Terrified, Issoufou’s eyes quickly scanned the room while Noura searched in confusion for her underwear and bra which she had thrown someplace in the heat of the moment. Her mind turned to that jackass Bilal — obviously he had gone through with his threat to call the cops. The dog. He didn’t even know that Issoufou was now her husband, according to the Holy Book of Allah and the sunna of His Prophet.
Outside, panic and chaos spread across the first floor of the building. Naima the Whore’s door opened to allow a frightened man to leave her apartment. He tripped over himself, believing that the police were raiding Naima’s place. But he found it difficult to break through the forest of Malians that had sprouted in the middle of the hallway, also heading for the exit. Likewise, Majid and Chakib were seen jumping from their apartment’s balcony to escape in their car, the black Kangoo. Irina, who couldn’t restrain her curiosity, peeked out to see what was happening. For once, she looked truly disheveled, dressed only in a light nightshirt.
“Irina, what are you doing here at this hour?” asked Umm al-Khayr, who was not used to encountering her Polish neighbor in the evening. She was at her post in front of the door, watching over the scene disinterestedly.
Meanwhile, Lalla Tamou approached in pure mockery, relishing the sight. She was trailed by her other boys Farid and Said, who seemed equally gleeful. Then there was Uthman, the Sudanese man, standing upright like a watchtower monitoring everyone’s movements.
The police didn’t wait long. They were not forced to break into the apartment because Aissatou had instead used his key to reveal Noura behind the door wrapped in a shawl. In her hand she held her newly minted marriage license — proof of her innocence against the accusation of indecent activities.
Bilal emerged and broke through the rows of onlookers, confused and infuriated. Standing in front of the door, he glimpsed Noura wandering through the apartment, scared, sobbing, traumatized. He tried to move toward her, but a police officer standing by the door turned him away harshly. Bilal’s heart filled with pain, and he wished he could tell Noura that he was not responsible for this mess.
Rather, it was Aissatou who stepped resolutely into the apartment to show the security forces several passports, stacks of counterfeit bills in different currencies, as well as other forged documents held in an iron safe hidden in the office closet. A wealth of evidence implicated a man named Mamadou Alseeka, a.k.a. Issoufou, in crimes of establishing and defrauding various businesses in Tangier, Fes, Casablanca, and Marrakech. Further still, they had living proof, scandalously seminude, embodied in the freshly victimized Noura Foukhari. Seizing Issoufou’s computer, they would later discover correspondences with other victims he’d conned, as well as with his accomplice — a Frenchwoman named Déborah Lizan, who went by Katherine, and who was illegally residing in the country. They had been forwarding money orders as proof of legal and administrative assets that granted them access to the profits of a fake company which specialized in the production and exportation of uranium.
Issoufou felt dizzy and sick to his stomach, and asked an officer to give him a minute to throw up.
The cop answered sternly: “You’ll have plenty of time to puke in prison, you no-good con artist.”
Noura didn’t understand one bit of what was happening around her. Her face was streaked with tears, her mind was racing, and her strength had collapsed. She looked around as two officers led her knight in shining armor — Issoufou, or rather, Mamadou Alseeka — away in handcuffs and silk Armani pajamas, on their wedding night.
Two other officers dispersed the curious bystanders, including Hafidh and his wife Badia, who were now listening from their front door. Hafidh was quite pleased with his abrupt decision to move from this miserable building in Hay Saada to live in the neighboring Hay Sharaf — the so-called Honor Neighborhood.
Translated from Arabic by Ghayde Ghraowi
[The translator would like to express his enormous gratitude to Nader Uthman, Thouria Benferhat, and Olga Verlato, whose help made this translation possible.]
A Person Fit for Murder
by Lahcen Bakour
L’Hivernage
Whoever said that murder is tricky? It’s extremely simple. As trivial as can be and cowardly too. It doesn’t have to involve someone with a heart of stone, a dead body, or a rapid-fire weapon to take the place of a shaking hand. All you need is someone fit for murder, a bit of weaponry to store the desire for the first drop of spilled blood, and, once in a while, a bit of uncertainty and some crazy coincidences. That’s all that’s needed when it comes to having someone give up the ghost, and stopping the heart from beating.
I’m not a retired criminal, someone who has grown tired of murder’s costs, who wastes time rehashing postponed decisions, or who simply rambles on regardless. No... I know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m a real killer, someone who still has fresh blood on his clothes!
That’s right, I’m a killer! At that particular moment, I was squatting alongside the corpse of my victim. It was Guillaume, my enormous and wonderful friend who was lying beside me, totally peaceful, as though he was exhausted after an intense bout of lovemaking — except that this time his face wasn’t flushed with the same kind of elation that usually follows total satisfaction. This time, the rigor enveloping his body was far greater than the feeling of lassitude that normally follows such pleasure.
My hand was shaking. It had gone back to being as weak as it usually is. Just a few moments ago a weird, satanic power had pulsed through it. My hand kept a firm grip on the knife handle as I finished off my enormous, gentle friend Guillaume. After that I squatted down beside his body for a bit so I could shed some tears and try to figure out why I had killed him.
We had arranged to meet today; that’s why I came. I had no particular grudge against him. I assumed he was waiting for me as usual. There was the same level of excitement and anticipation, as though we were meeting for the very first time. He lingered under the shower before putting on expensive deodorant. Covering himself with a pink silk bathrobe, he took out that box, put it on the table by the bed, and sat there waiting for me. No sooner had I gone through the entrance to Bab el-Jadid and crossed the street in the direction of the Winter Quarter where I was to meet Guillaume than I was struck by that abrupt transformation inside me, the one that my senses accepted so smoothly. I shook off all the remaining vestiges of noise, crowds, and an almost complete absence of individuality — all to be found in the popular quarter where I live — and plunged into another world, one of quiet and space, no noise, space between people, buildings, and things, the kind of vast, scary silence that arouses your curiosity to find out what’s going on behind those high walls and double-glazed windows.
As I walked along the sidewalk, all I could hear was the sound of my own footsteps and the swish of passing limousines as their tires rolled across the asphalt. Meanwhile, the fresh faces of people who had spent most of the day working or sleeping were getting ready for nighttime.
But here you will never see young men leaning their backs against the low walls in case they collapse, while they take turns smoking their way through a shared cigarette; or women sharing gossip the way cats do, with a ball of wool; or even narrow, winding passages where bodies unintentionally bump into each other as they pass by.
No, all you’ll see around here is an aged gardener carefully tending and watering the flowers at a villa, a maidservant opening the trunk of a car and carrying provisions into the kitchen by a back door, or a house guard alert and ready to perform any tasks demanded by the people living there.