Street of Thieves

Outside a freezing wind from the ocean was sweeping down the avenue, the city was deserted; even in front of the Cannons there were hardly any people, a few tourists returning to their fashionable hotels. I ran down the street toward the Grand Zoco, mechanically made the rounds of the square, bought a pack of cigarettes without thinking about it, two guys I had already seen were warming themselves around a brazier, I traded them one of my remaining bills for a stub of kif, went to smoke it discreetly on a bench set a little apart. Everything became quiet. The drug calmed me down. The city was covered with a calm, dark veil, I was far away all of a sudden, behind a wall between my body and the world, I thought again about the bookseller, about the parking lot guard, about Sheikh Nureddin, about Bassam, as if they were completely foreign to me, as if all that had no importance whatsoever. Tangier was a black dead end, a corridor blocked by the sea; the Strait of Gibraltar a fissure, an abyss that barred our dreams; the North was a mirage. I saw myself lost once again, and the only firm ground under my feet and behind me was the expanse of Africa down to the Cape on one side, and to my east all those countries in flames, Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, Egypt, Palestine, Syria. I rolled myself another well-loaded joint thinking that this hash came from the Rif, that Meryem might have seen the plants growing from her windows, that she herself might have pressed the stuff on large drying racks, before shaping the paste darkened by oxidation, wrapping it in a transparent film; she’d keep the crumbs in her pocket that she scraped off the plastic of her gloves, to eat them in solitude, and laugh all alone or fall asleep, dream, maybe, and remember the few hours we had spent together, how I had undressed her almost without wanting to, shyly, after she had kissed me on the mouth holding my hand, and there was a simple, beautiful tenderness in these memories resurrected by the hash, I gleaned a little joy from them. The dance of the lights of Tangier accelerated my thoughts, I needed a plan, no question this time of ditching everything without a cent, of going back to the mud and the humiliation. I thought again of my parents, my mother especially, of my little brothers, what could they know, what did they think of me, the Sura of Joseph came to mind, My father, I saw eleven stars prostrate before me, and the sun and the moon, I had forgotten that I knew these verses by heart, Joseph sold for less than nothing to a merchant from Egypt, Joseph whom God instructed in the interpretation of dreams, Joseph whom Zuleykha tempted. The lights from the ferries streaked across the Strait, a maritime caravan. Maybe I could find work in the new port in Tangier Med or in the Free Zone, then after a while manage to emigrate, after all it was Bassam who was right, you had to leave, you had to leave, the harbors burn our hearts. Solitude became a mass of fog, a thick cloud, of Evil or fear; I was slightly nauseous. I began to shiver from cold on my bench and all of a sudden I was hungry, very hungry.

After devouring a sandwich in two mouthfuls on the way, I went back to my room at the Propagation; everything was deserted, silent, a silence that beat at my eardrums; I fell asleep like a rock.

THE next morning my mouth tasted like an ashtray and my eyes were red, but otherwise I was in pretty good shape. I shelved a few books, breakfasted, read the commentary on the Sura of Joseph in the Kashshaaf as the sun spread over the rugs. At times, the faces from the day before came back to me, the bookseller in tears, the moustache on the parking lot bastard, like an upwelling of sewage that I kept trying to check by concentrating on my reading. I tried to convince myself that what was done was done. What’s done is done. The future is what counts.

Sheikh Nureddin reappeared in the early afternoon, dressed in civilian clothes, that is in a dark blue, rather elegant suit. He greeted me politely, I might even say warmly. He asked me if I had prepared the books (it was Thursday) and I answered yes. He said perfect. Tonight we have a meeting in town, I’ll be back tomorrow morning. And he went out. No remark, no allusion to the previous day’s punitive excursion.

Finally I found solitude. I looked at a few Internet sites, sent some Facebook messages to girls I didn’t know, all French, like throwing bottles into the sea. I am a young Moroccan from Tangier, I’m looking for your friendship to share my passion: books.