Street of Thieves

Nothing came of it. All we managed to get was one more visit from Mme. Consul.

What made me despair above all was the absence of Internet. I’d left my computer back in Tangier; there was a “visitor’s room” in the port with telephone booths and two computers, but you had to pay, and we had no money. I couldn’t withdraw cash abroad from my account in Tangier. My phone credit had been used up in texts to Judit. It was horrible. A Spanish charity organization had brought us some clothes; I had gotten two pairs of patched-up jeans, some oversized shirts, a striped sweater, and an old khaki parka lined with synthetic wool.

Judit seemed to have completely lost interest in me. Thinking back on it, the last six months had strained our relationship; we were writing to each other less often, we spoke less on the phone, and now, shut up in the port of Algeciras, I had almost no news from her, which threw me into melancholy. I recounted my tribulations to Saadi, who sympathized, but encouraged me to forget her; you’re twenty, he said, you’ll fall in love with other girls. He told me about whores, about brothels all over the world, where he had found pleasure and company, an immense family scattered over the four corners of the earth. He remembers the first names of all the girls he’d visited. He said you know, when you follow the same route, you regularly go through the same ports, so you find the same groups of friends, the same whores, the same customers. You get news about so-and-so who passed through the week before; you have drinks, play cards — it’s not just shooting your load. It’s leisure time.

I confess that in my wretched solitude, I’d listen to him and dream about being a regular at a friendly whorehouse, where the girls would like me and a large-hearted Madam would take care of me — then I thought of Zahra, the little whore in Tangier I hadn’t dared touch, and those dreams vanished, like all the others. There can’t be any more love in brothels than hairs on the cunt of a Moroccan whore.

Saadi was a little like a big brother or a father, he was worried about me, would ask me questions; I told him about my life, and he would exclaim oh la la, listen, Lakhdar my son, you’ve had some hard knocks; he blamed my father, he said, for having so hard a heart; he shared my doubts about Bassam and Sheikh Nureddin. He said in a low voice if you want my opinion, all that’s the fault of religion, may God forgive me. If there weren’t any religion, people would be much happier.

He understood I wanted to emigrate, to leave Tangier — he just said that, with this old tub, you didn’t really choose the best way.

The more days went by, the more I said to myself, all right, I’ll leave for Barcelona, I’ll find a way to leave the port, come what may. And a few hours later I’d think, all right, I’ll go back to Tangier and find Mr. Bourrelier again.

The worst thing was having nothing to read, aside from the paper in the port cafeteria; I couldn’t keep rereading Full Morgue over and over again. I had recovered a tiny Koran that a kind soul have given me, I squinted my eyes over it to learn a few suras by heart, the one of Joseph, and of the People of the Cave, it was a good exercise.

A prison exercise.

We hadn’t committed any crime, the ship owner had committed it for us, but we were inside. Soon it would be two months since I’d last paid my rent, I wondered if I’d find my suitcases in front of the door or in the trash when I got back. If I got back.

Judit’s silence ended up making me crazy. February was freezing; an icy wind swooped through the Strait, the sea was invariably gray-green and covered with whitecaps. All my comrades were depressed. Even Saadi looked glum, his beard was turning grey, he had stopped shaving. He spent most of his time sleeping.

“We can’t stay like this till Judgment Day,” I said.

He jumped from his cot, straightened up.

“No, that’s true, little one, we can’t. At least you can’t. Me, you know, I could stay like this until I retire. They’ll end up finding a solution eventually. We’re in the way, a hundred sailors and four ferries stuck in the port.”

“Don’t you miss your wife? Don’t you want to go home?”

“You know I’ve spent nine-tenths of my life far from home. This isn’t much of a change. I’m used to it.”

“I feel like I’m in prison. I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to go crazy here, pacing back and forth between the boats and cleaning.”

He looked at me a little more softly.