Rodrigo Rey Rosa - The African Shore

“You live in a beautiful place,” she said.

An oil tanker disappeared in the thick fog of the strait. Hamsa said:

“I was going to have tea. Do you want to come in?”

“Thank you,” she answered, hesitating. “The bird — do you still have it?”

“The yuca? It’s inside,” he said. He closed his eyes and turned his head toward the little half-open door.

“Have you cured it?”

Hamsa nodded his head.

“Really?”

“It can fly now.”

“Can I see it?”

“Come in.”

He turned, pushed the door open, and with one hand lifted the black cloth of the doorway.

“Tu-uit tu-hu,” said the owl. It turned its head and looked at the woman, who drew near slowly so as not to startle it.

“How are you?”

The owl raised its wings as if to demonstrate that it was cured. It opened its beak.

“Bravo,” said the woman to Hamsa with an admiring look.

Hamsa smiled.

“Báraca,” he said. “Do you want to drink tea?”

“Thanks.”

Hamsa pointed to the skins where the Christian woman could sit. He lit a gas burner.

“Your grandfather asked me to bring you some news,” she said.

Hamsa looked at her suspiciously. No Moroccan wants to be the bearer of bad tidings, so the fact that Artifo was sending news by means of this woman disturbed him.

“It’s about your uncle Jalid.”

Hamsa’s eyes widened.

“Is he coming?” he asked.

“He would come,” the Christian woman said. “He would come — if he weren’t under arrest in Algeciras.”

“In jail?”

“That’s what your grandfather said.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know when he’ll get out?”

“He didn’t tell me. But I don’t think it will be soon.”

Hamsa put fresh mint in a brass teapot, added sugar, took two glasses and put them on the small round table.

“Hamdul-láh,” he said at last; there was nothing he could do. “Are you Spanish?” he asked.

“No. I’m French.”

Hamsa turned his face toward Spain.

“Hijos de puta!” he said between his teeth.

He lifted the kettle of boiling water and poured it over the tea. The smell of mint rose up with the steam.

“When will you let the owl go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you grown fond of it?”

Hamsa laughed.

“No, not at all.”

“So, why don’t you let it go?”

“I might need it,” he said.

“What for?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“A secret?” she said in French; she didn’t know the Maghrebi word.

Hamsa mentally calculated the likely price of an owl, and he wondered how much he would have to pay for a woman like her. Would she go to bed with him in exchange for the yuca? But it was not an easy proposition to make. If she desired him, there would be no problem. If he could manage to put a little saliva on her glass, maybe he could get what he wanted.

“Do you live here alone?”

“Yes.”

“It’s very nice here,” she said, and looked around her. She took off her pullover.

Hamsa tried the tea, smacking his lips, then put it back on the table.

“I need a few things,” he said. “Someday I’ll have a real house. That will be better.”

“Of course.”

Hamsa crouched in front of the table and, hiding the glasses for an instant with his body, let a drop of spit fall into the glass that would be hers. Then he lifted the steaming teapot and served the tea, which made a little foam as it poured into the glasses.

“Here,” he said, handing her the glass.

“Don’t you want to sell me the owl?”

Hamsa moved his head ambiguously, not saying yes or no.

“What do you say?” insisted the woman.

“How much would you pay?”

“I don’t know, you’d better tell me how much you want.”

“I would like to kiss you,” he said.

Hamsa felt himself blush, and the woman’s nostrils flared.

“Kiss me?” she exclaimed, confused, pointing to herself with her forefinger. “You’re crazy.”

“Excuse me, excuse me. That’s what I want, that’s all,” Hamsa said, noticing her small but erect breasts covered only by her cotton undershirt.

“Forget it,” said the woman, shaking her head slightly.

Hamsa looked down at his feet. He was wearing his Nikes, now very battered.

“Two hundred dirhams,” she persisted.

Hamsa, without taking his eyes from the ground, shook his head no.

“Are you sure? Who else will buy it?”

“I don’t want money,” he assured her, staring at her. “I don’t care about money.” He poured more tea.

The Christian woman drank silently, observing him with curiosity.

“Three hundred?”

If she weren’t interested, if she were angry, she’d have left by now, Hamsa thought. The spell of the saliva was working. She’s giving me another chance, he reasoned.

“For each feather in the owl,” he said, encouraged, “I want a kiss.”

The Christian woman laughed.

“It is a tempting offer, I’m sure,” she said, smiling nervously. “That’s a lot of kisses.”

Hamsa crouched a little, looking anxiously at the foreigner’s feet. She had taken off her slippers before sitting on the sheepskin rug. Her feet were delicate and very white. Hamsa leaned over further, as if to kiss them; she didn’t move them.

“No, no, Hamsa,” she protested, when his lips touched the cold skin of her foot. She drew them back then, hugging her knees. “That’s enough, now.”

Her body was trembling slightly, Hamsa realized. He served a bit more tea, then stretched out one hand to reach his motui, which hung on a hook over his head. He assembled his kif pipe in silence, filled it, and smoked.

“Do you smoke?” He offered it to the Christian woman.

“Thanks, yes.” She took the pipe, smoked, and began to cough. “It has tobacco,” she protested.

“It has to have it,” said Hamsa, surprised, and smoked again.

“Let’s see, I’ll try it again,” said the Christian. Hamsa gave her the pipe. This time she drew on it slowly and didn’t choke. “It’s good kif,” she acknowledged. She took a sip of tea.

“I wonder,” she said a few minutes later, lying back on the skins, “how many feathers an owl would have.”

That was a good sign, Hamsa said to himself. The Christian woman desired him. He stretched out his hand to stroke her foot, and she let him. Hamsa said,

“How many kisses do you think I can give you?”

“Quite a few, I imagine,” she said.

“Two hundred?”

“I don’t know. I stopped counting.”

Hamsa made her lie down on the skins.

“Wait,” she said firmly. “First, set the owl free.”

“Uaja, uaja.” He got up and went over to crouch down in front of the bird, whose head turned to look at the woman, stretched out on the sheepskins, while Hamsa’s nervous hands untied the knot that held it.

When it was free, it flew toward a corner of the hut and perched on a wooden sawhorse, out of the shepherd’s reach. It hooted.

The Christian woman said:

“Open the door.”

Hamsa said no. “ You will open it. Afterward.”

The owl flew from the sawhorse to the door, always out of the shepherd’s reach, then spun rapidly back to its stake. The Christian woman looked at Hamsa, who was kneeling next to her. Hamsa took off his gandura and unbuttoned his baggy breeches.

“Oh, Hamsa,” she said and sat up on the sheepskin. She looked with surprise at the shepherd’s circumcised member, which was enormous.

Hamsa went on undressing.