Tahar Ben Jelloun - Leaving Tangier

‘But, shit, I mean, the country is us , it’s our children, and their children!’

Azel had once intervened in the discussion at this point, when Abdeslam had been red-faced with anger, and there’d been something about the looks he’d gotten that disturbed him. The men in the café saw Azel as someone who had succeeded, but at a shameful cost. He bought a round of drinks and said his piece.

‘You know, I’ve seen Moroccans over there who are just wretched, they’re beggars, pathetic, drifting through the streets, living off chickenshit deals, it’s not a pretty picture. Listen to this: I’ve been hearing that Europe will soon need several million immigrants — those countries will come looking for you, and you’ll head off there proudly, without taking any risks at all.’

‘Only if we’ve got cute little mugs like yours!’ someone called out.

Another voice chimed in: ‘Easy to make speeches when you don’t work with your hands…’

Azel rose without a word and left, soon followed by Abdeslam. That evening, Azel confided in his friend.

‘They’re right. I am ashamed, but I’m also sure that they’re jealous. They would have done the same thing if they’d had the chance. Things are getting complicated for me at the moment; Miguel has just married Kenza, at least on paper, so she’ll get a visa and be able to leave Tangier. She’s going to live with us in Barcelona until she can find a job and a place to live. Even my mother’s hoping to join us! Can you imagine? It’s crazy! You want me to tell you something? I’m not in good shape… I don’t even know anymore just what I am in all this business. A falso , a fake through and through, always pretending, running away — I only feel comfortable when I’m with Siham, but she’s busy almost all the time and doesn’t even live in Barcelona!’

Abdeslam heard him out in silence. He did have one question he really wanted to ask, something hard to put into words.

‘You remember, when we used to go picnicking on the Mountain, and there were never any girls along? And after we’d eaten, Kader would disappear with little Sami, that chubby guy? He’d come back and say, Your turn, and we’d go off and find Sami waiting for us, lying on his stomach…’

‘Why are you saying this to me?’

‘Just to remind you that we had some experiences with boys! So, what I’d like to know is, how does that work with your Spanish guy? Who’s on top?’

‘I’m not a zamel , I’m a man!’

‘I knew it! Well, you know, little Sami — he got married and he’s got two kids, so that proves nothing is ever really certain forever. If you want to see him, he has an important job in the department of the treasury, head of a whole sector, where there’s lots of money changing hands under tables. Anyway, they say he got there by sleeping around, and that he leads a double life, that his wife knows about it but keeps quiet to avoid a scandal. See, things aren’t always so simple. In our country, the zamel is the other guy, the European tourist, never the Moroccan, and no one ever talks about it but it’s not true, we’re like all the other countries, except we keep quiet about those things. We’re not the kind to go on TV to admit we like men!’

Azel studied his friend for a moment, then asked what he was doing with his life.

‘Me, I build houses, rooms, love nests. I haven’t gotten married because boys … I like that. No one knows it, but I can tell this to you.’

‘You’re a homosexual!’

‘No: I switch back and forth, sometimes a man, sometimes a woman. Depends on the weather!’

‘Why the weather?’

‘Because in the summer the girls are wild about it, whereas boys, I prefer them in the winter. You’re my friend, hey — I’m trusting you, so whatever you do don’t tell anyone…’

AZEL DECIDED TO RETURN to Barcelona by train. When he stopped off in Marbella and called Siham, he found her deeply shaken: the little girl had just thrown an ashtray in her face, and the parents were off at a health spa in the south of France. Siham’s wound was painful, but even worse was her dismayed realization that she really wasn’t qualified to take care of a handicapped child. Siham always did her best with the girl and never complained, but seeing no progress, she felt discouraged. And so she waited impatiently for Widad to fall asleep at night, the only time when she herself could get some rest. Usually groggy with exhaustion, Siham would sit in front of the television watching anything at all. Sometimes she thought about what her life would have been like if she had stayed in Tangier…

Back home, Siham would surely have become resigned to behaving like everyone else, never passing up any invitation or excuse to go out and join other girls who were in the same predicament, and by giving in to her boss (which would have allowed her — just barely — to earn a living), she would have become his mistress in hopes of one day becoming his wife. She would have fallen into every trap, run through every cliché, dreamed of every impossibility. She would have purchased fabrics imported from the Far East to make caftans she’d have worn once a year, and taken her mother to the yearly regional festival in honour of the sainted Moulay Abdeslam; gradually losing all her illusions, she would have wound up marrying a widower not too far past his prime and had problems with his children… Nevertheless, when she thought about it, Siham still preferred her present situation to that of her female cousins and friends back home. She’d heard from Wafa, one of her girlfriends, a high-school student, who had just gotten pregnant. She was trapped in a complete nightmare. The guy involved had laughed and simply told her off.

‘Don’t give me any grief! A seventeen-year-old who sleeps with the first man who comes along is a whore, so you’re on your own! Go see the woman who oversees the hammam: she’ll send you to a nice doctor, you know — you turn a few tricks for a little money, and your worries are over…’

He’d sounded like an actor in a play. Wafa hadn’t said another word. One day she had gone to his home and asked to see his wife, to whom she’d told her story. The betrayed wife was the one who had helped her get a safe abortion.

‘I’m used to it,’ she’d said. ‘This isn’t the first time. My husband’s a real sex fiend — he doesn’t make love, he sticks his thing in the hole and pumps out his balls, he’s a pathetic jerk I put up with only because we’ve got five children, but when they’re grown, I’ll throw him out!’

Azel waited in the living room for Widad to fall asleep so that Siham could finally come see him. He looked around at the décor. There were dozens of paintings in the Orientalist style, all fake, or rather, reasonably well-made copies. What was the point of hanging a fake picture in your home? To remind you of the real one? To fill up space? To show that you’re interested in the way nineteenth-century painters perceived us? Miguel had no fakes in his house, only originals.

Siham fixed dinner, Azel got out a bottle of wine, and they had a pleasant meal. She told him that she’d mentioned him to her employer, who had said that Azel could come to the house as long as she herself was not there. The only thing she had forbidden was alcohol. That evening, it wouldn’t be a problem, since there was no risk of her showing up unexpectedly. They did not make love, but talked quite late into the night. Azel slept on the couch, Siham in her room.

Siham had finally signed up for a class that met once a week in a centre for the disabled in Málaga. She left every Monday morning and returned at the end of the evening. One day, she invited Azel to meet her for dinner and then go to the hotel room Widad’s father always reserved for her. Azel had not been in a good mood. Grumpy, ill at ease, he was smoking too much and unable to focus on anything. For the first time, he spoke about seeing a doctor, perhaps even a psychotherapist.