“‘My name is Bouchta! And you, my brother, what did God name you?’
“‘Jilali,’ the Sidi-Bennourien affirms proudly.
“The bodyguard steps back a few centimeters and stares at Jilali’s pants. They’re pants that (how can I phrase it?)…have lived. They were originally corduroy, probably. A long time ago. Then, at the mercy of rubbing against the back of CTM bus seats (the most cramped in the world, calibrated for Pinocchio); of the abrasion suffered from rough chairs; against entryways waiting for a door to open; on the sidewalk, the days of lining up in front of the police station, waiting for the forces of Law and Order to hand over an identity card; against the trees on the boulevard; the stadium bleachers; the deteriorated, discouraged walls; on the asphalt, if there was a fight or skirmish…at the mercy of all that, the corduroy was no longer ribbed and barely corded; now it looked like one of those humble fabrics we turn into dish towels — and these were Jilali’s Sunday pants.
“The bodyguard turns toward another guy.
“‘And you,’ he asks the Fkih Ben Salah native, ‘what name did God give you?’
“‘Cherki,’ replies Cherki.
Bouchta the bodyguard attentively examines the aforementioned shirt of Cherki. It has traveled, it’s undeniable. One can speculate it’s had an adventurous life, come from a weaving loom from the age of the Hittites, falling cleanly on Assyrian buttocks, at the beginning, then little by little deteriorating, passed from one person to another in the great movement of migrations toward the West, debarking one day from a dhow or a felucca, along with a thousand of its sisters, prisoner of privateers, thrown in a heap on the floor of illegal souks, grabbed by a speculator who puts it up in a dark alley the next day to sell for a profit (“It’s from Germany, my brother!”), and it’s Cherki who acquires it, moved, dreaming of the effect that beautiful shirt, only the tiniest bit worn, will have on the little Najla when he sports it at the big party where he finds himself presently, the eye of the bodyguard fixed on him. The bodyguard intensifies his sobs while his retinas dart back and forth between Cherki’s rag and Bennani’s shirt, designed by a Parisian couturier, brought from Paris by the arrogant Airbus, unwrapped the same morning as it had been packaged in silk paper by a maid with eyes lowered, pressed (the shirt) even if it was of no use. Bouchta repeats, tearfuclass="underline"
“‘You are all sons of the masses…Like me.’
“Bennani, understanding that everything was going to heck in a handbasket, wrests himself from his promontory and comes to take the human rag by the arm to drag him toward the light of the avenues. But nothing could be done: the man frees himself in one move, seizes his master by the throat and yells out:
“‘But you! You! You are not a son of the masses!’
“Shock! The masks fall. The troupe fraternizes. Comrades, drop your weapons! Marvin Gaye stops singing: the promise of a happier tomorrow. El pueblo, unido…The banner flaps in the wind — now it’s taking on all its meaning — the meaning of History. The owner of the hall has disappeared: he probably went to go alert the police. We other bookworms, we watch the scene, eyes bulging. So many things happening! The garde du corps bellows in the face of Bennani before him, spraying him copiously with spit and with his class hatred, and hurls out:
“‘I’m gonna kill you!’
“Bennani runs away, his hands awkwardly hanging onto the lapels of his jacket, like a diligent turkey; he breaks through the door and runs toward the BMW. The bodyguard follows him, light-footed Achilles, with us on his heels. The rest, the murder, the decisive blow, happens in the blink of an eye. Pif, paf…Hissing of the noble fabric of his shirt…Crack of the collector’s item watch smashing on the cobblestone…Bennani lies on the sidewalk, nose smashed, writhing in pain. The bodyguard retreats into the night with a supple step, head sunken into his shoulders. He’s stopped crying, only his haughty sniffling recalls the outbursts from earlier. He turns around and from a distance yells to us in a manly voice, no longer trembling:
“‘Adieu, boys! Bouchta salutes you!’
“Indeed, he said ‘Bouchta.’
“He was no longer ‘the bodyguard’ of anybody.
“He was a free man.”
THE INVENTION OF DRY SWIMMING
At Café de l’Univers, there were six of us, seated, observing the comings and goings of our Casablancan citizens, during a lovely lethargic afternoon in the month of May; but it could have been another place, another day, different people. It could have been Tunisia, April, a crisp morning. Seoul, December, night, all of us lying down. On the other hand, what Hamid told us was truly incredible and unique. He hadn’t said a word for an hour. Taciturn, meditating. Lost in the labyrinth of his neurons. A guy had asked us the way to the cathedral, which had brought about biblical complications. When the dust had settled again and the man had left, Hamid finally shook himself, opened his mouth, and started to talk. He began with a loose characterization of Moroccans:
“We are,” said Hamid (he paused), “we are (he swallowed a sip of coffee), we are (he put down his cup) an inventive people.”
He had put the word in italics. So we examined it closely. Then we demanded, silent, the proof (we, too, know how to use italics). Confronted with this nonverbal wall, this walled-in wall, Hamid had no other alternative than to elaborate.
“I say this because, while you were grappling with that persistent man, I remembered a curious affair that took place in the ’70s near El Jadida. It was all about, or rather it all started with, a memorandum from the Minister of National Education, a memorandum coated in the pompous style we affected in those days — and in classical Arabic if you please, the language of Jahiz and Mutanabbi. This memorandum arrived one day, like a swirling dead leaf, on the desk of all the leaders of the establishment…”
“They all shared one desk?”
Hamid, shrugging his shoulders, ignored Khalid’s interruption.
“…a memorandum informing them that a new discipline had been registered in the program for the sports portion of the baccalaureate: swimming!”
A sip of coffee, inhaled noisily, punctuated this revelation that we sensed was heavy with consequences — but which exactly? Had water in a cage, in cubic meters, ever threatened anyone? (Heavy water, maybe?) Chlorine poisoning? Stings from stray jellyfish? Amoebas? We digressed in aquatic conjectures. Hamid, his molecule of java ingested, continued his story:
“The memorandum concluded thus, threatening: all necessary measures must be taken so that those among the candidates who choose this discipline for the baccalaureate, this new discipline, can do so in the best conditions. With my most sincere regards, etc., etc. Signed: the Minister of National Education. Followed (I imagine) by a moment of astonishment. Then the leaders of the establishment held their heads in their hands…”
“…in their one office?”
“…held their heads in their hands (at least, I assume, because I wasn’t there), and a single roar ascended into the untroubled azure of the peaceful El Jadida skies: WHAT?”
Ali felt impelled to contribute his grain of salt to the affair. He protested:
“Hang on! It would amaze me if we were able to roar the word ‘what,’ which is, by the way, a pronoun. At best we might cackle or caw pronouncing it.”
Jamaclass="underline"
“Or squeal it. We can squeal ‘what.’”
Hamid shook his head.
“Imbeciles. We can roar all the words of the dictionary. We can snarl them, bray them. It’s all in the intonation, the timbre, the breath.”
“Tra-la-la, pee-pee, hip-hop — there are plenty of words we can’t roar. Let alone snarl or bray.”