She thought to herself that this feeling, in and of itself, was worth all the risks she took to be alone with Issoufou. She would ask permission from her mother to spend the night at her friend Hayat’s house in Daoudiate, claiming they were preparing for exams together, only to go to Issoufou’s place instead. He would head upstairs first while she lingered outside, watching Bilal from afar until he was busy with a customer, and then she would sneak through the door. Bilal had been a mere stepping-stone on her road to this new love. She would feel victorious whenever she brushed past him, like a racehorse vaulting over a fence.
Noura was leaving Issoufou’s apartment when Bilal suddenly appeared before her with a menacing expression on his face. “Where were you, you slut?”
“How could you call me that? Your sister is the slut... and anyway, what business is it of yours? Who are you to ask me?”
“I’m the one who’s going to call the cops on you if I keep seeing you run around here with that nigger.”
“Nigger! Really? My God. This word just comes out of you smooth and sweet like honeyed butter.”
“He’s a nigger... a cannibal. If I catch you here again, goddamnit, see if I don’t get you arrested, the both of you.”
Noura didn’t know what to say. Bilal glared at her, his eyes burning with anger and hatred. She slunk back to her apartment furious with this bastard who she had once loved. Perhaps she should pick up the pace. She had to find a way to return to Issoufou. She was annoyed with this shit from Bilal, a man who’d abandoned her, fleeing like a coward at the first sign of difficulty, holding her mother’s offenses against her. And now he wanted to ruin her newfound love.
Later, Noura told her new knight the whole story with Bilaclass="underline" about him wanting to get engaged, about her mother’s rejection and his fleeing like a coward, even his trying to block her way when she left the apartment. She professed her love for him, saying that she wished to be with him forever. She then offered to sell the Tameslouht land to establish the company’s funding — and as soon as Issoufou’s money arrived they would move somewhere else, far away from Bilal and this stupid little neighborhood.
Issoufou overflowed with appreciation. Unlike Bilal, Issoufou didn’t generally waver in love. And as far as joining the love with business, it couldn’t wait. He called Aissatou and asked him to get in touch with his friends in the Sufi order to arrange a marriage contract with Noura. He would later get an officiant to sign the contract, with Aissatou and his Sudanese friend Uthman Mustafa Sheikh serving as witnesses.
Noura didn’t resist any of this, wanting to exercise her rights under the new Moroccan family law. Besides, she wasn’t going to wager her happiness on seeking her stone-faced mother’s approval. Back at home, she told her mother that she had to attend the wedding of Hayat’s sister. She dressed in her red and white kaftan, embroidered with gold thread. She draped her white-riveted djellaba over that. She put on her white high-heel shoes patterned with pink flowers. She asked her neighbor’s son to get her a taxi to take her to the Tijani Order Center near Bab Doukkala. The taxi driver parked and waited for her at the entrance of the pathway, near the courtyard, because Lalla Aweesh Street was too narrow for a car to pass through. Noura pulled up the edges of her kaftan to avoid the trash and potholes that made the short distance treacherous in heels. She walked without stumbling or twisting her ankle, heading in the direction of her destiny.
Everyone was gathered at the Tijani Order Center when she arrived, waiting for her to ratify the marriage contract. The officiant Moulay al-Ghali, wearing a white djellaba, registered the declarations of the two witnesses who were also dressed in traditional white clothing. Meanwhile, Issoufou remained true to form, sporting a tailored black Armani tuxedo with gray piping and a white shirt with a bow tie, as if he’d just stepped out of a Hollywood film. Next to the others, he resembled a five-star hostage of a terrorist.
After the ceremony, Noura felt like she was floating with happiness, despite some lingering anxiety. The newlyweds celebrated their secret marriage in al-Fassia restaurant on Boulevard Mohamed-Zerktouni in Gueliz, far from all the riffraff. With Andalusian music softly playing in the background, the hostess led them to a private dining room with only two tables. The lights were dim and the table next to them was empty, all of which allowed the necessary intimacy for the most romantic night of Noura’s life. Issoufou ordered a bottle of champagne with hors d’oeuvres, and insisted she toast to their eternal happiness; it was the intoxication of love that hindered her ability to refuse. She hadn’t even tried alcohol before, since she had been raised to believe that it inevitably led to debauchery and prostitution.
“But champagne is something else,” Issoufou said. “It’s the drink of rapture, of honor, of joy.”
She felt she had to obey her husband. The server opened the bottle dramatically, causing the golden liquid to bubble over. Her eyes wandered over to the main room of the restaurant: the customers were mostly tourists. She took a sip from her glass, the bubbles tickling her nose. She yielded to another glass soon after and felt the tingling of this wondrous drink in her soul, which started to tremble with elation. They ordered grilled meat with plums — the traditional Moroccan wedding dish. She put aside her knife and fork and used the bread to scoop up her food, as was customary. She found it strange to be eating this dish in a restaurant. Her life had entered a new track from the station of the marriage contract.
When the taxi dropped the couple off at the entrance to their building, Noura was unconcerned about the prospect of encountering Bilal or any of the other rubberneckers standing around the front door. Inside, they only passed Hafidh the textile worker hurrying up the stairs in the company of his wife Badia. They pulled their kids behind them as their eyes remained fixed on the newlyweds. Noura climbed the stairs with the confidence of a queen heading to her promised throne. Aissatou had used his extra key to tidy up Issoufou’s apartment in advance. He had started by fixing up the office, then cleaned the bathroom, and finally arranged the bedroom before pumping a half bottle of perfume into it. He had placed candles throughout the room, around which he scattered rose petals. After he paid his respects to the newlyweds, wishing them a joyous night, he left.
The night had started as any virgin would have hoped — passionate gazes were exchanged before they came together in a long, feverish kiss that concluded with them naked in bed. All the familiar intimate opening movements, which delivered Noura into a frenzy, were consummated that evening. Issoufou accomplished this great mission like a professional, as she released an intense scream of ecstasy. A scream that was followed by powerful, hurried knocks on the apartment door: “Open up! Police!”