Whenever I visited Marrakech, Ghaliya took advantage of my presence alone in the house to talk at length about our childhoods. I never knew why she did it. I talked about my mother and she talked about her mother; we recalled our fear of amulets and saints’ tombs. She remembered something akin to a love story that she experienced with a maternal cousin, and I remembered my maternal cousin, an employee at the German embassy, with whom I exchanged passionate kisses on the roof. We remembered dishes we liked and others we hated. We concluded with the conviction that leaving childhood was the eternal repetition of the exit from paradise.
On one such visit I was getting ready to go out, pleased with this exchange, when Ahmad Majd called, asking to see me immediately. After a nervous discussion we agreed to meet in Ibrahim al-Khayati’s house in Casablanca the following evening.
Ibrahim was standing in the living room, which overlooked the garden and the swimming pool. He looked like someone about to announce the results of a TV competition. Ahmad and Bahia, on the other hand, were slumped in armchairs, but as soon as I entered they stood up with unusual enthusiasm and kissed me warmly.
I had only seen Bahia twice since our divorce, once to settle some legal questions and the second time when we visited my father at her request. I had the strange feeling that she had come from a distant past. I told her, sincerely, that I missed her, unaware of the awkwardness of the situation. She was moved and replied in a polite manner that seemed funny to me. Ahmad, on the other hand, appeared restless.
I asked him, ‘What’s this new catastrophe that you want to see me about so urgently?’
He jumped to his feet trying to control a situation I had not discerned. There was an incomprehensible nervousness in the air, causing Ibrahim to pour tea for ten when there were only four of us. Ahmad was waving his hands and arms with an abruptness that surpassed any verbal construction. He spoke like someone throwing away something he wanted to get rid of.
‘Bahia and I have decided to get married.’
The sentence felt cold and heavy when I first heard it, then it became complex as silence surrounded it. I remembered a malicious idea that had crossed my mind when I had been in Ahmad’s office, listening to him trying to dissuade me from destroying something essential in my life. I remembered as well the passing relationship he and Bahia had had before our marriage, one that had bothered me from time to time. At this moment, that insignificant sentence transformed into something hurtful, humiliating and difficult to swallow. I stood up, wishing only to get away from the situation. I had no special feelings towards him, and I was neither angry nor resentful. I was simply disgusted.
So when Ibrahim led me to the garden, looking for words to ease the shock he thought I had experienced, I explained to him that I had no need for consolation and couldn’t care less about what had happened. All I wanted to know, if possible, was when it had happened, when had the idea been born — if, that is, the original idea had truly died. When and where had the decision been taken? Was it during those years when we all ate and drank around one table? Was it before Yacine’s death or after? Was it when Ahmad was handling the land case or when he was handling our divorce? When and how? Why was it that every time something happened to me, I did not see it coming?
I heard Bahia’s voice behind me, saying, ‘Please don’t bother yourself with useless questions. When Ahmad insisted on knowing the direct reason for our divorce, I had to tell him the story of the baby I wanted and you did not. That is all there is to it. If it will upset you, I won’t do it, I swear I won’t.’
I told her that it did not matter to me or hurt me. I headed straight out of the garden on to the deserted street on that bizarre Sunday evening. I realised once more that what had happened and the way it had happened, with the words and emotions it had provoked, wouldn’t have happened to me had I left at the right time. Why hadn’t I left every time it had seemed obvious to leave? Why had I squandered so much existence during a quarter of a century of procrastination and waiting?
I walked for a long time and then got on the seven o’clock train to Rabat. As I arrived in the capital, I imagined Ahmad with his short stature sleeping with Bahia and whispering words of love to her in a Marrakech accent. I imagined telling him angrily that even if he stole every woman in the world, he would never get over the humiliation of the woman who dumped him for his lawyer while he was in prison.
I regretted the cruel thoughts, and thanked God that I had not actually said any of it. I read the day’s newspapers before I went up to my apartment, where I slept for a whole day without dreams.
When I woke up I found my voicemail full of anxious messages about my disappearance. I also found text messages from my colleagues at the paper informing me about the recent break up of a sleeper cell. I was reading those messages when another arrived from Fatima asking me to call her. I dialled her number and heard her joyful voice immediately on the line.
‘You sound very happy!’ I said.
‘Not at all. I talked to Ahmad Majd and guess what his comment was on the happy marriage?’ she asked.
‘You’re invited?’
‘No, he said to me: what do you expect me to do? I have devoted my life to correcting the mistakes of the left!’
I told her, ‘I’m afraid that is going to be the last sarcastic sentence he will utter.’
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘Because he’s entering the sea of darkness.’
‘Don’t be a bird of ill omen. Watch out for yourself. Do you have any new information about the cell?’
‘Not yet. I’m meeting my colleagues shortly.’
‘It seems it’s linked to the Madrid group.’
‘We’ll see. I’ll call you later.’
‘Kisses,’ she replied.
On my way to meet colleagues at the Beach restaurant, Yacine nudged me and asked, ‘What happened to you? Where did you disappear?’
‘Do you know that your mother is getting married?’
‘Really?’ he said. ‘Wonders never cease, for the living.’
‘Is this your only reaction to the news?’ I asked.
‘We are not surprised by anything, as you know.’
‘I expected you at least to be embarrassed by what happened!’
‘Listen, death is no joke. We don’t go through all this terror to remain subject to emotions and shyness.’
‘Regardless, I must tell you that the main reason for our divorce and the door being flung wide open to this marriage is you.’
‘I know, but don’t expect me to develop a guilt complex.’
‘You also know, don’t you, that the idea of the new baby is just compensating for you?’
‘No one compensates for anyone. The baby won’t replace me; Ahmad Majd won’t take your place; and no other woman will replace Bahia. Whenever you get attached to human beings, they become an eternal curse, like the colour of your eyes.’
‘I’m surprised to hear you say that,’ I said.
‘Let it go. Can I ask you to do something for me?’
‘Go ahead, ask.’
‘Don’t be harsh with Bahia. She’s a very sad woman.’
3
I spent the evening with work colleagues at the Beach restaurant, and stayed late talking about terrorism. One of my colleagues remarked that terrorism had truly succeeded when it took up so much of our time. He also said that, in the end, terrorism was one of the dangers of modern life, no less and no more. It claimed far fewer people than traffic accidents, smoking, drugs or illness. Life itself was more fatal than terrorism. We were unnecessarily panicked, he said, and Moroccans in particular were scared of everything.