Mohamed Choukri - For Bread Alone

I recognized the voice. It’s me. Can I come in?

Lalla Zehor raised the curtain, and Kandoussi walked in.

We’re in luck, Lalla Zehor cried. So it’s you? I feel better just looking at you. Where have you been all this time? You haven’t been back to see us in I don’t know how long.

I was surprised to see Kandoussi.

So this is where you’ve been hiding out, he said to me. I’ve been looking everywhere, trying to find you. Come on. Get up.

But Si Kandoussi, aren’t you going to sit down with us?

Lalla Zehor was always hospitable. At least have something to drink.

You’ll have to excuse me, he said. I can’t tonight. Some other time, insha’Allah .

I stood up.

Will you be back? Lalla Zehor asked me.

Of course I’ll be back, I said immediately. Haven’t I already paid you for the night with Laila?

If the door’s locked, just knock, she said.

Now Laila spoke up. What time are you coming back? I looked at Kandoussi, and he answered for me: He’ll be back whenever he wants to come back. If he’s late, go to bed. But by yourself, and not with some other client.

Laila smiled. Lalla Zehor said to Kandoussi: Don’t worry about your friend. I haven’t got seven faces. Just the same face for everyone.

Kandoussi and I went downstairs, leaving Lalla Zehor with Laila. On the way down I asked him: Where’s el Kebdani?

This is not the place to talk, he said. I’ll tell you all about it when we get outside.

Going through the alleys of Bencharqi we ran into a good many drunks. From time to time Kandoussi stopped to shake someone’s hand. He seemed to know great numbers of people, and they all looked glad to see him and treated him with a special respect. We said nothing to one another as we walked along. He spoke when we got to the Zoco Chico.

What café do you want to sit in? The Fuentes? The Central? The Española?

Wherever you like.

We went into the Café Central. Before we sat down we ordered a cognac and a gin. We chose a free corner. Then he said: But where have you been? I looked everywhere.

Here in Tangier. Where did you think?

I mean, where do you sleep?

I found a place in the Casbah, in Derb ben Abbou.

Is it the house next to the school?

Exactly. That’s it.

You’re living in a nest of thieves and whores, you know.

But they asked for papers at all the other hotels. And I’ve got nothing.

Fine. We’ll talk about that later, he said.

The waiter came up and poured our drinks for us. After he had gone away, Kandoussi resumed talking.

Poor Kebdani. He’s dead.

My eyes and mouth opened wide. Dead? I repeated weakly.

Yes, he said. He’s dead. Allah irhamou . May Allah see to it that we all die as Moslems.

I emptied my glass and called the waiter. Then I lit a cigarette. Kandoussi drank what was in his glass.

Another round? the waiter asked.

Bring a full bottle of cognac, I told him.

Right, said Kandoussi. Bring a bottle, and I’ll drink that.

But how did he die? I said.

When he rowed back to the ship it wasn’t there. They’d caught sight of a Customs boat coming their way, and had to get out. He had to row ashore. The rowboat must have been thrown against a rock. They found him and the pieces of the boat lying on the beach. Poor Kebdani!

That was the death written for him, said Kandoussi.

Yes, I said sadly. You’re right. It was written that way. But it’s not right.

Poor Kebdani.

The waiter brought a bottle of Terry and opened it at the table. He filled the glasses, set the bottle on the table, and went away.

The only things that can happen are those Allah decides must happen, said Kandoussi.

And Qaabil?

He’s been arrested.

Arrested? For what?

They’re trying to connect him with Kebdani’s accident. They know Kebdani worked for him.

Did they take the ship? I asked him.

No. They stopped it and went aboard and searched it.

Then they let it go.

Where’s Qaabil now?

The secret police have him.

What has he told them?

So far he hasn’t admitted to anything.

I finished my glass and refilled it.

You’re going to be drunk fast if you go on like that, he said.

I could drink this whole bottle without moving it from my lips, I bragged. And I put my hand on the bottle. You want me to show you?

Kandoussi also put his hand on the bottle. No! Don’t be crazy. I know you could drink it. Tell me: why did you leave the key with Sallafa?

She asked me for it. Naturally I let her have it. She’s the one who ran the shack.

I know that. But she’s run away.

Run away?

She took everything she could carry with her out of the place, and disappeared.

Where to?

How should I know? It’s a safe guess she’s left Tangier.

So she’s gone, I said to myself.

It always ends that way if you let a whore into your life, he said.

And Bouchra? Hasn’t she come back yet?

She must have gone with Sallafa. They’ve never been separated, not since they were kids down in Dar el Baroud.

They’ve gone together to Casablanca, I thought. I looked out into the Zoco Chico, full of drunks wandering up and down, and said: Well, things are back the way they were before the trouble.

Things aren’t good, though, anywhere in Morocco, said Kandoussi. We’re going to see much bigger trouble than that before too long. They’re going to be demanding independence.

El Kebdani told me that only six funeral processions went to the mosque, and everybody knows that dozens were killed.

A lot of bodies are beginning to be washed up along the shore, he said.

I see. They threw them into the ocean afterwards.

They say that even live people got thrown in, sewn up in sacks. And some of the dead bodies had no bullets in them or any marks on them. They found one boy on the beach at Larache, with handcuffs still on his wrists. But no marks on his body anywhere.

Very bad, I said.

They’ll probably keep coming across bodies for a long time. But you can never get to the bottom of all that. I have five hundred pesetas for you. Your wages for the work you did the other night. I was going to pay you tonight, but I think tomorrow would be better, now that I see how you are tonight.

Whenever, I said. It doesn’t matter.

I’m going to leave the money with Sidi Mustafa at the Café Raqassa. He’s reliable. Do you know him?

Yes. I go there often.

He’s taking care of me, I thought. He doesn’t want me to spend the money tonight.

I’ve got something else to say to you.

What’s that?

You’re not to tell anybody that you’ve worked for me. The other three cargadores who worked with us are all reliable. There’s nothing to worry about there. But you never know what can happen. If they should arrest you and begin asking questions, deny everything. They may beat you, but hold on, and don’t be afraid of them.

Don’t worry about me.

There’s one good thing, at least. You’re not known as a cargador .

Wouldn’t Qaabil tell them everything if they tortured him?

I don’t think he would. But who knows? They’ve certainly tortured him by now.

Is the stuff in a safe place? I asked him.

We delivered it to the Hindu the same morning.

I nodded my head. I see.

You’d better sleep at your hotel tonight. But look for another place to stay. I’ll find you a place that won’t cost you more than fifty pesetas a month.

Who’s staying at the shack now?

Nobody. Sallafa left the key at the baqal Qaabil always used. That shack is no good to anybody now he’s in jail.

You mean the police are watching it?

They may be.