Leaving Tangier

34. Kenza

THE PAPERWORK on the divorce was moving along. Miguel had warned Kenza that he would be away for a few months. Shortly before his departure, he sent her a package containing a gorgeous antique necklace and a considerable sum of money, along with a note: ‘My dear, I’m going far away, I’m rather worn out by everything that’s happening to me, so I’m looking for just the right distance between my hopes and this complicated life. It isn’t easy. I need some air, and most of all, to tend a garden of forgetfulness. Be happy, make me some children with this Turk, and I’ll raise them to keep sadness from spoiling my old age.’

That last advice was tempting, but Kenza still had her doubts about Nâzim. Whenever she spoke of the future, he became elusive. She was loving; he was hesitant, unable to express his feelings, whether from modesty or calculation, she couldn’t tell. They had been seeing each other for more than a year now and were still as perfectly compatible in bed. Kenza wanted to move forward, make plans, and start a family as soon as her divorce from Miguel came through. She loved this country, sent money regularly to her mother, still performed at L’Huile d’Olive, and occasionally agreed to appear at weddings, where Oriental dancing was fashionable. She was saving money, and had decided not to worry about Azel. Each to his own life and fate, she kept reflecting, as if to convince herself that he was not her responsibility.

And then Nâzim vanished overnight. Kenza looked for him everywhere, expecting the worst. She’d heard that the Spanish Department of the Interior had summoned a hundred illegal aliens from Mali and Senegal; lured by the promise of receiving proper documents, they’d all turned up at the police station at the appointed time. The police had been so nice to them that a few illegals had even started dancing in front of the station. Then they had been served hot drinks and little cheese rolls; no pork rolls, though, and they had appreciated that cultural courtesy. After their meal, the authorities had escorted them to a large hall, then apparently forgotten about them for the next hour or so, long enough for the sleeping pills dissolved in the drinks to take effect. The Africans all fell deeply asleep. Well-trained officers slipped handcuffs on them and bused them to a military airport where a plane awaited them. A few of the prisoners opened a drowsy eye, but could not manage to speak; their vision was blurred, and they couldn’t understand what was happening. On the plane, other officers gagged them and used an especially strong tape to bind them to their seats. The plane took off. A few hours later, the passengers awoke to find they had landed at the airport in Bamako, where the same officers released them from their bonds. Inside the plane, blows suddenly began raining down as seats went flying. The crew had shut themselves up in the cockpit; the pilot disapproved, of course, but preferred to ignore the whole thing. Going along with it, but not exactly consenting. Orders. There you are — he’d had his orders, although no one had gone into detail about the operation…

Meanwhile, the Malian authorities were in a spot, and wondered why the plane couldn’t have landed in Dakar. The revenants — as the Department of the Interior called them — were therefore released into the wild. The Senegalese took off, some for Dakar, others for northern Morocco. They wanted to return to Spain. They had nothing to lose.

It was the Spanish press that broke the story, denouncing the inhumane methods of Aznar’s government. The prime minister responded with his usual cynicism: ‘There was a problem, there’s no more problem, so where’s the problem?’

This sordid scandal tormented Kenza. Perhaps another charter had been arranged for Turkey? She reassured herself with the thought that there weren’t enough Turks in Spain to fill a plane. She went by the restaurant, where one of the waiters told her they hadn’t seen Nâzim for a week and gave her an address where she might find him. Kenza took a taxi to what proved to be a dark little street between the Barrio Chino and the Barrio Gótico. The entryway was dirty. A tipsy Latino was begging; she gave him a coin and asked him if he knew a Turk, tall, dark-complexioned, with a thick black moustache.

‘Ah, el moro, top floor in the back, the red door.’

She knocked on the door and called Nâzim’s name several times. Inside, she could hear only the voice of a child. She knocked louder.

‘Nâzim, it’s Kenza, open up, it’s important.’

The child was crying. Kenza could hear a woman trying to comfort him, and thought she must have been sent to the wrong address. Nâzim couldn’t live in this derelict building. Unless he was married and lived there with his family… Kenza felt guilty immediately for thinking that — and yet, anything was possible: Miguel had told her that, time and again. Now her doubts about Nâzim burrowed deep inside her, taking up all the space, gnawing at her, playing tricks on her and making her suffer. There was only one thing to do: find her man and put the question to him straight out.

The next day, towards the end of the afternoon, Nâzim reappeared, seeming tired and preoccupied. He explained to Kenza that he’d had to leave for Galicia for a well-paying job, which he hadn’t wanted to tell her about, because it had meant taking some risks. After a moment of silence between them, he took Kenza by the shoulder and spoke softly to her.

‘You know, Kenza, my life is complicated, I have debts I must repay to a very bad man. I can’t go into details, and anyway I haven’t even the right to talk about it, I’m asking you just to trust me.’

They had gone to a café. He put his arms around her. Kenza felt like crying, while her intuition kept telling her, Watch out, watch out. Nâzim got up to go to the bathroom. Then Kenza noticed that he’d dropped his wallet. She picked it up, placed it on the table, and stared at it. An insane idea came to her: If you open this wallet, you’ll discover something important. It was like a sign from fate. Still, she didn’t dare touch the wallet, but Nâzim was taking a long time… She reached out slowly towards the wallet and flipped it open with one finger. A photo. Showing Nâzim hugging a young brunette with long hair, flanked by two children. A family photo. The classic photo that fathers carry in their wallets. She couldn’t hold back the tears trickling down her cheeks. Nâzim finally reappeared, smiling, ready to spend a wonderful day with his beloved. Kenza had regained control of herself. She rose without a word, left the café, hailed a taxi, and vanished, leaving Nâzim alone on the sidewalk.