Poor Kebdani.
The waiter brought a bottle of Terry and opened it at the table. He filled the glasses, set the bottle on the table, and went away.
The only things that can happen are those Allah decides must happen, said Kandoussi.
And Qaabil?
He’s been arrested.
Arrested? For what?
They’re trying to connect him with Kebdani’s accident. They know Kebdani worked for him.
Did they take the ship? I asked him.
No. They stopped it and went aboard and searched it.
Then they let it go.
Where’s Qaabil now?
The secret police have him.
What has he told them?
So far he hasn’t admitted to anything.
I finished my glass and refilled it.
You’re going to be drunk fast if you go on like that, he said.
I could drink this whole bottle without moving it from my lips, I bragged. And I put my hand on the bottle. You want me to show you?
Kandoussi also put his hand on the bottle. No! Don’t be crazy. I know you could drink it. Tell me: why did you leave the key with Sallafa?
She asked me for it. Naturally I let her have it. She’s the one who ran the shack.
I know that. But she’s run away.
Run away?
She took everything she could carry with her out of the place, and disappeared.
Where to?
How should I know? It’s a safe guess she’s left Tangier.
So she’s gone, I said to myself.
It always ends that way if you let a whore into your life, he said.
And Bouchra? Hasn’t she come back yet?
She must have gone with Sallafa. They’ve never been separated, not since they were kids down in Dar el Baroud.
They’ve gone together to Casablanca, I thought. I looked out into the Zoco Chico, full of drunks wandering up and down, and said: Well, things are back the way they were before the trouble.
Things aren’t good, though, anywhere in Morocco, said Kandoussi. We’re going to see much bigger trouble than that before too long. They’re going to be demanding independence.
El Kebdani told me that only six funeral processions went to the mosque, and everybody knows that dozens were killed.
A lot of bodies are beginning to be washed up along the shore, he said.
I see. They threw them into the ocean afterwards.
They say that even live people got thrown in, sewn up in sacks. And some of the dead bodies had no bullets in them or any marks on them. They found one boy on the beach at Larache, with handcuffs still on his wrists. But no marks on his body anywhere.
Very bad, I said.
They’ll probably keep coming across bodies for a long time. But you can never get to the bottom of all that. I have five hundred pesetas for you. Your wages for the work you did the other night. I was going to pay you tonight, but I think tomorrow would be better, now that I see how you are tonight.
Whenever, I said. It doesn’t matter.
I’m going to leave the money with Sidi Mustafa at the Café Raqassa. He’s reliable. Do you know him?
Yes. I go there often.
He’s taking care of me, I thought. He doesn’t want me to spend the money tonight.
I’ve got something else to say to you.
What’s that?
You’re not to tell anybody that you’ve worked for me. The other three cargadores who worked with us are all reliable. There’s nothing to worry about there. But you never know what can happen. If they should arrest you and begin asking questions, deny everything. They may beat you, but hold on, and don’t be afraid of them.
Don’t worry about me.
There’s one good thing, at least. You’re not known as a cargador.
Wouldn’t Qaabil tell them everything if they tortured him?
I don’t think he would. But who knows? They’ve certainly tortured him by now.
Is the stuff in a safe place? I asked him.
We delivered it to the Hindu the same morning.
I nodded my head. I see.
You’d better sleep at your hotel tonight. But look for another place to stay. I’ll find you a place that won’t cost you more than fifty pesetas a month.
Who’s staying at the shack now?
Nobody. Sallafa left the key at the baqal Qaabil always used. That shack is no good to anybody now he’s in jail.
You mean the police are watching it?
They may be.
We got up. The bottle was still half full.
Would it be all right if I took it with me? I asked him.
Take it. But be sure you don’t go back to see Laila.
Do you think I’m crazy? I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.
You’re still young, and Allah’s days are long, said Kandoussi.
I went outside to wait for him while he paid the waiter. He came out. We shook hands.
Can you get to your hotel all right? he said.
Of course. You think I’m two years old?
Remember. Don’t go back to the whorehouse.
No. I told you, I’m not crazy.
I walked down the Calle del Comercio. In the alleys on each side there were drunks and whores standing around. It was about twelve o’clock, and I myself was drunk. I staggered along, feeling well able to protect myself if anyone should attack me.
On my way up the steps at Djenane el Kaptane I came face to face with a young man who was very drunk. There was no one else in the street. He turned as I brushed past him.
Where are you off to, handsome?
What do you care where I’m going?
He put his hand on the bottle I was carrying. Can’t we go and drink this together?
Take your hand off the bottle, I said. Get out of here.
I stepped aside and started ahead, but he blocked my way. I live near here. In Derb Zeynana. Come on. We’ll stay together all night.
What do you want of me? I cried angrily.
Why are you so skittish, gazelle? he murmured close to my ear, trying at the same time to stroke my face.
Get out of here! I shouted. What do you want?
You still don’t know what I want of you? he said, leering. I want you, that’s all. Come on. Spend the night with me.
I gripped the bottle by its neck. Go and spend the night with your mother or your sister, I told him.
You’re talking about my mother, you little maricón? he roared. Insulting my mother? I’ll fix you!
I backed up a bit, and he followed. Then he kicked me in the groin. I bent forward, clutching myself with both hands, while stars of pain flashed in front of my eyes. He kicked me again in the same spot. I fell and rolled down a few steps. The bottle smashed, but I went on holding the neck in my hand. He kicked again, and I ducked so he would not hit my face. His foot hit my hand instead. He went on kicking with both feet, furiously, while I made every effort to see that he did not get my face.
A girl’s voice came from a nearby window: That’s enough! Leave him alone! Don’t kick him like that. He’s younger than you.
I am trying to grab him by the leg. I duck one of his more vicious kicks, and at that moment he loses his balance and falls backwards onto the pavement. I made a great effort and got to my feet. Then I kicked him in the face.
I heard the girl’s voice again. Stop it! You’re going to kill each other!
He had his face covered. I went on kicking him. When I was tired of kicking, I used the broken neck of the bottle on the two hands that were spread over his face. He was bellowing like a beast. My face! My neck!
I ran on and left him there yelling. The girl’s voice cried: That’s what you wanted, you two. You’ve finally got it.
I fell several times as I ran up the stairs. Blood ran from my face, my knees, and from the hand that had held the bottle. I could still hear him bellowing as I went through the arch of Bab el Assa. I took out my handkerchief and put it to my nose. Blood was coming from my mouth as well.