Читать книгу Ben Barka Lane - Mahmoud Saeed - Страница 9

chapter 5

Because of the fear that was always with me during my multiple meetings with Si l-Habib, I stayed within limits and did not exhaust him with anything that might tire his weak heart. Thus, when we met Si l-Sabir and al-Miludi after this tiring interview, I considered it a rock cast by chance to stem the rushing tide of debilitating memories. Events had failed to sever his life, but the memories would not fail to sever his heartbeat.

The two drove up in al-Miludi’s big taxi with the black meter, which he drove only outside the city. They greeted me with, “How are you, Si l-Lubnani?” and prevailed on us to get in, and despite the objections of Si l-Habib we drove through the enchanting city on the afternoon of an amazing day. I shared laughter and exuberance with Si Sabir, but I began to think fearfully—as I had at various periods during the day, ever since I had left al-Jaza’iri’s relative lying in my bedroom—of what surprises awaited me on my return. I believed that delay, however long it might be, was perhaps the best course. But after a little while I realized that it was as if we had fallen into a spider web.

It was not pure chance that had led us to meet al-Miludi and Si Sabir now, nor had it been chance a month previously. At that time we had been coming out of a bar on the afternoon of a gray day. The clouds floating above had seemed like a canopy for our drunkenness, which was at its height and which we would do anything to maintain.

We had stumbled upon a lovely tradition in a bar run by a pretty Frenchwoman, not yet thirty, under the watchful eyes of her husband, who always had a wan smile fixed on his plump features. This was our third or fourth visit to the peaceful bar, with its quiet western music and dim lights, and the pretty young Frenchwoman served us some warm mussels with an outstanding flavor, refusing to let us pay. It was the free day of the week for regular customers, although Si Sabir, who insisted on treating others in a civilized way, whispered to me that we should not exploit the situation.

We were in an excellent state created by his sympathetic frame of mind that would never allow him to spoil a day like this by drinking too much. As we left we showered the owners with expressions of gratitude, and Si Sabir assured me that this tradition was a custom of modern business in developed countries. This small custom gave me a welcome feeling of my own importance as a resident of the city, not differing in any way from the people who lived there.

Just at that moment, at the height of that exquisite moment of sweetness and security, Si l-Miludi had pounced on Si Sabir, overflowing with welcome and genuine expressions of praise which we could not doubt were sincere, especially coming from the tired mouth of a middle-aged man. His work as a taxi driver gave him a knowledge of every inch of the environs of city and their hidden places, and he had learned where to track us down. every tree had a thousand eyes in its branches, and he knew where he would find us. A teacher was watched by everyone, out of either good or bad intentions. He called me “the Lebanese” and recalled Zahle, mezze, tabbouleh, hamam and all the other words which had sunk into his memory since the Second World War, when he had been taken to the east as an enlisted man in the French army. In a few hours of merriment he must have encountered some small moments of joy that remained in his memory until now, coupled with the famous enchantment of the Lebanese mountains.

In no way could I convince him that I came from far beyond Lebanon. That was because he grouped together Algerians, Moroccans, and Tunisians, all of whom ate couscous, wore the burnous, and drank green tea with mint. He could not imagine another group.

He was over fifty, and his only son was going to take the elementary baccalaureate examination in two days at our school. I did not believe that I, as the supervisor of a group of proctors and graders, was able to help any student in any fashion whatsoever; but I promised him verbally, on the initiative of Si Sabir, that I’d try. I still don’t know how he managed that.

I succumbed under the influence of disgusting egotism, in order not to spoil the passing moment of happiness, not knowing how I would keep the promise when the time came. It happened that Si Sabir reminded me of it on the morning of the exam, to my great distress. Concerned, I had met the little boy; he had intelligent eyes and a shaven head, which gave his face a terrified, persecuted look. I reassured him and patted his head, ignoring the prickliness of his hair like a porcupine’s; he smiled innocently, making me think that for the first time he felt an enviable distinction. According to my information the boy did not need any external help of the sort that I was anyway incapable of providing. But his father didn’t properly appreciate the good score he got, doubting the abilities and capacity of a little boy who cried when he was denied a sweet and whom his mother helped to dress. He was saying now, “If it weren’t for you—don’t defend him—if it weren’t for you, that boy no higher than a hand span could not have succeeded.”

His language made us roar with laughter, and Si l-Habib responded willingly and began to joke. That cheered me, so I asked him now, as he drove us toward the entrance of Wadi l-Nufaifekh, if he had ever seen a more beautiful view. His eyes wandered and he mumbled a single word: Ifran. Here we saw two mountains bearded by great forests above a sweet little river so hidden by tree branches that no trace of the water was visible from the road. Our black car must have looked like a little crawling insect as we descended the valley, plunging into an ocean of green, replete with cool, heavy air, where only the twittering of the birds and murmur of the waters could be heard.

Si Sabir wished for a drink as we were walking along, the dry tree leaves crackling underfoot. Si l-Miludi showed he was ready, because the trunk of his car was filled with every sort of drink one could wish for. But that put Si l-Habib in an awkward position, as it had gotten late and the sun was about to set; so I refused for us all, and we turned back.

I thought our driver had forgotten the matter of the exam, but he returned to it. I could not remain silent before such great praise for something I had not done, so I tried to evade it; but I sensed after a while that my attempts were being interpreted only as great modesty dictated by “elevated manners and taste which I had inherited from my original environment, since I was a pure Lebanese,” so I gave up and let the matter pass.

The sun began to plunge into a horizon awash in color. We returned by way of the road that bordered the sea, where the high tide was crashing on the shore, breaking into showers of shining white foam in the light of the velvety dusk. I would have liked to sit on one of the rocks and let the pounding waves get me wet, as I had dreamed of doing since I saw the beach for the first time.

When night fell, since it was impossible for Si l-Habib to abandon his chosen principle of abstaining from alcohol, we dropped him at his apartment. We ended up in the hotel La Caravelle, where our host had reserved a room for us with the manager, Si Ibrahim, a man of medium height, compactly built, with a dark countenance and pale eyes. The room had a large bed, four chairs, a table, and a low window; when we opened it we found we were overlooking a tree-lined side street. Al-Miludi brought us a full “case,” as he said, filled with “good beer, gin, whiskey, champagne, aged wine, etc.” He began to set out the bottles in rows on the table before us, explaining how he had given up alcohol and returned to the fold of godliness and piety long before; thus he excused himself from joining in our drinking.

Disappointed that he wanted to treat us without partaking, Si Sabir and I exchanged looks of embarrassment, which alMiludi noticed. His left eye seemed noticeably smaller than the other, creating a clear impression that it had not functioned for some time. He closed it and his face wrinkled up. I thought he was going to cry, but he was just thinking. He opened his eye and suggested to us warmly that he could take us to any bar or nightclub in Casablanca or Rabat, and wait for us until any hour we chose.

But we sensed a desolate emptiness in a project for our pleasure that we had not planned ourselves, first, and secondly, in which our host would not share; so Si Sabir refused the idea from first to last. Once more our host ’s left eye wandered, and he scowled. Then he made a new suggestion: that he bring us any two girls we knew, or that we leave the choice up to him and he would bring two girls of unsurpassed beauty (for he believed in the popular proverb that “one who pimps for his brother is not a pimp”). If it weren’t for our profound sense that he sincerely cared about our feelings with his crude suggestions we would have laughed openly. We met his ofer with excuses that did not fully convince him. Then we left the hotel after handing him the case of alcohol through the window to avoid carrying it through the crowded bar.

No sooner had al-Miludi begun to drive than he swore that he would not leave us until we had had a wonderful time on this night, which he was determined to make the most beautiful night of our lives, even if that required him to violate his religious obligations. He was confident that God would forgive a person’s sin, but he would not forgive himself the crime of ruining a night on which he was determined to make us happy.

He stopped at the intersection of the road from Rabat to Casablanca, in front of the zoo. There was a bar there, hidden by a hedge of climbing plants and surrounded by white flowers suspended like stars in a green sky. The bar began as a passageway to a small, pretty hotel, and it seemed that the owner was a close friend of al-Miludi.

Si Sabir suggested that we begin with strong drink, since it would be a long evening. But after we smelled the aroma of grilling in the hotel we chose to delight our bellies with several skewers of grilled meat, accompanied by extremely good aged wine, rather than eat at al-Miludi’s house, where many good things waited for us, prepared with care for this happy occasion. After we ate, we left for Rabat, stopping at another bar where we had a lone drink, al-Miludi joining us with orange juice.

The barmaid was an Arab, which Si Sabir declared was unusual. She was thirty-five and somewhat plump, and Si Sabir began to flirt with her persistently, despite the decay that showed in her teeth on either side of a wide gold cap above her lower lip. We hadn’t drunk much, but Si Sabir rushed things, contrary to his habit: first he took her hand and introduced himself, and I sensed he was squeezing her fingers tightly. She concealed her laughter under an unexpectedly kind smile, which nonetheless suggested ample experience that had given her a sophisticated resistance in situations like this. There was a band of French men and women nearby, absorbed in having a good time. In an attempt to distract Si Sabir, the waitress pointed to a small body in the middle of the group, raised her voice, and asked, “Do you know who that is?”

Si Sabir nodded his head, resentfully; I thought he was going to say something bitter, but he smiled. We looked where she pointed: “Monsieur Kazi, the French champion marathoner.”

“Screw it.” We laughed, and Si Sabir added, “Al-Ghazi left him in the dust.”

She joined wholeheartedly in our laughter, giving an amazing display of the map of her decayed teeth, upper and lower.

The marathon was unique in that it was covered on television from beginning to end. For a reason which could only have been pure chance, the rivalry became intense between the Moroccan champion, al-Ghazi, and the French one, Kazi. But the Moroccan had outrun him by a long distance, and his win had aroused unprecedented enthusiasm.

We began to look toward Kazi unthinkingly, as one might play with a painful pimple in a sensitive spot. Si Sabir looked at him in disgust as he left the place, after the barmaid had withdrawn and left the shift to a large man whose eyes were already sleepy.

In Rabat we went to a western club at Si Sabir’s suggestion. He was attracted by the smoke-filled air, the dim, colored lights, and the small open space where several couples danced to the music. Si Sabir, choosing a table to the right of the dance floor, cried, “This is the atmosphere I want!”

His voice was loud, but no one paid any attention to him. With an embarrassing impudence, he inspected more than five girls, whom I am certain he would have rejected were it not for the influence of the alcohol. He invited one of them over, a woman with a slight body like his own and whose face showed both grace and calm. She had no sooner settled into her seat near him than he cried: “You must come from an old family.”

We laughed, which annoyed him. He directed his words to me: “There’s no reason to laugh.”

Our host cut him of unexpectedly: “ We are all from old families.”

He called for a drink for her and she began to sip it calmly, as if she were in a backyard swing enjoying a peaceable afternoon. That made Si Sabir cry, “Pour it on the ground or in my glass, if you can’t drink it.”

She laughed and poured the contents of her glass into his, agreeing: “That ’s a good idea. I hate whiskey.”

He touched her tender forearm and said, “Didn’t I tell you she’s from an old family?” I didn’t laugh, and he continued, asking, “From Rabat?”

She chose not to lie and denied it with a shake of her head. “From Wadi Zam.”

Si Sabir’s face showed displeasure and disappointment. He was from Rabat, and I would have dearly loved to see how happy he would have been had she not disappointed him.

I wanted to clear the air and say, “ There’s no difference between cities,” but I noticed Si Sabir’s sharp look, so I refrained. I expected one of the violent outbursts that appear suddenly when he drinks, but abruptly the music changed to the kind he likes, and he began humming along with it. It was soft and light, like the whisper of a breeze, and the murmurs of a tall black man dancing with a blond Frenchwoman rose with the dreamy song, amidst smoke that massed like a fog.

“You’re beautiful,” said Si Sabir, squeezing the girl’s delicate arm. “But let ’s get to the point frankly: will you…” He signaled with his eyes and unmistakable hand gestures. The girl understood his intention and laughed, so we laughed too. She seemed to be slipping away, making studied excuses and with disjointed words about being forced to remain until two-thirty, about how her lonely mother was waiting for her, about her quiet habits and…

Si Sabir got up like someone deeply offended. His personality took its unique, full form under the influence of the drink, and he began moving away with readily apparent indignation. “ We aren’t dupes. We have to get what we pay for. We won’t throw our money into the sea. Let’s go.”

That was an order addressed to us: he walked out, and we followed him. It seemed as if his slight body was becoming inflated until it nearly filled the dance floor, leading me to wonder whether the car would be big enough for him.

I expected we would go to an eastern club, especially since he had been trained in playing the oud when he was young, but I was surprised by his cry to Si l-Miludi: “To Casablanca!”

I was starting to feel the effect of the alcohol just when I couldn’t do anything about it, so I looked on with complete neutrality and felt no annoyance. On the road Si Sabir urged al-Miludi to go faster, and the car rushed along at the highest speed the nerves of its aged driver could take. When Si Sabir realized that, in returning from Rabat towards Casablanca, we had passed the halfway point and the bar with the woman of the gold-capped teeth, he let fly an expletive that made al-Miludi laugh and suggest turning back; but some famous old song of Ahmad al-Baidawi diverted his attention and brought him back to his untroubled expansiveness. He began to hum along with the songs without any more whims, not even noticing when we finally arrived. The car began to weave through side streets in a poor neighborhood made up of new, small houses, all of the same design. The car stopped at the beginning of a street numbered 34, and Si l-Miludi knocked on the door of a house there. Si Sabir laughed and said, “ We haven’t finished drinking yet.”

Si l-Miludi winked his small eye in a way that promised secrets and very cautiously opened the door. We entered, our exuberance curbed by the pale, wan light, and the door was closed behind us by a thin, severe-looking woman in her fifties. She welcomed us and led the way across a small hallway. Behind her we entered a room empty of everything but an old round table and low chairs; the wretched look of the room and its simple, faded atmosphere suggested secret agreements and sexual arousal. The room was rocked by popular songs from a well known shaikhas. Si l-Miludi nodded his head to the tunes, welcoming us along with the aged woman, and we anticipated surprises.

It wasn’t long before a girl in her twenties appeared, carrying glasses and several bottles of red wine. She arranged them on the table, and she and the older woman brought up the chairs. Young women’s voices rang out and we moved aside; two other girls of about the same age sat down among us at random. They began to drink with us, their eagerness mixed with desire. As the game began to take shape, I found myself— as had happened that afternoon—comparing the three girls with the relative of al-Jaza’iri who had so fascinated me: while each of the girls had a specific trait of beauty, that most fascinating one combined traits equal to those of innumerable girls. I liked one of these girls. She was very dark and plump, with thick, coarse hair and a penetrating perfume, but I didn’t find enough inducements to carry me, in spite of myself, to the top of the waves as had happened in the past. An important part of my feelings was back in my room, far away from the body sitting with Si Sabir and al-Miludi.

“Drink up, Si l-Sharqi. You’re not yourself today—drink.”

After the first glass the conversation took of, and I became accustomed to the atmosphere. Even the unpleasant sallow light now seemed natural. The laughter of the professional girls and their professional, exciting touches began to scatter bright colors wrapped in clear hints. But in spite of everything I remained so detached that my dark companion began to think her efforts were in vain. She whispered to me that she was ready to satisfy all my whims, especially since the two I was with were older than I was. At that their two girls got up, one after the other, and went to neighboring rooms, and my friends followed them.

When they returned, their girls were glowing. All my friends’ urging made the girls look at me doubtfully, so at last I got up too, troubled, and went to the room from which they had come. The atmosphere was heavy from their sweat and with their smell, almost a shadow presence in the room, which ate into my soul for a few brief moments and turned me into a wild animal like them, seeking satisfaction.