Tahar Ben Jelloun - Leaving Tangier

I tore the gazelle from the hunter’s hands, but fainting still, it could not be revived

I plucked the orange from its branch, but it could not be peeled

I slipped in among the stars, pell-mell, but they could not all be counted…

It was now two years and three months since he’d seen his wife and two sons. He sent them money, called them from time to time from a phone booth, telling them anything at all, saying that he was working in a private university whose name he never mentioned, that he lived in Madrid but also taught mathematics in Toledo. He invented, made mistakes, became confused, apologized, then curtly hung up the phone. He knew that he could count on his wife, who worked for a firm of architects; she was quite capable of taking care of the children, and she would wait for him. He had left Turkey because of massive gambling debts, when he’d found himself suddenly brutally pressed by one of his creditors, a wealthy and perverted man.

‘I know that you have nothing, not a thing,’ the man had said. ‘You could never pay me all that you owe me. Killing you, that wouldn’t bring me back my money. You can’t imagine how much money I have, but you see, I love Evil, I love to see my fellow man suffer, I can’t explain to you what happens inside me, but I get off on seeing someone, especially someone nice, like you, slaving away and suffering the worst humiliations in life. Your punishment — is exile. I’m throwing you out of the country. Sending you to hell, not prison, that would be too simple, no, I condemn you to exile. I take you from your wife and children, on whom I will keep my eye. For three years, do not set foot in Turkey. My men are everywhere, they’re ruthless, and delight in cutting their fellow men into very small pieces; that’s how it is, and you owe me three million, so I sentence you to three years’ nonexistence in Turkey. Got that? And do not make me cry: when I cry, I turn mean. You’re lucky, you know, your punishment isn’t cruel enough, so consider yourself fortunate to have wound up with a creditor of my stamp. Wait, don’t leave yet, you haven’t heard where I’m sending you. Someplace where Turks don’t usually go. Hey, Spain, for example: it’s a lovely country, Spain, very hospitable. You’ll make discoveries there, might even like the place. Don’t apply for a visa, you’ll never get one. Just set out, walking, day and night, and think of me if you get tired — I’ll be getting off. You have forty-eight hours to disappear. Listen, take this phone number: the guy’s name is Omar, his friends call him Taras Bulba; he’s not a poet, but he likes to butt-fuck men like you, so give him your ass and he’ll help you get out of the country. It’s up to you; Omar’s a sicko, soon as he spots some buttocks, he whips out his dick to try having a go at them — a strange fellow, loyal, he’s never betrayed me, has no feelings or emotions. Unless you’d rather tackle everything on your own… Don’t think you can mention our contract to anyone, or ask for political asylum, for example; I know Europeans are bleeding hearts, soon as they see someone looking a little lost, they slip him political asylum — not in your interest to try for that, I’ve got your family in the palm of my hand. Mind you, you don’t have to go to Spain, you could try Germany, but that would be too easy, with all the Turks they’ve got. Germany, that wouldn’t be exile. Exile’s an icy-cold place. But don’t forget, even there, I’ve got my spies.’

Nâzim knew he was dealing with a twisted man. He had no choice but to leave, flee, get out of Turkey and into Spain as fast as possible, staying three years, exactly as ordered. His creditor must have had his henchmen there; Nâzim took all his threats seriously and already saw himself, as in films about the Mafia, pursued by killers, with his wife and children in danger. His debts were enormous. How had he come to this? A kind of mindlessness, a madness, a curse. Gambling for him had been like drinking for alcoholics, a true plunge into hell. His wife, though, had never known a thing. He would never, ever, have told her about it. He simply used to disappear now and then, saying he had meetings at the university or that he’d run into some childhood friends and would be getting home late that night. His exile in Spain was a punishment, of course, but he also saw it as a chance to free himself from gambling. Before leaving, he explained to his wife that the university was sending him to Europe for a few months; he didn’t go into details. He kissed his children as they slept, packed a bag, and vanished, blinking back tears.

That’s how he’d wound up in Spain after a short stopover in France and a few troubles along the way.

WHAT IS an undocumented alien? A foreigner in an irregular situation. A clandestine who has burned all proofs of his identity to make it impossible to return him to his native land. But also, sometimes, a foreigner who has entered a country legally but no longer has a work permit, a residence permit, or any reason to remain in that country.

Azel was in that last category. To renew his residence permit, which had expired a few months earlier, he had to have a work contract with an employer and a home address attested to by a water, electricity, or telephone bill. And he could not provide any such documentation. He knew he had tumbled into illegality, the marginal zone patrolled by traffickers and other recruiters always ready to hire you for unsavoury jobs. He knew this and wasn’t worried about it. A fatalist, he felt that his destiny was to follow this path, not resist it. And so he had broken with everyone, even Kenza. He lived heedlessly, as if he wished to atone for some serious offence he had once committed. He now had no one to talk to, to confide in. His life had lost all meaning. He spent most of his time with Abbas, who slipped him counterfeit watches to sell, or sometimes a few matchboxes crammed with hashish sticks. Now and then, when a woman would brush past Azel, he felt he had recovered his former sexual prowess and would dash off to a café to masturbate in the men’s room. One day, Azel sold a fake Cartier watch to a passer-by, who thanked him in Arabic. A moment later, the man returned and asked him if he had time for a coffee. He didn’t know this city, he explained, he was just passing through. Could Azel give him the address of a mosque in this neighbourhood, where he could go for the evening prayer? He wanted to pray, he’d be so unhappy if he couldn’t.

Azel didn’t know of any mosque in the area.

‘So,’ the man asked him, ‘you don’t pray?’

In reply, Azel made a face that meant prayer was not his thing.

‘It’s a great pity, my brother, not to speak to God, even just once a day. Did you know that you can gather the five daily prayers together in the evening and say them in peace that way?’

Then Azel understood that this man was in fact a recruiter using the same approach and friendly patter as the one who’d tried to rope him into an Islamist movement in Tangier. Azel let him talk, listening to him without imagining the guy in grotesque situations the way he had with the first recruiter. That time, he’d still had the energy to defend himself against this kind of seductive political come-on. Now he was tired, and hoped in some confused way to take advantage somehow of whatever propositions this man would surely offer him.

‘You understand, brother, that here, we are in the land of our ancestors, those whom Isabella the Catholic expelled after burning men of faith, our Muslim ancestors, at the stake. She ordered the destruction of places of prayer, she forced those unable to flee to convert to Catholicism, she outlawed the writing of Arabic and the wearing of traditional garments. That was in the past, five hundred years ago, but the burning wound is still here, in our hearts, in the heart of every Muslim, every Arab. Islam has been driven from this country. It is our duty to bring it back, to make it respected. We’ve had enough of humiliation, of our unworthiness in the eyes of the Christian West. Consider how our Palestinian brothers are treated, how America supports the policies of Israel, and how our countries treat their own citizens. We must do something, react, spread, listen to the voice of Islam and other Muslims. Tell me, you’ve studied, haven’t you, you’re not illiterate like most of your brothers?’