Mohamed Choukri - For Bread Alone

We got up. The bottle was still half full.

Would it be all right if I took it with me? I asked him.

Take it. But be sure you don’t go back to see Laila.

Do you think I’m crazy? I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.

You’re still young, and Allah’s days are long, said Kandoussi.

I went outside to wait for him while he paid the waiter. He came out. We shook hands.

Can you get to your hotel all right? he said.

Of course. You think I’m two years old?

Remember. Don’t go back to the whorehouse.

No. I told you, I’m not crazy.

I walked down the Calle del Comercio. In the alleys on each side there were drunks and whores standing around. It was about twelve o’clock, and I myself was drunk. I staggered along, feeling well able to protect myself if anyone should attack me.

On my way up the steps at Djenane el Kaptane I came face to face with a young man who was very drunk. There was no one else in the street. He turned as I brushed past him.

Where are you off to, handsome?

What do you care where I’m going?

He put his hand on the bottle I was carrying. Can’t we go and drink this together?

Take your hand off the bottle, I said. Get out of here.

I stepped aside and started ahead, but he blocked my way. I live near here. In Derb Zeynana. Come on. We’ll stay together all night.

What do you want of me? I cried angrily.

Why are you so skittish, gazelle? he murmured close to my ear, trying at the same time to stroke my face.

Get out of here! I shouted. What do you want?

You still don’t know what I want of you? he said, leering. I want you, that’s all. Come on. Spend the night with me.

I gripped the bottle by its neck. Go and spend the night with your mother or your sister, I told him.

You’re talking about my mother, you little maricón ? he roared. Insulting my mother? I’ll fix you!

I backed up a bit, and he followed. Then he kicked me in the groin. I bent forward, clutching myself with both hands, while stars of pain flashed in front of my eyes. He kicked me again in the same spot. I fell and rolled down a few steps. The bottle smashed, but I went on holding the neck in my hand. He kicked again, and I ducked so he would not hit my face. His foot hit my hand instead. He went on kicking with both feet, furiously, while I made every effort to see that he did not get my face.

A girl’s voice came from a nearby window: That’s enough! Leave him alone! Don’t kick him like that. He’s younger than you.

I am trying to grab him by the leg. I duck one of his more vicious kicks, and at that moment he loses his balance and falls backwards onto the pavement. I made a great effort and got to my feet. Then I kicked him in the face.

I heard the girl’s voice again. Stop it! You’re going to kill each other!

He had his face covered. I went on kicking him. When I was tired of kicking, I used the broken neck of the bottle on the two hands that were spread over his face. He was bellowing like a beast. My face! My neck!

I ran on and left him there yelling. The girl’s voice cried: That’s what you wanted, you two. You’ve finally got it.

I fell several times as I ran up the stairs. Blood ran from my face, my knees, and from the hand that had held the bottle. I could still hear him bellowing as I went through the arch of Bab el Assa. I took out my handkerchief and put it to my nose. Blood was coming from my mouth as well.

At the entrance of Derb ben Abbou I stumbled on one of the steps and fell, letting go of the handkerchief as well as the broken neck of the bottle, which I still had in my hand. It took my last remaining strength to get to the hotel door. The window was open and the light was on. I called hoarsely: Zailachi! Come down quick!

From the window above he leaned out. With him were Naima and Faouziya.

Mohamed! What’s the matter?

Come down.

A moment later the door opened, and he stood there barefoot and with a knife in his hand. What’s happened?

I wiped the blood from my face with the sleeve of my jacket. I got into a fight with a drunk, I said. I think he’s still after me.

BouChta leaned out of the window. What is it? he said. I’m coming down.

Come down fast, you pimp, said Zailachi. Then he said to me: Come on. Follow me. Was he by himself?

I spat out some blood. Yes. He was alone, the son of a whore.

Hurry up.

I slipped again in the street, trying to follow him. Where the alley turned he slowed down. Then he stopped, and peered cautiously around the corner. After that he began to run again, and stopped only at the entrance to the Place de la Casbah.

Where was he?

On the stairs of Djenane el Kaptane, I said.

BouChta caught up with us. He too was barefoot, and he carried a club.

We did not find him. The same girl was still in the window. He’s gone, she said. And you go away too. Be sensible. Do you want to wake up the whole neighbourhood?

She was right. Already a good many men and women were leaning out of the windows and bending over the balcony railings, to see what was going on. There was a pool of blood in the place where I had left him. We followed the trail of blood down the steps for several metres, until it suddenly ended.

Where’d he go? mused Zailachi.

Come on. Let’s go back. He’s gone, I said.

Lucky for him he got away.

Going back up to the hotel I told them the whole story, from the moment he had blocked my passage to the point when I cut him with the bottle and began to run.

BouChta walked along beside us, saying nothing. I knew he was the sort who would not even dare disturb a sitting hen, but in spite of that, his presence made us feel better, more ready to deal with whatever trouble might present itself.

Do you know that girl who was talking in the window? Zailachi asked me.

No, I said. Who is she?

Her name is Fatiha Cherifa. Her husband was a policeman who got tuberculosis and tried to cure himself at home. He had a friend who used to go and visit him, and it seems the friend used to smoke kif and get drunk with the policeman’s wife. Sometimes the man with tuberculosis would take a chance and smoke and drink with them, and half the time ended up vomiting blood. I think he knew his wife was playing with the other man, but he was patient. One night they drank more than usual, and the friend began to pay attention to her right in front of him. He went at the friend with a knife, but the friend pulled out his pistol and shot him.

He stopped talking.

Did it kill him? I asked.

He died when he got to the hospital.

What about her? What did they do to her?

What would they do? They questioned her and let her go.

BouChta spoke up. When women and love get mixed up, the story is always dirty.

She’s got two baby girls, said Zailachi. The Missionaries adopted her when she was little, and made a nurse out of her. She speaks three foreign languages. But her greatest talent is right between her legs, like all other women.

Naima Mesrara and Faouziya Achaqa were leaning out of the window above our heads. Naima, open the door, said Zailachi.

Push on it. It’s open.

There was talking and laughing inside. On the second and third floors some of the roomers were still up and around. The night-watchman came out of one of the second-floor rooms, a cigarette hanging from his lips. He must have been having a drink with the people who lived in that room.

Everything all right? he asked us.

Zailachi said: Yes.

We went upstairs, and he stood looking after us. Our room had been a very large one. The proprietor had made three rooms out of it by erecting partitions. It was my section where everyone liked to gather at night. They sat there even when I was not at home, because it was the only one of the three rooms that had a window in it. The window looked out into the alley of Derb ben Abbou.