Mohamed Choukri - For Bread Alone

In the middle of the morning I walked into a market. A European woman was buying something at a stall. She paid and put her change purse back into her handbag. Then she caught sight of me, staring fixedly at the handbag. Her eyes seemed to be saying: Aren’t you ashamed? And so I felt ashamed, and went out of the market. I spent the whole day letting the alleys swallow me up and spew me out. In the evening I discovered that you could sleep in the Fondaq ech Chijra. You paid only one peseta at the gate in order to get in, and you could sleep where you liked. There are two levels. The animals sleep below and the people above. It was nine o’clock when I went in. A café, a restaurant, small rooms they rented out, shops, fruit and vegetable stands. The Fondaq is like a city. On the stairway I ran into a drunk. He reached out to touch my face, saying: Aha, gazelle! Where are you off to, beautiful? I pushed his hand away violently, ran up two steps and glared at him. He guffawed.

What are you so nervous about? Afraid of me?

In his hand he held an empty bottle. I’m going to fill up this bottle, he said. I’ll be back.

He went on downstairs, laughing, and I continued up, feeling more frightened each minute. He called back to me: Wait for me, handsome. I’ll be right up. I’m not going to let you get away.

There were scores of men on the balcony, some of them already asleep, but most of them sitting up, drinking, smoking kif , chatting and singing. I caught sight of a drunk hugging a boy. Then he kissed him on the cheeks. One of the others cried: Leave him alone! Not now! Later, later.

No. I’m not going to sleep here, I told myself. I’d rather sleep in the graveyard.

As I started to go back, someone called to me. Hey, beautiful! Come over here with us and make us happy. I did not turn to look. My heart was pounding. I must buy a knife or a razor. I ran down the stairs very fast, stopping only when I got to the animals’ quarters. Luckily human beings are not the only thing in the world. I walked over to a dark corner and sat down. Then I smoked a cigarette. Did Allah mean to make the world like this, with such disorder and confusion? The smell of the beasts was very strong. A mare stood beside me. I folded my arms on my knees, bent over, and fell asleep. I slept sitting up because I was afraid of being raped.

All at once I was being drenched with warm, pungent water. I jumped up, terrified. What’s that? I cried. The last drops of urine are still trickling from the mare’s puckering hole. She takes a step backwards. Quickly I get out of the way, in case she kicks.

At the door the guard asked me if I was coming back.

No! I cried with feeling. I’m not! I’ll never come back!

Why? What’s the matter? Did they do something to you?

Yes. A mare pissed all over me while I was asleep.

What were you doing sleeping down there? Why didn’t you sleep upstairs on the balcony? Go to a hammam and wash before you go to sleep, or you’ll be sick.

Keep your advice for yourself, I told him. He slammed the gate after me.

The air was tepid and the streets were empty. Where to go now? To the baths? And my clothes? I am soaked through. I began to scratch.

Three drunks sat singing in front of the entrance to the old Jewish cemetery. As I went past, one of them called to me. Come here! Where are you going?

I looked over my shoulder and kept walking.

Come on, gazelle! He stood up unsteadily and began to follow me. One of the others said: Let him go. Come back here.

The street leading up to the Zoco de Fuera seemed to be the best way out. As I ran I looked back and saw the drunk sitting down again with the others.

I bought a cake of soap in the Zoco Chico. The square was filled with drunks, whores, maricones and beggars. In the Calle de la Marina near the Djamaa el Kbira two Moroccan police stopped me.

Your papers, said the first.

I haven’t got any papers.

Where do you live?

In Tetuan.

Hearing this, the second one demanded: Where in Tetuan?

In Trancats. Behind the Jewish baths.

Do you know Moulay Ali?

He’s a neighbour of ours.

What are you doing here?

Nothing. I came to look for work.

And where are you going now?

I was sleeping in the Fondaq ech Chijra and a mare pissed on me.

A mare!

Yes, a mare. I was asleep downstairs with the animals.

The two men looked at each other, and the second asked me: Do you know where Dar Debbagh is?

No.

Come with us.

At the corner he pointed out the place, saying: Go in there. You’ll find a fountain. Wash yourself, and in the morning wash your clothes.

The water at the fountain was warm. After I had bathed, I washed my trousers and shirt by trampling them underfoot. Now and then from the nearby café there was the sound of men’s voices as they argued over their card games. A man staggered out and came over to me.

What are you doing? Are you crazy, washing your clothes at night?

I stopped stamping and explained why I was doing it.

A mare!

Yes. A mare.

Mmmm, he said at length. I see. Well, take a good wash.

When I had finished, there were my wet shirt and trousers on the ground in front of me. There was no other solution. I wrung them out as much as I could, and put them back on.

I stopped walking when I came near to the railway station. Shall I sleep in a freight car or go to the beach? On the sand nobody will ask me any questions, whereas a guard can come through the freight car. The main thing is: will I be able to protect myself against someone bigger than I am?

Again I heard in my head the words of the boy who had taken me to the graveyard: If they don’t find anything to steal on you they rape you. I had more than twenty pesetas in my pocket. Will that be enough to protect me? Maybe the boy was right, but he was talking about what they do in the middle of the city. On the beach, or in a freight car, though, they could rob you first and rape you afterwards. They could even cut your throat. And on the beach who could hear? So it’s the freight car. I climbed the wall and let myself down. I could feel the sharp points of the gravel through the soles of my alpargatas , and I worried that they would cut through. I went along slowly, carefully, until I came to the first freight car. I climbed into it and lit a match. It was empty.

Suppose someone comes along and attacks me, I thought again. I jumped down to the ground and picked out the two sharpest stones I could find. As I climbed back up into the car I heard the soft sound of cloth ripping. My trousers.

Bad luck! I threw myself down on the floor. One stone was in my hand and the other lay beside me, near my head. I must buy a knife. Or at least a razor-blade. And I’ve got to find a friend somewhere in this city. What has become of the boy who saved me? Is he staying away from the graveyard on purpose? How long will I have to go on living by myself? Ought I to go on accepting this life as it comes up each day, or not?

We were in the Café Chato, and I had just lost my last centimo playing aaita . When we had begun to play, twenty-five pesetas left, and el Kebdani told me: This isn’t your lucky day. Stop playing.

Don’t worry about me, I told him sharply. I can manage myself and my money.

Now, a little after noon, el Kebdani had just lent me five pesetas. I bought three pesetas’ worth of kif and paid two for a glass of green tea. We were sitting up on the balcony; through the little window I could see the whole Zoco de Fuera in front of me. It was Sunday. The big square was crowded with circulating salesmen and buyers, as well as the others who were walking through without buying anything. The wind had come up and the sky was dark with clouds. All the Moroccan establishments were shut — restaurants, cafés and shops. Above each doorway there was a Moroccan flag, and tacked beside it a black flag. In some cafés the owners sat playing cards, treating the day as one of leisure. Earlier that morning I had asked Chato what the holiday meant. It’s a bad day, he answered in a voice that came half from his mouth and half through his nose.