Marrakech Noir

Frankenstein’s Monster by My Seddik Rabbaj

Sidi Youssef Ben Ali

Marrakech is known for its seven patrons; we call it the city of the Seven Saints. Devout visitors all make the same pilgrimage from one mausoleum to the next, exploring the most intimate corners of the medina. This peregrination begins with the shrine to Sidi Youssef Ben Ali, born Abou Yacoub Senhaji, the revered sage who chose to live outside the walls of the Red City until his death in the year of the hegira 593 — more than a century after the capital of the Almoravids was built. It was because he had leprosy that he secluded himself, even digging a deep cellar where he could pray in isolation. Little did the holy man know that a community would form around this place in his honor, growing with the centuries to become Sidi Youssef Ben Ali, a neighborhood defined not only by its borders — it’s situated in the zone between the city and its suburbs — but also by the character of its inhabitants. Anywhere in Marrakech, when you introduce yourself as a son of Sidi Youssef Ben Ali, people react with an odd mixture of admiration and suspicion. These “sons” are known for their street smarts: they are cunning almost to the point of crookedness.

Long after his death, the saint continued to watch over his children, preparing them for life by instilling in them a certain self-sufficiency. Here, especially to the north, near the sanctuary, we start to earn our keep at an early age. Several businesses have sprouted up around the marabout’s tomb and we all take part in them, we children of the neighborhood. We begin by selling candles in front of the sanctuary, around the age of nine. Poor women who can’t afford to buy a full packet as an offering to the saint are content to bargain for a few of the singles that M’kadma, the sanctuary guard, collects and gives us to resell. This business allows us kids — and our supplier — to go home at night with a bit of cash in our pockets. And just as in ancient Rome, when slaves gradually accumulated wages to put toward their emancipation, this modest savings lets us buy our freedom. Our parents leave us to our own devices. We look after ourselves from childhood — or, rather, the saint looks after us.

As we grow up we take on new responsibilities. We become porters, not of luggage but of children — two- and three-year-olds, usually — who we carry down to a sort of underground hovel. We lock the child in there alone for a long while, listening with satisfaction as their screams pierce the darkness. Our saint is known all over the city for his power to cure fitful babies. Mothers bring their little ones who suffer from this particular curse — toddlers who cry for no reason, to the point of seeming possessed — and leave them with one of us. Our task is to place the ailing child in the hands of the saint before bolting up the stairs like a cat, leaving him or her lost in the blackness of the narrow cellar as if at the bottom of a well. The child wails and wails with all its might, and soon rids itself of its affliction.

In the summer we sell jujubes to the tourists visiting the shrine. It’s the same fruit we give to children instead of candy, and we also use it to treat coughs. In almost all our families we make it into a jelly that we store for the winter. Summertime is the season we love the most. There’s the school vacation, and we also earn good money. We pick the fruit in the Bab Ghmat Cemetery and sell it near the sanctuary in the afternoon.

Our mornings aren’t without fun. The cemetery becomes our playground, the ideal setting for our favorite game: hide-and-seek. An endless number of hiding places offer themselves to the connoisseur of this place. There are wild plants and jujube trees sometimes as tall as men, graves exposed by erosion and deep craters of mysterious origin. You would think meteorites had carved them out.

We have a tacit agreement never to let pieces of the dead lie around outside their graves. As soon as we find a shoulder blade, a tibia, a fibula, a phalanx, a rib, a skull, or any bone of the human body, we bring it to a designated hole in the ground that must be either an emptied grave or one of those craters of the necropolis. We have no idea who left the first bone in this place, but we continue to repeat the gesture as if it were our duty, a religious act or a ludicrous rite of passage for frequenters of the cemetery.

Here, in the summer, we become freer than in any other place. We roam the cemetery’s overgrown pathways, doing things we can’t do anywhere else: chasing stray dogs, talking to birds, masturbating in groups. We indulge in secret eccentricities, no longer inhibited by traditions and rules we don’t understand.

This is also the time of the year when we go to el-Hilal cinema. After the mausoleum closes we return home for dinner, bringing a watermelon, a cantaloupe, some peaches, or any other seasonal fruit, or simply a few dirhams to slip into our mothers’ hands. This contribution is obligatory as soon as we start to earn money. What we give to the household is always proportional to what we’ve made. After dinner we’re free to come and go as we please. When you’re a son of Sidi Youssef Ben Ali, you can revel in your freedom day and night. Usually we go in groups to see the double feature — most often kung fu and Bollywood movies — but if we’re short on cash we can resell our ticket to some other penniless filmgoer after the first show, and go out and buy a snack.

Once I went with some friends to the late-night screening and, bizarrely, a different sort of film was showing that night. It was Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus by Stefano Massini, based on the Mary Shelley novel. The story tells of Dr. Frankenstein, who creates a grotesque monster without a name or a family, a being built from the parts of several corpses, one who revolts against his maker and becomes capable of terrible crimes.

We didn’t need much French in order to understand the film; the images were eloquent enough on their own. We watched the events unfold before us, hunching forward in our seats. At the moment when the monster runs straight toward the camera and seems to want to jump through the screen, the electricity cut out. Voices rang out from all around the room — cries of protest at first, but then of fear and panic. We had no idea what was happening. Had the monster in fact come out from behind the screen to spread all this chaos and confusion, or was it the terror the film had awoken in us that made it seem so? We were used to these prolonged blackouts in Sidi Youssef Ben Ali — they often happened at wedding ceremonies and other important occasions, but never had a blackout seemed as strange to me as at that moment. I clung to a friend and tried to follow the line of spectators weaving their way through the crowd to the exit. I jumped at the slightest contact with other people, and could sense that my friend did too.

The next morning, as usual, we started the day by picking jujubes. We were hard at work when a friend came by to tell us that the bones we’d recently collected in the crater had disappeared. We stared at each other in silence. Cinema el-Hilal was directly opposite the Bab Ghmat Cemetery. We of course assumed the film must somehow be connected to the disappearance of the bones. Had they been cobbled together, like Dr. Frankenstein’s body parts, to form a single being? Or was it the monster who had climbed the wall to seek shelter in the necropolis? Did he feed on human bones? A thousand questions flashed through our minds, distracting us from the work we’d begun.

“Look! Look!” a fearful voice cried out. An arm pointed to a large creature, seemingly human, but of exaggerated proportions. He was tall and very thin, with a tuft of hair at the top of his head, and dressed all in rags — mostly old djellabas whose tattered ends flapped behind him like wings. Slowly but surely the heavy footsteps approached us. At this hour, the cemetery was usually empty. Neither gravediggers nor the tolba — the Koranic scholars who come to recite verses to soothe the souls of the dead — ever show any sign of life before nine o’clock. We knew them all, for that matter, and by their first names. And so the creature there among the dead, on that morning, was a stranger. The moment we realized this, we ran out from the shade of the jujube trees like a flock of wild birds chased by a predator. We took off toward the exit, paying no attention to the graves we trampled over, nor to the thorny plants that scratched our ankles. We left our harvest behind us, abandoning the only place where we felt truly at ease.

We described what we’d witnessed to all the children in the neighborhood, connecting it to Frankenstein. A few of them who hadn’t yet seen the film climbed the cemetery wall to get a look for themselves before returning glassy-eyed, pale, barely able to nod to confirm the existence of this bizarre creature who resembled a human yet wasn’t quite one.

Over the next few days, the news quickly spread throughout Sidi Youssef Ben Ali. Our parents were the first to voice their concerns. They were afraid for us, yes, but also worried that they might be deprived of our necessary help. We’d been out of work since the incident: the cemetery, our training ground in the jujube business, was now off-limits. We no longer dared set foot in that earthly paradise, not at any time of day or night. Not one of us was capable of facing the terror that took hold as soon as we thought of it. We kept visiting the saint every day, we prayed for him to set us free from the monster, but we would return home with empty pockets. We weren’t yet old enough to sell candles, or to bring little children down to the cellar near the saint’s tomb; at our age, selling jujubes was the only job we could do.

The adults in the neighborhood were growing increasingly concerned about the monster’s presence. One of the gravediggers claimed to have seen a bizarre creature in the cemetery that spoke to no one and hid there all day long. We wondered what he ate, how he survived, how he spent all those hours in this place of absolute rest.

“We can’t keep our children away from there forever,” the parents agreed. And so they went to the district’s police chief to report the existence of a creature in the neighborhood, an inhuman creature — Frankenstein’s monster. They didn’t dare say the name, even if some were sure of it, for fear of being mocked.

The police chief reassured our parents, promising them to put Inspector Chaloula on the case. Everyone in the neighborhood feared Chaloula. He knew all of us, right down to the ants that circulated in his territory, and even then he could tell the males from the females. When Chaloula was in charge of a case, he refused to sleep until it was solved. Our parents were satisfied, for they knew very well what Chaloula was capable of. The inspector was glad too, as he sensed this case would bring his reputation up another notch. But no one could have predicted what happened next.

Once he’d been briefed on his new mission, Chaloula went home to lunch. His plan was to have his squad burst into the cemetery early the next morning; this way, they would surprise the creature in his sleep. But around two o’clock, as he was walking along the cemetery wall on his way back to work, Chaloula doubled over as if he’d been shot. A few people saw and ran to help him, trying to pry his hands from his stomach and wipe away the foam coming out of his mouth as if he were a rabid dog, but their efforts were in vain. His soul had left his body to join the others behind the wall, his bulging eyes fixed on the necropolis.

The mysterious death of Chaloula terrorized the entire neighborhood, not to mention the police chief, who felt his own end approaching. He spent the whole night awake, tossing and turning, horrible images flashing through his mind. He no longer feared for himself but for his children; he was tormented by the thought that some harm would come to them.

The next day, before Chaloula’s burial, the chief brought his entire unit together, including the sentinel, and, like a swarm of bees, they invaded the cemetery. They looked behind every gravestone and up every tree, left no crater unexplored, no bush undisturbed, but it was no use — the monster had vanished.

One by one the chief called us into his office, all of us kids who’d seen the strange creature, and asked us to tell him about it. We all related the same story and described the creature in the same manner. He was able to accept that our monster was more than two meters tall — but that he’d escaped from behind the screen at el-Hilal cinema to go live in the Bab Ghmat Cemetery, or that he was somehow made from the bones we’d collected in the crater, seemed highly improbable to him. And yet, something in him began turning toward a supernatural explanation. He was Moroccan, after all, and he couldn’t shake off what he’d been taught from a young age: that the magical and the rational can and do coexist in our world.

While he was investigating Chaloula’s death, the chief got word that a strange creature had been seen in Bab er-Robb, the cemetery where Imam Abderahim Souhaili, one of the seven saints of the city, is buried. The description of this creature was nearly identical to the one we had given. And so the chief, escorted by two of his most trusted officers, rushed over to Bab er-Robb to arrest Frankenstein’s monster.

This wasn’t an easy affair. The demon resisted, kicking and throwing punches in all directions. He was so agile that, for a moment, the chief thought he might actually have a supernatural being on his hands. But the men were finally able to corner him, get him into the car, and drive him to the Sidi Youssef Ben Ali station.

As it turned out, this so-called monster was only a poor vagabond. A man who’d been so disappointed by the living that he now preferred the company of the dead.

“What’s your name?” the chief asked, his tone forceful.

“I forgot my name and I don’t want to remember it,” the creature replied, staring at an invisible point on the station’s wall.

“Why do you live in cemeteries?”

“No one bothers you in the kingdom of the dead,” the creature said.

The policemen soon learned that the monster survived on plants and the few animals he managed to catch in the necropolis. To him, all animals were good to eat: dogs, cats, birds. When asked why he’d left the Bab Ghmat Cemetery, he replied after a long silence — a silence that clearly irritated his listeners — that the living had come there to disturb the dead, and he didn’t like that. He thought the living should mind their own business.

The chief felt his blood boiling in his veins. He wanted to give this fool a good hard smack for daring to mock them, but managed to restrain himself for fear of losing precious ground in his investigation. “Explain to us what you’ve just said,” he demanded.

A silence fell over the creature again. None of the policemen dared to prod him, for they knew that the man before them was searching for his words, grasping for the power of speech he’d nearly lost after keeping his silence for so long.

Finally he spoke: “A woman and two men came to the cemetery in the middle of the night. Twice. They dug up a dead body and put it back in its rightful place. Then, the next night, they came back to the same grave, and under the full moon they exhumed the body and buried it again.”

His interrogators froze. They were certain that what they’d just heard was true: experience had taught them to read the truth in the faces of witnesses. But they couldn’t see the connection between this story and the death of their colleague.

“Let’s suppose that what you say is true. But what about Inspector Chaloula? You haven’t told us about that yet,” the chief said abruptly, hoping to catch the vagabond by surprise.

“Who’s Inspector Chaloula? I don’t know him, I’ve never even heard of him.”

“Chaloula is the man you killed before you disappeared.”

“I didn’t kill anyone, I’ve never killed anyone, it’s the others who’ve killed me many times over,” the vagabond asserted.

“And the bones that disappeared from the cemetery?”

“I buried them. Those who are in the ground should stay there,” the man added before retreating back into his silence and refusing to answer any more questions.

The chief gave the order to put the poor devil in preventive detention. He called in several other eyewitnesses to the inspector’s death, all of whom claimed that they’d never seen the vagabond, and that Chaloula had been walking alone when he’d suffered his fatal attack.

The results of the autopsy put the chief to a new test; it seemed his colleague had been poisoned.

After he’d briefed the squad, they decided it would be wise to go back and trace Chaloula’s movements on that fateful day. They learned that he’d had breakfast and lunch at home and a black coffee at work. And so they procured some of the coffee beans from his office and sent them to a lab that confirmed they were of good quality and contained no harmful chemicals. Then they called in Chaloula’s wife, who was still in mourning and barely able to respond to the interrogators’ questions. Although they knew her well, they didn’t spare her the discomfort of testifying. She described the meals she’d prepared for her husband that day, which the whole family had eaten. But the chief noticed that each time the word poisoned was spoken, the widow’s face went ashen and her lips trembled uncontrollably. He decided to risk everything and ask his next question with utter conviction.

“Why did you kill your husband?”

Those few words were all it took to make Chaloula’s wife burst into tears. She explained between sobs that an old woman, a charlatan, had sold her a fruit jelly that had spent the night in the mouth of a dead man. It was supposed to make her husband docile, incapable of raising his voice. She could then do with him as she pleased — that was how the old woman had explained it.

They brought in this charlatan who, seeing the widow’s tears, confessed her crime.

It turned out that the dead man in whose mouth the jelly had spent the night was a snake charmer. He’d forgotten to remove the pit viper’s venom gland after capturing it, and as he was putting it into a basket he carried on his back, the serpent took advantage of a moment’s distraction to sink its fangs into the man’s neck.

Translated from French by Katie Shireen Assef

An E-mail from the Sky by Yassin Adnan

Hay el-Massira

Ashbal al-Atlas Cybercafé: the name is so beautiful — the Atlas Lion Cubs. An extremely successful name. It is true there are no more lions or tigers in the Atlas Mountains near Marrakech, but there are still monkeys. Monkey and boars, as well as some wolves. It’s all right. The name is only a metaphor. A metaphorical name for a virtual space. The café is very spacious, Rahal. Not like the other narrow téléboutiques where you buried dozens of years of your life. Since you obtained your BA in Arabic literature from Cadi Ayyad University in 1994 you have tried, in vain, to join L’Ecole Normale Supérieure for teachers. The results are announced at the beginning of October and your name is never among the successful. And, like a mouse, you retreat to your corner in the téléboutique to eavesdrop on the lives of others from behind your old wooden desk.

“Hello, Fatima.”

“Hello, Lhaj.”

“Hello, Lhajjah.”

“Hello, cutie.”

“Hi, love.”

“Hello. Hello! Hello? You hung up on me, you bitch. Wait until I get my hands on you! Wait and see.”

Endless conversations. You provide coins for the customers, as you enjoy spying on their conversations and lives. But things began to change. With cell phones, the customers waned and the téléboutique income deteriorated, and life in this small place became boring. Things have gotten better now. The space has more potential than what you had been dreaming about. The screens now spread all around this place you have built, Rahal. The new mission you have been engaged in is to open doors for your customers on their midnight journeys to a refuge, toward morning lights and ports of virtual blue ether — a mission filling your heart with great pride.

Congratulations! Computers crammed deep to allow the customers to navigate, spellbound, to the screens anchored to the walls. Rahal, you’re able to spy on them all from your own computer. You are the only one with your back to the wall, so you can control the room and watch what goes on. And whenever you get tired of spying on the screens of others, you find your private computer in front of you. You can open your Hotmail account and up pops your happy virtual life, just like those of your customers. Life is better on the Internet, Rahal. Life is more beautiful and bright.

New cybercafés have proliferated along Dakhla Avenue and all over the streets of Hay el-Massira, an area that the government launched as a huge residential project in the mideighties. In the beginning, they were intended as houses for the middle class. Later, more economical apartment buildings spread like mushrooms — instead of the green spaces that were planned — bringing a great number of low-level employees before el-Massira was able to assimilate people from the neighboring villages. Provincial villages whose inhabitants practiced agriculture and shepherding in the lands west of Marrakech alongside the road to Essaouira. The lands that were turned into subdivisions and housing developments. Restructuring projects will eventually succeed in integrating these small villages whose children have mixed with those of the middle-class employees at Lycée Zerktouni to become, in turn, the “kids of the sector.” These kids are so proud of belonging to Hay el-Massira and patronizing the cybercafés on Dakhla Avenue.

Customers come and go. But a small group slowly begins to form around Rahal. Salim, a high school student spellbound by the new virtual world, has two e-mail accounts so far: a Hotmail and a Yahoo. He sometimes comes with his father and at other times with his little sister Lamya. Salim was the first to point out to Rahal that he should have a printer. He always looks for new sources of information on the Internet and needs to print his findings daily, which he uses to brag to his friends at school.

Samira and Fadoua always arrive, sit, and leave together. Their specialty: chat rooms. Together they merge into one virtual personality. They love to chat with young men in Arabic, French, and English. Their handle: Marrakech Star. Two in one: like shampoo and conditioner. Qamar ad-Dine al-Sayouti picks on them whenever they show up at the café. Qamar ad-Dine, the son of Shihab ad-Dine al-Sayouti, the most famous of Islamic education teachers at Lycée Zerktouni, and the one the students tell the most jokes about.

“Which of us is the shampoo? And which is the conditioner?” Fadoua asks him.

“To be honest, I am still not sure. When I decide you’re the shampoo, I’ll let you know.”

Qamar ad-Dine knows all the stories of Marrakech Star because Fadoua and Samira always bring their correspondence in English to him so he can explain to them what they don’t understand, and correct their answers so that their messages are sent with fewer mistakes.

Qamar ad-Dine’s English is good and so is his French. But he always says that his Arabic is unfortunately not so good. He doesn’t show any regret as he repeats this confession; on the contrary, a wicked pride appears on his face. Does he say this to spite his father, Shihab ad-Dine, the teacher of Arabic who switched to teaching Islamic education not for love of religion, but out of laziness and a desire to rid himself of grammar and syntax? Islamic education class is for both students of science and those in the humanities. Two hours a week for each group. Many students consider the session a break to be spent on the playing fields in front of the school, or at Rahal’s, for those who can afford it, especially because al-Sayouti does not take attendance.

In reality, Qamar ad-Dine doesn’t hate his father, but he does hate talking about him. He prefers the company of students not from Lycée Zerktouni, those who know nothing about al-Sayouti, who have never heard the jokes at his father’s expense. Fadoua and Samira are exceptions. Despite the fact that they are his father’s students, their relationship with Qamar ad-Dine is predicated upon the café and has nothing to do with the institution. He is a handsome young man who speaks different languages well. Therefore their relationship has been a real advantage for Marrakech Star.

Qamar ad-Dine is always available in the café, to the point that Rahal leaves him in charge when he has some errands to run. In exchange Rahal is lenient with him when it comes to payment. Qamar ad-Dine will sometimes pay for three hours and get five. Rahal makes him an unofficial assistant, even though Qamar ad-Dine is not aware of his secret promotion.

Qamar ad-Dine has begun to enjoy the adventures of Marrakech Star and their international e-conquests. This one is serious, that one chaste, and the other shows promise. This one wants to come to Marrakech to visit an eye doctor, and inquires about the best hotel and airlines. The other suggests that she come visit London; he would take care of the flight and she is welcome to stay in his apartment for a week, or even a month — if she can, of course. Another suggests, with suspicious reverence, that she come for a minor pilgrimage to holy Mecca.

When Amelia the Nigerian arrives at the cybercafé, Marrakech Star fades away. Fadoua notices that Qamar ad-Dine is totally distracted whenever she shows up. Sometimes Amelia comes alone. Other times her friend Flora accompanies her. Yakabo always joins them later. Maybe it’s a trick so that Rahal won’t tell them not to share one computer. The cybercafé’s regulations are clear: two people maximum per computer.

No one knows how Yakabo is related to Amelia and Flora. Is he a brother? Some other relative? A lover? With Africans it can be difficult to guess. In any case, they are lucky: apartment owners don’t ask them about their documents. They don’t scrutinize them as they would Moroccans. Young Moroccan men find it hard to live with their female friends without marriage documents. But with the Africans no one cares. Even if they are Muslims from Mali or Senegal. That’s why they live together. They can pile between five and ten people into a small two-bedroom apartment. Qamar ad-Dine doesn’t pay attention to these details. He is not in love with Amelia. He is just glad to see her. She makes him happy and her smile delights him, and that’s all he can ask for. It is also a chance for him to practice English with her. However, there is another dynamic at play — a somewhat sensitive one. And it is better to keep it to himself, especially in front of Fadoua and Samira.

Qamar ad-Dine wants to leave the country in any way possible. He is tired of Shihab ad-Dine and the boring life he has at home and at school. And even this damned cybercafé he seems to be addicted to. He is fed up with Rahal’s snooping. Whenever he looks up he finds him staring at his screen. He is tired of the small talk of history teachers at school. They come in groups to the café, as if they’re going to the mosque. They hog the computers and instead of surfing the net they begin to talk as if they’re in the teachers’ lounge. They say that life under Hassan II was abominable and that the country’s conditions have improved a lot with the coming of the new king.

Expanded freedom, new vitality, and initiatives for change. Qamar ad-Dine does not pay attention to the tales of his father’s friends. He doesn’t see any change at all. Who cares what they think about life under Hassan II? He was a young kid back then. And now he feels he has grown up and that he doesn’t want to regress. He doesn’t have any time to waste on such conversations.

Qamar ad-Dine longs for another life, the life he sees in movies and on TV. Life as lived by God’s chosen people in the north. Qamar ad-Dine wants to escape from here. Emigration is a sacred right. He doesn’t want to stay in a place that chokes him with creatures he doesn’t like. He doesn’t understand why he doesn’t have the right to eject this entire boring world from his days and nights, from his life, from his future, and move on.

“Of course I’m Christian. Why do you want to know?” Amelia asks.

“Just an innocent question. Can we talk outside?”

She leaves Flora staring at the screen alone. She apologizes to her in a Nigerian dialect; Qamar ad-Dine only picks up the name Yakabo, which was repeated three times. Outside he invites her to Milano, a café across the street. He discovers she smokes. As soon as Asma the server puts a cup of coffee in front of her, she takes out a pack of cigarettes: Marquise. She lights one and hands the pack to Qamar ad-Dine.

“Thanks, but I don’t smoke. I’ll be quick. I want to learn about Christianity from you. I mean: I want to know more. I read online about the Holy Trinity and Unitarianism. About Christ’s humanity. About the differences between the Eastern Orthodox Church and Catholicism and also between Lutheranism and Anglicanism. I also read the Sermon on the Mount ten times and I learned part of it in Arabic, French, and English,” Qamar rambles. “Want proof? Here’s a quote: You have heard that it was said, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. But I say to you, do not resist an evil person; but whoever slaps you on your right cheek, turn the other to him also... and whoever wants to... whoever wants to... Wait, I forget. Here’s another quote: You have heard that it was said, you shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy. But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. There is also, Ask and it will be given to you. I memorized them. Listen—”

“No! You listen, Qamar—” she interrupts.

“Abd al-Massih, the Servant of Christ... My new name is Abd al-Massih... You’re the first person I’ve confessed this to. You must keep it between us.”

“Listen, Abd al-Massih, there seems to be some confusion here. When I told you I was Christian, I was talking about the family religion. Believe me, I am not as Christian as you imagine. I don’t go to church, I don’t read the Bible, and I don’t know the Sermon on the Mount. I’m Christian and that’s all. Take it as it is. Let’s get back to the cybercafé, please. Flora is waiting for me.”

Qamar ad-Dine is disappointed. His discovery of Christianity is new. He had started with porn sites. And because this son of a bitch who runs the cybercafé was whipping him with his obtrusive looks, Qamar ad-Dine changed gears toward emigration sites. Then he switched to random groups on the Net. Then one day he found himself on the other side following Jesus Christ: I will follow you wherever you go, and Jesus said to him, the foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.

You’re right, teacher, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.

Qamar ad-Dine was shocked to receive Amelia’s cold answer. He is in dire need of someone to support him in these sensitive times of his Internet searches for the truth. Amelia is his angel, his mother in the cybercafé. His mother. His sister. No difference. He finds in her smile the good-heartedness of the saints. But she has disappointed him and that hurts him a lot. Imagine: she doesn’t read the holy book and does not know the Sermon on the Mount!

As for Amelia, she was quite shocked as well. Flora and Yakabo had pointed out to her that Qamar ad-Dine is fond of her. Or at least he is very interested in her. Since then she has been watching him too. She finds him handsome and she likes his teasing, joyfulness, and politeness; his good English; his polite way of speaking. Why not? A sweet young man who deserves her attention. Amelia was ready for anything with Qamar ad-Dine. From fervid passion to passing adventure. When he invited her to the café, she joined him without hesitation, happy and enthusiastic. But the silly man had dragged her into a heavy conversation about the Holy Trinity and the Sermon on the Mount. Amelia knows about Qamar ad-Dine’s obsession with emigration, but she could not have imagined his craziness would lead him to choose Christianity as an excuse to leave the country.

Besides, her family has been Christian for generations, from grandfathers to fathers and grandmothers to mothers. If following Christ made it possible to emigrate to Europe, she would have done it from Lagos, honored and revered, and would not have had to do it the hard way through the Sahara before she and her companions found themselves stuck in Morocco.

They have succeeded neither in crossing to Spain nor in going back home to face family and friends with their failures after spending their money on a strenuous, long, and senseless journey.

Qamar ad-Dine seems to enjoy playing the role of everybody’s friend in the cybercafé. Moving from computer to computer like an e-butterfly: one time with Salim, helping him complete a school report; another time with Fadoua and Samira, translating an e-mail in English they had just received on Hotmail as Marrakech Star. Sometimes he replaces Rahal when he goes out. Other times he whispers with Yakabo after discovering that the Nigerian is more religious than his two friends.

The opposite of Abd al-Massih was Abu Qatadah.

He doesn’t speak to anyone. He enters the cybercafé with his right foot, reciting al-Mu’awwidhatayn, the verses of the Koran about refuge. Of course, greeting Muslims is imperative. But Abu Qatadah finds it hard to say assalamu alaikum whenever he enters the cybercafé and finds the two half-naked girls Fadoua and Samira there, and between them that procurer unjustly and falsely named Qamar ad-Dine, the moon of faith.

“What Qamar ad-Dine? Qamar of shit, indeed. Qamar of grief, not Qamar ad-Dine. God curse his birth.”

As for the Africans, Abu Qatadah is keen on staying away from them.

It is true that there is no preference for Arabs over non-Arabs. Neither is there preference for white people over black people. Preference is only through righteousness. Yet to Abu Qatadah, the faces of the Africans do not convey any prudence or righteousness. Not because they are black, God forbid! Bilal, the prophet’s muezzin, was a black man of Ethiopian origin who had been endowed by Islam with a respected status to a point where the Prophet Muhammad called him a man of paradise and said about him: The muezzins will have the longest necks of the people on the Day of Resurrection. Abu Qatadah noticed Yakabo’s neck is long and thin like that of a giraffe. But his dark face is a long way from emanating the light of Islam, and the same is true for the two ugly girls who barely leave his side. They look like a pair of goats. Curse all three of them!

His name is actually Mahjoub Didi. He’s an employee at RADEEMA, the electricity and water authority, and married with two children. What disturbs him more is a burdensome colleague singing to him, “Didi didi didi didi didi.” His rudeness caused his friends to avoid humming Cheb Khaled’s famous song in front of him, but they still joke about it in his absence. As for the nickname Abu Qatadah, it was coined by one of the brothers, God bless him, in a fragrant dhikr ceremony. Since then, his name in divine gatherings and on luminous websites has been Abu Qatadah, as a good omen of the sublime sahabi (a companion of the prophet) Abu Qatadah al-Ansari al-Khazraji, may God be pleased with him.

“Big Brother is watching you!”

Qamar ad-Dine repeats this from time to time, mocking Rahal.

“So sorry. I mean Little Brother is watching you!”

The entire cybercafé shakes with laughter.

One must acknowledge that Rahal’s English is below average. As for his knowledge of English literature, it is no more than Amelia’s knowledge of Imam Malik School. In any case, Rahal is a student of Arabic literature, his specialty being ancient poetry — the hanging poetry of the Jahiliyyah, Umayyad, Andalusian, and Moroccan periods. As for novels, he doesn’t read them in Arabic, which he is very good at, so how could he read them in other languages?

And because no one ever explained to him the reference to the famous novel by George Orwell, where Big Brother is watching everybody, he has always wondered why Qamar ad-Dine brags about his brothers, the small and the big, despite the fact that he has only one sister, a graduate student in Rabat.

“Little Brother is watching you!”

Qamar ad-Dine’s innuendos do not bother Rahal. But Qamar ad-Dine often gripes about the way Rahal violates his customers’ privacy, having no shame fixing his mouse-like eyes on their computer screens. In the first stage of Qamar ad-Dine’s virtual life, when he was addicted to porn websites, this bothered him a lot. Even today, he hates it when someone snoops on him. So he began to avoid sites with pictures of churches, icons, and other religious imagery. Most often he copies the text and pastes it on a blank page, then he takes his time reading it in Word. And when he finishes, he moves the file to the trash bin and signs out.

But in Rahal’s kingdom there are no trash bins. As soon as the last customer leaves the cybercafé after midnight, Rahal takes a few minutes, sometimes even an hour, to clean up the computers. He checks them one by one, rummaging through the hard drives and discovering the secrets of the customers’ digital worlds. Many leave their e-mail accounts and forum memberships open. Brother Abu Qatadah, for example, right after he hears the call to prayer, closes the site and leaves, yet the blog remains open, along with any discussions between the brothers. Sometimes it’s about the duty to fight and sacrifice the self if an occupier reaches a Muslim land; other times about using electoral fraud to win government office. Often the discussions are heated — and they almost always involve the topic of elections.

The brothers object to the heresy of the candidates’ self-promotion and to the idea that all members of society have equal voices no matter what their degree of learning and piety is. As for Abd al-Massih’s courses and his chapters of Holy Scripture, Rahal retrieves them from the trash and copies the Arabic versions to his private computer so he can take his time reading them the following day.

Of course, this takes some extra effort on Rahal’s part before closing, but he is the one who signed up the customers in the first place. He records all their usernames, real or pseudonymous, and their passwords as well. No secrets. Rahal knows everything about the subjects of his happy cyberkingdom. Even the Nigerian community in Ashbal al-Atlas Cybercafé — their secrets have been revealed to Rahal since they moved to the electronic sphere. Amelia and Flora are lesbians. Amelia is crazy in love with Flora, but they sell themselves to men while they wait to enter the prominent and growing underground gay community in Marrakech. Yakabo works for them as an escort, bodyguard, and pimp. His relationship with Flora is for cover, silly Qamar ad-Dine. Only for cover, you fool.

Indeed, Rahal. You see them move like puppets in front of your eyes. They do not know how close your hand is to them at all times: their real names and pseudonyms, innocent virtual friendships as well as illicit adventures. You’ve got them, Rahal, but you have to be smart. Be very cautious and conceal these secrets; keep them to yourself, you little weasel. Otherwise, if Abu Qatadah learns that Qamar ad-Dine has deviated from Islam, converted to Christianity, and changed his name, or that the Nigerian girls are sapphic sex workers, he might declare holy war right now in the middle of your cybercafé. And so Rahal enjoys spying on the members of his new family — and at the same time remains devoted to providing everyone with the illusion of safety. Indeed, here they are at home and in the hands of their happy families here in these virtual jungles of Ashbal al-Atlas Cybercafé.

But Rahal made a critical mistake by entrusting Abu Qatadah with Abd al-Massih.

Whenever Rahal has to run an errand, he reminds Abd al-Massih to take great care with Abu Qatadah: “Your brother Mahjoub Didi is a jackass and is easily confused when it comes to computers. Therefore remember, Qamar ad-Dine, that if you leave him alone he’ll become irritated, and then the cybercafé will lose money waiting for me to reconnect him with his brothers in God. So please treat him as a valued customer.”

Abd el-Massih has always volunteered to help Abu Qatadah. The last time, after Didi’s computer crashed, he willingly gave him his favorite PC in the café. He did not know that he had made the mistake of a lifetime.

Abu Qatadah could not betray his brother in God, Shihab ad-Dine al-Sayouti. They go to el-Massira Mosque together and a strong trust and friendship has grown between them. So how could he learn of such a bad secret and not inform his brother? It would be a big betrayal. And Abu Qatadah would never betray Shihab ad-Dine. And so he informed him of exactly what he saw.

“Your son was having a discussion with Gerges the Copt as if they were, God forbid, of the same religion. Qamar ad-Dine was calling him Brother Gerges, and in return the Egyptian called him Brother Abd al-Massih. Then the enemy of God — the Copt — wrote to him a verse, which seems to be from the book they call holy. We know how falsified it is and full of deviations: For even as we have many members in one body, and all the members don’t have the same function, so we, who are many, are one body in Christ, and individually members one of another. At this point, my dear friend, the muezzin announced the prayer and I brought the news straight to you. As I ran I repeated the supplication reported by Aisha, God be pleased with her, which the prophet had made: O Controller of the hearts, make my heart steadfast in your religion.”

It happens like this: Shihab ad-Dine does not wait for the prayer, believing he has broken his wudu’, or ablution. He leaves the mosque and hurries toward the cybercafé. Rahal has returned and Abd al-Massih is going over receipts when Shihab ad-Dine enters in a state no one has ever seen him in before: he’s panting and shaking as if he ran all the way there. Abd al-Massih does not understand what is going on when Shihab ad-Dine jumps on him, drops him to the ground, and begins to kick him. No, he is not kicking him — he’s trying to, but he doesn’t know how. Now he’s biting him — tries to bite again, but his teeth fail him. He pulls his son’s hair. He pulls it with both hands, then he lets go of it, drags him violently, and smashes his head on the ground, howling like a wounded wolf, the blood boiling in his veins. He slaps his son’s face, then screams: “A Christian, you dog! A Christian, you apostate! When you finished high school but decided against college, we thought you had a different way of looking at life and the future, and we let you be. When you quit the mosque we said, You are inexperienced but you’ll wise up, and we neglected you. Since you’ve been living in this infected hole, we’ve thought, Let him discover the world, and we did not watch or question you. And the result? Now you are Christian, you dog. If you were gay and the fornicators fiddled around with your ass, we could pray for your protection. If you doubted God, we could say even Abraham became troubled, doubted, questioned, and then his heart became peaceful, so we would pray that you be guided on the right path. But a Christian, you dog, a Nazarene, as if God Almighty did not choose this nation and from it the last prophet!”

Many did not understand what really happened that night.

The ambulance would take Shihab ad-Dine, who had a severe nervous breakdown, to the hospital. Qamar ad-Dine spent the night in the cybercafé since he couldn’t face his mother after this shameful news. As for Mahjoub Didi, didn’t visit the cybercafé for more than a month. Is he afraid of Qamar ad-Dine or Rahal? But then, when he suddenly returns one evening, no one talks to him, nor does he talk to anyone else.

“You’re a good person, Marrakech Star.”

Fadoua and Samira insist on visiting Shihab ad-Dine at the clinic. Salim and his sister accompany them. Rahal apologizes. But what the two girls did not expect was that Yakabo, the Nigerian with the giraffe-like neck, would insist on accompanying them to visit al-Sayouti. His insistence seemed strange at first, especially since the group consisted only of the teacher’s former students, but with Yakabo, no one is sure of anything. What should have been a quick ten-minute visit for them to check on the teacher and then leave lasts exactly two hours, enough time for them to deplete the stockpile of juices that visitors have left near Shihab ad-Dine’s bed over the previous two days.

Fadoua speaks first, saying that she can’t believe what was said about Qamar ad-Dine, especially since it came from Mahjoub.

“Everyone in the cybercafé knows that Mahjoub hates Qamar ad-Dine, despite the fact that your son never hesitated for a minute to help him whenever he had an issue. But Mahjoub’s heart is full of hatred. He hates everyone in the cybercafé, especially Qamar ad-Dine. I am afraid he has fed you some false information.”

Yakabo jumps in. His French is confused, but not his thoughts; they are clear, and his assertion makes al-Sayouti sit up in his bed. “Monsieur al-Sayouti, there is some truth to what Mahjoub said. Your son Qamar ad-Dine is fascinated by the idea of emigration and wants to leave the country at any cost. He stupidly thought that claiming to be Christian would make it easier for him to move to Europe. He asked me many times about this matter. He might have used a Christian pseudonym to get in touch with those he imagined could help him achieve his goal. Later he began to talk about Georgia. I don’t know who pointed him in this direction. Maybe because many Egyptian Copts indeed began to emigrate there. This does not mean that Qamar ad-Dine has converted to Christianity. Never... this is impossible.

“First of all, for your son to become Christian, he has to first be baptized. Jesus himself was baptized. John the Baptist performed the ceremony on him in the Jordan River. I know that no priest immersed Qamar ad-Dine in water, nor sprinkled him with holy water in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Before baptism, the church chooses new parents who agree to adopt him. He would take their family name, and they would choose a new first name for him. Nothing of this happened with Qamar ad-Dine. You’re his only father before God, the angels, the saints, the mosque, the church, and the whole world. As for the name Abd al-Massih that Mahjoub mentioned, this is just one of the many pseudonyms we all use online. Your son is reckless, sir, but he is not a Christian. To be Christian, one has to practice the ritual of confession, and your son did not confess anything, neither to a priest nor to anyone else. There is no confession, only this misleading defamation from Mahjoub Didi, and it is unfortunate that you blindly believed him. But don’t worry: Fadoua, Samira, and I will be back tomorrow to visit, and we’ll bring Qamar ad-Dine with us and you’ll hug each other. Tomorrow morning. Tomorrow morning, Monsieur Shihab ad-Dine.”

Shihab ad-Dine begins to shake, touched to his core. The big cloud hanging over him dissipates in front of his eyes. He doesn’t know how to answer this thin, long-necked African. He wishes he were able to hug him — even before hugging his son when he comes to visit tomorrow. Al-Sayouti looks completely baffled. Confused. But deep inside he’s very happy. A befuddled happiness he doesn’t know how to express. He finds a few extra juice boxes and offers them to the group: “Have some more, friends... drink some more juice.”

Zou-l3izah@hotmail.com. The e-mail address is strange, a reference to one of God’s ninety-nine names. As for the subject line of the message, it appears between ellipses:... the reminder...

“And remind, for indeed, the reminder benefits the believers. Allah the Magnificent is truthful. But go ahead and open the e-mail, Abu Qatadah.”

His hand trembles. He doesn’t know why or how, but it trembles. And from the first sentence he understands that the affair is significant:

Mahjoub’s face turns pale. He thinks about the Prophet Muhammad (God’s blessing and peace be upon him), the best of mankind, and how panic-stricken he must have felt when he received the revelation.

Mahjoub’s mind has been abducted. But he holds his head high as he moves deliberately out of the café, as if he were walking on clouds like a somnambulist. He doesn’t look toward Rahal, nor does he think about paying him.

Abu Qatadah isn’t here. He is fully absorbed and oblivious. He’s almost blind.

Abu Qatadah disappears for three whole days. When he returns he doesn’t bother to greet or even look at anyone. He rushes to the first available computer he sees and signs on to his e-mail. But when his inbox loads, he’s disappointed — as if he hasn’t found what he expected. Rahal watches him with amusement. He doesn’t understand what’s going on with Abu Qatadah. Mahjoub remains fixed in front of the screen for more than ten minutes. He doesn’t even try to move the mouse. He’s as motionless as an idol. Suddenly his features relax, his face lights up, and he whoops: “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar!”

Amelia, Flora, and Yakabo look at each other. Salim and his sister glance from him to Rahal, who remains surprised. As for Qamar ad-Dine, he’s busy with his computer, deep into whatever he’s doing. Qamar ad-Dine has completely avoided Mahjoub since he snitched on him to his father.

The message doesn’t come directly from the Almighty this time, but rather from an angel who doesn’t mention his name. According to the e-mail, his position in the All-Merciful’s group of angels is 8,723, and his e-mail address is Malak8723@hotmail.com. The orders of the angel are very specific:

Every three days, Abu Qatadah visits the cybercafé, but in vain, only spending a few minutes there each time. At the café, the rumor is that he has stopped going to work. Rahal confirms to the other patrons that he has lost his mind.

Mahjoub dissociates himself from the maddening crowd, fully devoting himself to fasting, praying, and reciting the Koran in preparation for the holy e-mail. After more than a full month has passed, exclamations of “God is great!” can be loudly heard in Ashbal al-Atlas for a second time. Mahjoub is transfixed in front of the computer when the prophesied message pops up. Angel 8,723 finally appears, once again with extremely detailed instructions:

“Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar!” Mahjoub exclaims as he leaves the cybercafé.

Rahal laughs his head off. “It’s really happening: angels are calling the prayer up his ass! Check on Mahjoub, people. He’s really lost it.”

We can divide the youth of Hay el-Massira into two types: the locals and the newcomers. The latter are the ones who came to live in the neighborhood from the Old Medina, and who retain deep links to their original neighborhoods. Their families and childhood friends still live there, and it is normal that they stay in touch with them. As for the locals, they are the true neighborhood people, born and raised there in the late eighties and nineties. They only know Hay el-Massira. Some of the locals may leave their neighborhood for Daoudiate, where Cadi Ayyad University is, or Gueliz, where the cafés, restaurants, hotels, bars, and cinemas are, but they always return to the warm bosom of Hay el-Massira, while their experience of al-Moravid, al-Mohad, and al-Saadi Marrakech remains quite limited. They are not the crazy tourists who go to Jemaa el-Fnaa to take pictures of monkeys and snakes.

This time you have no choice, Qamar ad-Dine. You have to go. You need to be on-site to follow the last episode of the series. You have to be in the heart of the event.

Qamar ad-Dine arrives before ten. He crosses the huge Arset el-Bilk. The barouches are lined up next to the garden in perfect order, even the horses are well disciplined, calm, and barely moving. Maybe they anticipated a long day of wandering the streets of Marrakech, so they are saving their energy. The barouches’ owners are crowded in small groups around teapots and small plates of bissara, dried fava bean soup with olive oil. Qamar ad-Dine crosses the square, which is still empty of visitors and entertainers. He orders orange juice from one of the carts spread around its perimeter. The juice refreshes him. He walks around for a while, then goes up to the Argana Café. He orders a cup of coffee and he lingers upstairs, surveying the square from above. White clothes are not strange on Fridays. That is why Qamar ad-Dine doesn’t notice Abu Qatadah at first. But when hysterical screaming breaks out in the heart of the square, as people crowd around a crazy person brandishing the Koran and a wooden sword while shouting, “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar!” and threatening the enemies of God as infidels and hypocrites, Qamar ad-Dine rises to his feet as if he has been stung by a snake. He forgets to pay for his coffee. He runs downstairs and into the square to take a photo of his hero — no, Qamar ad-Dine, this is not the Mahjoub Didi you know. He has lost a lot of weight and his face looks stressed and pale, as if he hasn’t slept in days. The man is truly crazy, his eyes cloudy and distant, staring at the people in front of him without seeing them. “God is great!” he repeats, before continuing to rant and rave. Qamar ad-Dine distinguishes the words God the Almighty, Gabriel, Michael, and angel 8,723. Mahjoub announces the angel’s number in French as if he were talking to his colleagues at work about an electricity or water meter. No, Qamar ad-Dine, the man has gone far beyond the role you laid out for him.

Qamar ad-Dine panics. He wants to punish Mahjoub for his defamation with this trick. Perhaps pull his ear — no more and no less — but the man has lost it, Qamar ad-Dine. The man has lost it.

The police surround the square. It’s difficult to disperse the crowd. Visitors are enjoying the show, entertainment being the reason they come here in the morning and evening in the first place. And this is exceptional entertainment, unmatched by any of the halqas of dancers and storytellers. Fresh like the orange juice one gets from the carts around the square. Two journalists show up and begin to take pictures of the crazy man as he is arrested.

When Qamar ad-Dine walks past el-Massira Mosque on his way to the cybercafé, he hears Mr. Belafqih deliver the sermon. His brain is frazzled and he doesn’t pay it any attention. He thinks, They are all there listening in reverence: al-Sayouti, the teachers of Lycée Zerktouni, and Salim, who goes to the mosque only on Fridays. But Mahjoub Didi was not among them. For the first time Abu Qatadah has missed Friday prayer in the neighborhood mosque.

A tear runs down Qamar ad-Dine’s cheek. He thinks about going into the mosque to pray and seek forgiveness from God, but he can’t. So he proceeds toward the cybercafé. His face is pale and he feels weary. He tries to ignore everyone inside and bury himself in the first available PC. But the entire gang is there, crowded around one computer. Even the three Africans are among them.

“Come here, Qamar ad-Dine,” Samira calls out. “Come see the scandal!”

They are gathered around Rahal, watching a live video on Marrakech Press: a crazy Salafi is assaulting Jemaa el-Fnaa and terrorizing the tourists.

Translated from Arabic by Mbarek Sryfi

A Twisted Soul by Karima Nadir

Amerchich

I don’t really know if I discovered life’s pleasures early on. Certainly I found the route to death ahead of time. I smoked my first cigarette on the roof of my friend Latifa’s house. We used to call her M’kirita, after the small cake glazed in honey, because she was so tiny for her age, with her pale chestnut hair and her hazelnut eyes. She lived in Mellah and was three years older than me; I was fourteen then. We bought five Marlboros, glancing around the whole time to make sure we hadn’t been spotted, and went up to the roof. It was autumn. We hid ourselves in an isolated corner and smoked, keeping keen eyes on the front door from above, so that we’d see when Latifa’s mother came home. The first drag of that first cigarette tasted like victory; of whom, over whom, I don’t know.

A year later, in the same corner, we smoked a joint I’d been given by my comrade Fattah. He was an undergraduate and I was a freshman in high school. After smoking half of it we stretched out on our backs, Latifa and I on the roof, laughing at anything and everything — until the laughter broke its hold over us a little and we let it go. We were writhing and squirming as though the very rays of the sun were tickling us. I didn’t become a true smoker until after I gave birth, but from the first time I tried hash I experienced a profound kind of pleasure. Later I would smoke what Fattah gave me in installments: making, for every two drags, an attempt at poetry.

My son Selim, who is now seven years old, lives in Marrakech. I had him out of wedlock and in, so I thought, love. His father was a leftist — I adored his idealism: dreams of revolution, the cares of the proletariat, the Palestinian question, Guevara. I was a law school student back then, and had joined an organization on the far left. And since I loved poetry and literature and music, I turned easily into a dense bundle of romantic revolutionary attitudes. A year and a half into our relationship, I discovered I was pregnant. That revolutionary romance rendered abortion impossible: if I stole the right of this creature to life, I could never return to all those slogans I had recited so proudly, to myself and others, like sacred texts. I didn’t expect my partisan to evade his part of the responsibility — not he, who preached life as unending struggle! I had believed that in accordance with the ethics of the revolutionary, he would take a position of immediate gallantry. Instead he made it clear, over the phone, that this could not happen. He was not sure, indeed — he who mere seconds before had been glorifying my loyalty as his comrade — that he even had anything to do with my pregnancy, and said that I should call the real father. I resolved without hesitation to consider him dead. I would preserve his life for his successor.

One doesn’t picture a woman of nineteen carrying a child. She hides it away, after all, in her womb from her powerful mother, her conservative grandmother, in a society governed more by custom than law. All that matters is: What will the neighbors say? Hashouma! Shame! Still, I confronted my mother with it, but only after the end of the sixth month of a pregnancy that had been almost invisible. My body had barely changed and there was no sign of that telltale round belly below my breasts. I told my mother, and I convinced my sister, that I was prepared for everything required to raise a child. I made them both understand that if they tried to dissuade me, I would leave home at once and take refuge with a friend.

At that time I was working as a waitress in one of the guesthouses that had sprung up like mushrooms in the alleys of the Old Medina. The pay was low. But I was also giving lessons in French and English at a private school, and the salaries combined were enough to get by on, even with a child. I was determined to do this, as I had never been determined about anything in my life; I even seriously considered ending my studies. My mother only said, This is God’s will, and we’ll pay for it. My sister was silent — a speaking silence.

He visited me once, my partisan comrade, when I was three months pregnant. He called ahead to tell me he was at the Café de France in Jemaa el-Fnaa. I went to meet him still clutching a shred of hope, trying to tell myself he had been rash, that he regretted it. It doesn’t matter now. We drank our black coffee in near silence and then I took him to the Koutoubia Mosque. We smoked hash in the garden there and talked about mundane things, each of us evading a direct glance at the other, trying to dodge any mention of the pregnancy. When lunchtime came we went to Babylon Star Bar in Gueliz, not far from the Dawiya Bar. Babylon Star was one of those places that was difficult to comprehend — exactly what the situation required.

While I was on my fourth beer, I asked him drily, and without preamble: “Why did you come?” Later, upon leaving the bar, I realized I was stronger than this faltering comrade, who had stuttered as he searched for reasons to convince me to get rid of it, with, as he called it, a simple procedure. He’ll be biting his nails for years, I thought. Life would rattle and batter him, and guilt would deprive him of sleep.

During the months before the birth we slipped back into harmony with Marrakech, my fetus and I. I abandoned drinking and hash, and swapped my cafés for walking. Long, pondering walks. I wandered through Mowqaf Alley and Mouassine, Ksour and Riad Zitoun, and the little mass inside me each day came closer to life. I spoke to it a lot, telling it of my childhood and my adolescence, unfolding my dreams and desires. Once, as I passed by Arset el-Houta, memories of a spring day in 2000 came back to me like a dream. I’d snuck away from middle school that day, just for a while, with Yusuf, Ahmed, Fawzi, Hisham, and Said. I had always made friends with boys, they were better company. We took a trip to the Old Medina and ambled through its damp narrow alleys, shirking the sun that had dared to encroach on our spring. The smell of sewage was overpowering on the streets of Mellah, long since abandoned by its Jewish residents. And from Jinan Binshaqra we took the shortcut to Arset el-Houta, passing through Ba Ahmed Middle School and al-Farabi High School and the carpentry shops. In the midst of the vendors who rule the rest of that narrow space, we squeezed into an alley barely wide enough to fit a person. Fawzi pushed the door of one of the houses open and went in without knocking. Said and Hisham and the others followed. I wanted to go too, but Ahmed asked me to wait for them awhile, or to go back. This place was just for men.

They called the place Madam Kabora’s house, and would be received there in succession, to put their little pricks between the thighs of prostitutes their mothers’ ages in exchange for the dirhams extracted from them beforehand. I grew bored of waiting outside, so I went up. I found myself in a small hallway. There was a dirty table with a radio on it tuned to Radio Rabat, and I was taking in the vulgarity of the place when a voice, more vulgar still, addressed me: “What d’you want?”

I turned to see an obese woman waiting behind me, swathed in a kaftan and scarves. Her fingers were bare aside from a large gold ring. Unnerved, I approached the massive creature. I sat down beside her and told her, in a confused way, that I had come with my friends, and that I had to wait for them because I didn’t know the way back. In fact I was burning with curiosity. What was this place? Where were the boys? She said her name was Kabora and poured me a glass of tea. Without further introductions, and as naturally as if she were speaking with a grown woman, she began telling me about the troublesome police and the various other hardships of her life. I didn’t understand everything she said and I was baffled by that gruff voice, vibrating on like a tambourine.

After a few minutes the boys came running down. I smiled at Kabora and watched them without a word. They turned to me, perplexed. “What are you doing!?” they asked as one.

Cheerfully, I answered. “I met Kabora!”

Four years later, Hisham, my boyfriend through college, would tell me stories about Kabora, who lived next to his grandfather in Arset el-Houta. His aunt Safia hated her, claiming she brought disgrace to the whole neighborhood. He told me that Kabora housed girls from the Atlas Mountains and from Agadir and Safi, giving them food, shelter, and clothing, and putting them to work as prostitutes. Hisham also said he heard his father once tell his mother that Kabora had inherited the brothel from a glamorous aunt of hers who had, in the 1930s, been a concubine of Pasha el-Glaoui.

There were so many places I missed. As a child my father would take me around the ancient city on the back of his motorbike. I then infiltrated many of these places as a teenager, driven by a passion for discovery. The Sirsar Inn! I had heard my father telling my uncle its history. It had been a garage for cattle and trucks before it was sold by the guard employed by Sirsar’s son, Moulay Walid. The guard sold off the inn piece by piece for bottles of red wine and hash. Other times for dinner, or for someone to share his bed. After that, the place was colonized by carpentry workshops, metalworkers, bone carvers. Since most of the workmen were from another district, after using the workshops in the daytime they would often sleep there at night. Some of them married and had children, so the tight space grew even tighter and the inn gained another floor, creating conditions that perfectly defined the word slum. Cafés and grocery shops sprung up too. At six years old, I would travel with my father through the winding corridors of its lower level, dug out in all directions like dancing snakes, trailing behind him until we heard the sounds from the workshop growing louder.

Mr. Alal would always sit in a chair in front of his shop, his body draped in brown trousers, hands covered by the sleeves of a woolen robe that reached his knees. Mr. Alal had been a carpentry teacher. But after years of work, piling one rial on top of another, he got together enough to buy two more shops in the building. And then there were his two sons, who worked under his supervision. But his hands stayed perpetually busy, whether filling smoking pipes from a baggie or preparing a mashmouma, or bong. My father jokingly nicknamed him The Machine. Mr. Alal would greet us from his seat in his hoarse voice and would gesture at one of his sons to bring two chairs. We would sit, my father and I, in front of the shop and pull out a low wooden drum, upon which they would place the requisite teapot, a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes, and spare pipes. My father was always telling me what a healthy weed kif was for adults.

Mr. Alal was a round-faced man, thin, dark-skinned, with a thick beard, shaggy black hair, and bulging eyes. Pouring us tea, he would get up to call for donuts from Café Rubio in the alley. Inside the shop thrummed the harmonious rhythms of sawmill and hammer, along with music from the radio. It remains anchored in my memory like a first love, emerging and living still inside me years later: The leaf enchants its blowing or Tonight wine and desires sing around us / A sail that swims in the light watches over our shade — how could my young self have known the meaning of such lines? But I loved those songs. I was as used to hearing them as I was to smelling the smoke from that salutary plant.

Long walks were good for long musings. I shared with my fetus these thoughts and memories, as we also shared the smells and sights and rhythms of Marrakech.

Selim turned two. I had nursed him throughout, even though my nipples were flat; I bought artificial rubber tips from the pharmacy. What an invention! Every time I attached them and contemplated the sight, I burst out laughing. And when Selim was teething we stayed up watching television to drown out his cries.

After a long discussion with my sister, I decided to leave my mother’s house. I would try to rebuild from the rubble accumulating inside me, to start afresh. To fashion a character and a life that might be suitable for motherhood: I wanted the child to be proud of me one day. But for now he would stay with my sister. She had a job, a tough one, and a house and car; independent and strong, she lived alone. The idea was hers from the beginning. She was wiser than me, and so much more patient. I left my son in her care, and though I did feel cowardly and selfish, I could already taste the breeze of freedom. It wasn’t hardness of heart — or was it? I thought I had a reason to live, a reason to challenge the world, to prove to everyone and to myself that I was worthy of respect, to return to give my son a life of pure light. Perhaps that was true. Perhaps these are excuses, attempts to tint the blackness of my memory, or to deny the things I can’t bear to face. Perhaps.

My friend Boushra got me a job in the Mamounia Casino and I moved with her into a small flat in Saada, on the road to Casablanca. Those new districts bore little trace of the city aside from the accents of some of their inhabitants, most of whom actually came from other cities or countries. The world took on new colors, as if I were in a city other than the one I grew up in. I worked nights, sometimes both days and nights. And along Red Beach, a kilometer outside of Marrakech, I was introduced to a vampire people. They gambled with their lives. I saw gay men and lesbians walking around unmolested, high-class sex workers on the lookout for dollars, euros, rials, dinars, and winning tickets, fluent in every language. I saw a people driven by desire, pleasure, money, adrenaline. And I saw the dregs upon whom the rich wiped their feet, and their other things. Climbers awaiting their prey, screwing whomever had anything to offer. In that period, I became friends with DJ Anas. From time to time I would go to his club, Theatro Marrakech, heading directly for the sound booth. I’d sit with him and watch from behind the glass while we smoked hash. I looked out upon that world with perfect neutrality as the DJ wrote the fates of its bodies in music.

A year passed and I grew bored, weighed down under a rhythm that stretched without a horizon. I was tired. And I needed to figure out what I wanted to be. In the past I had always imagined for myself another character, creative and distinguished, and yet here I was, locked into a repeating scene, the lights dimmed. I decided to go back to my studies, though my desire for that soon started to suffocate me. Even so, it didn’t take too much preparation. I moved to Casablanca after I’d figured out a living situation with Salma, another friend from those days of revolutionary dreaming. Soon after I arrived I found work in a translation agency. Not much pay, but enough to cover rent and food and cigarettes.

It was hard to get used to the new rhythm, and I waited anxiously for the beginning of the semester, when I would register to begin my BA in English literature. One ordinary weeknight I passed by Mohammed V Street and had a beer in a bar called Petit Poucet, in the courtyard of one of those colonial buildings that had always felt strangely familiar to me. It just so happened that a literary group was meeting that night to honor a Moroccan poet, dead of course. I was enchanted by the scene, the atmosphere — especially because they’d brought along an old-timer to sing Umm Kulthum and Mohammed Abdel Wahab in his husky voice, and to play on an oud, worn out from so many nights like these.

And I met him. A dream made real, a love story I will never be able to write. I knew him before I knew him. Of course this sounds absurdly romantic, but it could not be closer to the truth; it’s certainly truer than anything else I’ve known. I had never thought that I could make a man the focus of my whole world. And Samir was the older brother of my old partisan comrade, unacknowledged by his father. What a world! Love at first sight, or rather the second. That hadn’t been the season for love. But this new evening gave us an excuse to begin the tale.

A week later I moved in with him, as if by prior agreement from long ago; as though he’d been waiting for me. We were married with uncanny speed. There was no need to wait, to get to know each other. We soon learned what the other liked and disliked. I was dynamic, eager, quick to yearn and to love. I loved to immerse myself in him. Samir was sober, a lover of life, a rationalist — sometimes more than was necessary. He had a lot of experience with women, as I had with men. We were brought together by something I’d read about in romance novels, and which until I met him I thought was just ink on paper. Perhaps our story was not that surprising. I really don’t know.

My name is Sara. I’m thirty-two years old. I’m getting my doctoral degree in social sciences at the University of Chicago on a scholarship. The story above is not my own.

Alice, a friend of mine, was a resident doctor at Amerchich Hospital, an institution that resembled nothing so much as a prison. All patients who were considered a danger to others were taken to Amerchich, to this secret medical facility in what had once been the suburbs, but which had quickly become central once the Cadi Ayyad University was built in the seventies, not far from the building. A dirty and ancient hospital. There was a special wing there for mentally ill patients, and another for skin disease; internal injuries were covered too. And so it wasn’t uncommon for the newspapers to report, every now and then, news of the suicide of one of its inhabitants. Alice specialized in mental illnesses, and so she found herself there, at the Amerchich hospital in Daoudite. Her parents were French but she was Marrakechi through and through.

I had made a habit of visiting her there over the last three years, whenever I came to the city. And one day I met Iman for the first time. Alice was making her daily rounds with the patients. She walked among the dried-up trees in the garden, greeting the lost souls there, people who would talk to themselves all night in a fog of questions and names and images. It was winter and there was a light rain. Our Gauloises cigarettes burned out fast; I shared mine with the wind. And that day in the garden I saw Iman. As if she had stepped out of an old film. Everything was bleak. She appeared to me between the trees like some dreadful corpse: body frail, back bent. She was dressed in a long black coat and her movements were slack. I could hear her humming an old Oriental tune, a classic, one of those songs that you think you don’t recognize until you realize that of course you know it well. When she turned, I stopped still. Her face was a pirate’s map, its length and width scarred in grooves scraped down to the muscle. When she saw me and realized my terror, she turned her face away quickly, groping at it as if reminded of its horrors. Then she hurried away.

I felt guilty, my stomach prickling. I knew this was nothing I hadn’t encountered before, and yet I’d been unable to keep myself from feeling fear and disgust. “Wait! Please wait!” She stopped but did not turn around. I paused two paces behind her. “What’s your name?” I asked hesitantly.

She was silent a moment. “Iman,” she eventually replied, in a whisper. As if she weren’t quite sure.

I stepped closer to her. She was hanging her head like she wanted to bury it in her chest.

She asked for a cigarette and I fumbled for the pack in my pocket.

“Gauloises,” she muttered. “Taste like burning hay.” Then she smiled. I tried to avoid eye contact, gazing over her head so as not to unsettle her. She smoked her cigarette away from my prying eyes, sitting at the foot of some stairs that led to a door that looked like it hadn’t been opened in a while. She took out a handkerchief from her pocket and laid it beside her. I stood in place for a second before I understood that it was for me, an invitation to sit with her. Something in her voice transported me to Tchaikovsky and Swan Lake. Something in her silence and her hesitation rendered me numb.

With some urging, Alice would tell me Iman’s story. I didn’t believe it at first. I thought my friend the doctor was trying to tease me — to titillate me, as a reader of novels, as a social scientist. But it was true. Iman had lost her memory. She didn’t know who she was. Her relatives did, but she wouldn’t put up with their visits, so her sister seldom came. She’d just sit with her a little while and then be off. They had brought her to the sanatorium seven years ago, when she was in a bad way. She cried all the time and wouldn’t speak. The scars on her face had just healed. Often she stayed huddled in her bed, face to the wall. She tried to kill herself several times, but as Alice said: “Death keeps postponing her.”

Alice knew Iman well. “She speaks very elegant French,” she told me. “But her English is immaculate — you’d think she’d spent years in the UK.”

Of all the sanatorium inhabitants, Alice was closest to Iman, to the extent that she almost no longer considered her a patient. “Quite often,” she added, “I’ll find myself talking to her about the things that bother me.”

As I sat near Iman, she began asking me about who I was and why I had come to the hospital. She knew even the most fleeting of the visitors, from the families of other patients to the transients who came in from time to time to be seen by the doctors. I told her I was a friend of Alice’s. “And a friend of mine also,” she said, grinning. I must have worn my emotions on my face — I couldn’t hide them — lighting one cigarette after another, as Iman was quick to point out.

“Are you smoking like that out of embarrassment? Or is it fear?” It didn’t sound like a question. She was making an observation and trying to calm me. Oh, how terribly strange it was!

We were quiet for a little while, but then she began to sing. Within seconds I felt a warmth wash over me, dispelling my unease. But it was a curious thing: Iman sang as if she were trained. Her performance was technically proficient. She kept rhythm with a small stone which she beat against the steps, a delicate movement, almost soundless. It was more curious still that she sang no wrong notes. Perhaps it was her extreme sensitivity that prompted her to explain in French: “Wrong notes avoid me.”

Even though I was there on holiday then, I ended up visiting the sanatorium every day. I would spend all afternoon listening to Iman’s tales. I was lulled by her voice as if by sweet wine, and her powers of storytelling astonished me. She knew almost every patient in the hospital and sketched their profiles brilliantly. Once she spent a whole afternoon telling me about the Algerian woman Fatima who had owned an art gallery in Tangier. She’d had a French education par excellence. “She speaks like a Parisian,” Iman said. She had a passion for contemporary pieces and installations. And as I listened to Iman I realized that she had been affected by Fatima, or at least by her knowledge of art. Since I don’t have Iman’s brilliance for detail, I remember little of Fatima’s story, except that her husband declared himself bankrupt and she was left with terrible debts after he fled to Spain. He told no one, not even his wife, his companion of thirty years, about where he was going. After that his possessions were seized, including the house and the gallery, which had been jointly owned. And when she had nothing left, she was forced to sell her stake in the gallery in order to pay rent and for treatment in a private sanatorium for her twenty-seven-year-old son Fahad, who had suffered severe depression after his father’s flight. Months passed, and after several failed attempts Fahad succeeded in taking his own life. They found him hanging in the sanatorium bathroom. Fatima, unable to withstand all that had befallen her, decided to follow in her son’s footsteps. By her good luck, or bad, her sister was visiting that same day. She arrived before the worst could happen. “Although,” Iman said, “I can hardly imagine worse than what Fatima had already lived through up until then.” Things went on this way for ten years, and Fatima was still no better. It was her sister in Marrakech who brought her to Amerchich. (Were a sister’s words law in this place?)

As the holiday came to its end I felt a strange tightness in my chest. I had quickly gotten used to Iman’s companionship; there was much of me in her. Or rather, to be more accurate, I resembled her. I was endlessly surprised that this woman could forget who she was while at the same time remember other people’s stories so precisely, and so much of what she had read: poetry, literature, music, history, philosophy. Perhaps she had a reason. Before leaving, I immediately knew what gift I should give her: five novels from Shatir, the bookstore in Gueliz, a beautiful diary with a leather cover, and some pencils. Alice said I’d fallen in love with her. And I think I had fallen, into the snare of her unknowability. Perhaps if I’d heard her story beforehand I wouldn’t have been drawn to her. We hugged warmly. I promised to visit her when I came back from America. She, in return, promised me she would write in the diary all the tales she hadn’t yet told me so we could read them together on my return.

I spent the full year in America — in the department of social sciences at the University of Chicago, and in libraries. Every time I entered a library I remembered Iman and her passion for reading; I often lay down at night to chase after her voice in the depths of my soul. A whole year passed in which I spoke to Alice on the phone only a couple of times. I was busy with the final draft of my thesis. Alice said that Iman had gotten better. She toured Amerchich daily with her pen and her diary, even helping the other patients with her “parallel treatment sessions,” listening to them for hours, telling them stories and singing to them. At the end of the year I booked my return ticket to Marrakech. I was excited: I had played out a hundred conversations in my head. I imagined dozens of stories. And I waited so eagerly to see Iman.

I arrived at the end of October. And though I was almost overwhelmed with exhaustion, I dreamed of her. Early the next morning I left Hotel Riad Mogador in Gueliz and walked to the Marché Central. I bought a bunch of beautiful roses, thinking Alice and Iman could give them out among the patients. I didn’t call Alice that morning to tell her that I was coming. I felt like a child — I wanted to give her and Iman a joyous surprise.

When I arrived at the hospital, I looked around for Iman. I couldn’t find her. I reached Alice’s office and waited outside while she dealt with the father of a patient. When I opened the door to greet her, she saw me and her face turned white. An odd fear overtook me. I took a step back. At last I went inside, quickly, and shut the door behind me.

Alice was not a demonstrative woman, but she hugged me very warmly that day. More warmth than even a long absence merited. Like someone apologizing for something. Like someone trying to calm an oncoming storm. Iman had killed herself two weeks before my return: death had not postponed her this time. When no one expected it, late at night in bed, she had sliced open the arteries of her wrists. With a marker she had written her last words on her arms. When they found her in the morning the bed was drenched in blood, tears black with makeup weaving tracks across her face, long like the rays of the night. That’s how I imagined her face. How had it happened? I couldn’t understand. How could she commit suicide when she had begun to recover, to settle down? Why should Iman die when she had such capacity to bring joy?

Questions jumped inside me. Iman was no relation of mine, and our friendship was not even long — it had been a month, at best, but that had been enough to send me into mourning now for her strange and extraordinary spirit. Perhaps I had needed a character like her in my life. A personality like that, breathtaking, an unknowable thing. Alice handed me Iman’s diary with a little note affixed to it: I hope you find these stories pleasant. I have missed the surprise of your heart, and of our meetings.

For three days I didn’t leave my hotel room. I thanked the chambermaids from behind the door and asked them to come back later. I had armed myself with two bottles of Absolut and some Marlboros from the duty free. And my best weapon was my weakness. Each time I opened the diary and began to read, Iman’s voice dragged me to a place where time stopped. It was a painful journey through those events and places. She remembered who she was. She remembered her son Selim, who had turned fourteen this year: He must be quite a handsome boy now. She remembered her beloved Samir, who had left her because she betrayed him on a whim. She remembered how she had returned to Marrakech, grieving and defeated, planning to take her son away to spend some time with him. I was broken. You could almost see the cracks in me. Between guilt and sadness, failure and remorse, all my feelings were struggling inside me. And I was trying to keep them away, forever. Hash was the only thing that put a stop to this bleeding from my soul, and the only thing that made it worse.

Iman’s sister refused to allow her son to accompany her to Casablanca where she rented a room in a friend’s apartment. Iman understood her sister’s position. There was no evil intent there: she simply thought Iman was in a state in which she could not take care of a child, given that she was constantly smoking hash. That night Iman went out and met a friend. They went to a Tashfin bar close to Colisée Cinema. She drank a lot and smoked until the fog obscured her vision. They hung out in a car until five thirty in the morning. How could I think of going home at that hour? I wasn’t thinking, or I wouldn’t have done it. Her sister confronted her when she got back, accusing her of negligence. Iman was drunk and high, almost broken, and she slapped her sister. When she slapped me back, I didn’t stop to look at what I had done. I just felt that I had inside me some ungovernable anger that was going to tear out of me like a missile. Unfortunately, it hit my sister.

The following morning, Iman was determined to take Selim away. He began to get his things together to leave, but her sister was even more determined to stop her. When Iman realized it was impossible she grew violent and aggressive: she swore at her sister, and at a cousin who happened to be visiting, and they ended up having to restrain Iman, tying her hands and feet and gagging her to stop her screams. Iman’s eyes remained on the child the whole time as he begged his grandmother not to call the psychiatric clinic. “Wallah, nothing can help your mother but Amerchich!” Iman’s mother screamed.

Amerchich: not just the name of a neighborhood in Daoudiate. Not just a hospital for a particular class of illness. It was a curse. In Marrakech, Amerchich was the kind of insult you hurled at someone to accuse them of both foolishness and insanity, of being unable to live with other people — with well-adjusted, normal people. And it was Iman’s bad luck that her mother had been a nurse before she retired. Naturally, she had contacts at Amerchich.

Between the screaming and exhaustion, the alcohol and the hashish, Iman lost her mind and remembered nothing. From that day on, everything that linked her to her past was erased. She forgot everything. She was rid of everything. Only an obscure and heavy ache remained, crouched in her breast, overwhelming her spirit. An ache whose source she did not know; a pain that led her, several times, to attempt suicide. And also to try to erase the features of her face.

On the last page of her diary she had written a short poem about her father. It had no title. She had written only: My father. Hahahahaha. And the motorcycle. She had drawn a child’s face, smiling. And then the poem:

Translated from Arabic by Hannah Scott Deuchar

Black Love by Taha Adnan

Hay Saada

With her heart racing, Noura rushed into the house to deliver the good news to her mother, Lalla Ghitha. Her boyfriend Bilal had only just told her — when he was taking her home from college on the back of his motorcycle, down Lalla Aweesh Street in the Aswal neighborhood — that he intended to bring over his mother, Um al-Khayr, to ask for Noura’s hand in marriage. He asked Noura to run the idea by her mother to determine the date of the visit. His brother from Belgium would also be coming to spend New Year’s in Marrakech. And it would be wonderful if he could be there for the announcement of their engagement.

Noura’s face was covered in sweat and beaming with happiness as she entered the kitchen, her words stumbling out of her mouth with the excitement of a child. Lalla Ghitha began slicing eggplant to put in the oven in preparation for the zaalouk salad, which her daughter liked. She appeared to be frowning, as she usually was while cooking, looking as if she’d been forced into doing it. Cutting meat and peeling vegetables with a vengeance like someone settling an old score with nature. Noura was aware of her mother’s tense temperament and she was at ease with her moods, but she didn’t expect this excessive and frightening response after hearing the news.

A look of mourning crossed Lalla Ghitha’s face. And as if the announcement signaled some disaster, she let out a cry: “Woe unto me! Woe unto me. Who? Bilal! As if this pitiful nigger was the last man on earth. Sweetie, why do you wanna drive me crazy? You’re not crossed-eyed... you’re not crippled, are you?”

“Mom, Bilal’s a good guy — our neighbor’s son. We grew up together before he moved out of our neighborhood,” Noura reminded her mother. “We know everything about him — big stuff, little stuff. He doesn’t smoke or drink. He keeps to himself. His heart’s pure. I swear, Mom, he’s a humble man. There’s nothing black about him other than his skin.”

“Oh God! And what about my grandkids? God forbid, you want them to be niggers? God blessed me with one daughter. I devoted my whole life to her, working for good and bad people. She hankered to turn the world into an olive grove where goats graze.”

“What’d they tell you? That I was blond and as white as Nicole Kidman? Mother, he’s a good guy, he means well,” she said.

“Sweetie, the reasonable thing to do is finish your degree. As for marriage — there’ll always be time to get married later.”

“Please, Mom. What about all these girls around here who earned their degrees and graduated, and all of them just sit around doing nothing — unemployed or unmarried, they’ve got nothing,” Noura said. “No one cares about them, not even dogs. Bilal agrees that I should finish my studies. Anyway, Hay Saada, where he’s living now, is close to the college. And his brother in Belgium opened a store for him in the garage beneath their building. He bought it and left Bilal in charge of the business. Thank God, he is quite well off. And now he wants your blessing so that when his brother comes back in the summer he can help him until the wedding.”

“It’ll be a funeral, not a wedding,” Lalla Ghitha rumbled. “You make my blood boil, you good-for-nothing daughter.”

“Shame on you, Mom. What did Bilal do to you? He’s only shown us that he’s good. And anyway, I love him.”

“May a scorpion love you and sting that mouth of yours,” Lalla Ghitha snarled, turning away from her daughter. “Get outta my face, may God strike you down — and don’t mention this nigger to me anymore. Before, I was happy saying to myself that he’d left us for that disaster of a neighborhood.”

“That blight is called Hay Saada.”

“Not even! Misery Neighborhood, that’s what Hay Saada is known as — not Happiness Neighborhood. They were lying when they named it that. The place where every rotten slut feels at home. What’s with him, why can’t he find a black chick — and this store his brother from Belgium supposedly started? It was that Senegalese woman who did the paperwork for him. She’s got a sister she should offer to Bilal — this would make him go away.”

“Look, Mom, he didn’t come to beg you. He came to ask for my hand.”

“Not until he’s the last man on earth — then I’ll toss you aside to the niggers of Misery Neighborhood,” Lalla Ghitha said venomously.

“This Misery Neighborhood you hate is no better than the misery we’re living in right here. It took a month for them to take out the pipes when they said they were for drilling for oil. There’s nothing left in the Old Medina but filth, Mom. I’m always telling you to sell this dump and the Tameslouht property and let us leave and live decently like other people. We’d even have a business to get us out of this utter poverty.”

“These sewage pipes don’t stink as much as that mouth on you, God help us. You even want me to part with this house where I still smell the scent of your dead father, you slut!” Lalla Ghitha raged. “It looks like you will finish me off to join your father before my time comes. It’s either wrath or contentment... choose one: me or that Ebola boy of yours.”

When Noura heard the engine of the motorcycle, she knew that Bilal hadn’t left right after dropping her off at home — he had lingered instead, perhaps expecting to hear cries of joy. The window had been open to let the cooking smells flow out, and with them flowed all the horrible slurs Lalla Ghitha had uttered.

Noura hurried after him, running and screaming like a crazy person: “Bilal, Bilal, Bilal!” But he didn’t turn around. That was the last time she would see him. After that day, he didn’t even answer her phone calls.

Lalla Ghitha’s words had a dramatic impact on Bilal. His head was spinning faster than the tires of his black Swing motorcycle. He stared at the road that shifted before his eyes into a black line until he could hardly see a thing. He didn’t know how he’d arrived at his apartment in Hay Saada. He didn’t pay any attention to his mother, who was mumbling something he didn’t catch. He headed straight to his room, which he often dreamed would be a love nest for him and his beloved Noura. He locked the door and let his mind drift...

He reminisced about his childhood infatuation with Noura. She was younger than him by three years. He was like a big brother to her. He’d watched out for her, since she was deprived of a brother in a neighborhood too tough for a fatherless child without male protection. Since their childhood, the other kids would avoid any dispute with Noura because it would immediately blow up into something bigger with her “dark shadow.” Bilal became her little man. He started placing himself at the disposal of Lalla Ghitha for every chore she could ask him to do. She would brush off any flattery and would ask him favors directly and spontaneously without burdening herself with thanking him afterward.

But Bilal was just happy to be there. Happy with his familiarity in the house in which he had regular duties, like filling the gas tank and fixing the constantly leaking faucet, or changing the lightbulbs that swiftly burned out, or climbing up to the roof to adjust the satellite dish when the wind would move it. He hadn’t wanted reimbursement or thanks. A look from Noura full of pride and appreciation would suffice. In her eyes, he was the man of the house without a doubt. He was ready to do anything for those eyes, which is how he discovered early on that he was in love with her. And, early on as well, she submitted her young heart to him.

Love had flourished between them ever since. Bilal grew accustomed to the nasty words that followed him: Negro, mutt, slave boy, black-skin, black-ass, among other slurs. Bilal dealt with this rotten glossary as mere childish insults. But that one unforgivable word from the mouth of Lalla Ghitha, especially while discussing marriage, had left a particularly bitter taste in his mouth.

He remembered his Arabic class in high school. The teacher, Mr. Sheeki, would constantly repeat verses of al-Mutanabbi’s lampoon against Kafur al-Ikhsheedi, the ruler of Egypt, with relish:

The last verse itself was like a whip to Bilal and it struck his ears many times. The contempt in it was balanced and rhyming. Moreover, Mr. Sheeki could not resist pointing at Bilal’s face whenever he made a blunder, any one of the many small mistakes made by children at that age. He would ask his students: “What did al-Mutanabbi say? Do not buy the slave...”

“... unless he comes with a whip,” answered his pupils in a unified voice with villainous enthusiasm.

But why today did he feel as if he were hearing this expression for the first time in his life? Lalla Ghitha’s foul word now filled his mind, which overflowed with humiliation.

Noura couldn’t understand Bilal’s response. He no longer answered her incessant calling nor her quick attempts to ease his mind. She was prepared for anything — to run away with him to the middle of nowhere if he wanted, and live off nothing but bread, water, and love. But when he finally answered her phone call, he requested in a dry tone that she stop calling.

“Enough, we’re finished. We’ve reached the end of our rope. Throw away my number and we’ll both go our own ways.”

For the first time in her life, Noura — who’d lost her father when she was a child — felt the injustice of Bilal shunning her true love for him. Sleep avoided her. She could no longer stand chatting with her mother as she had before. She started spending more time in her room, which was decorated with pictures of Will Smith, Jamie Foxx, and 5 °Cent. She had been infatuated since her earliest days with work by black artists. Her passion for the songs of Whitney Houston, Lionel Richie, Michael Jackson, and Rihanna led her to study English literature in college. She would stand for hours in front of the mirror, putting on makeup and swinging to the rhythm of the music before school, comfortable with her own style and nonconformist tastes. Her mother never understood how she could waste all that time in front of the mirror and leave with hair wild as a bird’s nest. Noura loved to toss locks of her hair in every direction. She would put a lot of effort into fixing her unruly hair with gel so it would stay beautifully chaotic throughout the day. She wore baggy clothes in bright colors, very fitting for a twenty-one-year-old. Noura would buy used clothing from the Sidi Maimoun market. She got pleasure in not being ordinary, searching for clothing not from the best brands, but found in secondhand stores that suited her limited university scholarship.

No one knew how Hay Saada, in Gueliz on the road to Casablanca, had turned into a fortress for immigrants from sub-Saharan Africa. This neighborhood was relatively modern, and it developed faster than anyone could have imagined. Within ten years the first apartments were put up for sale for around 200,000 dirhams. They were cheap apartments, despite this surge in development, yet the real estate developers didn’t target the vulnerable groups or low-income communities there. The important thing was that they found buyers willing to put up 50,000 dirhams under the table. And with this the door was opened to real estate speculators, as well as smaller local buyers who relied on renting out rooms in their apartments to supplement their incomes and improve their living conditions. This drew admirers of Marrakech — most of them from Casablanca — who looked for ways to spend the weekends and holidays in the Red City.

Perhaps that is what made the neighborhood, first and foremost, a magnet for prostitutes who could find new apartments for reasonable prices. Then, because it was a new neighborhood, no one knew anyone there, and no one was interested in anyone else’s business. So it was possible for girls coming from the neighboring cities and villages, claiming that they worked in hotels or for textile companies or plastics factories in the industrial area nearby, to live their illicit lives without question. Other apartments were set up entirely for faire l’amour — this was the neighborhood where tourists from around Morocco would go to seek sexual gratification at affordable prices, worlds apart from the exorbitant riads and expensive Gueliz apartments that the Gulf and European tourists monopolized.

Bilal’s store, where he sold cell phone accessories, was on the ground floor of his building, directly below his apartment. On the other side of the building’s entrance was Afro Beauty, the salon of the sensuous and alluring Fatimata al-Rasta.

Though unlicensed, the salon grew gradually until it extended onto the pavement. Fatimata found female associates, experts in weaving and braiding hair, for her clientele from sub-Saharan Africa. And they weren’t shy about flashing their private parts to passersby to generate additional business. For Fatimata, it was a salon and a shelter — two in one. She didn’t compete with the other beauty salons that spread like fungus throughout Hay Saada — salons filled nightly with restless girls who wouldn’t leave for a festive night on the town until they had been fully made up. Fatimata decided, after establishing the place, that she would offer her experience in the service of her countrywomen. Not to mention she was the only one on the street who opened her salon first thing in the morning.

Bilal lived with his mother in a corner apartment on the first floor. There were seven other apartments on their floor. Across the hall lived Hafidh, a young employee of the textile company, together with his veiled wife Badia and their two kids, Anis and Nada. He was a quiet and solitary man who didn’t interact with the neighbors. Sometimes he climbed up the stairs talking on the phone in fluent French, his voice low like a whisper, as if this embarrassed him. He always walked right alongside the wall. Hafidh had a feeling that his presence in the building was an accident. He treated the apartment like a tomb. With his small family, he would spend the weekends at his mother’s in the Sidi Ghanem neighborhood, not far from the grave of Abu al-Abbas al-Sabati, guardian of the city and the most famous of its seven great men. Completely different was Tamou’s apartment, a perpetual screaming factory. Her apartment door was always open, and Tamou was never concerned about transforming the building’s hallway into an extension of her kitchen. She had five boys, all close in age, as if she had pushed them all out at once. The youngest one traveled to Syria to be an Islamist mujahid immediately after his release from prison, where he had spent a full year for an attempted rape. There in the haven of the East, he had all the Christian, Alawi, and Kurdish women he could desire to practice his beastly arts on, while waiting for his dark-eyed virgins in paradise — unless his faith proved unworthy. As for the two oldest brothers, Majid and Chakib, they didn’t communicate with anyone in the building except their mother. They worked together selling odds and ends. Only their car, a black Renault Kangoo, announced their presence at home. Meanwhile, Farid and Said would simply loiter all day in front of the building. An idleness that bothered Bilal, who, despite himself, was their friend.

The next apartment was occupied by Igor and Irina, a young married couple from Poland who both worked in a casino. Every night at seven thirty, the company car would pick them up in their elegant work clothes. Irina’s skirt was carefully cut to expose her thighs to the gluttonous eyes inside that lustful club, eyes that would later fantasize about the rest of her body. Outside of these brief moments when Irina spread happiness among the misery of Hay Saada, one could hardly find a trace of them. In the wee hours of the morning only the sounds of the car could be heard, in order to sneak the blond Pole into her resting place. When Igor went shopping by himself at Marjan Supermarket just outside Hay Saada, he carried all the goods in a taxi, avoiding contact with the neighborhood grocers and other locals.

To the left of the stairs was an apartment crowded with young men from Mali. It was barely noticeable to someone passing through the building. In front of it was Naima’s apartment. She slept all day, and under the cover of darkness she would go out fully made up into the sleepless nights of Marrakech. She had initially come from Safi to work in a massage parlor in Hay Saada. But she quickly discovered that the clients wouldn’t relax at the end of a session until their main limb was massaged, in exchange for a generous tip. She soon left the parlor to be free to massage that privileged organ on her own time. Naima the Masseuse — that’s what the neighbors starting calling her. Until one day they woke up to her screams. She had allowed a drunken client into her home and he had proceeded to beat her with his shoe. He struck her across the face, drawing blood. He dragged her around cruelly by her hair. A rational person wouldn’t have believed how violent he had become given how intimate they had been just moments before. He claimed that she had taken advantage of him and stolen his money while he was in the bathroom. This was when Farid and Said had pulled him away from Naima. After this, however, she wasn’t able to escape her new nickname: Naima the Whore.

Just beyond Naima’s place was a residence of a special type, where Issoufou, a thirty-year-old Nigerian lived. He had broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and a medium frame which obscured his full stomach. He was always smiling and elegant. He studied commerce at the international university in Marrakech. Mostly people just saw him leaving in the morning or returning at night. He gave off the impression that he was always busy with some urgent matter. His father, according to his neighbor, doorman, and assistant Aissatou, was a minister in the government of Mamadou Tandja, and he had been arrested after the military coup in February 2010. This coup was led by Colonel Salou Djibo and it forced Issoufou and the rest of his family to disperse across the world. They had money in a number of different countries, but complicated administrative issues prevented them from accessing those funds legally. Issoufou lived in the apartment alone while his fellow countrymen were crammed like sardines in tiny one-room apartments.

Issoufou didn’t go out until he was comfortable with how he looked; it seemed as if Georgio Armani himself had outfitted him. His suit was ironed with careful attention, and the collars of his white shirts were starched and pressed — ever since he’d bought a steam iron from Marjan, his neighbor Aissatou had been in charge of ironing his clothes. A gold necklace hung on his chest, his designer shoes were always polished, and he carried an expensive leather bag. Another gold chain on his wrist competed for attention with the gold ring on his finger. He always smelled of the thick Armani cologne called Attitude.

Aissatou, a twenty-five-year-old Senegalese man, lived in the next apartment. He first came as a migrant to Fes, the center of the Tijani Sufi order, which more than half the Senegalese Muslims had joined, and where the shrine of the great Sheikh Ahmed al-Tijani was held. He remained there until he could travel north to Tangier with the intention of crossing the strait to Europe. There, in Tangier, on the bank of the Mediterranean, the paradise of Europe appeared to be close, like a mirage. But without being able to navigate the strait, the dangers were plentiful. The Mediterranean formed the most violent borders in the world. A sea harvest of victims’ souls by the thousands — a gigantic graveyard of bloated corpses and sunken dreams. The living conditions in the nearby forests of Ceuta were unbearable. He never even thought of heading east toward Nador, where his countrymen were living in dire conditions in the Kouruku forest, dreaming of slipping into Melilla before finding themselves, at the end of their hopeless adventure, detained at the camp in the coastal village of Arekmane. The Spanish enclaves of Ceuta and Melilla formed the only land border between Africa and Europe. The guards on the Moroccan borders dedicated themselves to this illegal crossing point for African migrants with gusto, in order to gain the favor of their European associates. Racism against black people had been simmering, especially within the lower classes of the Boukhalef neighborhood, which was known as the center of the African community in Tangier. These sentiments made Aissatou completely rethink his idea of settling in Tangier. Instead he headed south in the direction of the Red City. Marrakech was the most African city of all the metropolises in the kingdom. There he sought out Issoufou, whom he’d previously met through a Tijani friend in Fes. The Nigerian advised him to move into the vacant apartment in front of his.

The apartment was owned by a Moroccan who now lived in Sweden. He had abandoned it a year before after a night of bunga bunga had been turned upside down. He had run group sex parties until an underage prostitute was murdered there, and the police raided the apartment and arrested the lot of them — with the exception of the owner, who escaped to his Swedish refuge with the help of a fat bribe.

Aissatou didn’t find it difficult to adapt to his new environment. He regularly went to the main mosque in Hay Saada, and his strict adherence to prayer allowed him to become well-known in the neighborhood and trusted by its residents, who found his broken classical Arabic and Senegalese accent to be charming. After finishing his prayers he would spread out his goods for sale — cell phones, wristwatches, and women’s accessories — in front of the mosque. He was comfortable with this new pace of life. He would frequent the dhikr circles at the Tijani group meetings by Bab Doukkala, and also spent time near Bab Aylan, Bab Ahmar, and in Hay Ksour, where he widened his circle of acquaintances as well as his commercial activities.

Sometimes he would stay with a Sudanese friend named Uthman, a tall and slender young man who was almost thirty. Uthman wore round glasses that filled him with a perhaps unwarranted dignity. His great-grandfather had been one of the sheikhs and a spokesman of the Tijani order in the Sudan, during the days of holy jihad against the English and Turks — the time of the Mahdist Revolution. He studied law in Marrakech before joining the doctoral faculty at Mohammed V University in Rabat. But for about two years now he has devoted himself to preparing his travel papers to move to England and to join his brother. Uthman Mustafa Sheikh lived between Marrakech and Rabat, with dreams of London.

Aissatou wasn’t shy about poking holes in his friend’s fantasy of lying on the banks of the Thames: “There’s no reason to hurry, brother. Do you think the British are burning with desire to welcome you? You’ll be met with accusations. You have been inflicted with all the curses: first you’re Arab, then Muslim, and on top of that you’re black!”

Uthman shook with laughter before answering him: “Fear not, clever one... It’ll be enough for them to know I’m a Tijani, and a friend of a Senegalese devotee named Aissatou who wanders the country where the Almoravids once ruled. Then their opinions of me will change completely.”

Bilal had ambivalent feelings toward his black neighbors. He would get fed up with Fatimata’s screaming. She was clearly incapable of speaking softly. Even the noisy presence of the Malians bothered him. He often complained to Farid and Said about the racket they caused.

“They all talk at the same time. It’s like they’re fighting,” Bilal told them.

“Those bastards have megaphones for mouths,” replied Farid.

Despite this, Bilal was quick to come to the defense of his black neighbors, proclaiming his disgust whenever people made inappropriate or openly racist comments. Farid and Said were in their midtwenties and both were unemployed. And since there was no way for them to frequent cafés with their empty pockets, they sought shelter with Bilal, sharing a pot of morning tea that his mother Umm al-Khayr prepared for him at ten. They shared loose cigarettes that they would get from the vendor in front of Café Original on the corner. They were envious of Issoufou, who was sometimes accompanied by girls, which they shamefully begrudged. Because of this, every time someone walked in front of them, the two repeated the song of those congregations in Jemaa el-Fnaa Square by the late Omar Meekhi:

One time Issoufou came home accompanied by a blond foreigner, one of those normally encountered in the tourist areas and who was clearly out of place in Hay Saada. She looked pleased as she followed him into the apartment. Farid and Said glanced at her, observing the scene with a disgust and envy that crushed their hearts. Farid spoke slowly while staring at the blonde: “That bitch is beautiful!”

“Too bad that dung beetle has his arms all over her,” replied Said, defeated.

“Mark my words, tomorrow her picture will be in the papers. Really, he’ll devour her... that son of a bitch, black-ass nigger. He’s a cannibal.”

“Bro, I don’t understand, what do they like about these black men?” Said asked.

“They lick it good.”

“I bet he won’t just lick — he’s gonna eat too. He’ll even eat her shit.”

“Man, I swear only foreigners make it in this country. This Negro was just jumping around with monkeys yesterday and now he easily finds a European girlfriend, son of a bitch.”

Bilal couldn’t bear this vulgar talk, remembering how hurt he had been when Lalla Ghitha had called him a nigger. His blood starting to boil with rage, he said: “Get your asses the fuck out of here. Seriously, go jerk off someplace else. This is a respectable business. You spend the whole day leaning on the wall like you’re keeping it from falling... You’ll pick up shit, not foreign women.”

Farid and Said didn’t understand what had suddenly shaken their friend. Regardless, they were filled with hatred for those former slaves whom they blamed for their problems with Bilal. When a group of Malian children walked past Fatimata’s salon that morning, Farid shouted at them: “The country’s overflowing with you sons of bitches!”

Issoufou was one of the few Africans who frequented the local cafés, as most in the community tended to live isolated among themselves, far from Moroccans and their problems. Many Africans limited their interactions with Moroccans to the essentials, especially since they perceived among the Moroccans feelings of superiority. Even the most humble grocer would approach them with a false sense of nobility.

Issoufou left his apartment in Hay Saada to wander through the main street. He paused in front of the shops, looking scornfully at the cheap goods before heading to Tito’s Café at the intersection of Allal el-Fassi Avenue and Abdelkarim el-Khattabi Boulevard, overlooking the large Marjan Market. Allal el-Fassi and Abdelkarim el-Khattabi had been opposition fighters who fought to expel the French and the Spanish during the struggle against colonization. Today their progeny were ready to dance on their graves in order to attract those same foreigners to come here and invest. Meanwhile, others were ready to give up the nation with all its martyrs and resistance fighters in exchange for residency papers for the blond capitals. The paths of history indeed have strange and deceptive points of intersection.

Issoufou entered the coffee shop, swaying as he removed his Armani glasses. Conspicuously dressed in Armani as well, he scanned the tables and TV screens around the room that were broadcasting songs on the Rotana Records channel. He took a seat in a prime corner booth upstairs, so he could look down on the trifling patrons as he drank his coffee. Recently Noura had started to frequent the café. She secluded herself in another corner, studying for upcoming exams far from the noise of her mother and the incessant racket of Lala Aweesh Street, which always prevented her from focusing. But after a while she noticed this elegant dark man, whom she thought resembled Dr. Eric Forman from the show House.

Sometimes she observed Issoufou meeting mysterious folks there — most of them Moroccan. Occasionally a French woman in her midthirties would be there with him. Their relationship appeared to be professional, judging from the papers and documents that they’d whisper over. Issoufou soon noticed Noura’s attention and they exchanged a smile once or twice. By the third time, he asked the waiter to bring her a cup of juice, which she gratefully accepted, encouraging him to move over to her table.

Issoufou came exactly at the right time. Noura had been yearning for Bilal’s arms, his hot breath, his thick lips, which would bring back memories of the Menara and Agdal gardens, where they would make love beneath the olive trees, after Bilal had silenced the garden’s attendant with cash. But for Noura, she desired him as much as she loathed him. And she sympathized with him as a victim of her mother’s conduct as much as his neglect had wounded her. The affairs of the heart are capable of transforming a victim into an executioner from one beat to the next. And with that, Issoufou’s gentleness and courtesy made him appear like a knight, a savior sent from the heavens, especially since Noura’s fruit was ripe enough to fall before her desire in the arms of a new lover.

Noura ended up in Issoufou’s bed after a series of dates at Tito’s Café and dinners at Kanoun, a nearby Lebanese restaurant. Sometimes he would take her to Café Mama Afrika or the club and restaurant African Chic on the Umm al-Rabi alleyway in Gueliz, behind Hotel Marrakech. There, at African Chic, her heart danced with joy when Issoufou first declared his love for her. He started trusting his feelings for her so that she’d offer him love in return. She found a delicateness and refinement in him. It was true that Bilal had loved her and had wanted to marry her, but he had never made her feel like a princess. With Issoufou she’d become a real princess. He was truly a gentleman. He always complimented her beauty and elegance, and would reveal his feelings to her sincerely and spontaneously. He granted her so much trust and security, even sharing with her many of his deepest secrets. From their first dates he spoke to her about his father, the former minister, who was now a prisoner in Niamey, Niger; about his family scattered across God’s vast land; and about their wealth, which he was trying to restore with the help of an international law office in Paris. He told her about the representative in Marrakech, a woman who met with him regularly to discuss the case.

“Is it the Frenchwoman who is sometimes with you in the café?” Noura asked him, as if to reassure her heart.

And he answered her evenly: “Exactly. Her name is Katherine. She’s a lawyer. She lives in the Hivernage area of Gueliz and represents her office here. They have a number of French clients residing in Marrakech.”

“The case sounds complicated.”

“Kind of. But things are moving in a good direction. I’ve been living here for more than five years now, and I submitted my request for residency to the new bureau for migration and asylum,” he explained. “All I have to do is find a worthy partner I can trust. One of the recent administrative measures involves being under the patronage of a local — especially since the new laws ease the paths to residency and work for refugees. We might be able to set up a company and open a joint account for the future funds if I get my legal affairs in order. Because of concerns over terrorist financing, there is growing international surveillance on the movement of capital. However, as soon as I can get ahold of the money to establish the company legally, everything will end up in a good place. The most important part of all this is that I find the right partner.”

It hadn’t even crossed Noura’s mind that she might be this sought-after partner, that a savior had come to rescue her from her miserable life on Lalla Aweesh Street; from her tense relationship with her mother that had become unbearable, especially since the episode with Bilal; from a university that wouldn’t grant her a diploma other than to join the ranks of unemployed college graduates. But now she considered selling the Tameslouht land and entering into a professional partnership out of a dream with this dark, handsome gentleman.

Noura learned the meaning of true pleasure with Issoufou. Naked in bed, she experienced an orgasm for the first time. It was real euphoria, not at all like that love stolen between the trees, when Bilal had rubbed up against her body, quickly spilling his semen. Despite the barrier of her virginity, the talented Issoufou did things with his tongue she couldn’t believe. After a lengthy session of kissing — just a warm-up — he spread her out on his mattress which was black and white like a zebra. He removed her clothing piece by piece, engrossing himself in suckling at her pear-like breasts with his powerful lips, and then focusing on her nipples, teasing them. With the caution of a mystic, he descended steadily down her chest to her navel, before moving to her inner thighs in a kind of sweet torture. Then he turned toward her small blossom, breathing in deeply before exhaling with his burning breath. He kissed her folds, exciting her clitoris, which he wrestled with his outstretched tongue, until Noura let out a quivering scream — a scream which made Issoufou stroke his loaded rocket, joining her there at the heights of euphoria.

She thought to herself that this feeling, in and of itself, was worth all the risks she took to be alone with Issoufou. She would ask permission from her mother to spend the night at her friend Hayat’s house in Daoudiate, claiming they were preparing for exams together, only to go to Issoufou’s place instead. He would head upstairs first while she lingered outside, watching Bilal from afar until he was busy with a customer, and then she would sneak through the door. Bilal had been a mere stepping-stone on her road to this new love. She would feel victorious whenever she brushed past him, like a racehorse vaulting over a fence.

Noura was leaving Issoufou’s apartment when Bilal suddenly appeared before her with a menacing expression on his face. “Where were you, you slut?”

“How could you call me that? Your sister is the slut... and anyway, what business is it of yours? Who are you to ask me?”

“I’m the one who’s going to call the cops on you if I keep seeing you run around here with that nigger.”

“Nigger! Really? My God. This word just comes out of you smooth and sweet like honeyed butter.”

“He’s a nigger... a cannibal. If I catch you here again, goddamnit, see if I don’t get you arrested, the both of you.”

Noura didn’t know what to say. Bilal glared at her, his eyes burning with anger and hatred. She slunk back to her apartment furious with this bastard who she had once loved. Perhaps she should pick up the pace. She had to find a way to return to Issoufou. She was annoyed with this shit from Bilal, a man who’d abandoned her, fleeing like a coward at the first sign of difficulty, holding her mother’s offenses against her. And now he wanted to ruin her newfound love.

Later, Noura told her new knight the whole story with Bilal: about him wanting to get engaged, about her mother’s rejection and his fleeing like a coward, even his trying to block her way when she left the apartment. She professed her love for him, saying that she wished to be with him forever. She then offered to sell the Tameslouht land to establish the company’s funding — and as soon as Issoufou’s money arrived they would move somewhere else, far away from Bilal and this stupid little neighborhood.

Issoufou overflowed with appreciation. Unlike Bilal, Issoufou didn’t generally waver in love. And as far as joining the love with business, it couldn’t wait. He called Aissatou and asked him to get in touch with his friends in the Sufi order to arrange a marriage contract with Noura. He would later get an officiant to sign the contract, with Aissatou and his Sudanese friend Uthman Mustafa Sheikh serving as witnesses.

Noura didn’t resist any of this, wanting to exercise her rights under the new Moroccan family law. Besides, she wasn’t going to wager her happiness on seeking her stone-faced mother’s approval. Back at home, she told her mother that she had to attend the wedding of Hayat’s sister. She dressed in her red and white kaftan, embroidered with gold thread. She draped her white-riveted djellaba over that. She put on her white high-heel shoes patterned with pink flowers. She asked her neighbor’s son to get her a taxi to take her to the Tijani Order Center near Bab Doukkala. The taxi driver parked and waited for her at the entrance of the pathway, near the courtyard, because Lalla Aweesh Street was too narrow for a car to pass through. Noura pulled up the edges of her kaftan to avoid the trash and potholes that made the short distance treacherous in heels. She walked without stumbling or twisting her ankle, heading in the direction of her destiny.

Everyone was gathered at the Tijani Order Center when she arrived, waiting for her to ratify the marriage contract. The officiant Moulay al-Ghali, wearing a white djellaba, registered the declarations of the two witnesses who were also dressed in traditional white clothing. Meanwhile, Issoufou remained true to form, sporting a tailored black Armani tuxedo with gray piping and a white shirt with a bow tie, as if he’d just stepped out of a Hollywood film. Next to the others, he resembled a five-star hostage of a terrorist.

After the ceremony, Noura felt like she was floating with happiness, despite some lingering anxiety. The newlyweds celebrated their secret marriage in al-Fassia restaurant on Boulevard Mohamed-Zerktouni in Gueliz, far from all the riffraff. With Andalusian music softly playing in the background, the hostess led them to a private dining room with only two tables. The lights were dim and the table next to them was empty, all of which allowed the necessary intimacy for the most romantic night of Noura’s life. Issoufou ordered a bottle of champagne with hors d’oeuvres, and insisted she toast to their eternal happiness; it was the intoxication of love that hindered her ability to refuse. She hadn’t even tried alcohol before, since she had been raised to believe that it inevitably led to debauchery and prostitution.

“But champagne is something else,” Issoufou said. “It’s the drink of rapture, of honor, of joy.”

She felt she had to obey her husband. The server opened the bottle dramatically, causing the golden liquid to bubble over. Her eyes wandered over to the main room of the restaurant: the customers were mostly tourists. She took a sip from her glass, the bubbles tickling her nose. She yielded to another glass soon after and felt the tingling of this wondrous drink in her soul, which started to tremble with elation. They ordered grilled meat with plums — the traditional Moroccan wedding dish. She put aside her knife and fork and used the bread to scoop up her food, as was customary. She found it strange to be eating this dish in a restaurant. Her life had entered a new track from the station of the marriage contract.

When the taxi dropped the couple off at the entrance to their building, Noura was unconcerned about the prospect of encountering Bilal or any of the other rubberneckers standing around the front door. Inside, they only passed Hafidh the textile worker hurrying up the stairs in the company of his wife Badia. They pulled their kids behind them as their eyes remained fixed on the newlyweds. Noura climbed the stairs with the confidence of a queen heading to her promised throne. Aissatou had used his extra key to tidy up Issoufou’s apartment in advance. He had started by fixing up the office, then cleaned the bathroom, and finally arranged the bedroom before pumping a half bottle of perfume into it. He had placed candles throughout the room, around which he scattered rose petals. After he paid his respects to the newlyweds, wishing them a joyous night, he left.

The night had started as any virgin would have hoped — passionate gazes were exchanged before they came together in a long, feverish kiss that concluded with them naked in bed. All the familiar intimate opening movements, which delivered Noura into a frenzy, were consummated that evening. Issoufou accomplished this great mission like a professional, as she released an intense scream of ecstasy. A scream that was followed by powerful, hurried knocks on the apartment door: “Open up! Police!”

Terrified, Issoufou’s eyes quickly scanned the room while Noura searched in confusion for her underwear and bra which she had thrown someplace in the heat of the moment. Her mind turned to that jackass Bilal — obviously he had gone through with his threat to call the cops. The dog. He didn’t even know that Issoufou was now her husband, according to the Holy Book of Allah and the sunna of His Prophet.

Outside, panic and chaos spread across the first floor of the building. Naima the Whore’s door opened to allow a frightened man to leave her apartment. He tripped over himself, believing that the police were raiding Naima’s place. But he found it difficult to break through the forest of Malians that had sprouted in the middle of the hallway, also heading for the exit. Likewise, Majid and Chakib were seen jumping from their apartment’s balcony to escape in their car, the black Kangoo. Irina, who couldn’t restrain her curiosity, peeked out to see what was happening. For once, she looked truly disheveled, dressed only in a light nightshirt.

“Irina, what are you doing here at this hour?” asked Umm al-Khayr, who was not used to encountering her Polish neighbor in the evening. She was at her post in front of the door, watching over the scene disinterestedly.

Meanwhile, Lalla Tamou approached in pure mockery, relishing the sight. She was trailed by her other boys Farid and Said, who seemed equally gleeful. Then there was Uthman, the Sudanese man, standing upright like a watchtower monitoring everyone’s movements.

The police didn’t wait long. They were not forced to break into the apartment because Aissatou had instead used his key to reveal Noura behind the door wrapped in a shawl. In her hand she held her newly minted marriage license — proof of her innocence against the accusation of indecent activities.

Bilal emerged and broke through the rows of onlookers, confused and infuriated. Standing in front of the door, he glimpsed Noura wandering through the apartment, scared, sobbing, traumatized. He tried to move toward her, but a police officer standing by the door turned him away harshly. Bilal’s heart filled with pain, and he wished he could tell Noura that he was not responsible for this mess.

Rather, it was Aissatou who stepped resolutely into the apartment to show the security forces several passports, stacks of counterfeit bills in different currencies, as well as other forged documents held in an iron safe hidden in the office closet. A wealth of evidence implicated a man named Mamadou Alseeka, a.k.a. Issoufou, in crimes of establishing and defrauding various businesses in Tangier, Fes, Casablanca, and Marrakech. Further still, they had living proof, scandalously seminude, embodied in the freshly victimized Noura Foukhari. Seizing Issoufou’s computer, they would later discover correspondences with other victims he’d conned, as well as with his accomplice — a Frenchwoman named Déborah Lizan, who went by Katherine, and who was illegally residing in the country. They had been forwarding money orders as proof of legal and administrative assets that granted them access to the profits of a fake company which specialized in the production and exportation of uranium.

Issoufou felt dizzy and sick to his stomach, and asked an officer to give him a minute to throw up.

The cop answered sternly: “You’ll have plenty of time to puke in prison, you no-good con artist.”

Noura didn’t understand one bit of what was happening around her. Her face was streaked with tears, her mind was racing, and her strength had collapsed. She looked around as two officers led her knight in shining armor — Issoufou, or rather, Mamadou Alseeka — away in handcuffs and silk Armani pajamas, on their wedding night.

Two other officers dispersed the curious bystanders, including Hafidh and his wife Badia, who were now listening from their front door. Hafidh was quite pleased with his abrupt decision to move from this miserable building in Hay Saada to live in the neighboring Hay Sharaf — the so-called Honor Neighborhood.

Translated from Arabic by Ghayde Ghraowi

[The translator would like to express his enormous gratitude to Nader Uthman, Thouria Benferhat, and Olga Verlato, whose help made this translation possible.]

A Person Fit for Murder by Lahcen Bakour

L’Hivernage

Whoever said that murder is tricky? It’s extremely simple. As trivial as can be and cowardly too. It doesn’t have to involve someone with a heart of stone, a dead body, or a rapid-fire weapon to take the place of a shaking hand. All you need is someone fit for murder, a bit of weaponry to store the desire for the first drop of spilled blood, and, once in a while, a bit of uncertainty and some crazy coincidences. That’s all that’s needed when it comes to having someone give up the ghost, and stopping the heart from beating.

I’m not a retired criminal, someone who has grown tired of murder’s costs, who wastes time rehashing postponed decisions, or who simply rambles on regardless. No... I know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m a real killer, someone who still has fresh blood on his clothes!

That’s right, I’m a killer! At that particular moment, I was squatting alongside the corpse of my victim. It was Guillaume, my enormous and wonderful friend who was lying beside me, totally peaceful, as though he was exhausted after an intense bout of lovemaking — except that this time his face wasn’t flushed with the same kind of elation that usually follows total satisfaction. This time, the rigor enveloping his body was far greater than the feeling of lassitude that normally follows such pleasure.

My hand was shaking. It had gone back to being as weak as it usually is. Just a few moments ago a weird, satanic power had pulsed through it. My hand kept a firm grip on the knife handle as I finished off my enormous, gentle friend Guillaume. After that I squatted down beside his body for a bit so I could shed some tears and try to figure out why I had killed him.

We had arranged to meet today; that’s why I came. I had no particular grudge against him. I assumed he was waiting for me as usual. There was the same level of excitement and anticipation, as though we were meeting for the very first time. He lingered under the shower before putting on expensive deodorant. Covering himself with a pink silk bathrobe, he took out that box, put it on the table by the bed, and sat there waiting for me. No sooner had I gone through the entrance to Bab el-Jadid and crossed the street in the direction of the Winter Quarter where I was to meet Guillaume than I was struck by that abrupt transformation inside me, the one that my senses accepted so smoothly. I shook off all the remaining vestiges of noise, crowds, and an almost complete absence of individuality — all to be found in the popular quarter where I live — and plunged into another world, one of quiet and space, no noise, space between people, buildings, and things, the kind of vast, scary silence that arouses your curiosity to find out what’s going on behind those high walls and double-glazed windows.

As I walked along the sidewalk, all I could hear was the sound of my own footsteps and the swish of passing limousines as their tires rolled across the asphalt. Meanwhile, the fresh faces of people who had spent most of the day working or sleeping were getting ready for nighttime.

But here you will never see young men leaning their backs against the low walls in case they collapse, while they take turns smoking their way through a shared cigarette; or women sharing gossip the way cats do, with a ball of wool; or even narrow, winding passages where bodies unintentionally bump into each other as they pass by.

No, all you’ll see around here is an aged gardener carefully tending and watering the flowers at a villa, a maidservant opening the trunk of a car and carrying provisions into the kitchen by a back door, or a house guard alert and ready to perform any tasks demanded by the people living there.

Guillaume had done well for himself by renting an apartment in this particular area. People here do not usually poke their noses into other people’s business. Provided that you take precautions and don’t go overboard, you can do pretty much anything you want. Even so, every time I’d come to visit Guillaume, I’d feel beset by worry and concern. Experience has taught me to stay on my guard. Sometimes you may get the impression that the police are not interested or ignoring you completely, whereas in reality the noose is gradually tightening. That’s why I’m being more and more cautious; I watched every single step I took before following it with the next one.

Upon reaching Guillaume’s apartment complex, I texted him to open the door and leave it ajar, a precaution that we had always taken. Pushing the door open, I snuck inside. The whole place had a wonderful quiet about it. A soft aura of music pervaded the lounge, just like the floral scent that filled the space. At that moment I had a prickly sensation, a feeling of regret that I had decided to come. However, it vanished as quickly as it had first manifested itself. I could hear Guillaume humming to himself in the bedroom and realized that he was setting the mood. He was waiting contentedly, just like a baby about to get a present. Once he realized that I was there, he rushed over and gave me a big, nervous kiss that revealed the extent of his passionate love. We sat there in the lounge for a while and drank a cold beer to celebrate our reacquaintance, but then sheer desire pulled us toward the bedroom.

For some reason, I grew tense and fidgety on the bed, but I did my best to put things right and not spoil our reunion, not only because Guillaume was so good, but also because I was completely broke — I urgently needed the hundred euros he had promised me. At the end of our sessions together, Guillaume would always feel jubilant. When he felt that happy, he would become incredibly generous as well; that hundred euros could turn into 120 or even a bit more.

Guillaume let out a long sigh and bellowed like a slaughtered ox. His huge body was taking up most of the bed, and he looked totally satisfied as he let it cool off. For a while we both lay spread-eagle side by side on the bed. He rested his head on my chest and I started using my fingers to play with the abundant hair on his chest, the way he liked me to do. Then I went back to the lounge while he stayed in the bedroom.

After making love, Guillaume liked to be left on his own; at that point he felt a kind of momentary depression. He spread his body out on the space between the bed and the large wardrobe that occupied the entire wall.

Guillaume was an extremely stylish man; he kept an impeccable collection of suits and shoes. Extending his back to the edge of the bed and stretching his feet to the front of the wardrobe, he leaned back and slowly smoked a cigarette before heading for the bathroom and surrendering his body once again to the seductive temptation of water.

I lay out on one of the benches in the lounge, listening to the hiss of the water from the bathroom. If I were in a better mood, Guillaume would invite me to share the shower with him. We would repeat the same game there, relishing the feel of the water as we had done several times before. But today he had noticed that I was a bit on edge, so he made do on his own.

Guillaume was a good person who worshipped money because it could make all roads lead somewhere; as he often told me with a wink, he could open all doors, and windows as well. But he worshipped the body even more, especially if it was male, hairy, and of a light-brown color.

My acquaintance with Guillaume was a genuine gift. When I first met him I was just emerging from a grim and rough experience with another Frenchman — old and skinny, a real miser. Every time I thought back to him, I couldn’t help laughing and feeling sorry for him. It took him forever to emerge from the airport that first day. Just as I was about to leave, the arrival gate spat out yet another traveler, walking slowly and dragging a ridiculous antique suitcase behind him. He looked totally oblivious to his surroundings, like someone who had lost his way. I was the only person still waiting and he moved in my direction, staring hard at the sign I was holding and audibly sounding out the name written on it. With that, his features relaxed a bit, and he came rushing over like an aged penguin that had fallen behind its colony. In the photograph that he had sent beforehand, he still possessed a vestige of his youthful glow, but the man now standing in front of me extended a leathery hand, veined and marked with blotches.

After swallowing this bitter pill, I decided to exploit this old man and fleece him for all he was worth. But he proved to be an intolerable skinflint, only ever putting his hand inside his wallet under duress. For three whole days I put up with him, like a sack of garbage that weighed me down, but eventually I got rid of him with no regrets.

He was really ugly. When he was naked, he resembled a snail without its shell. He tried long and hard to arouse in that old body of his a desire that had died ages ago. Eventually, I discovered that what he really needed was someone of the same sex to sit with him, stay with him at the dinner table, and sleep alongside him in the same bed, only touching each other occasionally. In the best of circumstances all we did was exchange frantic kisses which tasted like dust.

You poor old man, dragging your feeble body and sallow spirit around and traveling so far to get here; and then only to strip naked in front of me! He was shivering from old age more than he was from passion, uttering fake, pleading sighs, and then going back the way he had come.

“Till next time!” he told me as he waved goodbye at the airport. He was smiling happily, as though he had successfully completed an important project. And with that he went on his way, dragging his silly suitcase behind him. As I watched him disappear slowly into the distance, I could only think again of the lost penguin. I laughed.

Guillaume emerged from the shower a totally different person, revived and smiling as though his soul had taken a shower with him. Rubbing his thick gray hair around the temples with a towel, he came toward me and stretched out his neck to give me a kiss. Once again, I was struck by how disgusted I was by his eyes; their green coloring made me nauseous. It was only with difficulty that I stopped myself from pushing him away. After he kissed me, I closed my eyes, not because I was thrilled, but because I could not stand having that same glance so close to me.

Ever since I first glimpsed those eyes, I had loathed their soft, limpid green. For ages, I’ve had an overwhelming desire to plunge into their depths, fathom their secret, and then relax. But I could never look at them for very long. More than once I found myself staring at him intently, but without even meaning to do so. On one occasion, Guillaume snapped, “Stop staring at me like that. You’re making me nervous!”

I watched as he went into the bedroom. At precisely that moment, and without any prior intention or clear motive, I found myself heading for the kitchen. My right hand was shaking as I went over to the drawer to take out a large knife with a wooden handle. No sooner had I clasped the knife and taken a look at its sharp blade than my hand stopped shaking. As my feet guided me toward the bedroom, my outstretched hands went ahead of me. I didn’t even see Guillaume in front of me, only those hateful green eyes with their sleazy look.

He was standing by the table, rummaging through a box. I approached him cautiously. When I drew close, he became aware of my presence and turned toward me. It was then that I stabbed him with a violent thrust — it was both treacherous and utterly unexpected. Guillaume reeled, let out a loud cry of pain, and put his hand over the gushing wound. After that, I couldn’t remember the details exactly. All I came up with were a few fragmentary images — pictures and sounds intermingled, as though I were dreaming or delirious with fever.

Once I recovered consciousness and found myself squatting over Guillaume’s motionless body, I wept bitterly, scarcely believing that I had actually killed him, and wondering to myself how I had managed to do it — me, the feeble coward! My hands were stained with his blood and shaking wildly, while the bloodied knife lay close to the body, its task complete.

Blood everywhere — on my hands and shirt, on the floor, on the pajamas that were almost completely off Guillaume’s body. Once I realized exactly what had happened, I nearly died as well. For a moment my heart stopped beating. My mind packed up, and all my senses went numb, but then a flood of images and sounds came surging back to the surface of my consciousness like a roaring river. I heard Guillaume screaming in pain; I saw him collide with the wardrobe and stagger around after that first treacherous thrust. He tried to fight back, falling down, then staggering to his feet again. Eventually he collapsed, and his hulking body lay still in the space between the bed and wardrobe. On his pursed lips was the burning question: Why? All at once I felt a terrible pain over my entire body. Not knowing which of my limbs to check to see if I was hurt, I found it extremely difficult to bend over. At least two ribs must be broken, and I could not see out of my left eye; the whole thing was completely swollen, and it felt as huge as a zucchini. Guillaume had obviously put up a fierce fight, but his efforts had come too late.

The bedsheets had fallen to the floor and were spattered with dark-red blood, our moments of pleasure now a distant memory. The small suitcase was open, having fallen near the table; its contents were scattered at the foot of the bed: a plastic dildo, lube, and bottles of oils. Guillaume had had no time to arrange them all carefully as he usually did before putting them back in the suitcase and shoving it all deep inside the wardrobe like hidden treasure.

Oh, my dear Guillaume, how I’m going to miss you! In fact, I was only a hundred extra euros away, or slightly more, from actually loving you. That’s why I really can’t answer that burning question which you yourself were unable to put into words, and which stayed on your lips like an extra Adam’s apple: Why? Yes indeed, I too don’t know why I killed you. I have no idea where I got the power and courage to pick up that dreadful knife and thrust it into your hulking body, still fresh from the shower.

True enough, my dear, you’re dead now. There’s no way I can bring you back to life. But I owe it to you to at least respond to that last unanswered question of yours. I have the feeling that your spirit is going to linger around here, refusing to leave until it knows what particular curse made me pierce your body. Maybe then it will be able to relax a little before turning away to meet its maker.

I’ll not conceal from you, my dear, that, like anyone who finds himself suddenly involved in a murder, I thought of getting away and leaving the place as quickly as possible; either that or throwing myself out the window as a means of escape. But I couldn’t do it. My entire body was shattered; it was covered in welts and bruises. The very thought of moving was extremely painful. At the same time, I decided not to leave this place because I needed to understand.

What do you say, my dear, to us having a chat while we’re waiting?

I’m well aware that you disliked delving into personal matters; you always kept a veil of secrecy over your personal life. I realize that and understand your motives. I also admit that you never tried to get me to reveal any details about my own life. But who were you really, Guillaume?

Were you a sexual idealist, someone who subsumed all life’s pleasures in those of the body? Or maybe you were married and lived a perfectly pleasant life on the other side of the Mediterranean. Once in a while you managed to smuggle out a small part of your family budget and come over here or to other spots across the globe. There you could spend lavishly on your passion before returning to your life as a straight man who loved women, someone who worked hard and waited for the weekend so that he could relax a bit and enjoy a drink with friends.

What harm will it do, Guillaume, if we talk frankly about this final encounter of ours?

Personally, I suddenly have a burning desire to tell you a bit about myself. So, will you listen to me, my dear? You are under no obligation to reciprocate. I won’t take long because the police will arrive at any moment; that will terminate all possibilities of such frankness and put an end to all this suffering. By now the stench of death has probably permeated the entire building through the gaps in the doors and windows; it has probably reached all the public spaces. At this point, I can almost see the crowds gathered by the entrance and in the interior courtyard, all of them struck by the electric lightning of curiosity and indulging in all kinds of gossip until the police get here.

Long ago, when I was just a child, I had no interest in rolling a soccer ball around in the dust or clambering up palm trees in the wilderness outside the city to pick dates. My feet much preferred to play hopscotch or jump rope with the girls in the humid alleyways. When I got involved in typical boy fights, with a good deal of insults and even punching, my voice always let me down. When I yelled at my enemy and really needed to sound vicious and harsh to compensate for my puny stature, it always came out lame and meek; it was as though I wanted to flirt with my enemy, not beat him up!

My father sold cigarettes and was permanently drunk. He only emerged from prison in order to bash in someone’s head or get arrested for selling his foul hashish to other poor addicts. Then he would return to his favorite spot outside the city walls. My mother made good use of his absences to liberate herself from his violent behavior. She even managed to forget the pain that his cowardly fist would inflict when he drunkenly left terrible bruises on her stomach. Forgetting about me was not something that caused her the slightest distress or hardship. That explains how the proprietor of the games hall in our quarter had no trouble gradually bringing me into his open arms. He kept me a prisoner inside the dark hall when he first groped me in the quiet of that afternoon that I have never forgotten. Once he’d had enough, he pointed a knife at me, with the blade shining straight into my eyes. Rubbing the point slowly over my face, he used his other hand to grab my cheek and plant on it the final kiss. Then he invited me to come and play whenever I wanted, and without charge.

He was a bit weird and kept himself apart from the others in the area. He disappeared soon after my childhood was over — a taciturn old man who spent all day in the games hall, which was always packed with unemployed men and children cutting school. He used to sit by the door, smoking and sipping cups of tea. Once in a while he would disappear inside with a group of young men; they would smoke some hashish and get drunk on wine. But I still remember... oh, the sheer horror of it, my dear! Can you even begin to imagine? That man, the one from my childhood, who fiddled with my young body to his heart’s content. It went on that whole summer inside the hall. And he had green eyes too.

Those eyes were sultry and slimy green. I could hardly bear to look at them. Whenever our gazes met, I immediately looked at the floor and kept my head down; I had a strange feeling, a mixture of shame, surrender, and other feelings I did not understand. My own footsteps led me inexorably toward him because I was mostly on my own and had no idea what to do with my spare time. With just a brief gesture from those green eyes, I would slink inside the hall.

Dear Guillaume, let me adjust your position a bit; I would like to rest your head on my knees. My, my, how heavy you are! I would like to have you as close to me as possible so I can whisper some last words to you.

Please, Guillaume, don’t head into the void with that sarcastic look on your face. That’s what you always used to do in responding to my stupid questions or justifying your opinions. Don’t do that when I tell you that the reason I killed you was those green eyes. Don’t scoff like that — I think it’s true.

Your eyes! It is only now that I can carefully examine them as much as I like, without bothering you or having you stare at me with that syrupy look. But now their light has gone out. That green color has now turned into something dead. The gleam of life has left them; their pupils have faded away as though they were made of plastic.

Do you realize, dear Guillaume? I was thinking back to the moment of our very first meeting near the Cinema Mabrouka. I could see your huge hairy fingers reaching up to your sunglasses and preparing to take them off. A smiling acknowledgment of our agreement was lighting up your face, but then you changed your mind and kept them on. At this point, I was telling myself that if you had actually taken them off, your misty eyes with their nasty green color would have repelled me, and I would have refused to be with you. I would not have assumed this heavy burden that will keep weighing me down like an ugly hump for as long as I live.

Just imagine, dear Guillaume, a normal, trivial movement, repeated thousands of times a day. You could have made my fate completely different. I could still be trawling on the edges of Jemaa el-Fnaa and walking the streets in Gueliz, picking up customers rather than simply getting old and letting my bones freeze inside the walls of the Boulmharez Prison. And most likely you would still be enjoying life, pursuing your hankering for hairy brown bodies. Eventually somebody else would kill you, but this time for an obvious and unambiguous reason; either that, or the police would surprise you and put an end to your passions.

My dear, I can fully understand the panic you must have felt when we met for the first time. There you were, with your powerful, athletic figure chasing after my own puny brown body that was strutting along, putting everything on display. You were walking along like any normal tourist who had come to expose his body to the Marrakech sun and his spirits to its delights, but I was exposing you and making your inclinations public. At the time you must have thought people were watching you, and that made you anxious. When we entered a dark alley opposite the post office and I spoke to you, I could tell how worried you really were; beads of sweat were glistening on your forehead. You had heard the comments hurled at us like invisible rocks from passersby, beggars, and shopkeepers standing by the doors of their stores. Those things no longer bother me, but you did not understand a word they were saying.

As soon as I spotted you that very first time, walking along the side of the square with a huge camera over your shoulder, I could easily guess what kind of pleasure you had in mind. There was no need for us to even look at each other — the smile you gave me managed to combine lust with something like fear. No, as soon as I saw you sauntering around, anxious, alone, and without a woman, hiding behind your huge sunglasses, I knew exactly what you wanted. I was certain that women did not interest you. With that, I hurried over to you before someone else snatched you away first.

It looks like I’m getting a Dutch or German customer, I told myself, as I hurried toward you and took in your enormous manicured body. It was then that I realized you were another Frenchman, but different.

Oh my dear! I’m exhausted and sad. I need to rest. If only I could get a bit of sleep, but my eyelids keep resisting and refuse to stay closed. And you, my dear Guillaume, aren’t you exhausted as well? There you were from the very start, lying on your back and leaning slightly to the right. Now that you’re dead, perhaps you really want me to help change your position, but I too am unable to move.

How long have you stayed like this, my dear Guillaume? An hour or less, a day and night, forever?

Beyond the window, lights are shining in the neighboring apartments, shadows come and go, and television screens gleam and dance. Other bodies might well be making love as though there were no corpse in this apartment, a murdered man and his murderer...

I can hear a scary noise in the building. Let’s listen for a bit.

At last — the police seem to have arrived. I can hear their voices bouncing off the walls, magnified as though through loudspeakers. There was the sound of their footsteps coming cautiously up the stairs. By now they’re clearer and louder. They bang on the door for some time, but I can’t get up to open it. They’ll knock it down. They’ll still find everything in place: the murdered man, his murderer, and the weapon. They’ll face an extremely simple problem, one that won’t require any real effort to investigate.

They’re right by the door now. At first, they knock quite normally, just like any guest or neighbor. But after some tense moments of silence, the knocks get louder and more insistent. Then they start fiddling with the lock; it looks as though it won’t hold out for long.

Now here they are, pushing the door down. That causes a ringing in my ears. I’ve gradually gotten used to it, and now it goes on and on, like the music of finality.

As though on a bright, flickering television screen, I picture myself as an old man, back bent over, gray hairs invading my temples, walking along the wall of the Boulmharez Prison on a steaming-hot Marrakech day. An ailing spirit lingers inside this man, and he drags an exhausted body around, no longer recalling how to walk on ground that was not bounded by walls or stifled by roofs.

Cautiously, the cops move toward the bedroom. Their highly trained senses tense at the stench of murder that pervades the entire apartment. And now they are using their bodies to block the entrance to the room.

My dear Guillaume, if only your eyes hadn’t been green — if only they hadn’t been green!

Translated from Arabic by Roger Allen