“Maybe he’s spying on some big gang.”
“You watch too many movies,” Aouicha said, waving him off. “Our alley is nothing but petty crooks the police couldn’t care less about.”
They left Aouicha’s spot and stopped by the cigarette seller, Zeroual, another person who was extremely suspicious of Hmad. Zeroual found him to be more stylish and tidy than was strictly necessary. In his mind, Hmad did not seem like the other Chleuhs of Ouarzazate, who were known for their uncouth appearance. As the three of them deliberated, their suspicions grew. The cigarette seller spoke with intense resentment. How could this Chelh peasant come from a village in the south and find work that easily in a villa of one of the Christians, whereas he was a son of Marrakech whose family had been here for generations and there were no prospects in front of him other than selling loosies?
“Marrakech only gives to outsiders,” Ali agreed.
“Yeah, they come from far away, they take the ministry’s permits, they become licensed guides, and we are left with nothing,” Zeroual said.
Ibrahim and Ali remembered with regret their days as tour guides. Those were the days of contentment and easy living. They used to be so happy when the day ended and they could roll a joint at one of their places. The most important thing with the tourists was to provide hashish at their evening parties, and sometimes to supply sex too. The foreign women were sexually liberated; they gave pleasure and took it themselves anytime they wanted it. It wasn’t necessary to have a relationship or to face all those obstacles that Moroccan girls put in front of you. Nothing remained of those glorious days except for the memories, nostalgia, and indignation toward the tourist police who had ruined their lives. They considered scamming the tourists an acceptable thing, because all of them were rich, and what they took from them through trickery and deceit was nothing but crumbs.
At the end of the day, the thieves left the cigarette seller and went to their room to change. They dressed in their most stylish clothing: nice shirts, jeans, and sneakers. Ibrahim put a chain around his neck and a watch that didn’t work on his left wrist. They surveyed Hmad the Chelh’s window. He stepped outside and the duo followed him across the back streets of Riad Zitoun to Arset el-Maach, and from there to Jemaa el-Fnaa. They lost him for a moment in the bustle of the square before Ali spotted him again.
“Look, look, there he is!”
Hmad was cutting a path toward the Koutoubia. They followed him, all the while hiding their faces behind newspapers like in the movies.
Hmad stopped at the horse-drawn carriage station and his pursuers hesitated. Ibrahim asked: “What do we do now?”
“We’re going to ride the same carriage as him — we’ll ask him where he’s going, and we’ll say that we are heading, coincidentally, to the same place.”
They rode in the carriage with Hmad, who stayed silent the whole way to Gueliz. He avoided looking at them, and didn’t ask them where they were going. He was thinking about the party that night and about Gerard. He was determined to ask him about moving into the elegant villa. Hmad was tired of Riad Zitoun and its clamor. Besides, the residents would find out sooner or later about his business, and then they’d harass him, or maybe even kill him like the people of Tinejdad had done to Ali Oukoubach. He trembled when he remembered the death of Oukoubach and his defiled body in the middle of the grass. He wondered: Is someone in Marrakech going to do the same thing to me? He comforted himself by thinking: Marrakech is a big, open city. Its people are accepting of who I am. He recalled all the jokes that were told about Marrakech men — about how they love other men, sometimes even preferring them to women, and about how this did not seem to be a problem for them. Despite all of this, deep inside he was afraid of being discovered, and of meeting his death like Oukoubach. He reassured himself that nobody, until now, knew the real nature of his work, or his hidden indulgences. His thoughts jumped back to Gerard: What makeup will he have ready for tonight? The previous night he had made his face up to look like an American actress named Marilyn Monroe. He felt very beautiful in Marilyn’s clothing. No doubt she was bewitching. He loved the long fake eyelashes most of all, the slightly curly blond hair, and the dress with bared cleavage. He could feel everyone’s stares and surging desire. He suspected that among the gazes were some looks of envy, for the partygoers knew about his relationship with Gerard, who had continued to praise Hmad’s devotion, candor, and sincere lack of desire for material things. Hmad really didn’t covet those items; he only wanted to be partners in everything, and to live together as lovers.
Gerard had asked Hmad if he wanted to move to France like many other young men in Marrakech, but Hmad made it clear where he preferred to live: “I want to stay with you. So if you stay here, I’m staying. If you go, take me with you.”
Their love was glowing and growing, especially since Hmad had become a drag queen and all those stares of admiration had been focused on him. Pride had succeeded in igniting and inflaming Gerard’s love even more. Hmad was overjoyed when Gerard looked at him adoringly. This was why he was so elegantly glammed up, perfumed, and adorned with rings. He hadn’t imagined that he would find his beloved this quickly. And on top of this, he was a sensitive and generous lover, despite being a foreigner. He assured himself that with Gerard he would live the rest of his life in love, bliss, and joy, not to mention the parties.
When he had left his village, he was determined not to live like Oukoubach, who had been killed by one of the many lovers he’d taken. Hmad wanted a stable life with only one partner to fulfill his desires, to look after him and his mother in the village. He had not spoken frankly with Gerard about the issue of helping his mother, but he felt sure that his lover would not fail him in this. Of course, he would help him send enough money so that his mother could live independently and with dignity. He decided, as he got off the carriage, to speak with Gerard about this issue as soon as the party was over.
Hmad was lost in his reveries and didn’t see Ali and Ibrahim getting off at the same stop. The duo paused to talk with the driver because they didn’t have enough money to pay the price of the carriage. Hmad continued on his way and almost escaped his pursuers before the pair bolted away from the carriage driver and trailed after him. Hmad entered a swanky villa surrounded by an enormous wall. It wasn’t far from the Ibn Tofail Hospital, where there were many other spacious colonial villas.
Ibrahim turned to his friend. “You have to believe him now, he really does work in that villa.”
“Let’s go inside and see what his work is like.”
“They’ll arrest us,” Ibrahim protested, pulling on Ali’s arm.
“They’ll be preoccupied — it looks like the party has started. They won’t notice us.”
The pair circled around the tall walls of the villa and stopped at the back. Ali climbed onto Ibrahim’s shoulders and pulled himself up on the wall. He stretched his hands down to his friend to help him climb up as well. Then they jumped inside.
Ali followed his friend, the sound of Western music filling the place. The guests flocked toward the house in groups. There were lots of fashionable male tourists with half-naked Moroccan girls on their arms. There were also chic young Moroccan men, more done up than was appropriate. It seemed like they were high-class elites — very clean and smelling of expensive perfumes.
“These are not our kind of people, brother,” Ali whispered.
“Just look at the children of Gueliz.”
“Yeah, high class, brother.”
No one paid attention to their presence as they sauntered inside. Two servers walked by with wine and champagne on trays, and Ali and Ibrahim grabbed glasses as if they were invited guests. They downed the drinks in one gulp and went back to the server to ask for more.