Street of Thieves

I couldn’t bring myself to ask Judit any questions, at least not the ones I wanted to ask; I questioned her about Barcelona, about the geography of the city, the neighborhoods, no personal questions; it all was terribly artificial. She avoided looking me in the eyes. Sadness began to invade me. I felt as if the ground were disappearing beneath my feet, time became thick, something heavy and tangible, Judit’s face seemed to have gotten darker, she had cut her hair, which made her look tougher. She spoke to me mostly of current politics; of the crisis in Europe, its harshness, of unemployment, of poverty that was coming back, as if from the depths of Spanish history, she said, of conflicts, racism, tensions, the insurrection that was being prepared. She had gotten very involved in the Movement of the Indignants, for some months. Also very involved in the Spanish Occupy movement, los Okupas, she said. Repression had never been so violent. The other day a twenty-year-old student lost an eye from being hit with a rubber bullet when the cops broke up a peaceful sit-in, she said. Spain is heading for its end, Europe too. Ultra-liberal propaganda would have us believe we can’t resist the diktat of the markets. Here they won’t take care anymore of the poor, the old, the foreigners. Right now the revolution is delayed because of soccer, Real, Barça; but when that’s not enough to make up for frustration and poverty, then there’ll be riots, she said.

I watched her, I wanted to take her hand, not talk about the crisis. At times, Cruz’s face came back to me, appearing between Judit and me; I had to shake my head to make it disappear.

She was fed up with school. She was in her last year, wasn’t taking many courses, didn’t have many class hours, and she felt her Arabic was still just as bad. She didn’t really know what to do, she wanted to spend some time abroad, maybe in Egypt or Lebanon, since Syria was in flames — I was hurt that she didn’t mention Morocco, I must’ve made a funny face; she immediately changed the subject.

“And you, what’re your plans? What are you going to do, are you going to try to stay here?”

“I don’t know, it depends a little on you.”

She lowered her eyes, and I knew then that everything I had imagined was true — she was with someone else.

She was suddenly shifting about nervously.

She didn’t say anything.

I was so tired, worried, broken by my stay with Cruz, the long hours awake in the bus, and the emotion of seeing Judit again that I got annoyed, it was the first time I raised my voice with her, I shouted something like you could tell me that you don’t want to see me anymore, shit, and I half-rose from my chair — the people at the table next to ours (bourgeois couple, sunglasses perched atop their heads, checked shirt, V-neck over shoulders) turned to us, I screamed at them to mind their own business, they looked offended.

Judit looked me in the eyes as if to say sit down, stop your histrionics. I became aware of my ridiculousness and sat back down.

“Listen, there’s no point getting worked up like that.”

She was whispering. She was ashamed. I took my courage in my hands, the courage that she didn’t have.

“You have someone else, don’t you?”

She denied it. She shook her head, repeating no, no.

“You’re a fucking slut.”

I had made use of my lowbrow detective-novel vocabulary, to make her react. She must not have understood what I said, since she didn’t get angry. She just added I don’t want to be with anyone at the moment, that’s all, which seemed to me an incredible piece of crap, a lie, a stupid remark.

I looked at the small oval plaza. Opposite, under the trees, there was a beautiful wooden porte cochere from another era, a chic restaurant; in front of me a pretty fountain shaped like a vase, with gold spigots; an old lady went by pulling a wheeled shopping bag.

We stayed for a while in silence, I didn’t know what to do or say.

She felt bad about leaving me like that, I could sense it.

“Where are you sleeping?”

“What the fuck do you care.”

No need even to add “bitch” or “cow,” since the phrase sounded so much like a bruise.

“Don’t get mad, it’s stupid. I’m just trying to help you.”

I didn’t know what I wanted anymore, I felt sorry for provoking her anger. The lady with the cart had crossed the entire square; a baguette stuck out of her cart; the couple next to us with the sunglasses asked for the bill.

She had only one desire, to leave, I knew that; she must have been tortured by guilt; I saw myself, with my poorly-shaved African mug, in my shitty khaki parka, without a goal, without anything, the world wasn’t even the world, it was a television set, a fake. I had a sudden burst of memories, Tangier, our neighborhood, Meryem and Bassam, I wondered what the hell I was doing there, on this square that was so pretty, so cute, facing Judit who didn’t want me anymore, God alone knows why.

I began talking in Moroccan.