‘Nde, that’s the name of your village?’
‘It’s more than a village, it’s like a county, and it means “Nobility, Dignity, Elegance.”’
Azel thought he was joking.
‘With all those traditional values where you come from,’ he asked, ‘why do you need to leave? I always felt terrible seeing Africans drifting along the streets of Tangier like lost shadows. They’re gentle, not bad or aggressive people; they beg, clean cemeteries, do demeaning work for lousy pay. Some of them stand along the roads, especially around the city of Ceuta, and call out to drivers, gesturing to show they’re hungry. It’s really sad to see. What forces them out onto the roads?’
‘We leave, but it’s always to come back. We live our lives in terms of our families, for which we each feel responsible. Let me tell you about Apollinaire — not the French poet, but my cousin, who now works in the transportation of goods. A few years ago, his father died suddenly without having repaid a loan his family owed to a tontine. His wake was more than dry: no one came to honour the dead man, it was a deserted wake, arid and miserable. So Apollinaire decided to emigrate to France to make the money his father had not had time to earn. Apollinaire managed to sneak into France and worked selling used cars. In barely five years he’d saved up a goodly sum. He came home to Douala and arranged everything for his father’s funeral in their village. Obviously, he had repaid the debt.’
‘But hadn’t his father been dead for five years already?’
‘Yes, of course, but the family had to be cleansed of shame, even five years late. That’s the story of Apollinaire. Today he’s rich, influential, healthy, has several wives, and he manages his business at home. His mother is convinced that he owes this fortune to his respect for a promise given.’
‘So, I gather that you like things back in your country?’
‘We’ve got economic problems, most of all, and troubles with government and corruption, among others, because we haven’t yet hopped off the lap of Madame-la-France, who treats us like retarded children. And the worst thing in all this, you know, it’s that we go along with it!’
‘So it’s because of Madame-la-France that you left your country?’
‘No, I’m one of the lucky ones, able to come and go as my work dictates. And above all, I need my mountains the way you need your cigarettes.’
‘You cling to your homeland on account of some mountains?’
‘It’s much more than that, it’s the land of my ancestors, and they are essential to us: without them, I am not alive.’
Azel looked up at the sky and dreamed of Africa. He wondered why Moroccans did not feel African and knew nothing about their own continent.
‘You know,’ said Flaubert, ‘strangers and foreigners are welcome among us. If you feel like it, you could sell rugs up north in my country, in Maroua, or Garoua; the Aladji would buy them from you. They love Moroccan carpets, especially prayer rugs. So think about it, if you feel like forgetting your troubles: leave Europe without going back to Morocco — Cameroon will welcome you! These aren’t idle words, don’t forget: we are the land of promises given but above all, kept. Here, let me give you my family’s phone number in the Nde. You can call whenever you like.’
‘You certainly do trust me! Knowing nothing about me, you’re already inviting me to visit!’
‘It’s better to start from the premise that man is good, you know; if he turns out to be bad, he’s the one he hurts. A question of wisdom.’
‘Do you think I could consult a marabout?’*
‘Of course, but everything depends on what it is you expect from him.’
‘To be cured.’
‘But of what?’
‘Of everything. Of myself, my life, my failures, my fears, my weaknesses, my inadequacies. I want to be at peace, that’s it, at peace with myself.’
Before he left, Flaubert held out his card.
‘By the way, what’s your name?’
‘Azz El Arab.’
‘That’s a writer’s name?’
‘No such luck!’
34. Kenza
THE PAPERWORK on the divorce was moving along. Miguel had warned Kenza that he would be away for a few months. Shortly before his departure, he sent her a package containing a gorgeous antique necklace and a considerable sum of money, along with a note: ‘My dear, I’m going far away, I’m rather worn out by everything that’s happening to me, so I’m looking for just the right distance between my hopes and this complicated life. It isn’t easy. I need some air, and most of all, to tend a garden of forgetfulness. Be happy, make me some children with this Turk, and I’ll raise them to keep sadness from spoiling my old age.’
That last advice was tempting, but Kenza still had her doubts about Nâzim. Whenever she spoke of the future, he became elusive. She was loving; he was hesitant, unable to express his feelings, whether from modesty or calculation, she couldn’t tell. They had been seeing each other for more than a year now and were still as perfectly compatible in bed. Kenza wanted to move forward, make plans, and start a family as soon as her divorce from Miguel came through. She loved this country, sent money regularly to her mother, still performed at L’Huile d’Olive, and occasionally agreed to appear at weddings, where Oriental dancing was fashionable. She was saving money, and had decided not to worry about Azel. Each to his own life and fate, she kept reflecting, as if to convince herself that he was not her responsibility.
And then Nâzim vanished overnight. Kenza looked for him everywhere, expecting the worst. She’d heard that the Spanish Department of the Interior had summoned a hundred illegal aliens from Mali and Senegal; lured by the promise of receiving proper documents, they’d all turned up at the police station at the appointed time. The police had been so nice to them that a few illegals had even started dancing in front of the station. Then they had been served hot drinks and little cheese rolls; no pork rolls, though, and they had appreciated that cultural courtesy. After their meal, the authorities had escorted them to a large hall, then apparently forgotten about them for the next hour or so, long enough for the sleeping pills dissolved in the drinks to take effect. The Africans all fell deeply asleep. Well-trained officers slipped handcuffs on them and bused them to a military airport where a plane awaited them. A few of the prisoners opened a drowsy eye, but could not manage to speak; their vision was blurred, and they couldn’t understand what was happening. On the plane, other officers gagged them and used an especially strong tape to bind them to their seats. The plane took off. A few hours later, the passengers awoke to find they had landed at the airport in Bamako, where the same officers released them from their bonds. Inside the plane, blows suddenly began raining down as seats went flying. The crew had shut themselves up in the cockpit; the pilot disapproved, of course, but preferred to ignore the whole thing. Going along with it, but not exactly consenting. Orders. There you are — he’d had his orders, although no one had gone into detail about the operation…
Meanwhile, the Malian authorities were in a spot, and wondered why the plane couldn’t have landed in Dakar. The revenants — as the Department of the Interior called them — were therefore released into the wild. The Senegalese took off, some for Dakar, others for northern Morocco. They wanted to return to Spain. They had nothing to lose.
It was the Spanish press that broke the story, denouncing the inhumane methods of Aznar’s government. The prime minister responded with his usual cynicism: ‘There was a problem, there’s no more problem, so where’s the problem?’