Leaving Tangier

9. Siham

WHILE AZEL was settling in at the house in Barcelona, Siham was waiting in front of the Spanish consulate to submit a request for a visa. Her file was complete. El Haj had found her a Saudi family living in Marbella that needed a practical nurse to take care of a handicapped woman. Following his instructions, she had sent them her CV and a well-written letter expressing interest in the position. El Haj had insisted that she include her ID photo, which at first made her suspect a trap, but she quickly received an answer from the invalid explaining the reasons for such a request. She preferred dealing with a Muslim woman rather than a Christian one. Siham thought about wearing a veil for the photo, which El Haj had recommended she do, but in the end she decided that was stupid. She didn’t like Islamists and hypocrites. Appropriate clothing and irreproachable behaviour: that’s what really counted for her. El Haj, who liked her, pressed his case.

‘You know, my dear Siham, the veil is sometimes a good thing. Men are less likely to bother girls who wear veils in public, and anyway, there’s no good reason not to wear one! You remember Bouchra, lovely Bouchra who married a businessman much older than she was, but very rich? She used to come to my place completely veiled, I even called her the Masked Marvel! Well, when she took off her ddjellaba and her veil, she was another woman: she wore see-through blouses, tight trousers… She was superb. She wound up winning the jackpot, by the way; how long it will last I can’t say, but she had the look of someone who knew how to handle herself. To top it all off, you know — I can say this to you — she was a virgin! She carefully kept her virginity for her husband.’

‘Is she happy? In any case, she can’t be worried about money.’

‘Don’t fool yourself, the man turned out to be a miser. She phoned me the other day, crying. She lives in a big house surrounded by maids but she’s not allowed to go out. So, this veil: you’re wearing it or tossing it?’

‘Tossing it! You see, my grandmother, who came from the countryside, wore the haik, it’s a kind of Arab cloak. It looked like a voluminous shroud, a huge piece of white cloth she wrapped around herself. No one criticized the wearing of the haik at the time, it was normal. My mother wore the djellaba without the veil, and no one ever asked us to veil ourselves, although my uncle, the one who’d emigrated to Belgium, did complain. Whenever he came visiting on vacation, in the summer, he lectured us about morality. That used to make me giggle, because his daughters smoked in secret, had boyfriends, and so on. They obeyed their father only so he’d leave them in peace to do what they wanted. I hate such hypocrisy. Keeping up appearances and being sleazy on the sly, that’s the Morocco that drives me crazy.’

‘Don’t go crazy, my dear, you’ll see: even if you leave, you’ll always miss your country. We become so attached to Morocco that we can’t forget it completely, it really sticks to us, like an unseasoned frying pan, and we can’t forget it. I travelled quite a bit in my youth, thanks to easy money and parents who never asked questions; I went far away and wherever I was, strangely enough, I missed Morocco…’

‘And how do you explain the fact that those who govern us do nothing for us?’

Siham was surrounded by young people who thought only of fleeing, leaving, working anywhere at all. Too poor to complete her studies in the humanities, she had finally found a job as a legal secretary.

Siham obtained a tourist’s visa good for four months. On the day she left, her parents blessed her. Her parents’ blessing was vital, but not enough, and Siham felt the need for even more protection. She made her ablutions, borrowed her mother’s prayer rug, and prayed to God. She was setting out into the unknown and would be on her guard, especially against all those Arabs living in Marbella. She’d heard stories about white slavery and the mistreatment of women there.

In the port of Algeciras, it took her some time to find her way to the parking lot, where a black Mercedes was waiting for her as promised in her letter of instructions. When the driver helped her into the backseat, she felt proud to be treated like an American movie star — which didn’t stop her imagination from running wild: she was being kidnapped, to be raped and abandoned in the middle of a desolate countryside! She saw herself held captive by the Saudi family, abused by the husband of the invalid woman, lying prostrate on the floor without food or water. She would scream, but no one would hear her. Attempting to cut her wrists, she would be unable to go through with it. And then Siham abruptly pulled herself together, attributing these bad thoughts to Satan. To drive such black ideas forever from her mind, she silently recited the Koranic verse of the Throne.* Useless: ever more violent scenes kept streaming through her head. Finally she decided to laugh at them. When the driver turned around, she apologized and began to watch the scenery go by.

Marbella seemed like some sort of big tourist village for millionaires, where citizens of the Gulf countries built themselves elegant homes they lived in for a few days a year. Some of those people thought nothing of crossing the straits just to go to a party. Most of the time, they took over suites in the luxury hotels of Tangier, sending out for food, alcohol, musicians, and girls. The authorities turned a blind eye. Siham had heard all this from her girlfriends, and she’d even been told that some girls had spent a whole night waiting in a room without ever being sent for, only to leave the next morning with a few dollars in their pockets. Siham did not judge them; she kept her distance and her dignity, reflecting only that everyone shared the responsibility for this increasing acceptance of prostitution.

A surprise awaited her at the villa of Monsieur Ghani, her wealthy Saudi employer. Ghita, his wife, received her immediately. Siham observed her, trying to see what her handicap might be, but Ghita seemed to move, think, and speak quite normally.

‘I’m Moroccan, as you can see,’ said Ghita, sensing Siham’s confusion. ‘I live here for a great deal of the year; my husband lives in Saudi Arabia, where he has his business interests and his other family. I am his second wife, and I believe I am his favourite. The problem is this: Our daughter Widad is handicapped. She’s twelve years old and has trouble speaking and moving around. We need someone who will stay with her constantly, someone patient, yet firm, who will help us take care of her. We’ve had Spanish nurses, but they’re unionized and work like civil servants — and besides, we need someone from our culture, who speaks Arabic, knows our traditions, our customs. Our little girl has trouble with everything, you understand, so there’s no reason to complicate her life. I’m telling you the truth: it’s hard work, tiring, but very well paid. My husband adores Widad. He’d give anything to see her happy and … normal.’

Siham listened without showing any reaction; she hadn’t been prepared for this, hadn’t imagined herself working for an abnormal child. She could leave again … think of this trip as a short vacation, a change of scenery, a misunderstanding. Leave again… yes, but — for where? Morocco? Impossible: no question of going back to that cramped life and those little jobs in Tangier. Siham tried to get a grip on herself, realizing at the same time that she knew nothing about handicapped people and lacked the inner resources to take on such demanding work. But she just couldn’t see herself picking up her suitcase again to take the boat back to Tangier.

Ghita was silent, waiting. After a pause, Siham asked to see the child.

‘She was hospitalized the day before yesterday. A single moment of inattention was all it took: she fell and hurt herself. You would have to be constantly watchful. Are you ready to take the job?’

Siham thought of her friend Azel and reflected that there wasn’t any shame in doing this.

‘I accept, but you must remember that I haven’t been trained for this kind of work. You can be sure that I will do my best to make things go smoothly.’

Ghita gave Siham a cellphone.

‘It must always be turned on. You may also use it to call your parents and friends.’

Maria, the Spanish maid, arrived with a tray of drinks and sweets. Later she showed Siham to her room, which was spacious, with two beds and a bathroom. Siham understood immediately that she would be sleeping next to the child. She looked at Widad’s many toys and at the photos of her on the wall, showing her from the time she was born. She was pretty, with a sad expression, but there was a kind of solemn intelligence in her eyes.

The first meeting between Siham and Widad was almost a disaster. Tired and cranky, ignoring the presence of the new nanny, the child cried and refused to let her mother hug her. Siham felt that the important thing was to avoid intervening, to wait, simply letting the tantrum run its course. Above all — no agitation, no outcry. For a long time now, as part of her effort to improve her life, Siham had been learning patience. She took a book and went to the bedroom. When Widad arrived to find Siham sitting on her bed reading, she waved her arm to show that she wanted her to clear out.

Siham didn’t budge. For the first time, someone was resisting the child. With a smile, Widad threw herself on her new nanny and tore the book from her hands. Siham realized that she had just achieved something priceless: she had won Widad’s trust.