Street of Thieves

Very soon my three words of Spanish were not enough for conversation, so we switched to French; it was, I think, the first time I actually spoke with foreigners, and I had to search for my words. Fortunately Judit’s Catalan accent made it easier for me to understand. Bassam said nothing, or almost nothing; from time to time he would mutter something in an impenetrable idiom; when he found out that these two angels fallen from the sky were studying Arabic in Barcelona, he began speaking in classical Arabic, just like one of Sheikh Nureddin’s sermons, not counting the grammatical mistakes. He began asking Judit and Elena if they knew the Koran, if they had already read it in Arabic, and what they thought of Islam. He had to repeat each question two or three times, because he spoke quickly and articulated poorly, his eyes lowered.

The night before we were taking part in a punitive expedition, with our cudgels, and tonight we were converting two foreign girls to the religion of the Prophet. Sheikh Nureddin would be proud of us.

I found it hard to believe that they really were studying Arabic, that is, that they were interested in my country, my language, my culture; this was a second miracle, a strange miracle, which might make you wonder if it could be diabolic — how could two young women from Barcelona be so interested in this language that they wanted to learn it? Why? Judit said her Arabic was very bad, and that she was ashamed to speak it; Elena launched into it more easily, but her pronunciation was like Bassam’s in Spanish or French: incomprehensible. I was a little ashamed; around us the guys who were watching their fiancées drink milkshakes and inhale deeply, eyes closed over their straws, weren’t missing a scrap of our conversation. They were definitely thinking to themselves: look at those two idiots, they’ve unearthed a pair of tourists and they’re talking to them about the Prophet, what assholes.

I suggested we go somewhere else. Bassam whispered something to me in Moroccan, very quickly, very softly.

It was nine o’clock, Elena suggested we get something to eat; I thought about the few dirhams that remained in my pocket, they could get me a sandwich, but not much else. Elena suggested we go to a little restaurant she had spotted in the old city. I must have made a funny face, Judit no doubt understood my embarrassment, she said we could go to a café instead, claiming she wasn’t very hungry, the tea had cut her appetite. Her friend seemed a little annoyed, Judit said a few sentences in Catalan. Bassam whispered something in my ear, with a conspiratorial air, why not take them to the Propagation for an Arabic lesson? I had to keep from breaking out laughing; I could picture Sheikh Nureddin finding two female Infidels in his mosque and Bassam half naked, explaining the exploits of Hamza to Judit and Elena. Not today, not now, I said.

For my part, I could invite them to smoke a joint on the ramparts, I still had a little kif left from the night before, not very romantic — and what’s more they might get scared, refuse, turn against us, especially Elena, who didn’t seem very adventurous.

We stood in front of the bakery for a good five minutes.

Let’s go to a café, I said.

Judit answered great, where should we go? Where are you taking us?

Bassam hovered round us, shifting from foot to foot.

Never had I thought so quickly.

And the idea came to me:

To Mehdi’s. We’ll go to Mehdi’s.

Bassam opened his eyes wide, clapped his hands, of course, to Mehdi’s, you’re the best. He was overflowing with cheerfulness.

Judit smiled, a wide, dazzling smile, and I felt like a hero.

MEHDI’S was the only place in Tangier where two nineteen-year-old North African darkies like us could appear with foreigners without shocking anyone or bankrupting themselves, one of the only mixed places, neither poor nor rich, neither European nor Arabic, in town. During the day, especially in summer, it was a cafeteria where college and high school students guzzled sodas under trellises and creeping vines, and at night, in winter or when it was raining, there was a small room that was welcoming enough, with benches and cushions, where young guys, Moroccans and foreigners, drank tea. As I remember it, the decor was a mélange of touristy orientalism and utilitarian modernity, a few black and white photos in aluminum frames between the Berber rugs and fake ancient musical instruments. The place had no name, just the battered plastic sign of a brand of carbonated drink, everyone knew it by the owner’s first name, Mehdi — a very tall guy, thin as a reed, not very pleasant, but discreet and not meddlesome — who spent most of his time sitting on his own terrace, a Parisian-type cap on his head, smoking Gitanes. Bassam and I had gone there like everyone else, and had even once or twice bought a Pepsi for Meryem there in the summer.