“To make fumes for healing,” said the herbalist, who seemed to be a bit of a charlatan.
He left and continued walking uphill toward the Zoco de Fuera, along the fence that enclosed the Mendubía gardens, where with a huge ruckus thousands of swallows swirled above in the treetops.
XIV
He practically leapt down the stairs to Rue d’Italie — half-elated, half-outraged at the news from the honorary consul, who had told him it would be several weeks before he got his passport.
The Colombian consulate was nothing but a little apartment on top of the fortified arch of the Casbah gate. A small library, doubling as a waiting room, offered a view of the port, the bay, and the luminous Medina. From the consul’s office, which gave onto a little elevated garden with roman cypresses and rosebushes, one could see a large part of the new city, the camel-colored hills that surrounded it, and, much farther off, the foothills of the Rif. The consul had never been to Colombia, he said, and had no intention of going. He was a North American shipwrecked here by chance. This no longer mattered to him, he said, although the city was not even a shadow of what it had been when he first came. According to him, the mental evolution of the Moroccans was going in reverse. “Bad stock,” he said. “The French knew it very well. They’re good for only one thing,” and he covered his mouth with one hand to emphasize the indiscretion.
If he bothered to keep the plaque on the door and to read and answer official letters, it was only because the title agreed with him, and he didn’t mind receiving a visit from time to time.
“Especially from a nice-looking, civilized person like yourself,” he added, to make his inclinations obvious. “So let’s hope you enjoy your life here. Come to see me when you like.” The consul held out a damp hand.
At the end of the street, on the sidewalk across from the herbalist’s, he saw a ragged boy with a two-handled basket trying to sell a barn owl.
He stopped and leaned over the basket to examine it. The owl said “chi chichich.” Its big black eyes, circled with ochre disks, looked straight ahead. Its old woman’s face was framed by a halo of small feathers. It moved its head constantly, following the slightest movement around it.
“Can I touch it?” he asked, thinking the boy wouldn’t understand.
“Touch it, touch it,” the boy said.
He put out his hand and touched its head. The owl shut its eyes, as if in resignation. “Chi, chichich.” He touched the tawny wings, with their thick, soft plumage, and noted the tear-shaped stains that adorned its back. He straightened up and looked at the boy.
“How much?” he asked.
“Mía dirham,” the boy said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Cento, cento.”
He smiled.
“Here’s fifty.” He counted to fifty with both hands, as children do.
The boy stared a moment at the herbalist’s shop, scratched his head, and finally, putting out his dirty, eager hand, said:
“Ara hamsín.”
The boy pocketed the money and lifted up the owl, whose well-feathered legs were tied with a piece of rope. The man took it in both hands. He said, “Easy now, precious,” adjusting it against his chest and holding it firmly. He set out up the street, now crowded with people and suddenly seeming much noisier than ever.
XV
In his room at the Atlas, he untied the owl’s feet and set it on a little dressing table. It fluttered its wings listlessly. Then it hopped up and perched on the back of an armchair; fastening its claws, it shook its head once and fixed its large eyes on its new owner. “To inspect me,” he thought to himself. It spread its wide, rounded wings and produced the sound “kiúk,” twice. He crossed the room, from the dressing table toward the balcony door, the owl following him with its eyes, turning its head. He drew the curtains, and the owl blinked. When he sat down on the bed, the owl’s eyes followed him with another revolution of its head and remained fixed on him. He took off his shoes to lie back and sleep; the owl observed his movements with tiny oscillations of its head.
He woke up with a slight weight on one shoulder, his face buried in the down pillow. He turned slowly and saw the owl’s face, examining him with almost human curiosity. “Hello, beautiful,” he said. He lay face up, and the bird leaped and perched on his hip. It opened its white, arched beak, closed it, and opened it again. “Yes, precious, we’re going to look for something for you to eat.” He shifted, and the owl flew over and perched on the back of the armchair again. He put his shoes on quickly and stood up. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
It was almost midnight. The doorman, sleeping in an easy chair in the lobby, got up with a jerk and drew back the bolt of the door to let him out.
“M’salkheir,” he said.
At this time of night, the city seemed less Mediterranean than Asian, with its food stalls and stores flooded with sickly neon light. The street smelled of diesel and burned meat. The cats, almost invisible by day in this part of the city, where they were harassed by the Moroccans, took over the sidewalks by night and were left alone (“because nobody in his right mind would ever strike a cat in darkness”).
“Become who you really are,” said a display for Lacoste in a window on the Boulevard Pasteur. On the other side, a glowing Wimpy’s sign shone on the sidewalk. He crossed the street, the empty taxis cruising slowly, and went into a small Muslim diner.
“Kefta?” he asked, looking at the display window, where there were two large pewter plates each bearing a mound of ground beef, surrounded by cans of Jus d’or and Fanta, each can topped with a red tomato.
“Spanish?”
“Yes. Some ground beef. Raw, please.”
“How much?”
“Half a kilo.”
The Moroccan took a piece of red meat, weighed it on a marble table, and cut it into several pieces, which he inserted into the grinder. Then he wrapped the mass in a sheet of paper, put it into a plastic bag, and set it on the imitation marble counter.
“Báraca l-láh u fik.”
“B’saha.”
Back in the hotel, he opened the package on the dressing table, and saw with dismay that bits of coriander or parsley had been mixed in with the meat. He took a bit of meat in his fingers, made a little ball, rolling it on the palm of his hand, and approached the owl. It had left the back of the chair to perch on one of the tin wall-lamps at the head of the bed.
“All right,” he said, shooing it, “get down from there. It’s time to eat.”
The owl flew back to the armchair. When he drew close with the meat, it opened its beak greedily and swallowed the meat with no difficulty. It opened its beak again, asking for more.
“Well, then,” he said to the owl, after it had devoured almost all of the meat, “now it’s my turn.” He went to the bathroom to wash his hands, then headed for the street in search of a restaurant.
When he returned, the owl was again perched on the wall-lamp over the bed. There was a greenish white puddle on one of the pillows.
“Oh, no.” He threw up his arms in anger. “Get out of there!”
The owl opened its beak and spread its wings defiantly. Then it flew back to the armchair, raised its short tail, and let fall a stream of greenish liquid onto the Berber rug.
“Oh, this is a great start.”
He rolled up his sleeves and began to pull off the pillowcases.
The owl hooted.