“Poor thing,” said the doctor. “I don’t think she’ll fly again.”
Without releasing the owl’s head, he held it by the legs and put it back into the cage.
He turned off the lamp. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“You mean there’s no cure?”
“I’m afraid not. If you like, you can leave it with me — I’ll put her to sleep.”
“To sleep?” he asked.
“Yes. You know, the big sleep.” The doctor smiled.
“No, by no means.”
Rashid shrugged his shoulders, as if excusing himself.
“You should have sold it,” he said. “Now it’s worthless.”
He took the cage.
“Thank you, doctor.”
“It won’t fly again,” the doctor repeated. “It will suffer a lot, that’s all.”
He lifted the cage and looked at the owl, which seemed startled.
“I hope you’re wrong. But thanks anyway.”
At this moment two women entered the clinic. The older woman, about fifty, cradled a black Pekingese, which appeared to be either dead or unconscious, in her arms. She walked straight up to the doctor. The other, twenty years younger, waited by the door.
“Ah, Mme. Choiseul,” exclaimed the doctor, who promptly left Rashid to take the Pekingese.
“Look at it, would you?” the woman said in French.
The doctor set the little dog on the metal table. He turned on the lamp again and with two fingers opened one of the dog’s eyes.
“Let’s see now.” He began to examine the dog, touching its abdomen, while Mme. Choiseul caressed its head maternally.
The younger woman stared at the owl. She gave its owner a smile and said in French:
“Pretty bird.”
“Thank you.”
“Is it yours?”
“Yes.”
She drew near. Although she was slightly cross-eyed, he found her attractive.
“Did something happen to it?”
“The doctor thinks it’s got a broken wing,” he answered in French.
“Oh, what a pity.”
“Yes, he says there’s nothing he can do.”
“Look at those eyes! How did it get hurt?”
“It’s a long story.”
Rashid stood in the doorway. “Shall we go?” he said. “The taxi is waiting.”
“Yes, just a moment,” he answered.
“I’ll wait outside.”
The woman smiled.
“Where are you going?”
“To Tangier.”
“Is he your friend?”
“Not really. He’s sort of a guide.”
“We’re going to Tangier too. We could give you a ride.” She hesitated. “You don’t mind that I speak to you as tu?”
“No, of course not. Thank you.”
“If you like, I’ll hold the bird, no?”
He gave her the cage.
“Sure,” he said.
He came out of the clinic into the late afternoon light. Rashid and the taxi driver sat in the Mercedes. He leaned his head toward the window and said to Rashid:
“These ladies are going to take me.”
“All right. But pay the driver.”
He took his last fifty dirhams out of his wallet and gave them to Rashid.
“That’s not enough.”
“Rashid, I don’t have any more.” He opened his wallet to show him.
“The price is one hundred,” said the driver to Rashid, “and that’s because it’s you.”
“I’ll pay you later, Rashid.”
“Give me a guarantee,” Rashid said, irritated.
“All right.” He took off his wristwatch and handed it to him.
Rashid smiled.
“That’s good.” He turned to the driver. “Let’s go. I’ll pay you in the Medina,” he said in Arabic.
The wheels of the Mercedes shot out gravel and raised two little clouds of dust. The doctor’s dog did not stop barking until the car had swung onto the asphalt road to silhouette itself against the sky and the sea. Then it crawled back into its barrel.
XXVIII
Inside the clinic, the little Pekingese had come to. It stood up on the table, wagging its tail. It barked twice hoarsely, gave a little jump, breathed hard, and shook its head.
“What an actor,” said Mme. Choiseul. “He just wanted us to take him for a ride in the car.” She turned to her friend. “Right, Julie? I assure you, doctor, he’s faking these fainting spells.”
“I don’t think so,” said the doctor. “But only Allah knows all.”
The woman picked the dog up and put it on the floor, where it barked and ran circles around her.
“All right, Taubin, shut up.” She opened her purse to take out a hundred-dirham note, which she gave to the doctor.
“Thank you,” he said. “Until next time.”
“Ah, what heavenly light,” said Mme. Choiseul as she stepped into the evening breeze. The Pekingese ran over to urinate against a row of sand-colored rocks that bordered the doctor’s garden, then turned to inspect the strange camel prints in the middle of the road. The doctor’s dog silently crept out of its barrel and hurled itself at the Pekingese, which saw it only at the last instant. It jerked its body sideways and yelped.
“Oh, the poor bird,” exclaimed Mme. Choiseul, looking at the owl. “It should be free.”
The sun hadn’t set, but the heat of the day was gone.
“Let’s go,” said the younger woman. “I’m cold. Maybe the gentleman can explain to us on the way what he’s doing with an owl.”
They got into the car. The little dog, showing no interest in the owl, barked at some children selling pine nuts by the roadside. The eucalypti and mimosas parted on either side of the car, their odor pouring in through the windows.
“I’m here by accident,” he began to explain.
After giving a somewhat glamorized version of his story, he learned that Julie Bachelier was a student of archaeology, interested in the Roman and pre-Roman history of the area. She was on vacation, staying at Mme. Choiseul’s house on the outskirts of Tangier. Mme. Choiseul’s first name was Christine. She was an exceptionally bad driver.
For a moment, he imagined the two women embracing each other.
“My mother is an accountant,” said Julie. “She works for Christine in Paris.”
He decided he was interested in Julie.
“You have a Moroccan face,” Mme. Choiseul told him.
“So I’ve been told,” he replied. “I don’t think I’d like to be Moroccan.”
“Do you like being Colombian?”
“To tell the truth, not much. No.”
The Frenchwomen agreed: it would be better to have been born European.
“But in Europe I feel suffocated. Too much organization,” he said.
From the heights of R’milat one could see the city of Tangier lying in the hills, like a wide salt marsh in the evening light. Passing the giant palaces of the Saudi princes, Mme. Choiseul turned on a narrow road that descended between two high stucco walls, now in disrepair and heaped with bougainvillea and honeysuckle in flower.
“Oh, what am I doing?” she shouted. “Where was it you were going? My mind was wandering — I was going to our house.”
“To the Medina.”
“The Medina? What are you going to do there?”