Leaving Tangier

17. Abdeslam

ABDESLAM LOVED TO STRETCH a white sheet out on the terrace of his house, and drift into a dream. He had no desire to leave his country. He was content to imagine what his life would have been like if he had emigrated. Ever since he’d lost his brother Noureddine, he had abandoned all his plans. Abdeslam had turned to religion and now prayed every day because he felt guilty for having encouraged his brother to try his chances on that damned boat. He’d even given him a good part of his savings to pay the passeur, Al Afia. Azel knew how that had gone, he’d witnessed the transaction.

‘Listen, the boat — it’s not some piece of junk, right?’

‘Of course not!’

‘How many people are you going to put on it?’

‘The legal limit: no more, no less. Why are you so suspicious?’

‘Because there’ve been a lot of drownings lately.’

‘I’m a professional, not a widow-maker. I do this to help the guys in the neighbourhood. I’m not going to get rich off these paltry sums of money.’

‘Paltry or not,’ Abdeslam had replied, ‘it was hard for us to get this sum together. I’m handing it over to you and it’s like giving away part of my flesh, it’s everything I have, so you’d better make sure everything goes well and that our ‘paltry sum’ counts for something.’

‘Hey, if you keep suspecting me of stuff and threatening me, take your precious money back and fuck off.’

Noureddine had calmed him down, and the deal was struck.

Abdeslam was a mason. He liked to build, to put stones in place one after the other and tell himself it was his hands that had done the work. He had the soul of a craftsman. Certain homes he had restored had even increased in value. He loved a job well done, hated getting to work late, and above all else enjoyed creating new spaces inside traditional old houses. Certain Europeans made a point of hiring him, which pleased him and made him even more demanding of himself and his workers.

Noureddine had smiled at his brother just before getting on the boat, and that image had haunted him ever since. Abdeslam had tried to form an association against those clandestine crossings and had managed to get together several families who’d lost loved ones. They met regularly at the mosque to pray together. More concretely, they had demanded that the authorities do something about this problem and had dared write to the king, begging him to put a stop to this hemorrhage. To their amazement, instead of the usual impersonal note, one of the royal councillors had sent them a lovely letter in reply. He had written with great human feeling to announce that the king would be appointing a commission to propose legislation on the problem for parliamentary debate, and that he sincerely regretted this situation that was so painful for Morocco and damaging to its image abroad.

Abdeslam was proud, because it had been his idea to write to the king. He had shut Azel up in a room so he would compose the letter. As for Azel, he hadn’t believed in it for a second.

‘You think the king has nothing better to do than read your letter? And even if by some miracle it reaches him, you seriously think he’ll do something, he’ll answer? Dream on. He’s got so many people around him he can’t even see out the window. They keep him from confronting reality, and all because those people, they’re afraid of losing their positions, so each day they tell him, Everything’s fine, Your Majesty, don’t worry about a thing, Your Majesty, and Your Majesty would like to visit the neighbourhoods where the clandestines leave from, Beni Makada, or Drissia, or Hay Saddam? At your orders, Your Majesty: we’re arranging that now with your security detail… Then they let him wait a few days while they spruce up those districts, repaint walls, clean out the undesirable elements, put a cop on every corner, and so on.’

That is how Abdeslam became an antideparture militant, a dedicated opponent of the passeurs. He went everywhere to talk with people preparing for the crossing, to explain that they had one chance in ten of reaching Europe. He distributed copies of the royal letter in certain cafés. But what could he say when they replied to him like this?

‘One chance in ten? Better than nothing! A gamble, a long shot. On the other hand, if we just sit here in this café, nothing will happen to us, absolutely nothing, and we’ll still be here in ten years, drinking the same lukewarm café au lait, smoking kif, and waiting for a miracle! In other words: some work, a decent job — well paid, with respect, security, and dignity…’

Abdeslam would have loved to produce miracles but he was only a mason, a man who had lost his brother and suffered day and night from that loss.

Whenever he tried to argue back, he stammered, and the men made fun of him.

‘Right, here it comes, you’re going to hit us with your lecture on the-country-that-needs-its-children, the-country-we-shouldn’t-abandon-because-if-everyone-leaves-there-won’t-be-any-country-left. Yeah, yeah, we love our country, but it’s our country that doesn’t love us! No one does anything to give us reasons to stay — haven’t you seen how things work here? You’ve got money, you spread it around, grease some palms, slip it into pockets, show you can be accommodating, and voilà! As long as it’s like that, how can you expect us to love this country?’

‘But, shit, I mean, the country is us, it’s our children, and their children!’

Azel had once intervened in the discussion at this point, when Abdeslam had been red-faced with anger, and there’d been something about the looks he’d gotten that disturbed him. The men in the café saw Azel as someone who had succeeded, but at a shameful cost. He bought a round of drinks and said his piece.

‘You know, I’ve seen Moroccans over there who are just wretched, they’re beggars, pathetic, drifting through the streets, living off chickenshit deals, it’s not a pretty picture. Listen to this: I’ve been hearing that Europe will soon need several million immigrants — those countries will come looking for you, and you’ll head off there proudly, without taking any risks at all.’

‘Only if we’ve got cute little mugs like yours!’ someone called out.

Another voice chimed in: ‘Easy to make speeches when you don’t work with your hands…’

Azel rose without a word and left, soon followed by Abdeslam. That evening, Azel confided in his friend.

‘They’re right. I am ashamed, but I’m also sure that they’re jealous. They would have done the same thing if they’d had the chance. Things are getting complicated for me at the moment; Miguel has just married Kenza, at least on paper, so she’ll get a visa and be able to leave Tangier. She’s going to live with us in Barcelona until she can find a job and a place to live. Even my mother’s hoping to join us! Can you imagine? It’s crazy! You want me to tell you something? I’m not in good shape… I don’t even know anymore just what I am in all this business. A falso, a fake through and through, always pretending, running away — I only feel comfortable when I’m with Siham, but she’s busy almost all the time and doesn’t even live in Barcelona!’

Abdeslam heard him out in silence. He did have one question he really wanted to ask, something hard to put into words.

‘You remember, when we used to go picnicking on the Mountain, and there were never any girls along? And after we’d eaten, Kader would disappear with little Sami, that chubby guy? He’d come back and say, Your turn, and we’d go off and find Sami waiting for us, lying on his stomach…’

‘Why are you saying this to me?’

‘Just to remind you that we had some experiences with boys! So, what I’d like to know is, how does that work with your Spanish guy? Who’s on top?’

‘I’m not a zamel, I’m a man!’

‘I knew it! Well, you know, little Sami — he got married and he’s got two kids, so that proves nothing is ever really certain forever. If you want to see him, he has an important job in the department of the treasury, head of a whole sector, where there’s lots of money changing hands under tables. Anyway, they say he got there by sleeping around, and that he leads a double life, that his wife knows about it but keeps quiet to avoid a scandal. See, things aren’t always so simple. In our country, the zamel is the other guy, the European tourist, never the Moroccan, and no one ever talks about it but it’s not true, we’re like all the other countries, except we keep quiet about those things. We’re not the kind to go on TV to admit we like men!’

Azel studied his friend for a moment, then asked what he was doing with his life.

‘Me, I build houses, rooms, love nests. I haven’t gotten married because boys … I like that. No one knows it, but I can tell this to you.’

‘You’re a homosexual!’

‘No: I switch back and forth, sometimes a man, sometimes a woman. Depends on the weather!’

‘Why the weather?’

‘Because in the summer the girls are wild about it, whereas boys, I prefer them in the winter. You’re my friend, hey — I’m trusting you, so whatever you do don’t tell anyone…’