“Will it do?” asked Rashid.
“Yes, it’s fine.”
“Pay him.”
“What?”
“If you want the room, you pay the man now.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll be back this afternoon.”
They went out to the street.
“Now,” said Rashid, “you can buy me a coffee.”
XXI
He followed Rashid uphill along a little street that smelled of sewage and dead bodies. They were going to a little smokers’ café, Rashid said, where they could find a kif cutter.
“The other day, I was talking to two kids who make money catching dogs,” Rashid said. “They use them to fool the dogs at the Spanish customs. They sell them to a truck driver who smuggles hashish in his truck. He cuts a dog’s throat and sprinkles its blood where the shit is stashed. They say that as soon as the police dogs catch a whiff of the blood, they back off; the smell scares them.”
“Incredible.”
“How could I make up something like that?”
“And it works?”
“I guess. What do I know?”
They came to the café, a dark cubicle with four little tables along a wall grotesquely painted with a desert scene — dunes, a camel, and palm trees. The tea maker, an old man with a turban and vest, greeted Rashid and gave the newcomer a look of indifference or distrust.
They sat down on a straw mattress with their backs against the wall. The old man served them tea and then eased himself down onto a small wooden platform covered with a rattan mat beside another Moroccan, a young man with long hair and large dirty yellow teeth who was busy cutting kif on a wooden plank. The smell of the herb mixed pleasantly with that of mint and orange blossom.
“Bismil-láh,” said Rashid and took a sip of tea.
The crazy young woman in uniform popped her head in from the street to ask for money.
“Give her something,” Rashid suggested. He obeyed, taking a five-dirham coin from his pocket and dropping it in her outstretched hand.
“Báraca l-láh u fik,” she said, and with a bow to Rashid, left the café.
Rashid smiled with satisfaction.
“That’s good,” he said. “She’s a good woman.”
Half an hour later, he left the café with a ball of kif bulging in his pocket. On the way to the pension, he stopped at a stand to buy some cigarettes; he asked for the cheapest brand.
XXII
The honorary consul’s gardener opened the door for him and pointed the way up the stairs to the waiting room. The suitcase was behind the door, where he had left it, but the cage was no longer on the chest. From the dining room, accessible by a little spiral staircase, came the smell of coffee and the voices of the consul and Morad, the friend from Rabat, having an after-dinner talk. They were speaking English.
“He’s certainly not bad. I already told you I was interested in him,” said the consul. “Very interested. You’ve seen him, haven’t you?”
“Does he have any money?”
“How would I know? It’s not his money that interests me.”
The other laughed.
“Well, then, what?”
“I know where you’re going with this. Don’t worry. He just seems like someone with whom one can have a conversation. That’s important to me.”
“A conversation about what? Owls?” The Moroccan laughed. “What do you know about why he’s here? He wouldn’t tell you if it’s what I think. How much do you think it’ll cost?”
Hearing all this, he was confused and wondered whether to go up to the dining room or to stay where he was. But he heard the noise of chairs moving and decided to go back down the flight of stairs toward the front door. He started down slowly. Then he heard steps coming down the spiral staircase. So he turned and walked up again, decisively, toward the waiting room.
“Hombre, so you’re here,” said the consul, giving him his hand.
Morad looked to be twenty years old; he was dressed in European clothes with considerable style. The consul introduced them.
“Where’s the owl?” he asked, as nicely as he could.
“In the garden. Don’t worry. We put a blanket over it. Yes. They hate the daylight.”
“What are you going to do with it?” asked Morad with an Andalusian lilt.
“Let it go, I suppose.”
“Let it go? No, you should give it to me,” Morad said.
The consul smiled.
“Come, come,” he said. “Nothing will happen to it. Look, I’ll explain. Morad has fallen in love with the owl. He adores it. He wants it to be his. Do you understand? And he’s prepared to pay for it. How much is it worth?”
“It’s not for sale.”
“But he’s very interested.”
“Really?” He smiled. “How much could he pay?”
The consul turned to Morad.
“It’s for my uncle that I want it. He has a collection of birds. He has several owls, with and without ears. He’d like this one, I’m sure. I could give you as much as a thousand — dirhams, I mean, certainly not dollars!”
He thought a moment, then shook his head.
“Thanks very much,” he added a second later.
The Moroccan touched himself at the pit of his stomach. Then he moved his hand vaguely and managed to say politely:
“It’s an honest offer.”
“I don’t say it isn’t,” he replied. Now he could permit himself the luxury of being affable. “But I don’t like the idea of this owl being part of some collection.”
“Ah, I understand,” said the Moroccan. There was something faintly menacing in his voice. “It’s because of that.”
“One can always change one’s mind,” said the consul, trying to be diplomatic.
Morad smiled, but the smile did not add up to a smile.
“Have you found lodging?” asked the consul.
“Yes, I was lucky.”
“Splendid. And now I suppose you want your bird, eh?” He leaned his head toward the stairs and shouted, “Mohammed! Mohammed! The gentleman’s bird.”
XXIII
With the weight of the suitcase on his shoulder and the caged owl in the other hand, he walked down Riad Sultán Street alongside the wall that bordered the Casbah on the ocean side. On the plaza of the Casbah, under the walls of the old prison, a group of Spanish tourists had gathered. A guide wearing a white djellaba and a fez was telling them about King Alfonso VI, who had given Tangier as his sister Catarina’s dowry to Charles II of England. Several begging children circled among the tourists, kissing their hands, their sleeves, and the folds of their shirts.
He entered the Medina by the Bab el Bahr, the seaside gate, and turned onto a downgrade lane toward Ben Rasuli Street, where a boy with a shaved head began to run beside him. The boy stuck out his hand to ask for money. “No,” he said. “No, not now.” “Give me dirham. Poor. Poor. To eat.” He made a gesture as if to put something in his mouth and then he grabbed his sleeve and brought his lips close to it. “No!” But the boy held onto his shirt with an unexpected strength, and even though he gave a sharp tug to free himself, he couldn’t. “Let go, now!” he shouted. At that moment another Moroccan boy, older than the first, came up on his right and, giving him a shove, seized the cage and began to run with it downhill.
“Hey! Stop! Thief!” he shouted, and, striking the first boy, got free of him and started running after the thief.