Michael Pearce - A dead man in Tangier

‘When the French have imposed a Protectorate on us?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Protectorate. You know about the Protectorate. Don’t you?’

‘I think I’ve heard something,’ said Mustapha vaguely.

‘They’re taking over Morocco!’

‘The French?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought they had taken over Morocco?’

‘Look, it’ll make no difference to us,’ said Idris.

‘Oh, yes, it will. There’ll be soldiers everywhere.’

‘There are now,’ said Mustapha.

‘There’ll be more!’ promised Sadiq. ‘And police.’

‘Police?’

‘Real police. French police!’

‘That could be a problem,’ admitted Mustapha.

‘Naow,’ said Idris. ‘Just offer them more.’

‘You don’t understand!’ cried Sadiq. ‘It will be different. The French will be running everything. Everything!’

‘Good luck to them.’

‘They’ll be in control!’

‘Not a chance!’ said Idris dismissively.

‘We’ll be all right,’ said Mustapha.

‘Is that all you think of?’ said Sadiq hotly. ‘Have you no pride? Have you no thought for Morocco?’

‘Morocco?’

‘You’re a Moroccan, aren’t you?’

‘Not me,’ said Mustapha. ‘I’m from the Rif.’

‘But that is — ’

‘And I’m a Berber,’ said Idris.

‘We’re all Moroccans!’ cried Sadiq desperately. ‘And we must stand together and fight the French.’

‘Fight the…?’

‘French, yes.’

‘Soldiers?’

‘If necessary.’

‘He’s mad!’ said Mustapha.

There was a silence. Then ‘Is that what this newspaper of yours is all about?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Stand up against the French? And get your heads blown off? Thank you very much!’

‘If we don’t fight now, we’ll never-’

‘Listen, laddie: do you know what fighting is?’

‘Well-’

‘Me,’ said Idris virtuously, ‘I don’t want to fight anybody. I just want to get on with my work.’

‘Well, of course, everyone — But… What is your work?’

‘Well, we do a bit in kif-’

‘Kif!’

‘Yes. Run the occasional load. Spread it around. That sort of thing.’

Sadiq was silenced for a moment. Then, as they walked on, he whispered to Seymour:

‘These are not good people, Mr Seymour. I feel I should tell you.’

They were going through a particularly squalid part of the city, a warren of narrow little twisting streets, and for the first time Seymour was glad that he had Mustapha and Idris with him. They closed in on him so that they stood touching shoulder to shoulder. Sadiq was plainly uneasy and pressed in on them too.

It soon became apparent, however, that his uneasiness was prompted by a different cause than theirs. The houses in this part of the city were old and decaying. Their walls were crumbling and scarred as if attacked by leprosy and they had no windows. They had doors, however, and in the doorways people were standing. More precisely, and this was the source of Sadiq’s discomfort, women were standing.

These, too, were not ‘good people’. They moved forward as the three men passed and muttered something presumably inviting but from which Sadiq shrank back. He kept his eyes fixed straight before him as if a look or a touch or even a listen was polluting.

From behind the women in the open doorways came the fumes of cooking fat. Even here, thought Seymour, they were preparing the end-of-fast Ramadan meal. The smell of the burning fat blended with the strong smell of excrement which assailed him whenever they went past one of the putrid alleyways, strewn with refuse and rotting vegetables, which went off the street at irregular intervals.

Yet you could get it wrong. Sometimes when you looked up the alleyway you caught a glimpse of a beautiful old facade, a piece of exquisite wood carving, or even a tiny, perfect Moorish patio with delicate balconies and colonnades.

Some of the doorways had quaint inscriptions painted above them. Several of them, for instance, had printed the words: ‘ Maison honnete ’, a decent house. Strange, that people should so feel the need to proclaim their virtue. And in French, too!

They were going through a warren of particularly filthy, dark, narrow, twisting streets when suddenly, high above them, something flashed. He looked up and saw to his surprise the glinting, coloured tiles of the minaret of a mosque catching the sun and realized that they were just behind the Kasbah.

Sadiq saw his surprise and misinterpreted it.

‘It is wrong,’ he said indignantly, ‘that such people should be allowed to be so near the Kasbah! We have complained about it but nothing has been done. We went to the Prefet again only last week demanding that those dreadful women be removed. Perhaps they should be put in a reserved quarter near the barracks, not near a holy place. But every day another house is turned over to one of those places where they work. It is disgraceful! Think how it must be for the children, and how humiliating it is for decent people to have such neighbours.’

And now Seymour understood the significance of the inscriptions he had seen above the doors: ‘ Maison honnete ’, a valiant attempt by the ‘decent people’ to distinguish themselves from their indecent neighbours!

The puritanical Sadiq compressed his lips and walked on, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead.

He brought Seymour dutifully back to the spot from which they had set out and then hung around for a moment.

‘I hope you found Benchennouf interesting,’ he said awkwardly.

‘Oh, I did. Thank you for taking me.’

‘He’s not — not to everyone’s liking. But he’s different, don’t you think? He stands out against opinion. We need people like him in Morocco today.’

‘Indeed, yes. Perhaps, yes.’

‘I count myself fortunate to be among his friends. And he’s given me my chance, you know. A start. As a journalist.’

‘I wish you every success.’

‘Some say that New Dawn is nothing much-’ he looked daggers at Mustapha and Idris — ‘but I think it is a good place to be. It is not like the other newspapers. They’re all prisoners, prisoners of the French. New Dawn stands out against them. Against the French, and against the Sultan. And for Morocco. My father thinks that New Dawn is just a joke. But he doesn’t understand. We need papers like that if Morocco is to survive. And journalists like Benchennouf. I hope to be one,’ he confided.

‘A small newspaper is a good place to learn the ropes,’ said Seymour.

‘Yes, it is. I think so. That’s just what I said to my father. And what is so good, what is so useful, is that Benchennouf brings wider perspectives. He worked on a paper in France, you know. After he had finished at university. He went to a university in France, you know. A lot of people who do that don’t come back here. But he did, and all credit to him. I’ve thought about going to a university in France. To do something post-graduate. But if I did, I would come back here afterwards. Morocco must not be abandoned.’

‘No, indeed.’

Sadiq seemed pleased by Seymour’s encouragement.

‘That’s what Benchennouf always says. “Morocco must not be abandoned.” Awad sometimes talks about going abroad but Benchennouf says he shouldn’t. “Your place is here,” he says. And he’s got a right to say that because he came back himself.

‘ “If you’re here,” he says, “you can respond at once when you’re needed.” As he was in Casablanca. That was an awful time. The French were all screaming at us. Only Benchennouf stood up against them. I used to read every number of his paper as soon as it came out. I was at school at the time. And when they arrested the man who was selling New Dawn just outside the school, I took over. I was so angry, so angry at what they were doing, that I wanted to do something. And did until Benchennouf was chased out.’