The Curious Case of Dassoukine's Trousers

BENNANI’S BODYGUARD

Nagib puts down Le Matin du Sahara, looking preoccupied, subsumes us in his detestation of the world in one glance, and bursts out:

“What are autoimmune diseases?”

Prudently, we keep quiet. The question seems to evoke others. A discussion might break out, medical, mean. It’s hot, Saturday morning, Maure’s cat (the boss’s cat? To whom does this wretched cat belong? And can a cat belong to someone in the first place?), the cat of Café de l’Univers sleeps, rolled in a ball, on a neighboring chair. The passersby pass, hurried, because we are in Casablanca, and not in Tafraoût, and because we must look hurried, even if we have nothing to do, to allay suspicion, to convince others that we’re up to snuff, that we’re true Casablancais, busy, industrious, useful — not like those Marrakchi clowns, who do nothing the livelong day, nothing at all but stare at a big ochre minaret and tell jokes.

The silence thickens like cotton wool soaked with the blood of the poor.

So Nagib changes his tactic. He points his finger at Hamid and repeats his question, which becomes comminatory:

“What are autoimmune diseases?”

Hamid, attacked, first defends himself by pretending to be deaf, then mute, then an idiot, which for him isn’t difficult. But nothing was able to divert the rage of knowledge that had taken hold of Nagib. He repeats his question, louder.

Dadane, who joined us this morning, swoops (half-heartedly) to Hamid’s aid.

“Autoimmune diseases? It would take too long to explain, and would require, in addition, pencils, paper…But, instead, I’ll tell you the story of Bennani’s bodyguard…”

Everyone raises their eyes, even those (Hamid) who earlier had pretended not to have them. Collective astonishment:

“Did you say ‘bodyguard’?”

The Moor draws closer, noting our awakening, sensing consumption. We rapidly order mint teas, a coffee, a Mekka cola.

“Did you say ‘bodyguard’?”

Dadane settles into his cramped chair, clears his throat, takes on a tone of “I’m about to tell you something really amazing,” and jumps in:

“Toward the end of 19**, high school students in the advanced math class in the Lycée Lyautey in Casablanca (I among them) decided to organize a little celebration, to celebrate…to celebrate what, exactly? I don’t remember. But it doesn’t matter…”

“There aren’t that many reasons to be happy, we won’t be finicky. Continue.”

“The students were perhaps commemorating the demonstration of a theorem?”

“Ha ha, very funny…Anyway, they rented a room on Boulevard Mohammed V, a space pompously christened ‘the celebration room’ by the proprietor. In reality it was a type of big hall that took on a festive spirit and whose walls, bounni-colored, oozed despair. The ceiling was strung with large banners that had been placed there for another occasion (the creation of a union) and that someone had forgotten to take down. So what, we would celebrate beneath partisan slogans — it would take more than that to ruin the commemoration of Thales’ theorem.”

“Thales is imperturbable.”

“Irrefutable.”

“Sent to do some reconnaissance, Anouar had accepted the owner’s conditions. He was the one who had described the room to us, but, prudent, he had spoken of pink walls: we didn’t know what the color bounni was. Pink walls! Old Thales would be turning in his grave with glee. Greeks like pink (don’t they?).”

We didn’t respond, we were no Hellenic experts.

“Stocks of drinks were purchased: Coca-Cola, Youki of course, Sim, Sinalco, and other brands that have completely disappeared from the surface of the planet.”

“No alcohol?”

“Yeah, a bit of beer. Discreetly. These were the days when you could drink beer without triggering a heavy fire of fatwas, without provoking questions from Parliament, without upsetting the Pakistanis in the distance.”

“Joyous age!”

“When the day came, we gave ourselves a close shave, perfumed ourselves with a ten-franc Spanish perfume, and walked gaily to the celebration hall to save the price of a bus ticket (1 dirham and 20 centimes). We put on our least shabby clothes, our least dusty shoes, our least nominal ties. Thales’s band traversed Casablanca as if it were a conquered city.”

“The world is ours!”

“After walking for a half hour…We had arrived! But what, what’s going on, the door is closed! We hung around in front of the hall because that imbecile Mourtada had forgotten the key in the pocket of his everyday pants, which he wasn’t wearing today, by definition: he was in his Sunday best, even if it was Friday night. He went running back down Boulevard Ziraoui to look for the key. We waited for him on the sidewalk (there was no danger, these weren’t the days when extremists came to blow themselves up in a crowd as soon as they noticed a gathering of more than three people).”

“Happy days!”

“Joyous age!”

“So we wait peacefully, talking about Hilbert spaces and Maxwell’s equations. But…a black BMW pulls up in front of us. Do I need to describe a BMW? It’s a German-made car, particularly well designed and with a powerful engine. It’s a gem of that advanced technique that will always squash the beggar.”

“We know what a BMW is. We’ve seen them. From a distance.”

“Bennani gets out (from the black BMW). Bennani was the rich kid in the advanced math class. Rather nice, intelligent, generous on occasion, his only fault was that he was rich and we weren’t. Normally, all he had to do was appear to send us, by contrast, back to our sad condition of ‘sons of the masses.’ (It was the time when even the sons of the masses could go to the Lycée Lyautey in Casablanca.)”

“Happy days!”

“Joyous age!”

“But that day, he couldn’t outdo us. We were in our best threads. Or rather: our most decent threads. Even our nominal ties could bear the comparison with his satin lavalliere with one dangling button. We felt like we could stand up to Bennani. On this sidewalk where we were loitering, we held our heads high, proud to be as well dressed as he. Dadouche had even borrowed a suit from his cousin. So he took a step toward Bennani, ready to defy the gaze of the nabob math wiz.

“‘Monsieur, we shall fight!’

“‘Duel! Duel!’

“But then out of the BMW came a second man, on the heels of Bennani. And what a man he was! He was a hulk. Huge. Mean. He rolled his large shoulders proudly, showed off a strangler’s hands, and his square jaw quivered menacingly. He was dressed in black and wearing glasses of the same color. Black!”

“The detail!”

“Out of instinct, we bookworms huddled before the door of the party hall on the Avenue des Forces-Armées-Royales, we bookworms, out of instinct, take a step back. Murmurs of astonishment. (‘Who is this guy?’ ‘Chkoune hadak?’ ‘Mnin khrouj dak James Bond?’) Bennani, seeing that the door of the party hall was closed (that imbecile Mourtada had not yet returned), leans against the wall, calm, and lights a John Player Special — he would never have been caught raising a Casa Sports to his lips. Dadouche, vexed (his attempt to defy Bennani by gaze had been stopped short), demands:

“‘Hey, Bennani, who is this guy?’

“Wisps of smoke hovering below his nostrils, Bennani responds, as if stating the obvious:

“‘He’s my bodyguard.’

“And bam! Knocked back down, our ridiculous clothes, our cologne made in España, our shoes polished with Kiwi. As usual, the rich had distanced us by choosing another arena. (The rich shift the debate: that’s their great strength. They are always where we don’t expect them.) Distressed, we looked at the bodyguard with bulging eyes — we had never seen one from so close up. His face looked the part, and his gestures even more so. He positioned himself between us and his master and banged his right fist against his left hand. We were submerged in our astonishment. Zriwil asked:

“‘Your…what?’

“The bodyguard set about examining us all from up close, starting with Zriwil.

“‘One wrong word and I’ll kill you…’

“‘What, wrong word? All of our words are in bad shape, busted, broken…It was only yesterday that we were introduced to Hugo. And plus, we’re friends with Bennani,’ replied Dadouche.

“Meanwhile, Mourtada had returned, with the stride of a melancholic ferret, and we were able to enter into the party hall. Some sandwiches were moping in a corner, next to some withering drinks. A big banner, stretched across the width of the room, proclaimed the pride of the bus drivers to finally have their union. Yellow garlands trickled from the ceiling, looking like they’d hung themselves the day after the party. The boss, who had spared no expense, had installed an old Teppaz survived from the Titanic and exactly three records: Aznavour, Petite musique de nuit, and Nana Mouskouri (Greatest Hits). We were over the moon (c’était Byzance) but not Bennani. He threw down the covers with a disdainful air after barely looking at them.

“‘What is this junk shop?’

“That was how he crushed us, routinely. If someone was excited, he would denigrate: he had seen better, he knew better. Better: he possessed better. What am I saying? He was better.

“He shrugged his shoulders.

“‘I’ll bring you real music,’ he decides.

“He leaves, followed by his bodyguard, to rummage through the trunk of the BMW and comes back, followed by his bodyguard, with a big cardboard box, and in a flick of the wrist, LPs galore. Marvin Gaye, Paul Anka, the Supremes…Through this room barely widowed of its unionists echoes the animal desire glorified by soul music:

“Let’s get it on…

“Bennani grooves a bit, is imitated by his bodyguard, closes his eyes, then says:

“‘This song is magic, girls drop like flies listening to it, if you had brought your chicks…’

“The phrase lingers, unanswered. We lower our heads, mortified. As for ‘chicks,’ we had among us only three little bookworms, Najla and two others, our classmates, who bore the brunt of our fantasies but who seemed to be interested only in math — not in us, with our faces looking like we’d been dug up from the grave.

“The night unfolds normally, which is to say abnormally: three girls, sixty starving people — and Marvin Gaye. Standing in a corner, smoking his John Player Specials, Bennani observes us: he’s at the zoo. His bodyguard, who plays with a nonexistent earpiece, drinks beer after beer: it’s free, because who would dare ask for money from such a massive guy? From time to time, he inspects.”

“Inspects what?”

“Well, everything…he taps on the walls, like you do when you search for a hollow, with the palm of his left hand flat and little sudden knocks with the bent index finger of the other hand… He stares defiantly at the banner of the unionists. He sizes up the sandwiches, relieves them, if necessary, of their garniture (mortadella can be quite dangerous). He opens the door and examines the Avenue des Forces-Armées-Royales, so propitious to the rise of tanks. He comes to look at us from up close, with a suspicious air, as if we were cooking up an assassination attempt. He purports even to frisk the body of the little Najla, who escapes by screeching. He asks for identification from the landlord, who had come to check that everything was going okay. The landlord takes offense (he is after all in his own place), we nearly have an incident, the bodyguard has to rein himself in.

“So much so that we begin to feel sorry for him, this man with nothing to do. Ahmidouch asks him where he’s from. ‘Settat!’ he responds, as others might say New York or Paris. We look at each other, astonished — there’s a school for bodyguards at Settat? He misunderstands our hesitation. Menacingly:

“‘Do you have a problem with that?’

“Not at all, we explain to him. And the accusing index fingers are extended: he’s from Benahmed, him (the fat one) from Tata, him from Sefrou, him (the little guy) from Sidi-Bennour, I’m from Fkih Ben Salah…

“The strongman of Halles can’t believe it. He thought we were all sons of the upper class, bourgeois, loaded, from Casablanca or maybe even from Fes…And he finds out we’re as much of a bumpkin as he is! Dumbstruck (I’ve been wanting to say that for a while now), he goes to check that the avenue hasn’t changed directions. Then he comes back, as if some dawn is beginning to glow beneath his neurons. He murmurs:

“‘But you’re all sons of the masses…’

“A collective shudder courses through us. You have to remember that this story takes place in an age when three people out of two were part of the police, where snitches abounded, where you could be denounced by your own shadow — the bitch. Expressions like ‘sons of the masses’ that seem harmless today rang out at the time like a proclamation along the lines of: ‘I am Marxist-Leninist and I plan to overthrow the government.’

“In any case, the fact that Mr. Bodyguard used such a dangerous expression suggested to us that: 1) he was crazy; 2) he was a snitch; 3) he was drunk. The truth was probably a combination of the three (1+2+3).

“As soon as the words are heard and their dangerousness percolates in our brains, we disperse throughout the party hall, not wanting to finish the year in prison — we had competitions and exams to worry about. The bawdyguard follows us (he divides in two, in three, in umpteen), clinging to some of us, embracing others, smooching Najla and proclaiming urbi et ‘roubi, to the city and to us country folk, that he loves us all, on the whole and in the details. Bennani, standing in a corner, stunned, was like Napoleon looking on as Moscow burned, with no fire extinguisher.

“His bodyguard is crying now, so sloshed from the alcohol we could have set him ablaze with a snap of the fingers. He stammers, snot deforming his words:

“‘You are all sons of the masses…Like me.’

“He turns, by chance, toward the native of Sidi-Bennour.

“‘My name is Bouchta! And you, my brother, what did God name you?’

“‘Jilali,’ the Sidi-Bennourien affirms proudly.

“The bodyguard steps back a few centimeters and stares at Jilali’s pants. They’re pants that (how can I phrase it?)…have lived. They were originally corduroy, probably. A long time ago. Then, at the mercy of rubbing against the back of CTM bus seats (the most cramped in the world, calibrated for Pinocchio); of the abrasion suffered from rough chairs; against entryways waiting for a door to open; on the sidewalk, the days of lining up in front of the police station, waiting for the forces of Law and Order to hand over an identity card; against the trees on the boulevard; the stadium bleachers; the deteriorated, discouraged walls; on the asphalt, if there was a fight or skirmish…at the mercy of all that, the corduroy was no longer ribbed and barely corded; now it looked like one of those humble fabrics we turn into dish towels — and these were Jilali’s Sunday pants.

“The bodyguard turns toward another guy.

“‘And you,’ he asks the Fkih Ben Salah native, ‘what name did God give you?’

“‘Cherki,’ replies Cherki.

Bouchta the bodyguard attentively examines the aforementioned shirt of Cherki. It has traveled, it’s undeniable. One can speculate it’s had an adventurous life, come from a weaving loom from the age of the Hittites, falling cleanly on Assyrian buttocks, at the beginning, then little by little deteriorating, passed from one person to another in the great movement of migrations toward the West, debarking one day from a dhow or a felucca, along with a thousand of its sisters, prisoner of privateers, thrown in a heap on the floor of illegal souks, grabbed by a speculator who puts it up in a dark alley the next day to sell for a profit (“It’s from Germany, my brother!”), and it’s Cherki who acquires it, moved, dreaming of the effect that beautiful shirt, only the tiniest bit worn, will have on the little Najla when he sports it at the big party where he finds himself presently, the eye of the bodyguard fixed on him. The bodyguard intensifies his sobs while his retinas dart back and forth between Cherki’s rag and Bennani’s shirt, designed by a Parisian couturier, brought from Paris by the arrogant Airbus, unwrapped the same morning as it had been packaged in silk paper by a maid with eyes lowered, pressed (the shirt) even if it was of no use. Bouchta repeats, tearful:

“‘You are all sons of the masses…Like me.’

“Bennani, understanding that everything was going to heck in a handbasket, wrests himself from his promontory and comes to take the human rag by the arm to drag him toward the light of the avenues. But nothing could be done: the man frees himself in one move, seizes his master by the throat and yells out:

“‘But you! You! You are not a son of the masses!’

“Shock! The masks fall. The troupe fraternizes. Comrades, drop your weapons! Marvin Gaye stops singing: the promise of a happier tomorrow. El pueblo, unido…The banner flaps in the wind — now it’s taking on all its meaning — the meaning of History. The owner of the hall has disappeared: he probably went to go alert the police. We other bookworms, we watch the scene, eyes bulging. So many things happening! The garde du corps bellows in the face of Bennani before him, spraying him copiously with spit and with his class hatred, and hurls out:

“‘I’m gonna kill you!’

“Bennani runs away, his hands awkwardly hanging onto the lapels of his jacket, like a diligent turkey; he breaks through the door and runs toward the BMW. The bodyguard follows him, light-footed Achilles, with us on his heels. The rest, the murder, the decisive blow, happens in the blink of an eye. Pif, paf…Hissing of the noble fabric of his shirt…Crack of the collector’s item watch smashing on the cobblestone…Bennani lies on the sidewalk, nose smashed, writhing in pain. The bodyguard retreats into the night with a supple step, head sunken into his shoulders. He’s stopped crying, only his haughty sniffling recalls the outbursts from earlier. He turns around and from a distance yells to us in a manly voice, no longer trembling:

“‘Adieu, boys! Bouchta salutes you!’

“Indeed, he said ‘Bouchta.’

“He was no longer ‘the bodyguard’ of anybody.

“He was a free man.”