“Oh, I see,” said Brigitte, “I didn’t know that. Do you get Radio France International here?”
“Shut up! You’re just like Mr. Seguin’s goat in the story,” Maxim told her. “How many times have I told you you’re just stupid?”
“But Maxim,” she replied. “I just want to know, but you’ll never let me find out. In my place you’d want to know.”
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing, my love.”
He looked at me. “Just listen to her!” he said.
“Let her say whatever she wants,” I replied. “It’s better to let people say what they want even if it’s about politics and religious beliefs. Without that, we can never get at the truth.”
“But we can’t get there by spouting nonsense. Throughout history lots of people have done just that, but they haven’t managed to staunch the wound.”
“Never mind,” I said. “That’s another matter. Just pour me another glass and let Brigitte prattle on. Here we all are today, sitting in a dark room at midday. Truth is being lost right here in this room.”
Fatima stood up, spread her arms like eagle’s wings, and started dancing, seemingly floating in a clear sky. Just then she heard a soft knock on the door and reached for the knob. The hotel clerk’s head appeared.
“Do you want some terrific hashish at a good price?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” Fatima replied.
She handed him what was left of the joint.
He took it with a smile. “I just came to tell you I love you all,” he told them. “I won’t betray you. If you need some really good hashish, just let me know.”
“No, no, thanks!” Fatima told him. “They don’t smoke. It’s only me.”
The clerk closed the door and left. Fatima resumed her dance.
“What an ass!”
Maxim stood up barefoot and started dancing with Fatima. Meanwhile Brigitte started rolling another joint, the contents of which she had taken from a box on top of the mattress. There was still no announcer on the radio, and the music continued. When she poured me another glass, I could feel a change in my body, something like ants crawling around inside my brain. Wide vistas opened before me, as wide as the room itself, while Fatima kept floating across the space. The window opened up as well, and I could smell a nice breeze wafting through it. So this is glory in life at its fullest, an everyday glory.
Maxim was now close to Fatima. When the music changed, he clung to her as they started dancing like two lovers who had been kept apart for years. After a while, they sat down again on the mattress, without looking at all tired. Brigitte had lit the joint and taken a deep drag, all the while moving her head gently in time with the music. Maxim took the joint, took a drag, then handed it to Fatima. She tried to tempt me, but I refused. I emptied the glass in one gulp, then filled it up for Maxim.
“Thanks,” he said.
The harsh gleam in his eyes reflected the color of the room. I heard him humming the words of an English song.
“Have you ever visited France?” he asked Fatima.
“No.”
“But you speak French fluently.”
“Of course. I studied it in school.”
“I mean, you speak it like a French person, with no accent.”
“I don’t know.”
“Ali has an accent,” he said. “He speaks like the Occitan in France.”
He looked over at Brigitte. “Get up, you bitch,” he yelled, “and dance with Ali!”
She was still staring at the ceiling and ignored him. She was not wearing a bra, so when she unbuttoned her shirt, she showed part of her breasts. She was of medium build, neither fat nor skinny, just like Fatima, except that Fatima was taller, more masculine, and had short hair. Brigitte took the cigarette from her; before taking another deep puff, she mumbled something.
Getting slowly to her feet, she started weaving her way around the room quietly and softly. The hotel clerk came back to offer his product again, but this time Fatima declined politely. He kept smirking.
“That mule looks drunk,” said Maxim.
“And high too!”
“Are we the only ones in the hotel?”
“No, that can’t be right.”
He smiled as he said that. When he pulled Fatima toward him, she leaned longingly into his chest. He started running his fingers through her short hair, and I watched as she closed her eyes. Brigitte meanwhile was doing her best to imitate a belly dancer, twisting her body in slow motion. Maxim now lay on his back with Fatima on top of him. I took the glass from him and filled it up for myself. Angrily I smoked two cigarettes, one after the other. Brigitte called me over, and I joined her in the belly dance. Moving her arms slowly in the air, she kept a space between us. Grabbing me by the hand, she twirled me round and then moved away to perform some peculiar moves in front of the wall. I went back to my spot to fill the glass from the other bottle while Maxim’s hand kept searching for something on Fatima’s body.
So then, this is today’s everyday glory.
Getting to my feet, I turned on the light to counter the evening gloom. As I watched the goings-on inside the room, I enjoyed drinking the wine. Once in a while I would recall images from the past, but they would rapidly dissolve.
Brigitte tossed her shirt into a corner and continued her crazy routine, still gyrating slowly. Her eyes remained closed, and she was lifting her hands in the air with her fingers splayed. Eventually she came over and sat in my lap.
“Ali,” she asked, “are you drunk?”
“Not yet.”
“You don’t seem to be.”
She put her arms around my neck. Her breasts were touching my chest, and a strong heat emanated from her upper body. It’s the eternal call.
4
FOR THREE DAYS, I have not had enough sleep. Around here everyone stays up late. You encounter people everywhere; they talk to you easily, spontaneously, and without fear. Some share a sandwich with you, others a soda or a cup of tea; still others invite you to travel with them to the North or South for free. These days lots of cars appear one day, only to vanish the next.
During those three days, I did not see Fatima; she seems to have been traveling somewhere else. I don’t know. The only thing I do know is that, after that night, I went back to the hotel by myself early in the morning, drunk and exhausted, and stayed in bed until the evening. I tried to vomit but without success; all that happened was that I belched up the stench of cheap wine, sardines, and cigarettes. The thing that I was afraid might happen did. When I finally woke up, I did not want to eat anything. By now it was evening, and I don’t like that because it reminds me of the end of the universe. Everything goes to bed so that the farce can continue—the great farce, that gigantic circus where all dispositions assemble and repeat themselves throughout the course of history: love, hatred, justice, tyranny, hypocrisy, theft, and good behavior, all wrapped in motives that at least initially may be genuine.
Now it’s evening again. Everything has happened today, but I’ve been away. Actually, even when I’m fully awake, I’m almost always not present. How many things that happen get repeated one time or another. This is evening: for them it marks the end of things, but for me the beginning. But without them those same things can’t be mine too; they make me feel that those things are mine as well. It’s a nice, ancient game, part of the great farce, the comedy, the big circus. I’ve had to adopt a role in this circus; I don’t know how to do the bear, lion, or tiger, but I can manage the donkey and mule very well. However, since humans despise both of them, I’ve preferred to be a fox tonight, especially since after a long day the flock is exhausted. When I was a child, I re
ad a lot about wily foxes in school textbooks and heard a lot as well. The flocks of sheep kept walking along the narrow alleys in groups, while a few dawdling scabby ewes kept dragging their feet and sticking close to the walls; they were chewing over their daily worries and thinking about others to come and how they would go about solving them. Who knows, maybe death will surprise them and put an end to it all. For ewes, problems never end. No sooner is one solved than another one crops up. Even if you don’t possess that almighty, invisible hand that plays its part in creating these problems, ewes can still manage to create them for themselves and others as well. Out of a sense of compassion for these ewes that have not learned any lessons from the dwindling and disappearance of previous flocks over years gone by, that same almighty, invisible power has created something called death, which is true wisdom, the eternal lesson that is still trying to teach every single ewe but in vain.
So now here they are, walking all around me. They have been grazing on someone else’s daily grass without a single pang of regret. I have just remembered the words of the Arab poet Umar Ibn Abī Rabi’ah who said, “It is only the weak who do not oppress.” Even so, tonight I have insisted on keeping my fox role, not a ewe. But no one has paid any attention to my snout or tail; at any moment I might pounce on one of them. But whether their heads are raised or lowered, they seem completely oblivious. They keep walking slowly along the alleys in groups, although a few of them seem to be in a hurry. They keep barging into each other with their shoulders and craning their necks to reach out to their fellows. It’s evening!
I found myself in the Taghart neighborhood, with its wide open spaces, the expanse of the sea, and the island that looks like a rock in the middle of the sea. The street-lights in Taghart have been turned on, and from the deserted island comes a faint light, maybe drunkards or fishermen, or even a wolf that prefers to be isolated from the pack. Never mind! This too is something beautiful, the exception to the rule.
I walked towards the sea, went into the Chalet café and ordered a cold beer. The Chalet was a cage in the circus, where different species of animals come together for the time being but might well change their temperament at some point in the future. I sat by the edge of the counter, downing my beer with gusto. I don’t need to describe everything inside this cage, but that doesn’t prevent me from noting that the entire place was filled with a quiet chatter that managed to combine both fear and caution. That may well have been because the customers felt they had been caught out: the injunction “selling alcohol to Muslims is forbidden” dated from colonial times and was still very much on their minds. But, beyond all that, these particular animals preferred to get away from the flock, like the bear on the island. It was simply an impression they all had. Just as the sheep flock can envisage its own grass and that of others as well and work out how to get hold of it, so have I the right to envisage the bears on the island. They have all chosen a different way of life. That’s even though I am a fox; I’m already well aware that the bear on the island has a better life than the flock of sheep. Bears and the various other animals in the Chalet café despise the very idea of eating ewes; that is simply good behavior. And why shouldn’t such a thing happen for the very first time during this entire period when the strong have always oppressed the weak? Ewes are stupid and naïve; that’s the way they have always been through the ages. So let’s leave them to stay far away, making their way toward the barn. It won’t be long before they fall asleep, ready to wake up again in order to go out and graze the next day and the day after that. That’s not important. But I have to hide my tail, in case the animals inside this cage resume their original temperament and discover that I’m a fox. I’m not a fox; at this particular moment I’m simply an animal just like them. Whatever is going to happen can happen. End of story.
“Another beer, please.”
“Excuse me?”
“A beer.”
“Another cold beer?”
“Yes. A cold beer.”
He said that without even glancing at the waiter. The beer was right in front of me, cold and inviting. I realize that carbonated drinks are bad for me, but never mind. Let me have a drink, and whatever happens will happen. I remembered a Spanish sailor in a Casablanca bar, downing one beer after the other and dipping bread in hot sauce. When he guessed that his behavior surprised me, he turned and looked straight at me. His face and jowls were bright red, and he was sweating profusely. “Are you surprised I’m eating it with such relish?” he asked with a smile.
“No, sir, I’m not,” I replied. “I’m just absent-minded, that’s all. I can stare either here or there; it makes no difference.”
“Do you have problems?”
“Could be.”
“Forget the problems and have a drink,” he said. “The time you’re living in, that’s all you have. Let me tell you something. I’m a sailor and I own real estate, thanks be to God, Jesus, and the Virgin Mary! But that’s not what I’m getting at. Over ten years ago, I contracted a disease; I’ve no idea what it is. I’ve been to see doctors, and they have all insisted that I need to quit using the substances I’ve been addicted to—coffee, smoking (I don’t smoke), drinking beer, and eating hot chili. If I didn’t stop, they all told me, I’d be dead in six months at the most. That’s what they all said, and yet here I am, as you can see, still alive. If the Virgin Mary so wills, I’ll live even longer. Doctors talk too much. They all advise you to quit drinking tea, coffee, beer, citrus fruits, cigarettes, and stew, and instead to take walks. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “That may be the case where you are, but exactly the same thing happens here too.”
The image of the Spaniard and the bar in Casablanca disappeared. I gulped down the second beer and asked for a third. I kept turning around to check that tail of mine on the stool in front of the wooden counter. I must have done it several times because it was the café owner who spoke to me when he opened my third beer and not the waiter.
“You keep fidgeting on that stool. What’s the matter with you? Do you have hemorrhoids or something? Don’t even mention hemorrhoids, I have them too. Let me give you a piece of advice: I’ll bring you some ice cubes. Take them with you to the bathroom and put them on your anus. You’ll see the result for yourself.”
“Actually I don’t have hemorrhoids. It’s my tail, my fox tail.”
“What are you talking about? You aren’t even drunk yet.”
“No, I’m not. I’m just talking about my tail.”
The owner went out, came back with some ice cubes, and thrust them into my hand.
“Go to the bathroom,” he told me. “Don’t be embarrassed. You should take care of your health. Go to the bathroom and do as I’ve told you.”
I felt scared that my situation might be discovered—he might figure out that I’m a cunning fox, so I gave in to him. If he did find out, he might well be a lion himself. I went to the bathroom and threw the cubes in the toilet. After pissing and smoking a cigarette, I came back to my place.
“How do you feel now?” he asked me.
“The pain’s going away.”
“Didn’t I tell you? Ask someone with experience, not doctors. Now you’ll have a beer on me.”
He put another beer in front of me. Outside it was nighttime, the master of all creatures who belong to half the Earth, while the sun is the master of the other half.
“Are you from Marrakesh?” asked one of the animals next to me.
“No. Casablanca.”
“How come you’re so dirty then?” he asked. “Get yourself a job and leave the hippies to themselves. Why are you behaving like them? Cut your hair and come work with us as a fisherman. Lots of youngsters from Essaouira have gone crazy, smoking hashish and getting stoned all day long. Be sensible. One day you’ll get old, and there’ll be no one to take care
of you. You’ll turn into a commodity, a disused piece of trash that’s been tossed away by the roadside. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, I do,” I replied. “Thanks! I’m going to follow your advice. The genuine Muslim is someone who can give advice to his fellow Muslims.”
I watched as he looked at me, staring down at my feet and behind my back. I touched my face to make sure it did not have a fox’s snout and ran my hand down behind the stool to make sure that my tail was still out of sight. When I had reassured myself that I looked just like everyone else, I tried to run for my life and leave the café.
“Get a beer,” the animal said, “and let’s chat for a bit.”
“No, thanks, I’ve an appointment.”
“God help you!”
Leaving the café, I made my way warily through the Taghart neighborhood. By now the ewes had all left, but some lambs were still frolicking around, apparently unaware that there was a fox in their midst. Who knows, maybe some of the other foxes are smarter and more dangerous. For my part, I know how to keep my own cunning out of sight. I reached the Café de France and sat at the counter. When the waiter came over, I ordered some cake because I could not drink any more after swigging all that beer. Next to the café there was a newspaper kiosk. I noticed some newspapers hanging there and thought about buying a few, but then I changed my mind.
“Ali!” I heard a voice just behind me. “What are you doing alone?”
It was a young unemployed man from Casablanca whom I had met at the Comedie café. The only thing I know about him is that he lives off his two prostitute sisters and occasionally foreign homosexuals. I had also run into him in Tangier, Marrakesh, and wherever else homosexuals were. I stood up immediately and went over to sit with him. He had four girls around him who kept nodding their heads nonchalantly. Only one of them gave me so much as a welcoming glance.
“Hello,” she said. “Have a seat. You’ve got beautiful long hair. If you washed it, it would be even nicer.”