Mohamed Choukri - For Bread Alone

This time it was my own hand instead of hers that moved back and forth. I started to give it a workout and a rubdown.

What are you doing?

Without looking at her I said: Just let me alone. I’ve got to satisfy it or it won’t ever lie down.

You’re going to get me filthy, she said. Go into the other room and do whatever it is you want to do.

I got out of bed, imagining that I was about to seize Asiya by the tank, and walked into the other room holding my sex in my hand so it would not get cold. But I had to use both hands to cover myself with the two blankets. I quickly gave it back the warmth of my hand, so it would not weaken.

About nine o’clock in the morning we had breakfast together in the sala . We did not speak. She looked pale, sad and dreamy. I too felt tired and depressed as a result of the imaginary rape. Is it not a kind of insanity to conjure up the image of a woman and then proceed to rape her? And I do not even know whether the girl is still living. It would have been better to have stayed there in bed, warmed by Sallafa’s body, feeling her alive and moving beside me. I could have touched her and smelled her. Asiya was only a great void in my imagination, and I had worked myself into a frenzy of excitement over this nothingness.

Neither el Kebdani nor Qaabil arrived. Could something have happened to el Kebdani? It was normal enough for Qaabil not to have appeared, but I was worried that el Kebdani might have fallen into the hands of the Customs men. He is the best friend I have found so far in this city.

Is it Sallafa’s bleeding that worries her now? I feel sorry for women. Sometimes they get raped. Sometimes they have to bear children. And blood runs from them for several days each month. Perhaps she is thinking about Bouchra, who still has not come back. It could be. El Kebdani was right about Sallafa and Bouchra; Bouchra is the point where Sallafa’s strange sadness begins. I wonder what will happen if Bouchra stays away much longer. I am certain it is not Qaabil who preoccupies her thoughts, and I feel a sudden surge of warmth towards her. It would be good to ask her forgiveness, but I do not dare. I turned and looked at her: she was totally immersed in her reverie. I liked to see her in this sad state. Never before had I seen her give in to her melancholy in this way. She has let something go inside her, and now it is lost. Perhaps she is thinking that it is lost for ever, or she may be trying to devise a way of getting it back. It would be better to go out and leave her to herself. The world is sad and decayed.

I stood up.

I’m going out to see what it looks like in the town. I haven’t seen it since the day of the trouble.

She glanced up at me for an instant, surprised. Then she bowed her head, as if she could not bear to be separated from her obsession. She remained staring into emptiness while I stood there in front of her.

After a moment she raised her head and focused her eyes on mine. Did Qaabil pay you for your work last night? she asked me.

No. He hasn’t paid me yet.

Wait a minute. She got up and went into the bedroom. Until now I had not seen her behave in this serious, adult manner. Today she looks like Bouchra. It was unusual for her to have mentioned Qaabil’s name and not have followed it up with an insult. She will say of him: I know that pimp. I understand that rotten mind.

Surely she has a surprise for me, I thought. What can it be? As I waited I grew more impatient. She came out carrying three watches in one hand and two hundred-peseta notes in the other. I stared at the pretty blue foulard she had just wound around her head. Now she looked like an ancient Egyptian queen whose picture I had once cut out of a magazine. I went on looking at her in astonishment.

Here. Take these things. Sell the watches and keep the money you get for them. But don’t mention it to anybody. And when you sell the watches be sure Qaabil doesn’t find out about it. Smuggling’s not regular work, and it doesn’t go on long.

Her way of speaking amazed me. The words I meant to say flew off before I could say them. I took the watches and the banknotes, and stored them in various pockets of my jacket and trousers. I looked at the key in the door, and said: Are you going to lock the door from the inside?

Yes.

I opened the door and went out. After a few steps I turned around. She was standing in the doorway sobbing and wiping her eyes. I stopped walking. The feeling came over me that she was saying goodbye to me. I would have sworn that she was taking leave of me for the last time. I may never see her again. The girl in Aïn Ketiout, Asiya, Fatima, did I ever see any of them again once they had gone? I started to walk again. It was impossible to go back. My eyes filled with tears. I could not stop them from forming. I was certain that she still stood in the doorway watching me as I walked away. The force that keeps me from turning around and going back must be the same force that makes her remain standing in the doorway, unable to come after me. I am leaving the shack for good. A part of my life is ending, and another part will begin. Perhaps I shall never see any of them from the shack again.

I was sitting with Laila Bouwala in her room. Sometimes Lalla Zehor, the proprietor of the house, served us herself. Ever since I had left the shack, I had been spending my time drinking. There is a continuous babble of girls’ voices coming up from downstairs. During the past two nights I have slept with three of the girls. The only one of those whom I like is Rachida, who squirms in bed like a snake. Tonight here I am with Laila Bouwala. Hamid Zailachi told me that sometimes she wets her bed. He says it happened once when he was spending the night with her. I’m going to stay in her bed all night and see if she does it with me.

She poured what was left of the wine into the two glasses. Are we going to have another bottle, or will this be enough?

Without reflecting, I said: We’ll order another. And another, and another, until we’re drunk.

She got up and went to the door. She pulled the curtain aside and pushed the door, which was ajar. Then she called into the corridor: Lalla Zehor! Agi! She let go of the curtain and turned back to me.

What’s the matter with you? she said. You look sad. Has something happened? Or don’t you like being with me?

I looked at her and smiled. I’m not sad. I’m just thinking of something.

Thinking of what? She sat down smiling and lighted a cigarette, which she then put between my lips. This made me think of Sallafa. I studied Laila’s figure. It is fuller and better than Sallafa’s. She has long, smooth black hair. I intend to spread it over me like a blanket. I continued to run my eyes over her body.

Why are you staring at me that way? Don’t you like the way I look?

I told you I was thinking of something.

Well, stop thinking about it now. It makes you look sad.

Lalla Zehor spoke outside the door: Here I am.

Come in, Lalla Zehor, Laila told her.

She walked into the room, bringing a strong wave of perfume with her. I’m here, she said.

Bring us another bottle, said Laila.

I’m going to sleep here with Laila, I told Lalla Zehor. How much is she?

Just give me sixty pesetas, and it’ll be all right, she said. Nobody else would get her under a hundred.

I handed her the sixty pesetas, and twenty for the new bottle. A girl was calling up the stairs: Lalla Zehor!

I’m coming, she answered. And turning to us: What a loud voice that Rachida has! I’ll send the bottle up by her, or else by Alioua Larossia.

There was the sound of footsteps, and then came two knocks on the door.

Who is it? cried Lalla Zehor.