Tahar Ben Jelloun - Leaving Tangier

‘Even if he has converted to our religion, he remains a foreigner, a Christian, and even though it’s none of my business, you should know that I understand what is behind all this.’

‘You’re mistaken!’ replied Kenza, so loudly that everyone heard her.

Miguel felt suddenly left out; they had spoken in Arabic, and he had not understood what was going on.

The younger adoul explained to Miguel why Islam forbids Muslim women to marry outside the ranks of the faithful.

‘A woman is easily influenced, you understand; if she marries a Christian, she’ll end up espousing his religious convictions, and then the children will follow her lead. And you must also know that the law protects women, since your future wife has the right to have certain conditions entered into the marriage certificate, such as a prohibition against repudiating her or taking a second wife.’

‘You know, one wife, that’s more than enough, and I’d even say that no wife at all — it’s not the end of the world!’

‘I gather, Monsieur Mounir, that you know women well.’

‘Well enough to understand that married life is not always a bed of roses. In fact, that’s why I waited so long to get married.’

‘You know what Islam has to say on the subject of marriage?’

‘Absolutely: the duty of a good Muslim is fulfilled in wedlock.’

‘Ah! I see that you are not simply going through the motions here!’

Kenza was feeling tense. Her mother was growing impatient and muttering to herself. Off in his corner, Azel watched the ceremony while thinking of Siham. He didn’t see himself asking her to marry him; he loved his freedom too much, and avoided responsibilities. He was beginning to mix Siham and Soumaya together in his imagination, which made him smile.

After making the correct replies to the adoul s, Mounir and Kenza signed the marriage certificate, then left ahead of everyone else, holding hands.

Miguel had had a festive meal prepared at his villa. He was receiving his mother-in-law for the first time, and Lalla Zohra was impressed by the luxury and refinement of his home. She did not understand, however, why he collected all those old things — furniture, jewellery, dark paintings, tarnished mirrors — and she even offered to take him to a merchant she knew who would sell him brand-new mirrors and solid, handsomely decorated furniture. Miguel smiled at her.

‘I keep these things because they belonged to my parents and grandparents: they bring back memories!’

After the meal, Kenza and her mother went home. Lalla Zohra was crying. She had never before seen a bride return to her parents’ house to sleep.

It had been a long and exhausting day for everyone. Uneasy and out of sorts, Azel disappeared, leaving Miguel alone.

ABDESLAM LOVED TO STRETCH a white sheet out on the terrace of his house, and drift into a dream. He had no desire to leave his country. He was content to imagine what his life would have been like if he had emigrated. Ever since he’d lost his brother Noureddine, he had abandoned all his plans. Abdeslam had turned to religion and now prayed every day because he felt guilty for having encouraged his brother to try his chances on that damned boat. He’d even given him a good part of his savings to pay the passeur , Al Afia. Azel knew how that had gone, he’d witnessed the transaction.

‘Listen, the boat — it’s not some piece of junk, right?’

‘Of course not!’

‘How many people are you going to put on it?’

‘The legal limit: no more, no less. Why are you so suspicious?’

‘Because there’ve been a lot of drownings lately.’

‘I’m a professional, not a widow-maker. I do this to help the guys in the neighbourhood. I’m not going to get rich off these paltry sums of money.’

‘Paltry or not,’ Abdeslam had replied, ‘it was hard for us to get this sum together. I’m handing it over to you and it’s like giving away part of my flesh, it’s everything I have, so you’d better make sure everything goes well and that our ‘paltry sum’ counts for something.’

‘Hey, if you keep suspecting me of stuff and threatening me, take your precious money back and fuck off.’

Noureddine had calmed him down, and the deal was struck.

Abdeslam was a mason. He liked to build, to put stones in place one after the other and tell himself it was his hands that had done the work. He had the soul of a craftsman. Certain homes he had restored had even increased in value. He loved a job well done, hated getting to work late, and above all else enjoyed creating new spaces inside traditional old houses. Certain Europeans made a point of hiring him, which pleased him and made him even more demanding of himself and his workers.

Noureddine had smiled at his brother just before getting on the boat, and that image had haunted him ever since. Abdeslam had tried to form an association against those clandestine crossings and had managed to get together several families who’d lost loved ones. They met regularly at the mosque to pray together. More concretely, they had demanded that the authorities do something about this problem and had dared write to the king, begging him to put a stop to this hemorrhage. To their amazement, instead of the usual impersonal note, one of the royal councillors had sent them a lovely letter in reply. He had written with great human feeling to announce that the king would be appointing a commission to propose legislation on the problem for parliamentary debate, and that he sincerely regretted this situation that was so painful for Morocco and damaging to its image abroad.

Abdeslam was proud, because it had been his idea to write to the king. He had shut Azel up in a room so he would compose the letter. As for Azel, he hadn’t believed in it for a second.

‘You think the king has nothing better to do than read your letter? And even if by some miracle it reaches him, you seriously think he’ll do something, he’ll answer? Dream on. He’s got so many people around him he can’t even see out the window. They keep him from confronting reality, and all because those people, they’re afraid of losing their positions, so each day they tell him, Everything’s fine, Your Majesty, don’t worry about a thing, Your Majesty, and Your Majesty would like to visit the neighbourhoods where the clandestines leave from, Beni Makada, or Drissia, or Hay Saddam? At your orders, Your Majesty: we’re arranging that now with your security detail… Then they let him wait a few days while they spruce up those districts, repaint walls, clean out the undesirable elements, put a cop on every corner, and so on.’

That is how Abdeslam became an antideparture militant, a dedicated opponent of the passeurs . He went everywhere to talk with people preparing for the crossing, to explain that they had one chance in ten of reaching Europe. He distributed copies of the royal letter in certain cafés. But what could he say when they replied to him like this?

‘One chance in ten? Better than nothing! A gamble, a long shot. On the other hand, if we just sit here in this café, nothing will happen to us, absolutely nothing, and we’ll still be here in ten years, drinking the same lukewarm café au lait, smoking kif, and waiting for a miracle! In other words: some work, a decent job — well paid, with respect, security, and dignity…’

Abdeslam would have loved to produce miracles but he was only a mason, a man who had lost his brother and suffered day and night from that loss.

Whenever he tried to argue back, he stammered, and the men made fun of him.

‘Right, here it comes, you’re going to hit us with your lecture on the-country-that-needs-its-children, the-country-we-shouldn’t-abandon-because-if-everyone-leaves-there-won’t-be-any-country-left. Yeah, yeah, we love our country, but it’s our country that doesn’t love us! No one does anything to give us reasons to stay — haven’t you seen how things work here? You’ve got money, you spread it around, grease some palms, slip it into pockets, show you can be accommodating, and voilà! As long as it’s like that, how can you expect us to love this country?’