Tahar Ben Jelloun - Leaving Tangier

And now Miguel understood how urgent it was to send Kenza and Azel home to Morocco, since their return was certainly the only thing that would help them find their footing again and begin to heal. Miguel contacted Juan, the consular official who had helped him with the initial paperwork involving Azel. Now he wanted him to have Azel arrested and expelled to Morocco. With Kenza, Miguel would take the time necessary to convince her to remake her life in her native country. After a few inquiries, Juan informed Miguel that his protégé had changed protectors: he was at present working in Madrid as an informer for the antiterrorist police, so Miguel no longer needed to worry about him. Despite the fact that his feelings for Azel had changed, Miguel had a hard time dealing with such a shock. So their relationship had really been a failure all down the line… Miguel had to face facts: no one can change the course of fate.

AZEL COULD HAVE FOUND another way out of his predicament, but homesickness had wounded him deeply. He saw things clearly, and was ashamed.

I’m ashamed of failing at everything, ashamed of clasping a hand held out to me in a bed where silken sheets gleamed as enticingly as sin; I wanted to convince myself that my manhood was strong enough to satisfy both men and women: what pretension, what folly, and how sorry I am that I followed Miguel, that kind and generous man, of whom I never managed to be worthy… At first I told myself it was just an experience like any other, I even remembered doing a few things with Mehdi, my cousin who so enjoyed having his buttocks stroked, but with time I discovered that I couldn’t tell lies for very long, and I lied, masturbating in the dark before reaming Miguel, doing things without pleasure or joy, sometimes laughing at myself, especially when I was on top of him; I’d hit him in the back, he liked that, so I’d take advantage, wanting money, which he’d give me, and then I saw myself as a whore, a private gigolo. I had everything I wanted and afterwards I’d feel bad, guilty, dishonest, a leech, so I’d provoke him to make him mad, make him let go of me — I’d try to exasperate him, and I did, and then the old woman Carmen would butt in with her nasty mouth! She spared me nothing, she saw what was going on — she used to scream, especially when he wasn’t there, calling me moro hijo de la calle, dirty Moor-boy from the gutter, and one day when she called me hijo de puta, a whoreson, my blood boiled in an instant and I gave her a bitch-slap she won’t forget anytime soon… Attacking my mother, that — she had no right! My poor mother who made such sacrifices for her children, taking risks by smuggling, and to call her a whore — I could have strangled that Carmen, so then I knew it was time to go, which I did in a mean way: I stole, I ripped the silk sheets, pissed on Miguel’s handmade shoes, broke a crystal vase, went on a rampage; I wanted to bring a real whore, crude, drenched in cheap scent and plastered with make-up, and fuck her in Miguel’s bed, but I couldn’t do it. I left with my head hanging because the old woman had the last word and I couldn’t speak my whole mind to Miguel, when I wanted to shout and denounce all those flush Europeans who come shopping in the poor neighbourhoods of Tangier, Marrakech, Essaouira; I can remember the plight of the shrimps — the shrimps, they’re the still-fresh little adolescents whom Europeans pay with a sandwich, that’s right, not only do they fuck them or get fucked but they don’t even pay the shrimps fairly. I was struggling like a dement, trying to earn a living and above all take good care of my mother who’d had such trouble raising us in dignity — how many times did she go off to cook for rich people celebrating a wedding or anniversary, when she’d leave early in the morning and drag herself home late at night, with a little money and some food, the leftovers from the party, pieces of meat and a little sauce in plastic bags? Then she’d heat it all up and tell us, ‘Eat, it’s your mother’s cooking, eat your fill, take what you can while we wait for better days,’ and to me she’d add, ‘You, when you grow up you’ll be a doctor or an engineer, you’ll take me travelling, first to Mecca, then Cairo — I so long to see the land of Farid al-Atrash* and Oum Kalsoum, you’ll buy me jewellery and lengths of silk, I’ll live a new life, a queen’s life, a little queen without a crown or king but you’ll be my prince, you’ll always be my prince, so work hard in school, bring me home good grades, be a good son, you’ll have my blessing forever…’ Given what I’ve done, it’s hard to say that I’ve made her dreams come true, and the whoring clings to me — all my pals at the Café Hafa know that I left with the Christian from pure self-interest, that I’ve always chased women, that I’m not, as they say, who people think I am, that I was ready to do anything to get out of Morocco, and besides there were some who envied me, who’d have loved to meet someone who’d pack them up in the luggage; some were looking for women but hey, they were ready to go off with guys, everyone knows, it’s common talk in cafés, our reputation is widespread and it’s not a pretty one — there are even hotel concierges or fellows out on terraces, they alert their buddies when they spot a pigeon, usually a woman of a certain age, preferably rich, alone or with a woman friend, often a widow or divorcée, or sometimes, but rarely, still young, free, available for True Love, dreaming of the Orient, harems, and pretty little clichés. Everything’s divine at first, all wonderful, the sex works just fine, plans are made, the woman’s dazzled by the pleasure the guy gives her, she’s ready for anything, can’t imagine leaving Morocco now without her little Moroccan, so off she goes and pulls every possible string to bring him to her native Holland or her American town, and it’s only much later she discovers she’s been had; then it’s disappointment, hatred, depression, and rejection of anything even remotely resembling an Arab… None of that means anything anymore… I can’t get an erection, I’m punished, I punished myself, convinced myself I no longer deserved to have sex — that’s it, a self-mutilation that’s making me suffer atrociously; I sit crying off in a corner, not even wiping away my tears, weeping over my country, over everything it was unable or didn’t know how to give us, weeping over all those young people wandering the streets looking for a helping hand, over my family who will be so disappointed and so in need of comfort, but me — who will comfort me? Who will embrace me and put me back on the road to life? I struggle to breathe, I’m choking, but no one cares; I watch others pass me by and I envy them, I imagine them living, laughing heartily, planning for the future, breathing deeply, setting stones one upon the other, building a house, being as strong as stone, feeling desire and bringing it to climax, while I’m here, and I try to be useful, to be somebody else, a real man instead of a liar, a thief, or a fake, but how will I manage that? I need help: maybe a sleep cure would be good for me, but I haven’t the right to go away, to put my head in the sand, I just need to finally forget that time when I left Morocco — if I could only stop thinking about that… There: that memory does not reflect anything I did, I can look all I want, I’m not finding a thing, forgotten, erased, that moment when I left and was writing to my country …

Azel’s dearest wish was to wipe out all memory of his departure from Morocco, and to return home like a hero. Was he not personally helping to combat the terrorism that was threatening Europe? Now he dreamed of appearing on television, introduced as the good Muslim responsible for thwarting a dangerous plot. All this had pushed Azel’s sexual problems to the sidelines; he no longer fretted over his penis, looked at women, or had erotic dreams. He had become another man: courageous, subtle, and strong. He moved with clear agility and ease between the antiterrorist police and the radical Islamist movements dedicated to sending the West up in flames. He knew, however, that this equilibrium could not last forever. From one day to the next he feared some fresh collapse provoked by his chaotic life in Madrid. As a front, the police had found him a part-time job in the legal department of a large bank; no one was supposed to know what he did with the rest of his time. At long last, Azel felt useful and respected. He dressed elegantly, drank abstemiously, but could not manage to give up kif, which he often abused to the point of making himself ill. Only a mixture of aspirin, paracetamol, and codeine could relieve his violent headaches.