The owl raised its head and looked around.
Hamsa made more explanations to his grandfather. The latter interpreted, addressing Julie instead of looking at him.
“He didn’t know it belonged to anyone,” he said. “He saw it in the window and since it was hurt, he thought it had stopped there for shelter, and he caught it.”
“And the cage?” he said. “Didn’t he see the cage?”
“He says he didn’t.”
“What did he plan to do with it?”
“Heal it and then let it go.”
“Can’t he sell it?”
Now Artifo looked at him.
“Owls aren’t worth anything.”
He’s lying, he thought. But what would he want with an owl?
“Really?”
“They’re not worth much,” Artifo corrected himself. “The children catch them sometimes to sell to an old woman or a Jew who’ll use them for witchcraft.”
He looked at Julie.
“What do you think?”
The shepherd put on an innocent face. He was obviously a simpleton, but it looked as if he meant well.
“If he thinks he can cure it,” Julie said, “why not leave it here so he can try?”
He didn’t think Hamsa was capable of curing it. Still, “Yes,” he said. “Why not?”
He turned to Artifo.
“I’ll leave it here.”
In parting, Julie gave her hand to Hamsa and he followed her example and then crouched in front of the owl and touched its head softly to say goodbye. The owl shook its head.
He came out of the hut behind Julie. The day was at its brightest, the sky was streaked with cirrus clouds from horizon to horizon. They began to walk, breathing the blue, lustrous air. Julie took his arm with affectionate authority.
“I think you did the right thing.”
“I suppose,” he said doubtfully.
Artifo came out of the hut hurriedly and caught up with them.
“Monsieur,” he said, “my grandson asks if you can spare a little money to buy meat for the bird.”
He snorted, but with a smile of indulgence. He took out a twenty-dirham bill from his pants pocket and gave it to Artifo, who returned hastily to the hut.
Julie took his arm again and they walked uphill without waiting for the old Moroccan.
“Did I already tell you,” Julie was saying, “that the nine thousand lions the Romans sacrificed at the dedication of the Colosseum were all Moroccan? They sent them over from Volúbilis. They managed to wipe them all out in less than two centuries.”
When they reached the high point of the road, he stopped and looked west, where the sea opened. With some sadness, he felt he might be seeing the place for the last time.
XLIII
Thinking of Julie, he walked quickly down toward the Zoco Chico, along Plateros Street, where vendors were selling hard taffy and Moorish crepes. Thanks to Julie, he knew this street had once been a Roman causeway.
At the Café Tingis, Rashid was sitting with a group of friends, as usual, filling out football cards.
“Betis, Atlético de Bilbao. . Mallorca, Salamanca. . Real Madrid, Barcelona. .,” they recited.
Rashid saw him, said, “Just a moment,” and turned back to the cards.
He went to eye the window display in a shop across the plaza, where in ancient times a Roman forum had stood. Would a Moroccan amber necklace make Laura happy? Maybe, he thought; but he didn’t have enough money.
“Hey, amigo!” shouted Rashid, who had got up from his gambling and crossed the small plaza to meet him.
“What’s new? You haven’t forgotten Rashid, eh? You want your watch?” He laughed. “Have you got my money?” He squeezed his hand.
“No. You can keep the watch.” He looked at Rashid’s wrist but didn’t see any watch. “I came to say goodbye. My passport is on the way.”
“Let’s have a coffee. This time I’ll treat.”
They left the Zoco Chico and headed down toward the Café Stah.
“It’s a pity you’re going. I was thinking of asking you a big favor,” said Rashid when they were seated in the sun on the café terrace. The smooth golden light off the bay that bathed their eyes, the horn of a ship leaving the port, the smell of black tobacco smoke and coffee — all this gave a nostalgic flavor to the farewell conversation. “I’m sure I’ll win this bet. We filled it out among a few friends. I was thinking: the only person I’d trust to go to Spain to cash it is you.”
“It would be an honor,” he said. “If I weren’t leaving, I’d gladly do you the favor.”
“Insha Al-láh.”
A few minutes later they got up and walked toward the port.
“And what about the owl?” Rashid asked.
They said goodbye in front of the taxi station, agreeing that, if he didn’t leave this week, he’d come back to see if Rashid and his friends had won their wager.
“If we win,” said Rashid, “you’ll go over to Algeciras to collect the money. It will be wonderful. We’ll give you a five percent commission, that’s a promise.”
“All right then,” he said.
“Hasta luego,” said Rashid, and embraced him with a kiss on each cheek. “And Trek salama! if you go.”
THE NECKLACE
XLIV
My dear love,
I’m writing you on a computer to save space. What a bother this passport stuff is, and it’s stretching out the time till we can be together! I went to the embassy and spoke with the first secretary. Monday they’ll tell me something, but they’ve warned me the paperwork can take a long time. It literally makes my heart sink just to think of it.
I told your uncle. He’s not happy, you know him — always so distrustful. He says he’s going to dock your pay for every day you miss. If you weren’t one of his favorite nephews, he’d have fired you already — that’s what he says.
I called last night at Solano’s house, but Victor hadn’t come back yet. Apparently the plane was delayed in Madrid.
Be good.
XLV
My love,
Thanks a million for the slippers and the caftan, which Victor brought over on Saturday, soon after he got back. They fit me perfectly.
On Monday we went with the Solanos on an impromptu visit — in Victor’s father’s small plane — to the Chocó park, since it was Victor’s birthday, as you know. The first hour we were there, it was as though all the animals decided to come out to greet Victor. We saw everything: two little foxes, tobacco- and orange-colored, some spider monkeys, two toucans, a coatimundi, a lizard that had the bad luck to be eaten before our eyes by a snake. And thousands, literally thousands of sulphur-colored butterflies — drifting through the jungle, moving south. They kept on going for hours — in fact, the whole time we were there. Victor said this could be a harbinger of bad weather.
I phoned the first secretary this morning, but he was in a meeting. He hasn’t returned my call.
XLVI
My darling,
Your uncle phoned today, he was worried about your news. Victor’s going to fill in for you — just until you’re back, he assures me. I told him I talked to the embassy people, and he says he’s going to put some pressure on the secretary, but I think it could be a mistake. The secretary, don Sebastián Vichiria, is a nasty old creep, as your friend Blanca would say, and has some incredible prejudices. He seems to disapprove of your deciding to lose your passport in a place like Tangier. He says everyone knows it’s one of the sin capitals of the world. He refuses to deal with the honorary consul, whom you’ve visited, saying he’s a North American with the worst kind of reputation, and wants us to take care of everything through the embassy, which is in Rabat. He had the nerve to ask me if it wasn’t possible that you had sold (or given) your passport to a Moroccan; according to him, there are lots of cases like that. Is it true that many Moroccans die every day trying to cross the strait?