She nodded.
I strode to the bar and ordered another of whatever she was having. It looked like gin. I brought it to her and set it between her thin bony fingers. Hand bowed before her and took her small hand into his and kissed it, on the thin silver band around her finger. I bowed too, but my back cracked in a new way and I couldn't go further, and couldn't look at her again. I turned with my eyes closed and we jogged down three flights to the night air.
On the street it was still warm and at the car, our back left tire was flat. We both stood, mouths open, for half a minute. We had not been in a country without blowing a tire.
This time Hand and I could handle it, remembering the tricks of the savannah man with the obsidian cobweb feet. We left the car resting on four wheels as we loosened the bolts. In a few minutes a man's legs appeared in my peripheral vision.
He was about forty, successful seeming or pretending, wearing a white scarf. He shooed me from the wrench. I stood and handed it to him. I didn't know what he wanted. Finding the bolts already removed, he got to work on the jack, turning it around with great urgency.
"Whoisthisguy?" I asked.
"Ihavenoidea," Hand said.
Another man came and shooed the first man from the jack. The first man stepped aside and left the second man to finish it. We had no idea what was happening. We were perfectly capable of changing the tire, but now, including us, there were four men working on the tire, and two more were now watching. It was an American highway construction project.
"Thisiswhathappenshere," I said. "Everyonewantstochangethetire. Thisistheirfavoritething."
"Thisiseveryone'sfavoritething," Hand corrected.
Everyone wanted to help. Everyone wanted to help or be ready if their help was needed. This was the way of the world.
We were done the tire was new and we were worthy and we ate a Pizza Hut meal and felt at once shame and great joy with our pizza. The place was empty; the day had been so long; the food was real and warm. The Pizza Hut man brought our soft drinks to us, and then refills, for free. We looked like hell. We were tired, but there were only five days left, now. We had started with seven days and now we had five, four and a half, and had we used them well so far? We spent the dinner recounting the hours, the flight over, the time in Dakar, the prostitutes, the beaches, the cop, Saly, the basketball, the man by the water living in the provisional resort cottage -
"We're doing fine so far," I said.
"We have to move quicker," Hand said.
"We'll get better organized."
"You think we'll make it to Cairo in time?"
"Sure. Easy."
"After Mongolia even?"
"Sure. We've got time."
"I really have to get to Cairo. That's my main thing."
"I know."
"But if we head north, to Moscow -"
"We can do both," I said, not knowing a thing. The rest of the trip in my mind sped by with airplane speed and hovercraft grace. More water, more air – a balloon! A zeppelin! More boats, and monkeys and where was that wall again? the one the millions touched, set in the center of that golden square -
We drove to the Djemaa el-Fna. Past the interlocking streams of pedestrians in silhouette, we saw the crowd, a great low mountain moving against the darkening horizon: the heads of intermingling thousands. We didn't know, exactly, around what they were gathered. Some kind of flea market? We had not been told.
We parked and two boys on one bike offered to sell us hashish. We said no thanks. They begged us to buy some. We passed. Hand patted one on the back to wish them well.
"Faggots," said the boy.
We walked through the square, but already, while we were looking for a parking spot, the crowd had thinned. It was about 10. All the women were gone and the men were hungrier. In grumbles and whispers ten different sellers of hash made their presence known. We passed through them and around the monkeys handstanding by lanternlight – the crowds were for the street performers – and into the halls of shops.
We entered and shuffled through an ever-narrowing thicket of proprietorships, separated by makeshift walls and rugs hung, vendors barking, selling sneakers, backpacks, scarves, CD players, cameras, crafts, carpets, jewels and vases and anything one can make from silver- or gold-painted tin. We stopped in a tiny enclave, manned by a small quick-moving man with fast small sad eyes and great animal eyebrows. Every object we picked up or glanced at prompted a flurry of proposals and urgings. He called us his friends, and offered us student rates, and put his hand on Hand's back, patting it nervously.
"My friend," he said to me, grabbing my shoulder, "you had something happen to you so I have the thing." He retrieved a long sword, almost three feet long, curved and sheathed in an ornate case. "See how nice?"
"How much?" I asked. I liked the sword.
"For you one hundred dollars."
Hand laughed in a great burst. I moved onto smaller models.
The salesman kept talking. At first, we laughed when he spoke, while he did the My friend, My friend I help you out part, and then we tried to let him know that he didn't need to do the act with us, we knew better, we had the blue book and knew the real value, etc., but he continued, and we had to laugh more. We bargained with him halfheartedly. We wanted a couple silly things, a pair of knives, a small jewelry box, oval and studded with fake emeralds, which broke apart and became a bracelet, and we pretended to leave when he would not take our offer. He sighed. He looked around left and right and behind a burgundy curtain, to make clear that if he gave us this price, he had to do so out of earshot of his boss and God. Out of appreciation for his efforts and great comaraderie and fortitude, we bought from him five things – two decorative knives, two of the small jewelry boxes and finally a small tin plate, engraved.
"See you my friends!" he said to our backs when he realized we were leaving. "You want nice chess set? For you beautiful student rate!"
But we were gone and had more elaborate plans. We walked back into the square and looked for a new merchant-alley. But we had wasted too much time. Most of the shops were now closed. Their metal gates had come down, or their proprietors were packing up.
"Fuck."
"No, there's one."
On the outskirts of the square, a large shop was still open, just an open garage really, but bright and full to the ceiling, sixteen feet up. In front of it, a stray dog foraged through an enormous pile of garbage and human waste.
We greeted the portly store owner as we stepped up and among the bright overcrowded shelves of dishes and rugs and boxes, platters and knives. It was, this store, in its tins and brasses, blues and reds so bright, enamel on tin toys, more ravishing than almost any painting I'd ever seen or had likely ever been made – it was an intricate medieval tapestry and a hundred perfect Dutch still-lifes together melded but brighter lit – the accumulated care and craft put into these objects, each bauble, was surely equal to almost anything more celebrated artists had done or could do, as is any aisle in any grocery store, as is any decent toyshop – but these places would never be recognized as such, nor would a casino so -
Among the tea sets and chess sets and tiny chests for special things, I looked for and found the smallest, cheapest and least desirable item the store held. It was a keychain anchored to a small white animal, probably a sheep, crudely carved from a smooth milky material looking like lucite. I held it, I caressed it, I presented it to Hand, posing as my knowledgeable dealer in precious objects, with a rumble of approval. He came to me and touched it and purred his interest.
"It's incredible?" I said.
"It's almost painful," he said.
Our interest was made clear. We turned to the portly man and asked him, in French, how much.
He spoke no French. He scurried to a desk in the back and returned with a lined piece of paper, folded to a fourth. On it he wrote: