Читать книгу Bled Dry - Abdelilah Hamdouchi - Страница 7

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Detective Hanash would meet up with Bushra whenever she visited Casablanca, putting her up in a secret apartment he owned downtown. Whenever she came down from Tangier he would take time off work. He would tell his family that he had some urgent business and would leave without giving a time frame for his return. This particular time he claimed that he was needed in Fez—taking advantage of the news of a recent spree of burglaries and murders there.

For some time now, the proprietor of the Hotel Scheherazade had stopped paying the kickback to police so they wouldn’t come after its top customers—businessmen who would do anything to avoid scandal and preserve their family life. Any facility that serviced this nightlife—bars, clubs, and brothels—paid off the police to safeguard their interests, and the rates were higher on weekends and paydays. On these days the scene was particularly lucrative. The parties raged into the morning, and everyone benefited; even the cats and dogs got scraps from half-eaten, decadent meals. The weekend cut was methodically planned between the bosses across the board. Hanash took his rotation every two months, sometimes every three. Anyone who entered this business got paid the same share. Detective Hanash could have delegated someone else to take his place, but he didn’t trust anyone not to skim a bit off of his share. Even his closest friend wouldn’t hand over more than half the collection.

The street in front of Hotel Scheherazade was swarming with police when Hanash arrived. The police presence and number of vehicles in front of the hotel made it seem like the response to a terrorist operation. A security officer was pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, his attention on the hotel entrance. Another officer was indoors inspecting the guest registry. The men and women outside were separated into two lines as uniformed officers led them in pairs to cars that would take them to the station. Most of the clientele heading to the station were those who couldn’t afford to pay, so their arrests were intended to divert attention. The real targets of this operation were the men who were still in their rooms with their mistresses, and who would get to haggle with Hanash when he arrived.

The officer inspecting the hotel’s guest registry gave Hanash a proper salute and handed over the registry. Hanash skimmed through it. He paused and looked up at the officer. They both knew instinctively that they would begin with room seven.

The detective knocked on the door to room seven, not giving Hamadi and Nezha time to get dressed before ordering the hotel employee to unlock the door. A young, well-built police officer charged into the room. The detective entered, followed by a uniformed security guard who blocked the door with his wide shoulders. Hanash cast a disgusted look at Hamadi, who barely had time to put his glasses on. He didn’t even acknowledge Nezha.

“Police! Are you deaf? I said police!” he barked.

Hamadi stood there shaking, his legs barely able to support him.

The hotel hallways were full of commotion, a mix of women’s screams and men’s pleading as the team of police took over the place. Nezha was unimpressed. This whole scene was an act from a play she had performed in before. She wasn’t concerned at all. She put on her clothes quietly and went to the bathroom, where she peed loudly—an act of defiance. When she returned to the room, though, the young police officer lunged at her, slapping her with such force that she crumpled against the wall. Nezha knew that the real motivation behind the slap was to intimidate and frighten Hamadi. She was just a poor, broke prostitute they wouldn’t get a single dirham from. What concerned them was the man with a high-powered job, a reputation, and a family to protect, whom they’d caught red-handed cheating. He was the big catch.

Hamadi was so bewildered that he forgot where he was and how he had gotten there. He began to feel unwell. His lips were dry and he was incredibly thirsty. With great difficulty, he made his way to the bathroom and bent over to place his hands under the tepid water coming out of the decaying faucet. He took a good look at himself in the mirror as Hanash started scolding him like a dog.

“Come over here . . . in front of me, old man.”

Hamadi shook his head feebly without lifting his eyes. Filtering into the room were all sorts of sounds: women sobbing, desperate pleas, and other adulterers trying to make deals. There was a prostitute shouting hysterically outside on the street. She was yelling that she needed to be released because she had given her baby sleeping medication and left him home alone. Then came the sound of her being slapped, which put an end to her appeals.

Detective Hanash produced a look of total indifference as he gazed at Hamadi, who appeared humble, as if seeking a pardon. Then Hanash looked at Nezha in disgust. She was sobbing in the corner, her hand over the side of her face that had been slapped.

“Stand up and don’t move! And shut up, or I’ll bury you alive!” said Hanash angrily.

Nezha’s voice trembled and she burst into tears. “Hit me as much as you want, sir, but please don’t take me to the station.”

The officer squeezed her ear violently, knowing she would barely be able to breathe after this. She felt as if he had ripped it off with a pair of sharp pincers and her body was rising toward the ceiling. He let go of her ear and wiped his hand on his sleeve, warning her with a nod that he would do it again if she so much as opened her mouth. Nezha gulped air, tasting her tears and snot, trying not to collapse.

Hanash did a circuit of the room, noticing sticky tissues near the bed. He smiled wryly, knowing that the time had come for him to deliver the reprimand that he had memorized. He looked at Hamadi, who was sitting there guilt-ridden.

“Aren’t you embarrassed?” he started in. “A bank director and a respected father who is cheating on his wife with this piece of dirt who is younger than your youngest daughter! How will you face your wife? Your children? Your colleagues at work? Look at yourself! You didn’t even use a condom? Aren’t you even afraid of giving some disease to your wife?”

Nezha trembled, furious at Hanash’s accusations that she was dirty and disease-ridden.

Hamadi broke down and began sobbing. He looked up at Hanash imploringly.

“Please help me, sir, God protect you,” he stammered. “I can’t go to the station. . . . How can we reach an agreement?”

Detective Hanash ordered the officer to remove Nezha from the room. He dragged her by the arm and shoved her hard toward the door, where the security guard caught her.

“She can wait in the hallway,” the officer said to the guard, and locked the door.

Hamadi gained courage and looked at the detective. “I’ll give you a thousand dirhams.”

The young officer cackled derisively, displaying the braces on his teeth. He shifted about restlessly, revealing the handcuffs and revolver under his belt.

Hanash glared at Hamadi, enraged. He grabbed Hamadi by the collar and shook him violently.

“Is this what we’re worth to you? I bet you lost more money than this on that bitch. . . . If I order them to take you to the station there’s no going back, no matter what you pay! And if you’re arrested when you leave here there isn’t a higher power in the land that will prevent you from being sentenced for infidelity, public intoxication, debauchery, and God knows what else. How will you face your wife, your children, your friends, and your bosses? We are doing you a favor. We want you to avoid prison, to avoid a massive scandal. And you’re bartering with us?”

Hamadi bowed his head in silence, and for the first time found himself thinking about his wife. She would never forgive him for infidelity. She would let him rot in prison. And his son Radwan, an engineer, how would he take the news? And his daughter, a university professor married to another professor who happened to be a member of the Islamic party? The scandal would reverberate throughout the community.

“If you aren’t in a rush,” said Hanash, “we have work to do.”

Hamadi stared at his executioners, one by one, and could sense that he was a catch for them. He knew his situation was hopeless. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, which had been lying on the ground, took out all the money in his wallet, and handed it over: three thousand dirhams.

Hanash counted the cash quickly, gave Hamadi a look of satisfaction, and placed the money in his inner jacket pocket.

“Don’t leave the room now,” he said, “and don’t let this slut stay with you. It’s best to spend the night here and leave in the morning.”

Before Hamadi had time to utter a word in protest the detective had rushed out of the room, headed for another.

Hamadi remained frozen in place, all the color drained from his face. He looked sick and exhausted—dark blue rings had appeared under his eyelids. Had they asked, he would have been willing to write a blank check to avoid scandal. Nezha came back into the room, drew close to him, and kissed his head. Despite her uneasiness, she feigned a smile and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t think the guy at the front desk was working with the police. I know him well. Maybe there was a misunderstanding between the police and hotel owner.”

Hamadi started to feel a tightness in his chest. Nezha’s babbling was making him feel nauseated. He was trembling, not from fear, but because he felt he was getting sick.

“You didn’t have to give them all your money. They would have been okay with the thousand dirhams that you first suggested. Trust me, I’ve seen this before.”

Clearly Nezha had overheard what had happened. Hamadi remained in place, silent. He couldn’t deal with her right now. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes under his thick-rimmed glasses and felt the fever creep through his body. He stood there, still stunned, unable to even look at Nezha.

“I’m leaving,” he said, feeling suffocated. He paused for a moment, holding his keys and waiting for her response.

“Don’t you want to stay till the morning as usual?” she asked.

He looked down and shook his head. He stood at the door while Nezha took out a pack of cigarettes and lit up the last one in the pack.

“Can you wait until I finish my cig?” she said angrily as she blew smoke in his direction.

She drew one leg over the other in an attempt to lure him back in, but he turned his back. It was clear to her now that things would never be the same between them. Her generous monthly client was about to vanish into thin air. She then remembered that she didn’t even have enough money for a cab home, and there was no way she could ask Hamadi since he had just emptied his entire wallet.

“Can you give me a ride home?”

He didn’t even answer her as he left the room.

An amusing scene awaited Detective Hanash in the next room. There was a pretty, polished woman in risqué underwear, accompanied by a young man who could have been her son’s age. He was wearing only his underpants, and despite the tense atmosphere in the room, his penis remained hard as a rock. This amused the police so much that they called their boss to come take a look. Hanash was shocked when he saw the guy, and after taking a second to catch his breath, he looked at the woman. She seemed respectable and refined—likely not a prostitute at all. What a catch, especially if she was married! And then there was this young guy, in his underwear, with his weapon standing up. The officers were too distracted by the guy’s penis to ask the woman any questions. The woman seemed unshaken. To Hanash, her calmness suggested that she had already been given the okay by another officer.

Hanash looked squarely at the young man and said, “Put down your weapon, you bastard!”

All the officers burst out in laughter. Even the woman couldn’t resist a wry smile.

“What can I do? I can’t control it,” said the young man, shaking from fear.

Everyone started laughing again, and the detective looked at the woman, feigning scorn.

“Didn’t you do anything to cool him off? You should have chosen someone closer to your age, madam.”

This made the woman blush, but the young man took it as an insult.

“We did it twice,” he said.

One of the officers told him to shut up and the young man recoiled, still straight as a spear.

“Did you take Viagra?” Detective Hanash asked.

The young man bristled and fired back at him: “I’m from Dakala, and men from my region are well known for their virility.”

Hanash didn’t know how to respond to this at first. The young man had crossed the line. How dare he suggest that his manhood was greater than that of Hanash and his men!

“What makes you people so horny is that you’ve been having sex with animals since you were kids,” Hanash quipped.

Everyone laughed, and Hanash ordered the officers to take the man to the station.

“We’ll see if he stays like that at the station,” said an officer. He pushed him away and a security guard grabbed him.

The detective turned his attention to the woman.

She began explaining, as if she had prepared her statement in advance: “I’m an agricultural engineer who travels a lot for work. One time I visited the agricultural area in Dakala and met this young man, who was working in the fields. I’ve been divorced for three years . . . and when it comes to my body, just like anyone else, it’s my right to do what I want. Since getting divorced I hadn’t been with anyone until I met this guy a month ago. I was really scared, and I know what I did was wrong, but it just happened. I got in touch with him, and he brought me to this place. I’m responsible for what happened and I’ll pay whatever you suggest.”

Hanash was confused by her story. It got him thinking about his wife, whom he hadn’t even touched in months. Sometimes he’d see her putting on makeup and jewelry. Was she getting ready to meet up with a secret lover somewhere? He was silent for a minute as he contemplated the woman in front of him in her underwear. He told her to wrap something around herself. She got dressed quickly, putting on a long dress. She was a bit chunky, and the scars from a cesarean section were still visible on her soft belly. She wasn’t beautiful but certainly wasn’t unattractive either.

Hanash felt a sense of empathy overcome him, and his anger began to subside. He believed her story.

“Why did you come with him to this place? Couldn’t you have found somewhere else?” he asked.

“He picked the place. It would have been tough for me to turn back after we were already in the room. And this isn’t my city. I had intended to get out of here early, before you all showed up. But, well, look how things turned out.”

Hanash took out his cell phone and ordered the officers not to take the young man to the station. If they did, they would have to take her as well. She nodded at him in appreciation.

He watched her carefully as she took out her purse, ready to pay.

“What’s the amount?” she asked, as if she were at the cash register in a grocery store.

“Who told you I take bribes?” he asked. “I could add a bribery charge in addition to debauchery.”

She nodded and looked at him. “You can do whatever you want with me, sir. Send me to prison, or ruin my reputation in front of my son, daughter, family, colleagues. But I’m telling you I wouldn’t be able to carry on like that—scandalized. I’d rather die. I’d kill myself.”

“Didn’t you think about that before you took off your clothes?”

She sighed and wiped her hands on her dress. “I can’t even explain to myself how this happened,” she said. “I battled with these feelings and then they took control. Our souls are dark caves, unknown even to us.”

“Many criminals would say the same thing,” he said. “In our line of work, we don’t care about someone’s motivations. We don’t accept someone justifying their actions with emotions that they claim clouded their judgment. The law only acknowledges what someone has done, but the reasons and motivations are outside the frame. Right now, you’re in it deep. Knowing how you fell so deep won’t help you at all.”

She felt her body temperature rising suddenly, and she went back to the drawing board, trying to think of another way out of this predicament.

“I have a lot of money in the bank,” she said confidently, as she took her bank card out. “I’ll let you have my password,” she said, offering him the card. “I’ll write it down. You can take whatever you want and keep me here until you get back.”

Hanash crossed his arms and gave her a little smile.“I don’t accept ATM cards.”

He had never met a woman like this in a cheap prostitute’s haunt. The usual way things went down in these situations was that there was a lot of cursing, insulting, slapping, and kicking. He thought that if he had met this woman in another context he would have spoken to her with respect and admiration. He also thought that if he hadn’t caught her with this village boy in this dirty place, but under different circumstances, he might want her for himself. She was different: she was cultured, an engineer, and had a strong personality. She was the antithesis of all the women he had met in these contexts before.

“How much money do you have with you?” he asked, his voice starting to soften from fatigue.

She emptied the contents of her purse on the bed. It was a mixture of makeup, crumpled receipts, and other trivial things. She grabbed a bunch of bills and handed them over . . . it wasn’t as much as he anticipated.

“That’s all an engineer carries with her?”

She paused for a moment, recalling something that would save her some extra time and effort. She opened an interior pocket of her handbag and pulled out a gold necklace that had a shiny precious stone.

“This is extremely valuable and worth more than anything I could give you. It’s all yours.”

He took the necklace. “I’ll consider it a gift,” he said, running his fingers over the stone.