But we sensed a desolate emptiness in a project for our pleasure that we had not planned ourselves, first, and secondly, in which our host would not share; so Si Sabir refused the idea from first to last. Once more our host ’s left eye wandered, and he scowled. Then he made a new suggestion: that he bring us any two girls we knew, or that we leave the choice up to him and he would bring two girls of unsurpassed beauty (for he believed in the popular proverb that “one who pimps for his brother is not a pimp”). If it weren’t for our profound sense that he sincerely cared about our feelings with his crude suggestions we would have laughed openly. We met his ofer with excuses that did not fully convince him. Then we left the hotel after handing him the case of alcohol through the window to avoid carrying it through the crowded bar.
No sooner had al-Miludi begun to drive than he swore that he would not leave us until we had had a wonderful time on this night, which he was determined to make the most beautiful night of our lives, even if that required him to violate his religious obligations. He was confident that God would forgive a person’s sin, but he would not forgive himself the crime of ruining a night on which he was determined to make us happy.
He stopped at the intersection of the road from Rabat to Casablanca, in front of the zoo. There was a bar there, hidden by a hedge of climbing plants and surrounded by white flowers suspended like stars in a green sky. The bar began as a passageway to a small, pretty hotel, and it seemed that the owner was a close friend of al-Miludi.
Si Sabir suggested that we begin with strong drink, since it would be a long evening. But after we smelled the aroma of grilling in the hotel we chose to delight our bellies with several skewers of grilled meat, accompanied by extremely good aged wine, rather than eat at al-Miludi’s house, where many good things waited for us, prepared with care for this happy occasion. After we ate, we left for Rabat, stopping at another bar where we had a lone drink, al-Miludi joining us with orange juice.
The barmaid was an Arab, which Si Sabir declared was unusual. She was thirty-five and somewhat plump, and Si Sabir began to flirt with her persistently, despite the decay that showed in her teeth on either side of a wide gold cap above her lower lip. We hadn’t drunk much, but Si Sabir rushed things, contrary to his habit: first he took her hand and introduced himself, and I sensed he was squeezing her fingers tightly. She concealed her laughter under an unexpectedly kind smile, which nonetheless suggested ample experience that had given her a sophisticated resistance in situations like this. There was a band of French men and women nearby, absorbed in having a good time. In an attempt to distract Si Sabir, the waitress pointed to a small body in the middle of the group, raised her voice, and asked, “Do you know who that is?”
Si Sabir nodded his head, resentfully; I thought he was going to say something bitter, but he smiled. We looked where she pointed: “Monsieur Kazi, the French champion marathoner.”
“Screw it.” We laughed, and Si Sabir added, “Al-Ghazi left him in the dust.”
She joined wholeheartedly in our laughter, giving an amazing display of the map of her decayed teeth, upper and lower.
The marathon was unique in that it was covered on television from beginning to end. For a reason which could only have been pure chance, the rivalry became intense between the Moroccan champion, al-Ghazi, and the French one, Kazi. But the Moroccan had outrun him by a long distance, and his win had aroused unprecedented enthusiasm.
We began to look toward Kazi unthinkingly, as one might play with a painful pimple in a sensitive spot. Si Sabir looked at him in disgust as he left the place, after the barmaid had withdrawn and left the shift to a large man whose eyes were already sleepy.
In Rabat we went to a western club at Si Sabir’s suggestion. He was attracted by the smoke-filled air, the dim, colored lights, and the small open space where several couples danced to the music. Si Sabir, choosing a table to the right of the dance floor, cried, “This is the atmosphere I want!”
His voice was loud, but no one paid any attention to him. With an embarrassing impudence, he inspected more than five girls, whom I am certain he would have rejected were it not for the influence of the alcohol. He invited one of them over, a woman with a slight body like his own and whose face showed both grace and calm. She had no sooner settled into her seat near him than he cried: “You must come from an old family.”
We laughed, which annoyed him. He directed his words to me: “There’s no reason to laugh.”
Our host cut him of unexpectedly: “ We are all from old families.”
He called for a drink for her and she began to sip it calmly, as if she were in a backyard swing enjoying a peaceable afternoon. That made Si Sabir cry, “Pour it on the ground or in my glass, if you can’t drink it.”
She laughed and poured the contents of her glass into his, agreeing: “That ’s a good idea. I hate whiskey.”
He touched her tender forearm and said, “Didn’t I tell you she’s from an old family?” I didn’t laugh, and he continued, asking, “From Rabat?”
She chose not to lie and denied it with a shake of her head. “From Wadi Zam.”
Si Sabir’s face showed displeasure and disappointment. He was from Rabat, and I would have dearly loved to see how happy he would have been had she not disappointed him.
I wanted to clear the air and say, “ There’s no difference between cities,” but I noticed Si Sabir’s sharp look, so I refrained. I expected one of the violent outbursts that appear suddenly when he drinks, but abruptly the music changed to the kind he likes, and he began humming along with it. It was soft and light, like the whisper of a breeze, and the murmurs of a tall black man dancing with a blond Frenchwoman rose with the dreamy song, amidst smoke that massed like a fog.
“You’re beautiful,” said Si Sabir, squeezing the girl’s delicate arm. “But let ’s get to the point frankly: will you…” He signaled with his eyes and unmistakable hand gestures. The girl understood his intention and laughed, so we laughed too. She seemed to be slipping away, making studied excuses and with disjointed words about being forced to remain until two-thirty, about how her lonely mother was waiting for her, about her quiet habits and…
Si Sabir got up like someone deeply offended. His personality took its unique, full form under the influence of the drink, and he began moving away with readily apparent indignation. “ We aren’t dupes. We have to get what we pay for. We won’t throw our money into the sea. Let’s go.”
That was an order addressed to us: he walked out, and we followed him. It seemed as if his slight body was becoming inflated until it nearly filled the dance floor, leading me to wonder whether the car would be big enough for him.
I expected we would go to an eastern club, especially since he had been trained in playing the oud when he was young, but I was surprised by his cry to Si l-Miludi: “To Casablanca!”
I was starting to feel the effect of the alcohol just when I couldn’t do anything about it, so I looked on with complete neutrality and felt no annoyance. On the road Si Sabir urged al-Miludi to go faster, and the car rushed along at the highest speed the nerves of its aged driver could take. When Si Sabir realized that, in returning from Rabat towards Casablanca, we had passed the halfway point and the bar with the woman of the gold-capped teeth, he let fly an expletive that made al-Miludi laugh and suggest turning back; but some famous old song of Ahmad al-Baidawi diverted his attention and brought him back to his untroubled expansiveness. He began to hum along with the songs without any more whims, not even noticing when we finally arrived. The car began to weave through side streets in a poor neighborhood made up of new, small houses, all of the same design. The car stopped at the beginning of a street numbered 34, and Si l-Miludi knocked on the door of a house there.