Tahar Ben Jelloun - Leaving Tangier

In the port of Algeciras, it took her some time to find her way to the parking lot, where a black Mercedes was waiting for her as promised in her letter of instructions. When the driver helped her into the backseat, she felt proud to be treated like an American movie star — which didn’t stop her imagination from running wild: she was being kidnapped, to be raped and abandoned in the middle of a desolate countryside! She saw herself held captive by the Saudi family, abused by the husband of the invalid woman, lying prostrate on the floor without food or water. She would scream, but no one would hear her. Attempting to cut her wrists, she would be unable to go through with it. And then Siham abruptly pulled herself together, attributing these bad thoughts to Satan. To drive such black ideas forever from her mind, she silently recited the Koranic verse of the Throne.* Useless: ever more violent scenes kept streaming through her head. Finally she decided to laugh at them. When the driver turned around, she apologized and began to watch the scenery go by.

Marbella seemed like some sort of big tourist village for millionaires, where citizens of the Gulf countries built themselves elegant homes they lived in for a few days a year. Some of those people thought nothing of crossing the straits just to go to a party. Most of the time, they took over suites in the luxury hotels of Tangier, sending out for food, alcohol, musicians, and girls. The authorities turned a blind eye. Siham had heard all this from her girlfriends, and she’d even been told that some girls had spent a whole night waiting in a room without ever being sent for, only to leave the next morning with a few dollars in their pockets. Siham did not judge them; she kept her distance and her dignity, reflecting only that everyone shared the responsibility for this increasing acceptance of prostitution.

A surprise awaited her at the villa of Monsieur Ghani, her wealthy Saudi employer. Ghita, his wife, received her immediately. Siham observed her, trying to see what her handicap might be, but Ghita seemed to move, think, and speak quite normally.

‘I’m Moroccan, as you can see,’ said Ghita, sensing Siham’s confusion. ‘I live here for a great deal of the year; my husband lives in Saudi Arabia, where he has his business interests and his other family. I am his second wife, and I believe I am his favourite. The problem is this: Our daughter Widad is handicapped. She’s twelve years old and has trouble speaking and moving around. We need someone who will stay with her constantly, someone patient, yet firm, who will help us take care of her. We’ve had Spanish nurses, but they’re unionized and work like civil servants — and besides, we need someone from our culture, who speaks Arabic, knows our traditions, our customs. Our little girl has trouble with everything, you understand, so there’s no reason to complicate her life. I’m telling you the truth: it’s hard work, tiring, but very well paid. My husband adores Widad. He’d give anything to see her happy and … normal.’

Siham listened without showing any reaction; she hadn’t been prepared for this, hadn’t imagined herself working for an abnormal child. She could leave again … think of this trip as a short vacation, a change of scenery, a misunderstanding. Leave again… yes, but — for where? Morocco? Impossible: no question of going back to that cramped life and those little jobs in Tangier. Siham tried to get a grip on herself, realizing at the same time that she knew nothing about handicapped people and lacked the inner resources to take on such demanding work. But she just couldn’t see herself picking up her suitcase again to take the boat back to Tangier.

Ghita was silent, waiting. After a pause, Siham asked to see the child.

‘She was hospitalized the day before yesterday. A single moment of inattention was all it took: she fell and hurt herself. You would have to be constantly watchful. Are you ready to take the job?’

Siham thought of her friend Azel and reflected that there wasn’t any shame in doing this.

‘I accept, but you must remember that I haven’t been trained for this kind of work. You can be sure that I will do my best to make things go smoothly.’

Ghita gave Siham a cellphone.

‘It must always be turned on. You may also use it to call your parents and friends.’

Maria, the Spanish maid, arrived with a tray of drinks and sweets. Later she showed Siham to her room, which was spacious, with two beds and a bathroom. Siham understood immediately that she would be sleeping next to the child. She looked at Widad’s many toys and at the photos of her on the wall, showing her from the time she was born. She was pretty, with a sad expression, but there was a kind of solemn intelligence in her eyes.

The first meeting between Siham and Widad was almost a disaster. Tired and cranky, ignoring the presence of the new nanny, the child cried and refused to let her mother hug her. Siham felt that the important thing was to avoid intervening, to wait, simply letting the tantrum run its course. Above all — no agitation, no outcry. For a long time now, as part of her effort to improve her life, Siham had been learning patience. She took a book and went to the bedroom. When Widad arrived to find Siham sitting on her bed reading, she waved her arm to show that she wanted her to clear out.

Siham didn’t budge. For the first time, someone was resisting the child. With a smile, Widad threw herself on her new nanny and tore the book from her hands. Siham realized that she had just achieved something priceless: she had won Widad’s trust.

AFTER AZEL HAD SPENT three months in the maid’s quarters, Miguel invited him to sleep in the guest room just down the hall from his own bedroom. They had settled into a comfortable routine. Azel had accompanied his benefactor several times in his travels, carrying his luggage. The rest of the time, he took care of the art gallery, answered the phone, ran small errands. He wore nice clothes, some of which had belonged to Miguel, and that’s how Azel discovered the luxury of cashmere jackets and sweaters, tailored shirts, and English shoes. He lived among Miguel’s things as if he were inside another skin. For the first time in his life, he felt good, and made an effort to take care of himself. Miguel signed him up for classes in exercise and yoga, and Azel was as enthusiastic about the workouts as he was bored by the yoga sessions, which he dropped without telling Miguel. Siham often phoned Azel, whom she wanted to come visit her in Marbella, since she could not leave her young charge. When Azel finally decided to go see her, he lied to Miguel, claiming that he had a sick uncle in Málaga. It was the only way to obtain permission to get away for a while. Miguel merely said, ‘I hope you’re not going off to meet one of those women who are always fluttering around you!’

‘But what women, Monsieur Miguel?’

‘Don’t you ever lie to me!’

‘I swear to you, I’m not lying.’

‘Liars always swear they’re not lying!’

As for Siham, she had wangled a free half-day from Ghita.

‘He’s my fiancé, he works in Barcelona, a really nice guy, cultivated, educated, everything. We’re from the same city, the same neighbourhood.’

Ghita replied that Siham’s private life was her own business, as long as it did not upset her relationship with Widad.

‘Don’t worry, Madame, there won’t be any trouble.’

The reunion was brief, but intense: they were wild with desire for each another. After lovemaking, a bottle of wine, and a few cigarettes, Azel made his confession.

‘I’ve become Miguel’s lover.’

After a long silence, Siham, who felt like crying, asked him if it gave him pleasure.