Leaving Tangier

14. Azel

‘THE NEXT TIME you go see your whore, let me know; I’ll buy you a bottle of perfume to give her from me.’

Miguel wasn’t angry, simply put off by the all-too-obvious signs that his lover had been straying.

Without replying, Azel hung his head, then shut himself up in the bathroom. He knew he’d be sleeping in his own room that night. Actually, it didn’t bother him to be alone again. He understood that one day he would be leaving Miguel, although that was still in the future. And there was another consideration: his mother and sister had been nagging him lately, phoning him several times a week. When his mother called, she would speak to him in a murmuring voice filled with tenderness and longing.

‘How are you, my beloved son? You have everything you need, I hope? Are you eating well enough, at least? Tell me what you do all day. You think of me now and then? I wish so much that I could see you again! I never go to sleep without sending you all my blessings. God hears me, you know! Have you done what I asked you to do the last time, for Kenza? Have you spoken to him, to the Christian? He’s so kind, so generous, he won’t refuse to do that favour I asked of you, right? So, well, here’s Kenza and I give you a big hug, my darling boy.’

Kenza got straight to the point.

‘Did you ask him?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Look, I need to know! What are you waiting for?’

‘It’s not that easy, you see…’

‘But what is it with you? You’re waiting until he doesn’t love you anymore to ask him for this favour? Waiting for him to meet someone else, someone handsomer, smarter, more clever than you are?’

‘I’ll call you soon, I promise.’

Azel was at a complete loss over this problem. Before approaching Miguel with his request, he wanted to wait at least until the anniversary of their first meeting. Azel suggested to him that they throw a small party at the house just for friends, and Miguel liked the idea. A party to forget gloomy times, see a few people again, have faith that love is stronger than everything else: after all, why not?

Miguel, for his part, wasn’t fooled. He knew for a fact that Azel was not in love with him, that he was mostly taking advantage of the situation. Of course, it wasn’t that simple, and there were often real moments of affection between them, times when they felt close to each other, but Azel never let himself go. He was always watching himself, afraid of his impulses, and couldn’t manage to be spontaneous when they made love. When he was with women, there were pretty speeches along with the sex. With Miguel, Azel closed his eyes and said nothing.

Miguel had never considered the differences in their ages and cultures to be a problem. He saw Azel as a lost young man, destined to wind up among the dregs of Tangier in spite of his diplomas and intelligence. The boy was appealing and aggravating in equal measures, an incoherent collection of opposites with a distinct penchant for laziness, a readiness to coast along. Miguel often felt like shaking him, making him wake up and take more interest in what was happening to him. Miguel would have liked to see his lover change, take charge of things, the way he himself had done at Azel’s age, but he tried not to make comparisons. Life was even harder now, a constant battle; nothing was ever acquired or settled for good, whether you were a sexual outsider or the son of Catholic petty-bourgeois supporters of Franco.

Azel took care of things at the gallery in an uneven fashion. He astonished his employer with his sharp business sense and skill with people, charming clients, playing on his Oriental allure while at the same time relying on the Western efficiency he’d picked up from watching Miguel. Now and again, however, he would go off the rails, disappearing without warning for a few days only to return dirty, unshaven, and sad, not even deigning to explain himself to Miguel, who complained bitterly but helplessly. Miguel was growing convinced that Azel had fallen into the clutches of some drug dealer or pimp — but on that score, he was completely mistaken. When Azel went off on his own he was simply running to Soumaya, with whom he was discovering erotic delights he’d never had the time to explore with Siham. Soumaya was shameless, observed no taboos, and gave herself without hiding any of her passion for what she called ‘vice.’ She had a special way of languorously drawing her tongue all along Azel’s body, always lingering on his buttocks and between his legs. Whenever he asked her where she’d learned all these things that brought him so much pleasure, she told him it was intuition: freedom guided solely by desire!

One day, after Azel had returned from one of his brief stays with Soumaya, Miguel tried to put an end to his wanderings once and for all.

‘You smell of women! In this house, you hear me, no one is allowed to smell of females. And while I think of it: do not shave, and absolutely do not touch your moustache. Tomorrow we’re going to have some fun!’

Azel took a shower and awaited instructions. Miguel had invited some thirty people for a disguise party with the theme of ‘The Orient: Think Pink!’

Miguel was dressed as a vizier of the Arabian Nights, while most of his friends wore Moroccan djellabas or Turkish jabadors* and sarouals in every shade of pink. Shut up in the maid’s room, Azel didn’t know what to expect; he could hear the noise of the party but sat still, waiting. Then Carmen brought him a caftan, a wig that was almost red, a belt embroidered with gold, babouches, and a veil. Nothing but women’s clothes! Azel realized immediately what Miguel had in mind.

‘You get dressed, and you come downstairs only when I’ve rung for you,’ Carmen told him.

‘At your command, you old bag!’

Pretending not to have heard, Carmen disappeared. And then Azel abruptly saw, in his mind’s eye, his friend Noureddine, who had drowned in the straits. Terrified, Azel rushed to his mirror but saw only his own face, so tired and drawn it was almost a mask.

Rising to the challenge, Azel decided not only to play his employer’s game but to astonish him as well. He made himself up like a bride, took care to dress properly in the women’s clothing, adjusted his wig, and sat down again to wait. The little bell finally rang around midnight. Azel left the room and went slowly down the four flights of stairs. When he pushed open the door to the living room, everyone fell silent, gazing at him in admiration. Then the men began to compliment him.

‘But what a lovely statue!’

‘And such a perfect mélange — half woman, half man! Isn’t Miguel just spoiling us!’

‘Oh — the moustache! And look at that stubble! It’s simply so exciting!’

‘The loveliest catamite of the Maghreb!’

‘No, no, open your eyes, this is no pickup, and not some passing fancy, this is serious, I can tell you!’

Azel advanced like an actor or a dancer poised to perform his ballet.

Miguel was amazed, and agreeably so. Seizing Azel’s hand, he addressed his guests.

‘My friends, I’m delighted to present my latest conquest to you: the body of an athlete sculpted in bronze, with a piquant soupçon of femininity. Quite a stud! Educated, but familiar as well with the underworld of Tangier, that city of bandits and traitors. Neither bandit nor traitor, of course, Azel is simply a most beautiful object, an object to tempt every eye. Just look at his magnificent skin! You may touch it. Get in line, but don’t push, he’s right here, he’s not going anywhere. Run your hand along his hip, for example, and do restrain your impulses. He belongs to me, and I won’t have any fighting over him!’

Miguel was holding Azel firmly by the hand while the guests filed past him, one after the other, pretending to caress the young man.

‘Now,’ Miguel whispered in Azel’s ear, ‘you’re going to dance. And you’ll dance like a whore. You remember the fellow at the fair in Tétouan, the one who sold lottery tickets dressed as a woman? You’re that man, a bearded woman!’

Azel could not understand why Miguel was trying so hard to show him off and humiliate him; for a moment he thought Miguel might have drunk too much, or smoked some hashish.

He began to dance to some Egyptian music, moving his buttocks and thinking about his sister, so talented at Oriental dancing, but her image gradually became confused with Soumaya’s. Despite the tension in the air, Azel tried hard to concentrate, telling himself over and over that he was an employee, working for a lunatic boss. Cursing life and fate, he was flooded with shame but determined not to give in to regret and despair.

Towards two in the morning, Miguel abandoned him amid all those men, some of whom were drunk while others had collapsed half asleep onto the couches, alone or with partners. A group of young musicians arrived, but instead of playing, they began to copulate here and there throughout the house. Azel headed for the door to go upstairs to his room but found the way barred by a black giant, obviously a bouncer from some nightclub…

Sensing the trap Miguel had set for him, Azel tore off his wig, scrubbed his face, and went off to hide in a far corner of the kitchen, where he fell asleep like a forgotten child amid the crates of food and the empty bottles.

The next day, Azel shaved off his moustache and gathered his belongings with the firm intention of leaving that house forever. He had nowhere to go, but the bitter memory of the party welled up inside him like something sour and fetid. He could not bear to remain entangled in that situation. For the first time in weeks, he felt he had to write in his notebook, but when he opened it, no words came to him. He just drew a line across the page.

A few days later, pretending that nothing had happened, Miguel summoned him and began talking about his future plans.

‘That party was a wonderful idea! Why don’t we throw one in Tangier, in our house — I mean in my house on the Old Mountain.’

Azel did not welcome the suggestion.

‘Right! And this time I’ll be disguised as a monkey, a brood mare, or a beggar — why not!’

‘Really, you have no sense of humor.’

‘Easy to say, when the joke’s not on you.’

The idea of returning to Tangier wasn’t entirely welcome to Azel. He did want to see his mother again, of course, to throw himself into her arms while she recited a few verses of the Koran … but he was afraid of confronting Kenza, who was still waiting for her answer. Afraid as well of seeing his old friends, who would certainly spot him when he showed up with the Spaniard. Azel thought of Soumaya, too, who would be unable to come with him.

‘It’s a good idea, Tangier. But you said “our” house?’

‘Yes, “our” house, the way I might have said ‘the’ house, I mean, you know perfectly well that you’re at home whether you’re here or over there.’

‘What does that mean, “at home”? Does it mean I can do as I like in the house, that I can do what I want with it?’

‘If you want to know whether half the house belongs to you, it doesn’t.’

‘Because it belongs to someone else?’

‘Yes: to my children!’

This was the first Azel had heard of them.

‘Yes, I have in fact adopted two children, orphans whom no one wanted. They call me Papa and I’m very happy about that. We see one another only over the summer holidays, because they don’t live with me during the rest of the year, of course: I send them to a boarding school in Casablanca.’

Azel was now completely intrigued.

‘What are their names?’

‘They’re twins, Halim and Halima. They’re lovely children and quite smart. You’ll be meeting them soon. I’m thinking of having them attend the lycée in Barcelona, where they would be close to me. I miss them so much…’

‘They have your name?’

‘Not yet. For the moment, while I’m waiting for some administrative procedures to be taken care of (and you can’t imagine how complicated they are!), I look after the twins as if they were my own. They haven’t any identification papers yet. This is something very close to my heart. I don’t talk about it, I wait, but it’s always on my mind.’

After a moment’s hesitation, Azel asked him why he had adopted the children.

‘I belong to a Moroccan association created by some remarkable women. They take care of unwed mothers and abandoned babies, and whenever I visit them, I feel as if I’ve been put through a wringer. I knew that it was difficult to adopt children in Morocco; you can help them, but I don’t believe you have the right to give them your name. A religious authority explained to me that Islam thinks of every eventuality, even the most unlikely ones — with an eye to avoiding, for example, the possibility that adopted children who do not know who their biological mothers and fathers are might unknowingly have sexual relations with their parents, which would amount to unintentional incest. But I was also told that there are always ways to make arrangements. To me, they are my children. On paper, however, that’s not yet the case. I even intend to convert to Islam, if that would help move things along. So, Azel, now you know everything. Well, no — there’s still one question: why do I absolutely insist on adopting them? I thought about their lives and my old age. My gesture is both selfish and generous. Yes, I’ve been thinking ahead to the time when I will need people around me. It’s only human, after all; I don’t want to die alone like so many little old men no one wants anymore. In your country, the elderly are never abandoned, but it’s different here. Today, you are with me, a presence by my side. We even make plans together. The day will come, however, when someone else will come along, a man or a woman, and suddenly you’ll go off, dropping me like an old rag. Until that time, though, make no mistake: I’m no angel!’

Azel didn’t know what to say. He looked at Miguel with an admiration tinged, ever so slightly, with anxiety.

In mid-August, Miguel and Azel returned to Tangier, where vacationing émigrés jammed the boulevards and avenues with their cars, making traffic sluggish. And how they loved their horns! The police had no idea how to cope with the constantly complaining pedestrians, whom young men hired by the city were admonishing to cross the streets only at the crosswalks. Standing at intersections with loudspeakers and shouting in classical Arabic, these youths dispensed advice ignored by absolutely everyone. The city was dirty and overflowing with people, but as Miguel observed, ‘Here, there’s life.’

Azel went off to see his mother, who greeted him as if he’d just returned from Mecca. As soon as she laid eyes on him she burst into ululations, while Kenza tried frantically to calm her down. It was the return of the prodigal son. The neighbours were out on their balconies or terraces, watching as Azel arrived with two huge suitcases crammed with presents, and the only disappointment was that he’d driven up in a taxi instead of a big luxury car.

‘He came by plane,’ shouted Lalla Zohra, ‘by plane, and he left the car home in Spain… He returned to see his mother just before she goes away on a pilgrimage!’

Kenza made her be quiet: ‘Aren’t you ashamed — you really think you need to tell the entire neighbourhood all about your life, our family life?’

The first evening was a celebration. Azel talked and talked about himself, saying whatever popped into his head, exaggerating, lying, even though he wasn’t fooling anyone. Before they went off to bed, Kenza pulled him aside.

‘I can’t take any more of this country. Ever since you left, it’s gotten worse, there’s no way out, none. Luckily Monsieur Miguel thinks of us from time to time; you’re the one who sends us money, right? — but he’s the one who signs the money order.’

Azel hesitated for a moment; he’d known nothing about that.

‘Whether it’s his money or mine, it’s the same thing. But it’s still very hard to ask him for what you want.’

‘But you’re the only one who can do it! I don’t know him well enough to say to him, straight out like that, will you agree to a fake marriage with me?’

‘I know I’m the only one, but I’m afraid we’re pushing our luck, going too often to the well.’

‘Miguel is not a well!’

‘Of course not, but we can’t go too far — after all, he’s a man with principles.’

‘Then I’ll let our mother take care of it.’

‘No, absolutely not, she’ll spoil everything! And she’d risk losing the trip to Mecca he’s thinking about offering her.’

It was on an evening when they were dining alone together, in a charming little house in the nearby coastal town of Asilah, that Azel broached the subject with Miguel.

Miguel was neither surprised nor offended. He was quite familiar with that kind of subterfuge and preferred to follow the lead of his feelings, wherever they took him. He loved Azel and thus could refuse him nothing. His only fear was of being betrayed, double-crossed, stabbed in the back. He could talk endlessly about the methods and ravages of treachery. Miguel had read the works of Jean Genet and wondered why he loved to say that Tangier was the city of perfidy. Miguel knew there was something in Azel’s eyes that was difficult to put into words, a kind of pseudo-smile, an implicit way of revealing an inadmissible form of deception. But Miguel was also perfectly aware of his young lover’s weaknesses: money, women, and kif. By accepting this marriage with Kenza, he hoped to create a stability at home that would make Azel more manageable, more trustworthy.

‘But a non-Muslim man is not allowed to wed a Muslim woman!’ he pointed out to Azel.

‘Then now’s the time to convert to Islam! Married, you’d have an even greater chance of success with your adoption plan. Two birds with one stone!’

‘How does one convert?’

‘You go see two adouls, men of religion and the law, and you pronounce the shahada, the profession of faith: I affirm that there is no God but Allah and that Mohammed is His prophet.’

‘That’s it?’

‘You’ll also have to change your name and …’

‘And what?’

‘Get your dick circumcised!’

‘No, I’m too old for that, and anyway they’re not going to check up on me.’

‘When you go see the adouls, you have to make an effort to dress normally: no caftan! They’d be shocked, and might turn against you. No coral necklace, either, or too many rings. These are conventional people, there’s no sense in drawing attention to yourself.’

‘I know Morocco as well as you do and I am aware that it’s always better to be discreet. And here’s a piece of advice for you: appearances can be deceiving!’

‘Yes, I know: all that glitters is not gold. Senna kadhhak we el kalb kay thanne …’

‘Meaning?’

‘A smile on the lips and murder in the heart! I just thought that up. I like to quote proverbs now and then. When I can’t remember one, well, I make one up myself.’

And that is how, for love of Azel, Miguel married Kenza and changed his name to Mounir.