“Too bad that dung beetle has his arms all over her,” replied Said, defeated.
“Mark my words, tomorrow her picture will be in the papers. Really, he’ll devour her... that son of a bitch, black-ass nigger. He’s a cannibal.”
“Bro, I don’t understand, what do they like about these black men?” Said asked.
“They lick it good.”
“I bet he won’t just lick — he’s gonna eat too. He’ll even eat her shit.”
“Man, I swear only foreigners make it in this country. This Negro was just jumping around with monkeys yesterday and now he easily finds a European girlfriend, son of a bitch.”
Bilal couldn’t bear this vulgar talk, remembering how hurt he had been when Lalla Ghitha had called him a nigger. His blood starting to boil with rage, he said: “Get your asses the fuck out of here. Seriously, go jerk off someplace else. This is a respectable business. You spend the whole day leaning on the wall like you’re keeping it from falling... You’ll pick up shit, not foreign women.”
Farid and Said didn’t understand what had suddenly shaken their friend. Regardless, they were filled with hatred for those former slaves whom they blamed for their problems with Bilal. When a group of Malian children walked past Fatimata’s salon that morning, Farid shouted at them: “The country’s overflowing with you sons of bitches!”
Issoufou was one of the few Africans who frequented the local cafés, as most in the community tended to live isolated among themselves, far from Moroccans and their problems. Many Africans limited their interactions with Moroccans to the essentials, especially since they perceived among the Moroccans feelings of superiority. Even the most humble grocer would approach them with a false sense of nobility.
Issoufou left his apartment in Hay Saada to wander through the main street. He paused in front of the shops, looking scornfully at the cheap goods before heading to Tito’s Café at the intersection of Allal el-Fassi Avenue and Abdelkarim el-Khattabi Boulevard, overlooking the large Marjan Market. Allal el-Fassi and Abdelkarim el-Khattabi had been opposition fighters who fought to expel the French and the Spanish during the struggle against colonization. Today their progeny were ready to dance on their graves in order to attract those same foreigners to come here and invest. Meanwhile, others were ready to give up the nation with all its martyrs and resistance fighters in exchange for residency papers for the blond capitals. The paths of history indeed have strange and deceptive points of intersection.
Issoufou entered the coffee shop, swaying as he removed his Armani glasses. Conspicuously dressed in Armani as well, he scanned the tables and TV screens around the room that were broadcasting songs on the Rotana Records channel. He took a seat in a prime corner booth upstairs, so he could look down on the trifling patrons as he drank his coffee. Recently Noura had started to frequent the café. She secluded herself in another corner, studying for upcoming exams far from the noise of her mother and the incessant racket of Lala Aweesh Street, which always prevented her from focusing. But after a while she noticed this elegant dark man, whom she thought resembled Dr. Eric Forman from the show House.
Sometimes she observed Issoufou meeting mysterious folks there — most of them Moroccan. Occasionally a French woman in her midthirties would be there with him. Their relationship appeared to be professional, judging from the papers and documents that they’d whisper over. Issoufou soon noticed Noura’s attention and they exchanged a smile once or twice. By the third time, he asked the waiter to bring her a cup of juice, which she gratefully accepted, encouraging him to move over to her table.
Issoufou came exactly at the right time. Noura had been yearning for Bilal’s arms, his hot breath, his thick lips, which would bring back memories of the Menara and Agdal gardens, where they would make love beneath the olive trees, after Bilal had silenced the garden’s attendant with cash. But for Noura, she desired him as much as she loathed him. And she sympathized with him as a victim of her mother’s conduct as much as his neglect had wounded her. The affairs of the heart are capable of transforming a victim into an executioner from one beat to the next. And with that, Issoufou’s gentleness and courtesy made him appear like a knight, a savior sent from the heavens, especially since Noura’s fruit was ripe enough to fall before her desire in the arms of a new lover.
Noura ended up in Issoufou’s bed after a series of dates at Tito’s Café and dinners at Kanoun, a nearby Lebanese restaurant. Sometimes he would take her to Café Mama Afrika or the club and restaurant African Chic on the Umm al-Rabi alleyway in Gueliz, behind Hotel Marrakech. There, at African Chic, her heart danced with joy when Issoufou first declared his love for her. He started trusting his feelings for her so that she’d offer him love in return. She found a delicateness and refinement in him. It was true that Bilal had loved her and had wanted to marry her, but he had never made her feel like a princess. With Issoufou she’d become a real princess. He was truly a gentleman. He always complimented her beauty and elegance, and would reveal his feelings to her sincerely and spontaneously. He granted her so much trust and security, even sharing with her many of his deepest secrets. From their first dates he spoke to her about his father, the former minister, who was now a prisoner in Niamey, Niger; about his family scattered across God’s vast land; and about their wealth, which he was trying to restore with the help of an international law office in Paris. He told her about the representative in Marrakech, a woman who met with him regularly to discuss the case.
“Is it the Frenchwoman who is sometimes with you in the café?” Noura asked him, as if to reassure her heart.
And he answered her evenly: “Exactly. Her name is Katherine. She’s a lawyer. She lives in the Hivernage area of Gueliz and represents her office here. They have a number of French clients residing in Marrakech.”
“The case sounds complicated.”
“Kind of. But things are moving in a good direction. I’ve been living here for more than five years now, and I submitted my request for residency to the new bureau for migration and asylum,” he explained. “All I have to do is find a worthy partner I can trust. One of the recent administrative measures involves being under the patronage of a local — especially since the new laws ease the paths to residency and work for refugees. We might be able to set up a company and open a joint account for the future funds if I get my legal affairs in order. Because of concerns over terrorist financing, there is growing international surveillance on the movement of capital. However, as soon as I can get ahold of the money to establish the company legally, everything will end up in a good place. The most important part of all this is that I find the right partner.”
It hadn’t even crossed Noura’s mind that she might be this sought-after partner, that a savior had come to rescue her from her miserable life on Lalla Aweesh Street; from her tense relationship with her mother that had become unbearable, especially since the episode with Bilal; from a university that wouldn’t grant her a diploma other than to join the ranks of unemployed college graduates. But now she considered selling the Tameslouht land and entering into a professional partnership out of a dream with this dark, handsome gentleman.
Noura learned the meaning of true pleasure with Issoufou. Naked in bed, she experienced an orgasm for the first time. It was real euphoria, not at all like that love stolen between the trees, when Bilal had rubbed up against her body, quickly spilling his semen. Despite the barrier of her virginity, the talented Issoufou did things with his tongue she couldn’t believe. After a lengthy session of kissing — just a warm-up — he spread her out on his mattress which was black and white like a zebra. He removed her clothing piece by piece, engrossing himself in suckling at her pear-like breasts with his powerful lips, and then focusing on her nipples, teasing them. With the caution of a mystic, he descended steadily down her chest to her navel, before moving to her inner thighs in a kind of sweet torture. Then he turned toward her small blossom, breathing in deeply before exhaling with his burning breath. He kissed her folds, exciting her clitoris, which he wrestled with his outstretched tongue, until Noura let out a quivering scream — a scream which made Issoufou stroke his loaded rocket, joining her there at the heights of euphoria.