Tahar Ben Jelloun - Leaving Tangier

Kenza had been meaning to speak to Miguel about an offer from Carlos, one of his friends whom she’d met at his house; Carlos had invited her to come dance in his restaurant a few evenings every week, to earn a little money. After a pause, she brought up Carlos and his offer.

‘But that’s a fine idea, my dear, especially since it’s a very popular restaurant, not a nightclub. Do it, I’ll be in the first row, you dance divinely well.’

ABBAS HAD AN ENDLESS SUPPLY of bones to pick with Spain. Short, swarthy, with lively eyes often bloodshot from everything he was on, he had arrived in this country as a teenager, hiding in a truck full of merchandise. He had almost smothered during the trip. He was rather proud of that, actually, but above all he harboured an unhealthy grudge against Spain, which had expelled him that first time, then arrested him and turned him over to the Moroccan authorities when he was caught trying to sneak into Spain again.

‘I know them, the Spanioolies: poor people who got rich and forgot they were ever poor. My father told me the Spanioolies used to come to our country like raggedy beggars, sweeping streets, cutting hair, driving our buses — they were worse off than we were, and although we had nothing, at least this was our home, but they acted as if they were above us, can you imagine! Spania, the land of patched trousers, frayed collars, smelly eau de toilette, well, in Morocco they were living like kings, thought themselves our betters; my father said that when Morocco became independent they practically wet themselves, thinking we’d do them like in Algeria: in our village they were so scared they all piled into the church! It was only then that they realized we were really good people, who wouldn’t massacre them. Years later, wanting to return the favour — meaning visiting them at home — I turned up at the consulate, stood on line in the sun for hours, filled out forms so nosy you’d have thought I was a wanted criminal, and guess what, after all that — walou, nada , no visa, no come-visit-us. So at that, I got fed up, I swore I’d get into their country without a single document, anonymous, like Superman; I wasn’t going to parachute in, but I had my little brainstorm: I thought, Europe has spoiled them, showered them with dough, they’ve even gone democratic, and that — that’s thanks to Juan Carlos, I like that king guy, I’m sure that if I appeal directly to him, I won’t have any problems, he’s the one who put democracy into the heads of the Spanioolies, he’s clever, plus there’s that PM, Felipe, I even served him a mint tea when I was working at the Café de Paris, yes, I was the official shoeshine boy, I had my box of waxes, my blue smock, but one day there were no more leather shoes, and no more job, so I changed uniforms and became a waiter — not bad — and then I took the boat, without paying for the crossing, sidling aboard as if I were a sailor, so we got to Algeciras and they welcomed me with guns — hands up and all that jazz, unbelievable, I’d become important! When I said, ‘Calm down, I have no weapons, no papers, not even any money to soften you up,’ they handed me over to the ship’s captain, a sonofabitch who locked me up and forgot me in the hold for three days and nights with one bottle of tap water, not even store-bought, the cheapskate — I was screaming, kicking and pounding on the door, famished, reduced to the condition of a hunted animal by that bastard, and when I saw him again he said, ‘No, I didn’t forget you, I let you stew in your own juice so you’ll never ever dream of Spain again’ (he couldn’t have been one hundred percent Spanioolie, he must have had some Arab blood: there was definitely something of us about him, because his face wasn’t white, he looked like General Oufkir,* but anyway, to be that mean he had to have been uneasy in his own skin, so perhaps he hated his face, that’s why he was taking revenge, keeping me prisoner). One night, while the boat was still in port in Algeciras, a sailor set me free: ‘Beat it and good luck.’ So now that I’m here I’m staying put. I know them, those Spanioolies, they just can’t get over the golden age the Arabs had in Andalusia, sticks in their craw: the moros occupied the south of our country? Impossible! Los moros, los judios , Moors and Jews, everybody out, or we burn them! I don’t mean that today we’re reinvading, but they don’t like to see us prowling around their borders again, it’s a knee-jerk reaction with them: soon as they see a moro , they get their backs up, they see una mala pata, una cosa negra , they’re superstitious, it’s in their interest to watch out because we’re inconvenient and I know what I’m talking about, the Spanioolies are distrustful but still quite naïve, you see: all those Muslims moving in, for sure they must intend to reconquer what their ancestors lost — now personally I think that’s pushing it, there’s nothing to reconquer, but there are some tape cassettes going around that talk about that, so I’m not convinced things won’t blow up some day, since the country’s moving fast, Europe’s pulling it north, away from us, and although we used to think we were close, I mean that we were neighbours, only eight and a half miles, eight and a half little miles, eight and a half miserable miles between us, in truth there are thousands of miles between them and us, when for them Moroccan means Muslim and they remember what the Church said about Muslims (not so hot, you’ve got to admit), so — we’re Muslims, poor, no papers, therefore dangerous, and it’s no good us telling them that more and more Christians are converting to Islam: every day, their fear grows… I know them, I know what they think and I understand them, we’re a fat lot of use, you can see all those jobless guys roaming around train and bus stations, the public squares, who’ve turned the Barrio Chino into a souk and the Barrio Gótico into a filthy medina: they have nothing to do, they wait, take on odd jobs, I’m one of them, by the way, but me, I’m craftier, I slip through the net and when I feel the net coming I vamoose, go sleep in the mosque and — poof! — disappear… Got to keep on your toes. I don’t fancy going home sweet home, not at all; I do little things, I eat well, drink well, smoke a bit, and life’s great, really great! Right, Azz El Arab? Didn’t you find your happiness here? You look uptight, what’s the matter? Don’t like screwing the old guy? But he loads you with dough, you should be pleased; I tried it but wound up with a tightwad and lost my hard-on on the spot, left him with his ass in the air, swiped his watch, a real Rolex, gold and silver, then sold it to an Arab just passing through and lived off that for two months, and the old tightwad didn’t dare come anywhere near my neighbourhood after that — he was in politics, afraid for his rep plus he’s married with a couple kids… You know, you shouldn’t get pissed off — take life as it comes, find your niche in this country and forge ahead, forget about regrets and remorse, be like me: I steal, traffic, nothing serious, I’m not selling drugs at the schoolyard gates, no, there, that’s disgusting; what I’ve got is cellphones with fiddled SIM cards, the kids can call for free, not bad, hey? It works for a while, then the phone breaks down and I’m there to replace it, plus I sell cards to access all the TV channels on earth, so for a song you’ve got the whole world within reach, just with a cable box, no need to subscribe and pay through the nose anymore, no, thanks to pirated cards I live quite well. Mind you, the guy doing the work, it’s not me, I can’t find the codes on the Internet, no, it’s a Pakistani, a champion pirate, who does that for me, he says it’s our revenge, because we’re not dumber than they are, being poor doesn’t mean being stupid! I like him, he’s quiet, a hard worker, and when I remember my former life, I don’t have a problem with being here, even if it isn’t paradise; back home people should stop going on and on about garbage like: Spain is a dreamland, an earthly paradise, easy money, girls for the taking, social security, blah blah, but I think deep down they know the truth, they watch TV, they can see how we’re treated here, they know it’s not heaven, but I mean, what is? Where’s heaven on earth? Do you know? Well, I do: heaven is when I find myself alone in my bed smoking a joint and thinking about what would have happened to me if I’d never left home, and then I have a drink or two and let myself drift off, happy and at peace. I don’t ask for too much, I sleep and have lots of dreams in living colour, in Arabic and Spanish, with rainbowy fish dancing in my head to music played by the loveliest woman in the world, my mother.’