culture and education doing in Barcelona? Why had he left his country? He’d said it was because of political problems, but Kenza was bothered by something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. As she walked she thought about what she had just experienced, one of the most wonderful nights of her life. A Frenchwoman in Tangier, suspected of adultery and cast off by her Moroccan husband, had once told her that secret trysts were always the most precious nights of love, for love was strongest when it defied the force of habit. Then why get married? To avoid ending up alone?
Kenza needed to talk to her best friend, Miguel.
30. Miguel
SITTING AT HIS DESK in a white woollen burnoose, Miguel was writing letters, signing checks, putting things in order. Kenza went over and kissed him. It was so hard for her to imagine him naked at an orgy, surrounded by Brazilian queens! She had never dared speak to him about his private life.
‘You’ve arrived at the perfect moment! I’ve just come across a notebook in which my father kept a kind of diary. I’ve learned some amazing things, I must tell you about them — or better yet, let me read you a few pages on Morocco.’
June 24, 1951: I’m in Rabat, in a room in the Hôtel Balima. Our consular service has put us up in this hotel until the inquiry is finished.
There are ten of us, ten Spaniards who boarded a small boat in the port of Tarifa on the night of June 22. José the printer, fired for daring to talk about unionizing; his brother Pablo, a journalist watched by the police; Juan, a lawyer forbidden to practice his profession; Balthazar the poet, who cannot find a publisher; Ignacio, a medical student at odds with his parents; Pedro the ambulance driver, a practising Jew who has suffered persecution; Ramón the bookseller, attacked by pro-Franco publishers and newspapers; García the bartender; André, a French writer living in Spain who says he is Spanish. We are all Communists, anti-Franco militants, and we’ve all been to prison. I don’t remember anymore how it happened, but one day José suggested that we leave Spain to go live and work in Morocco. The north and extreme south of the country are occupied by Spain, the rest by France. We were spied on, and frequently asked to show our papers in Spain; we lived in fear of being arrested and charged with who knows what crime. The police know how to set up things like that; we’d arrive at the police station to find our files already bulging with misdemeanours and things we’d never done. We had no passports, no permits to leave the territory. We would always meet in secret but were fed up with hiding. Before becoming a bartender, García had been a sailor, and he was the one who found the boat. No one had done that before: leave Spain in secret for Morocco. We could have followed the example of many comrades and gone into exile in France, but the ten of us were drawn to this country where the sun shines all year round. Morocco was the door to Africa and adventure. We left on the 22nd and took turns rowing all night long in the darkness, but we became lost. García had forgotten how to navigate on open water. We fetched up outside Salé, a pretty little town next to Rabat. When the French police picked us up, we told them we were a bunch of friends who’d gone fishing and lost our way. They believed us. So did the Spanish consul. No one had any idea that we were the first boat people in Hispano-Moroccan history.