It was chaos in Tangier for at least a week, but Sheikh Nureddin could clearly see that it wasn’t taking the Tunisian or Egyptian path, that the Palace was more clever or more legitimate (after all, isn’t the King the Commander of the Faithful?) and that they’d have to form an alliance with a party already in place if the reform of the Constitution were to take place.
A few weeks later, the King granted amnesty to an entire contingent of political prisoners, among them members of the Group who had been languishing in government jails since the massive roundups after the attacks on Casablanca years before. The Sheikh was euphoric. He welcomed these companions as if he were Joseph himself returning from Egypt and finding his brothers again. The Propagation of Koranic Thought became a hive of bearded men.
I was impatient for all this agitation to be over so I could resume my reading and regain my tranquility. The Group was like a pack of caged animals—they kept pacing in circles, waiting for night and the time for action. They had decided to take advantage of the disorder, the demonstrations and the cops to undertake a “neighborhood cleanup” as they called it. Bassam, anxious to avenge his broken nose on the first person to come along, was on the prowl for fights. They went out in bands of a dozen each, armed with cudgels and pickax handles after a belligerent, eloquent sermon by Sheikh Nureddin, which talked of the campaigns of the Prophet, the Battle of Badr, the Battle of the Trench, the fight against the Jewish tribe of the Banu Qaynuqa; about Hamza the hero, the glory of the martyrs in Paradise, and about the beauty, the great beauty of dying in battle. Then, very heated after this theoretical warm-up, they would move out into the night almost at a run, with Bassam’s nerves and cudgel in the lead. I heard nothing about the result of their first engagements, except that they would come back happy, out of breath, with no wounded or martyrs. Sheikh Nureddin thought that for safety reasons it was important he not take part in this holy war himself, but would look at me in surprise when I said I preferred to keep him company at the Center. After two nights of fights without any losses, he wanted to lead his troops to victory himself; I was finally prepared to stay alone and peaceful in front of the computer, but one glance from Sheikh Nureddin was enough to convince me that I’d better join them; I was given a club which I hid, like everyone else, under my caftan.
The expedition could have been amusing; our band, hoods on their heads, beards, long coats, haunting the dark sidewalks, wouldn’t have looked out of place in an Egyptian comedy.
I hadn’t been warned of the goals; the sermon had mentioned fighting against impiety, sin, and pornography, but nothing more precise. The night was cold and damp. There were six of us, we walked in rows, it began to rain a little, which took away whatever charm the expedition had. The struggle against drunkenness and materialism was not a pleasure outing.
When I saw that we were turning left two hundred meters from the Koranic Thought, I began to get a little worried; there was one possible target, at the end of the avenue, which I hoped was not ours. But it was. It couldn’t be anything else. Everyone seemed to know where we were going but me; Bassam in the lead, the group advanced unhesitatingly. We reached the bookseller’s shop; he had closed the display window because of the rain, but light seeped through the door, despite the late hour; I imagined he was in the process of knocking back one or two bottles of cheap wine while leafing through old Spanish or French magazines of naked girls. And he was in the back of his store, with a bottle of red; he raised his head from his Playboy, looking furious, recognized me, and smiled timidly, disconcerted. Sheikh Nureddin’s eyes were full of scorn, he uttered a brief sermon in classical Arabic, you are the shame of the neighborhood, our neighborhood is respectable, respect God and our neighborhood, Infidel, we are the punishment of Infidels, the ruin of miscreants, leave our neighborhood immediately, respect God, our wives, and our children, the bookseller rolled his wild eyes; they darted very quickly from right to left, rested on Bassam, on me, and returned to the Sheikh reeling off his anathema. He still had his glass in his hand, and his incredulous look, wondering if I was playing a bad joke on him or something of the kind. Then the Sheikh shouted The wrath of God be upon you!, and turned to me, Bassam opened his coat to take out his pickaxe handle and looked at me too. All three of them stared at me, the bookseller said in a toneless voice, what kind of joke is this?, Bassam looked as if he were begging me, as in, come on, for God’s sake, what are you waiting for, shit, go on, go on, the Sheikh was sizing me up, I opened the panel of my coat, took out my club, the bookseller looked terrified, surprised and terrified, he got up all of a sudden from his chair, skirted around the desk on my side, very quickly, as if to flee, I didn’t want to hurt him, he tried to seize hold of my club, he began insulting us, bastards, dogs, assholes, I fuck your mothers, then Bassam hit him hard, on the shoulder, it made a dull sound, he shouted in pain, collapsed while clutching my coat and my legs, Bassam pummeled his ribs with his cudgel, very spiritedly, the bookseller shouted again, swore profusely, Bassam started up again on his thigh, aiming for the bone, the man began groaning. Bassam was smiling, brandishing his stick. I wondered for an instant if he was going to smash my face in as well. Sheikh Nureddin leaned over the bookseller, who was on the ground groaning, said to him I hope you have understood, then gave him a kick that made him cry out even louder. Tears were running down the poor guy’s face, I couldn’t look any more, I put away my weapon and went out. Bassam followed me, then the Sheikh; I heard him spitting on his victim before leaving. I ran back to the center, the others behind me. When we reached the Group for the Propagation of Koranic Thought, I threw my axe handle on the rug and locked myself up in my room. I was trembling with hatred, I could have cut Sheikh Nureddin and Bassam into pieces. Me, too. I could have cut myself up into pieces. Sitting on my bed I wondered what to do. I didn’t want to stay there. I was full of superhuman energy, an incredibly powerful anger. I took all the money I had and left. The Group was at prayers again, I crossed the large room without trying to be discreet, Bassam raised his head from his prostrations to motion to me, I went out and slammed the door.
I had 200 dirhams in my pocket, enough to buy myself a few drinks. I thought about giving the money to the bookseller in restitution, but I was too ashamed to go back there. Plus he was probably in the hospital. I hoped Bassam hadn’t broken anything, I should have turned my cudgel on Sheik Nureddin, it would have done him good, getting a few thumps. Bassam’s look had frightened me. It was a test. And now what the hell was I going to do, leave the Group, go back to the street, look for work? I’d see tomorrow. For now, I’d forget my misery.
I crossed Tangier until I reached the little bar on Avenue Pasteur; I went in, greeted everyone like the regular I wasn’t, sat down at a table, ordered first one bottle, then another, and things began to look up. Why did life treat me this way? Maybe I’d been cursed because I had dishonored my father, who knows. Maybe God himself was angry at me, pushing me toward a greater despair at every step? What do I know. At least the beer was good. Maybe I should have thrown myself into prayer, instead of alcohol, but what the hell.
There were just four Moroccans in suits in the joint, talking and drinking whiskey, no lonely female tourists; I began to get a little drunk, and felt like crying. Meryem came to mind, she was sleeping at that hour no doubt, over there in the Rif. Maybe she was dreaming of me, who knows.
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