The Elusive Fox, Page 8

  Back to the start. . . . Hours passed, and I started to feel drunk. I danced by myself and with others. Everything merged, by which I mean mouths with mouths, hands with breasts, or whatever. The music kept repeating itself, and the room was filled with smoke. People arrived, and others left. Azeddine disappeared from the living room, and Salma fell asleep next to a bottle of wine, which I managed to empty even though I felt I’d already had enough.

  “This is a world one should write about,” I thought. “Students at school need to read about it.”

  I realized that I was tired of teaching poetic eulogies written for caliphs and kings, and stories about the fat cat and the skinny cat, and the affectionate mother who helps her son put his clothes on and brush his teeth with toothpaste.

  “Give Mommy a kiss,” she tells him.

  I had noticed that the majority of students have pale faces. They have rotten teeth from smoking kif, they usually don’t eat breakfast, and their mother does not help them get dressed. Oh! So why precisely should we be writing about the world of hashish? Why not instead about the genuinely miserable life they lead? For example, the mother who every single morning goes to the stand and waits for someone to hire her. The man whose bicycle has been stolen. The father with two wives and ten children. The sister who prostitutes herself to help her children and siblings. How hard it is to write about this country! I imagine that, if Hemingway had been born in Ben Mssik, he would have been a shoeshiner. If Henry Miller had been born in Hayy Muhammadi, he would have probably become a cobbler. Why am I wandering off topic like this? Let me start again from where I left off. Where is the fox, and where is its tail?

  I got drunk and had no desire to stay in this environment. Whenever I drink, I sometimes have an overwhelming desire to be alone. I was not blending with that world anymore.

  Azeddine returned.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he asked as he came over. “Are you drunk? That’s what we all dream about, isn’t it?”

  “No,” I replied, “I’m not drunk. I just want to be left alone.”

  “Go to the next room. Do you want to take this dead body with you?”

  “No need to wake her up. She’s dreaming of her parents, for sure.”

  “Wake her up.”

  With that Azeddine grabbed her by the armpits. She opened her bleary eyes.

  “Go to the next room,” he told her, “and sleep with the teacher.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  Leaning on each other, we both headed for the next room, but we fell down twice and had to get up again. Her body felt heavy, and my feet refused to bear my weight. We lay down on the floor. She kissed me and then closed her eyes. I lit a cigarette and lay on my back, staring up at the ceiling. My head was spinning with many ideas: images, fancies, hallucinations, and violence. I stayed on the floor for a while, but then the sound of music grew louder. The door was opened, and two other people high on hashish came into the same room where I was lying on the floor with Salma. First one collapsed on the floor, then the other. One of them pointed at Salma and began talking to me. I told myself he must have known her before and gave him a nod. I let my fingers play with her hair, and he started doing the same thing with his friend’s hair. They started kissing each other.

  “Maybe one of them thinks the other one is female,” I told myself.

  However, they ended up taking their pants off. I felt disgusted and rapidly regained consciousness; I did not feel drunk anymore. I staggered to my feet and went to look for Azeddine. He came in and saw what was going on.

  “Relax,” he told me. “Don’t bother about it. It’s normal.”

  “I cannot tolerate such a scene. ‘God created them, both male and female.’ If this kind of thing was supposed to be normal, God would have created another male from Adam’s rib. That way things would be settled.”

  “Why such philosophy, teacher?!” Azeddine asked. “Just protect your own ass, and that’s it.”

  “But I don’t like to witness such things.”

  “So how can you write if you don’t see everything?”

  “What I’ve seen is more than enough. In fact, I can’t even write about the things I’ve seen. Please let me leave and sleep in Dyabat.”

  “For heaven’s sake!” Azeddine said. “You’re planning to walk all the way to the town in the early morning when it’s still dark?”

  “I’ll walk along the beach,” I replied. “I know a road that leads to the town.”

  “I know that road too, but someone might mug you.”

  “I’ll have my fox with me.”

  “What? Are you crazy? A fox? The booze must be getting to you. It would be better for you to get some sleep now. I’ll kick everyone out.”

  While we were talking, the two men kept panting, and then they relaxed on the floor.

  “Ugh!” I said.

  “So you see?” Azeddine said. “Just a fleeting, trivial moment, and it’s over. The same thing will happen to you with the person sleeping next to you.”

  He kicked them out of the room and left me standing there. I punched the wall with my fist and cursed something in thin air. Eventually however, I wrapped myself around Salma’s body. I kept picturing what might be possible and impossible, and that way I fell asleep without even doing the thing that Azeddine had pictured me doing.

  8

  RAYS OF SUNSHINE poke their way through the fluffy clouds that blanket city and sea. When they disperse, others take their place, and the sun’s rays take up the challenge again. This is obviously the way things have been for millions of years; clouds, sun, and sea have all remained undefeated. Humans, however, have been defeated, as has human creativity, so often lauded, especially by their ancestors. Clouds, however, may dissolve but only to reform, whereas humans leave behind them water, fire, air, dirt, and desire.

  Yes, desire!

  I was having breakfast at 1 p.m. in the Café de France . . . coffee with milk and a croissant. When he stood in front of me, I did not recognize him at first.

  “Teacher,” he said. “I’m Brahim. Are you drunk? You certainly smoke and drink a lot.”

  “Have a seat,” I said.

  “Here are your things. You left them behind when you left. Obviously you don’t know Essaouira and Dyabat.”

  “People won’t steal them,” I said.

  He sat down but looked awkward, neither standing nor sitting.

  “I need to talk to you about something,” he said. “We need to leave the café at once and go somewhere else. It concerns both you and me. Otherwise you’re going to spend the rest of your life in jail.”

  I was utterly horrified. Even if he were joking or in a hashish trance, I was still shaking with fear. In any case, he still had my things; that much could not be a joke, even though it might perhaps be a hallucination. He shouldered his bag, and we crossed the square and walked past the bus station.

  “If it’s something really serious,” I said, “let’s go down to the rocks.”

  “We’re not going anywhere they know.”

  I searched for my fox’s muzzle and tail, but in vain. That’s how the fox can let you down at the most awkward moment. We walked until we reached Sidi Majdoul’s tomb. He led me through some trees, interspersed with a few small huts and small white houses shaped like roc’s eggs. There was no sign of human beings, although I may have spotted a donkey or chicken. I really don’t know. We sat down by a bunch of small trees behind which there extended a vast, infertile plain.

  “Now no one can possibly find out where we are,” Brahim said. “We haven’t done anything, but the government is merciless.”

  “I’m no smuggler,” I said. “And you know that selling drugs is legal; that’s how you make your living.”

  “That’s not what I mean, teacher. Now let me be frank with you. We’re alone here, and no one can hear us. They’ve found the bodies of three female hippies in the woods.”

  “And what’s that to do with us?” I asked. “Did
we kill them?”

  “You don’t know a thing. Sometimes things happen, and the gendarmes in Dyabat and the police in Essaouira bring in all the hippies. You don’t know that. People I know personally have been often convicted for things they didn’t do. Severe sentences. I beg you, take me with you to Casablanca. Save me and yourself as well. I won’t bother you; I’ll stay with you for just a day or two. I have some European friends who are hashish dealers there. I’ll spend a day or two looking for them, then I’ll leave you alone.”

  “I don’t understand any of this,” I said. “Besides I haven’t killed anyone.”

  “I’ve told you; you don’t know them. They’ll take you; they’ll take us all and hang us. They’ve done it to us many times before for absolutely nothing. And what about murder? Do you think they’ll have more respect for you because you’re a teacher? I know a teacher who took a vacation here before you. They took him to the station, and he stayed there a week cleaning it up for them. Poor man! They shaved his head. He swore he’d never come back to this city. But they won’t be shaving your head; they’ll be chopping it off instead.”

  He ran his hand across his neck. I stared at the vast infertile plain, then at the sky. No one: no human beings, no animals, only silence, interrupted by the sound of birds chirping in the branches. It seemed to me that I had seen a donkey or a chicken a while ago; I don’t remember. I lit a cigarette and handed one to Brahim. No one, I told myself, wants to have problems, even a masochist. Many people are eager to tag other people with them so they can watch the fun—the kind of thing a slave wishes for his master, the housemaid for her mistress, and the abandoned lover for the one who has left. I do not want any problems; I’ve only ever accepted them grudgingly even when my own will has been the culprit. I don’t even clean my own room in Casablanca, so how am I supposed to clean the police station or gendarmerie?

  “What are you thinking about?” Brahim asked. “I know you’re very smart, but I also know things that you don’t. I know those sons of bitches all too well. What’s happened is a mess, a full-scale mess! It is stupid for us to stick around here when God has endowed us with a brain to think with. Let’s get out of here. Arrests have already started in Dyabat, and they’ll soon get to Essaouira. If we stay here, we’re doomed, and I’ll leave the rest to your imagination. I know them. I know them all too well.”

  A fig fell from the tree under which we were sitting. Brahim picked it up, cleaned it, and peeled it carefully, all the while talking about what would happen to us if we were arrested by the gendarmes or the police. We shared the fig and ate it.

  “Now we’ve shared food,” he said, smacking his lips. “I’m not lying or trying to betray you. If I do, then this fig that we’ve just shared will have its effect on my knees. I’ll never walk from now on. On my eyes too, and I’ll never see again.”

  “May God save and preserve you,” I replied, “and keep you safe for your mother.”

  Since this was the situation, I decided that we should cut our hair right away and clean ourselves up a bit, then travel to Casablanca by whatever means. I shared that plan with Brahim, and he suggested that we should walk some of the way until we reached a barber near a gas station where trucks regularly stop. Once again, I always want to avoid problems for myself or other people. When other people have often been hurt, it has been because of circumstances beyond my control. I am neither god nor angel.

  We made our way across a small valley so we could start walking along the main road. There were no trees apart from some greenery visible in the distance. In the middle of the greenery were some whitish spots; parallel to the road was a ditch. I told myself that, if we spotted anything that looked like a gendarmes’ jeep, we would throw ourselves into the ditch and hide. When I told Brahim, he said that, as long as we were far away from the town, it did not really matter anymore. All I had to do was to follow his lead, “hearing and obeying”; my only task was to take him with me to Casablanca. I told myself that I “heard” him but was not sure about the “obedience” part. I could not guarantee that for you or myself. Before long we reached a small village where there was a gas station, some low, narrow buildings, small shops, and a café with music booming out. In front of it were some old motorcycles.

  “Let’s get a haircut,” Brahim suggested. “I know the barber well; he’s a friend of mine. He smokes kif a lot but doesn’t like hippy girls. Perhaps it’s an erectile issue.”

  “What’s bothering me now,” I said, “is how to get to Casablanca.”

  “Don’t worry,” Brahim replied. “I’ll take care of it.”

  He went ahead, and I followed him. I watched as he moved away, then stopped to talk to the gas station attendant. Then he walked off to the left, and I trailed behind him. When he reached an open dirt square, he suddenly stopped and froze. When he turned to look at me, I could see that he was stunned and bewildered. I guessed that something was wrong.

  “Are you okay?” I asked as I approached. “What’s the matter?”

  “He isn’t here.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “The barber.”

  “So what?” I asked after a moment’s pause. “Isn’t there another barber? In any case, we aren’t murderers. You’ve made me so scared that I’ve been following you. I haven’t killed anyone. If those hippy whores were killed, they themselves would know why. I couldn’t kill a fly.”

  I started sweating. A weird feeling always comes over me whenever I do not agree with something I’ve willed myself to do. What has happened to me now, I asked myself. I started taking slow, deep breaths, a way that I have of protecting myself and preventing attacks of nerves. Sitting down on the ground, I surrendered myself to the internal world. Brahim came over.

  “Teacher,” he said, “we’re only looking out for our own interests. We don’t want people to be making fun of us.”

  “We’re doing that now,” I said.

  “Don’t be angry.”

  “What’s my crime? They’ve found three hippy girls murdered in the woods or on the beach. But what’s it all to do with me?”

  “I’ve explained it all to you. Don’t tell me we have to go back to Essaouira or Dyabat. If we do that, the shit will hit the fan for sure.”

  My entire internal world was on the boil like a cooking pot. Anyone who claims that the internal world controls the external one—shaping, framing, and changing it, and such things, is a liar. This kind of stuff, which Arabs tend to say, and French as well, has always puzzled me. But slow breathing, routine, regular, and continuous, can always put an end to such a state.

  I watched as before my very eyes Brahim turned into an old black donkey, with a fox behind sniffing his tail; the donkey kept trying to kick the fox with its back hooves. But the fox kept moving back, cunning and self-confident.

  I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, then opened them wide. The only person in front of me was Brahim, still standing there in the square.

  “Teacher,” he said. “I’ve left a note with the gas station attendant. If there’s a truck going to Casablanca, he’ll get us a cheap ride. I’ve some money, so I can pay for you if you don’t have any. What’s important is for us to reach Casablanca and get far away from here. Keep away from problems before they get to you, that’s what our ancestors told us. Anything they have to tell us is significant. You’re a teacher, so you know that.”

  “You’re the teacher! I don’t know how I got involved with you.”

  “Don’t tell me you want to get away from me.”

  “Go away from me now and deal with the truck and the gas station attendant.”

  He went off to the gas station, once again turning into a donkey. I saw an old woman whipping him; he had a heavy load of wood on his back. I could not help laughing at the whole scene. It would have been better if he had been a real donkey; at least then, he would not talk, nor would he know what his ancestors had said. Instead he would be carrying whatever was on his back, be it rocks or hay. I followed hi
m to the station. When we arrived, I preferred to stay at a distance and sat on a rock near a low wall. I was not worried about what might happen and yet again surrendered to my internal world without any particular focus. It was a long film, involving angels, devils, tanks, and army officers strutting around in their uniforms. There were women as well, both bashful and blatantly naked. In the same film I saw men panting on top of women, drooling like so many dogs. The women disconnected from them, opened their thighs right away, and started screaming in pain, “Oh my God!” From the space between their thighs emerged tiny children like monkeys. The process between panting and delivery was rapid. The children started walking without even learning how to crawl. Then I watched them playing with guns and told myself they would undoubtedly fight wars against each other. I was convinced that wars start off as games. The film came to an end when I heard Brahim speaking to me.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “The truck’s here.”

  As I followed him, some of the images from the film were still dancing around inside my head. We got up onto the truck and sat between bags of wheat. Just then I had a thought: could Brahim have made the whole story up? How could I know? Could he have been involved in the murder? A host of questions now started bouncing around inside my head. The truck kept rocking along the road, and Brahim said nothing, as though he were feeling guilty for what he had done. Other suspicions dogged me: the eyes of the government never sleep.

  “Do you two drink?” asked a man who was also lying down between the bags, clearly overcome by drink or exhaustion. “Look over there inside that bag of hay. There are two bottles of wine. Where are you two going?”

  “Casablanca,” I replied coldly.