That’s how he’d wound up in Spain after a short stopover in France and a few troubles along the way.
36. Azel
WHAT IS an undocumented alien? A foreigner in an irregular situation. A clandestine who has burned all proofs of his identity to make it impossible to return him to his native land. But also, sometimes, a foreigner who has entered a country legally but no longer has a work permit, a residence permit, or any reason to remain in that country.
Azel was in that last category. To renew his residence permit, which had expired a few months earlier, he had to have a work contract with an employer and a home address attested to by a water, electricity, or telephone bill. And he could not provide any such documentation. He knew he had tumbled into illegality, the marginal zone patrolled by traffickers and other recruiters always ready to hire you for unsavoury jobs. He knew this and wasn’t worried about it. A fatalist, he felt that his destiny was to follow this path, not resist it. And so he had broken with everyone, even Kenza. He lived heedlessly, as if he wished to atone for some serious offence he had once committed. He now had no one to talk to, to confide in. His life had lost all meaning. He spent most of his time with Abbas, who slipped him counterfeit watches to sell, or sometimes a few matchboxes crammed with hashish sticks. Now and then, when a woman would brush past Azel, he felt he had recovered his former sexual prowess and would dash off to a café to masturbate in the men’s room. One day, Azel sold a fake Cartier watch to a passer-by, who thanked him in Arabic. A moment later, the man returned and asked him if he had time for a coffee. He didn’t know this city, he explained, he was just passing through. Could Azel give him the address of a mosque in this neighbourhood, where he could go for the evening prayer? He wanted to pray, he’d be so unhappy if he couldn’t.
Azel didn’t know of any mosque in the area.
‘So,’ the man asked him, ‘you don’t pray?’
In reply, Azel made a face that meant prayer was not his thing.
‘It’s a great pity, my brother, not to speak to God, even just once a day. Did you know that you can gather the five daily prayers together in the evening and say them in peace that way?’
Then Azel understood that this man was in fact a recruiter using the same approach and friendly patter as the one who’d tried to rope him into an Islamist movement in Tangier. Azel let him talk, listening to him without imagining the guy in grotesque situations the way he had with the first recruiter. That time, he’d still had the energy to defend himself against this kind of seductive political come-on. Now he was tired, and hoped in some confused way to take advantage somehow of whatever propositions this man would surely offer him.
‘You understand, brother, that here, we are in the land of our ancestors, those whom Isabella the Catholic expelled after burning men of faith, our Muslim ancestors, at the stake. She ordered the destruction of places of prayer, she forced those unable to flee to convert to Catholicism, she outlawed the writing of Arabic and the wearing of traditional garments. That was in the past, five hundred years ago, but the burning wound is still here, in our hearts, in the heart of every Muslim, every Arab. Islam has been driven from this country. It is our duty to bring it back, to make it respected. We’ve had enough of humiliation, of our unworthiness in the eyes of the Christian West. Consider how our Palestinian brothers are treated, how America supports the policies of Israel, and how our countries treat their own citizens. We must do something, react, spread, listen to the voice of Islam and other Muslims. Tell me, you’ve studied, haven’t you, you’re not illiterate like most of your brothers?’
‘Yes, I’m a graduate of the law school in Rabat.’
‘I could tell right away. I knew I was dealing with a cultivated man of good sense. I would like to invite you to join us for the evening prayer. Not today, of course, but if some other time you happen to feel like meeting some compatriots who are neither drug dealers nor the dregs of society, come see what we’re building, what we’re preparing for our country’s future.’
Azel realized that the man was lying to him, and asked, ‘Are you Moroccan?’
‘As much as you are.’
‘Then why do you have the Near Eastern accent? You sound like one of those men from the Gulf states who lecture us on TV.’
‘It’s just because I went to the Wahhabi university in Jidda.’
‘Wahhabi … you’re Wahhabi?’
‘Come to see us, then I’ll explain to you the doctrine of our guide Abd al-Wahhab,* who lived in the eighteenth century.’
‘I know, you don’t need to draw me a picture, it’s the hidden woman, veiled from head to toe, it’s Sharia instead of the law and civil rights. You cut off the thief’s hand, you stone the adulterous woman …’
‘All those things, they’re just preconceived ideas. I’ll make an appointment with you for next week, same time, same café. Here’s my card with my cellphone number. You can reach me whenever you like, except during prayers, of course. And I forgot to tell you that by some magnificent coincidence, my name just happens to be Abd al-Wahhab!’
Azel was not surprised. He studied the card, reading and rereading what was on it: Ahmad Abd al-Wahhab; Import/Export; Barcelona — Madrid — Tangier; Tel. 34 606 892 05.
That evening, Azel managed to unload his entire stock of watches from Abbas. He was about to leave the café when a scuffle broke out between two immigrants. Responding with exceptional speed, the police arrested everyone.
‘Identity check!’ shouted an officer. ‘Papers, passport, work permit, residence permit, unemployment card, I want to see every card, and those who don’t have any, step to the right, while those who think theirs are all in order, step to the left! All Spaniards, beat it! This concerns only moros.’
Azel hesitated, then moved to the left. He had his passport with him, but all his other documents were out of date. He noticed that the police let two North African Arabs go without even demanding their papers. Informers. Perhaps the very ones who’d alerted the police.
Azel was taken to the police station, where he thought about calling Miguel, but didn’t dare get him involved. Azel’s fate had to pass through that café and his arrest. He was sure of that. There was only one thing he didn’t want: to be sent back to Morocco. The shame, the hchouma, and the hegra, the humiliation — no, never, anything but that, even prison but not the boot up the backside, hard enough to land him in a few seconds on the heights of the Old Mountain of Tangier. He had left. Left to return only like a prince, not like garbage tossed out by the Spanish. The police found Azel’s two matchboxes full of hashish. Now he was in worse trouble.