Street of Thieves

Bassam was also going around in circles. He had almost stopped talking; he just opened his eyes and mouth wide when Maria’s thighs unclenched, on her threshold at the entrance to the Street of Thieves; he would stay there for three, five, ten, or even fifteen eternal seconds, stunned, his lower jaw hanging down like a halfwit’s, his gaze lost between her legs, and Maria had to make fun of him or insult him to set him on his way, grumbling; it didn’t matter that I told him it wasn’t right, to stay there like that all agog, that he could simply pay a few euros and go upstairs with her, he could have seen, touched, penetrated, and come, and that’s that, but no, he shook his head like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, as if he had seen the devil, no no, Lakhdar khouya, he said, we don’t pay for that kind of thing, and I sort of agreed, we don’t pay, not with money so much, but with the sad memory of the dead smell of Zahra the little whore in Tangier whom he didn’t know. Then he’d go back to the restaurant to wolf down a tagine or some skewers of meat, then he’d go to the mosque, hands in his pockets, he’d spit on the addicts and thieves, ogle the black whores with a mixture of scorn and desire, try to forget them by making his ablutions, prayed, then he’d talk with some Pakistanis, always the same ones, his friends he said, then he’d come home, sit with his eyes glued to the TV, make Mounir flee in the midst of his ritual pedicure — Mounir would close his knife, sighing, get up, then slam the door to his room with a bang.

Sheikh Nureddin had only stayed for three days, as planned; he had met all the high society of Barcelona, princes and soccer players included, had stuffed himself with petit-fours in a luxury hotel, and then had left, not without inviting us, Bassam and me, one last time out to lunch — I felt as if I were sharing the meal with an uncle from America; he was very elegant, in a dark blue jacket with a white shirt with a stand-up collar; he had money, rhetoric, and a business class ticket to the Gulf. I felt a little like his personal yokel; I couldn’t stop myself from speaking Moroccan with him, while he told us about his charity evenings in a classical Arabic mixed with eastern touches. Bassam remained silent; his gaze gave off admiration, boundless servitude. I don’t know why, I hated Sheikh Nureddin, that day; maybe because that same morning I had gone to see Judit in the hospital, and that had put me off a little, who knows. In any case, I was happy at the time to say goodbye to him. I remember his last words well, before he flagged down a taxi to get his luggage at the hotel: don’t hesitate, he said, if you want to join us, don’t hesitate, we’ll always have work for you. I thanked him without daring to mention my dream to him, that little religious-cum-pagan bookstore on the Raval in Barcelona. Then I thought how that dog had created and torn apart my life, that he had a valid passport full of visas, that he had never known either Cruz or the Street of Thieves, and that he deserved a good kick in the ass, to teach him to live — Bassam threw himself around his neck as if he were his father; I thought I could hear the Sheikh’s words murmured into his ear, be strong, the Hour may be near, it reminded me of a verse from the Koran, it was very strange and solemn as a goodbye. Nureddin saw I had heard, he smiled saying be good, don’t forget God and your Brothers, and drove off in a yellow-and-black taxi.

Bassam watched him go as if the Prophet himself were disappearing.

It was time to take him in hand again, as before; I said to him okay, now we’ll go down a few beers and hit on some girls, my treat.

He looked infinitely sad, shifted from foot to foot as if he suddenly had to pee, and took my hand, like a lost girl.

“Come on,” I said, “we’ll live it up.”

He let himself be dragged along like the puppy or child he had never stopped being.