They arrive in scattered little groups. There is pride in their eyes: what they have just accomplished was not simply a duty, but a necessity. Some of them have succumbed to fatigue; it’s nothing, only a touch of rheumatism. In the heat of midsummer, it is the cold of exile, a pernicious chill, that attacks you: you stand up only to find your right leg giving way, that’s how it is, who knows why; the doctor told me it was age but he was lying to me; the mind is fine but the body can no longer keep up. How dare he say that to me, when I’ve been wandering these roads for so long? — but I can see he’s not familiar with this illness that quietly torments us … well, good for him, after all; I feel fine at the moment, I don’t know who I am, but I feel fine, in spite of the doctor’s opinion. I’ve lost my name, I’m told my face is gone — it’s amazing how mean people can be — and my rheumatic pains have disappeared as well. This boat seems both familiar and strange to me: perhaps it isn’t a boat, only a model, some trompe-l’oeil, a simple image projected out onto the water; this is the first time I’ve ever boarded a boat without knowing its destination, which is a beautiful thing, actually… I’ll sail across the waves until the day the last day dawns, until the moment when the Master of the Soul will come to reclaim his due, and as for me, I’m ready, been ready for a long time now, ever since my mother taught me that the great goodbye is nothing and that the only things to fear are sickness and the wickedness of men. A wing will dip down and gather you up to bear you away to other skies, that’s what death is, my son, a dream in which suffering no longer exists.
Miguel walks with a cane. He is still smartly dressed, but his face has an unhealthy tinge and is marked by illness; he advances silently, alone. He, too, is answering the call. Who alerted him? Who told him about this expedition? Miguel put all his affairs in order before leaving his house. No one is aware of what he has meticulously prepared. Everything has been laid out in a letter left to Carmen and Gabriel.
In a few days, a few weeks, perhaps, I’ll be going away. No tears, please, over my condition; I must admit that I’ve been happy, and have experienced some difficult moments as well as extraordinary joys, and today I have no regrets, I leave at peace, with a light heart, asking only one thing of you: that no one should know about the disease that consumes me and will carry me off. I’m counting on your sense of responsibility, your love, and your friendship to ensure that my sendoff will be as beautiful and elegant as my life. Discretion, restraint, dignity, and generosity: that is my wish. I hate noise and bother. On the day when I feel my end coming, I will enter a hospital with ‘bronchitis’ and die in my bed there. You will then be informed, and will come get me even if it’s the middle of the night. Under absolutely no circumstances will you leave me in the morgue, not that I’m afraid of the cold, but it’s a dirty, unsavoury place, and you will take me home immediately, to my old house, and there you will ask my neighbour Lahcen, a religious man and the soul of honesty, to come prepare my body. Next, you will buy flowers, all the flowers you can find in the market of Fès; place them everywhere, burn sandalwood, and whatever you do — do not call a priest: remember that I have become a Muslim. Lastly, invite all my friends, and offer them food and drink.
I have already bought the grave, which is at the Cemetery of the Moujahidin, one hundred tombs to the left as you enter: the site lies beneath a tree on a rise overlooking the city, with a view of the Mountain, the sea, and old Tangier. I like Muslim cemeteries; they’re so much less depressing than the well-organized graveyards of other religions. Muslim cemeteries are simple, humble, and open; life shines on them with a magnificent light. I am not a deeply devout man, you know that, but I respect religions. When I have been laid to rest (I wish no coffin, only a shroud), you will say prayers you have chosen because you love them, and perhaps some poems or Sufi * songs. After that, it will be time for us to say adieu.
As to my estate, my lawyer, Maître García, will keep you informed. One more thing: I ask Gabriel to supervise the studies of Halim and Halima, my children. He knows what I expect of him and has only to carry out my wishes. Regarding Kenza, let him make sure that she receives her rightful inheritance.
Miguel boards the boat unaided, greets the captain, kisses Toutia’s hand, and goes off to rest in a chaise longue in the shade of the tree. There he hears a voice murmur to him, You are in a world where spent passions are marked by a great love that still glitters in the darkness beside the flowers you so cherished, flowers bearing a life overflowing with memories.
Kenza arrives alone. She is radiant, dressed all in white, her hair hanging loose, and she speaks to no one, but she seems happy and at ease. Time has done its work; spring has left a little of its pollen-dust behind. Kenza’s life has been shaken, and some memories have fallen free like fruit from a tree. Some good ones, some bad. She has not had the strength to sort through them. There will be time enough to bring order to all that. She is no longer anxious and feels relieved, as light as on the day of her first period, when she ran through the streets as if flying like a swallow. This morning she had that same feeling. It was so good: changing bodies, putting some distance between herself and the world with its misfortunes, moving beyond that great sorrow and not choking with shame in her sleep. Kenza calmly boards the ship; a sailor shows her to a pleasant cabin. This cabin has a view of the sea, he tells her, and the dolphins that escort us — they’re intelligent, they talk among themselves and we understand them. They’ll come greet you, but don’t worry if sharks sometimes drive them away and swim along with us for a while. Rest now; look, here’s a thermos of tea, and some cookies. Kenza falls swiftly and serenely asleep, pleased to be going home again. Bending over her, Toutia gently strokes her cold face. Then she kisses her forehead and tucks the covers in around her shoulders.
Soumaya, the beauty, the woman who believed everything men told her, who gave herself to them freely, Soumaya, lost and found again, comes aboard, covered from head to toe. No one dares speak to her. She wears the white haik of the peasant women of the Rif, hiding her body from which the last few years have stripped all charms. She is her own victim, and answering the call, she, too, has joined the ship. Soumaya has not become a Muslim sister; if she remains veiled it’s to conceal her face: her right cheek is scarred, and she is missing a few teeth. When asked she says she had an accident. ‘Yes, an awful crash on the road between Toledo and Madrid, he was driving like a madman, he’d been drinking, an oncoming truck ploughed right into us and that’s all I remember; later when I came to, I looked in the mirror and screamed. Disfigured… The insurance company paid me some money and the doctor said, ‘Go, go back home, there’s a boat waiting for you in Tarifa, you’ll see, you won’t be the only one going aboard: it’s a magic ship, and on it life will seem beautiful to you, the sun will always shine for you, so go, my weary beauty.’ I set out enveloped in my grandmother’s haik; it was to be her shroud, but when she died in Mecca I inherited it: Egyptian cotton, very soft, very strong, and no one has noticed me, I can disappear into this shroud, it was perfect for crossing the country without being bothered or questioned by the police, so I blessed my grandmother for having the good sense to die in Mecca. They told me she died smothered in the crush of the crowd, in the place where they stone the devil;* it seems that often happens, people lose control, trampling the weak and elderly … but they also say that dying over there sends you straight to paradise! Me, I don’t want to die, I’m still young, I want to start a family, have children and tell them stories…’