I believed she wanted to arouse me, for she poured out continuous questions not for their own sake but just to talk— dozens of questions that interested her about her relative and his wealth, which she said she despised, and the neighbors. When I answered her she didn’t pay any attention.
The lunch left by the maid that morning was simple: cooked vegetables, some tomatoes and dried mint, lemons, sardines. Before we ate she darted to the kitchen where I kept several bottles of drinks; without asking permission she opened a bottle of old wine, set out two glasses and filled them, simply. A sudden happiness came over me, and I wished wholeheartedly to extend the lunch hour for the longest possible time.
“Talk to me about Si l-Habib.”
She clinked her glass and mine, and I realized what was jarring about our conversation: she was the one who always took the initiative and I remained withdrawn. Why? Her sleeves were knotted behind her back in preparation for eating, revealing her desirable forearms, which lit a blazing fire in me. I nearly choked on the wine. “Si l-Habib?”
She nodded her head, and said in chiding tones mixed with joking to lighten the sharpness, “Do I have to ask the question more than once?”
“What do you want, the past or the present?”
“The past is in the newspapers; we know more about it than foreigners. Talk about the present.”
The word “foreigners” stung me but it did not ofend me. If I had heard this dry answer from anyone else I would have been annoyed, but her manner, her voice, her enchantment all made me pleased with myself for ignoring the afront. “Tell me exactly what you want to know.”
“What does he drink?”
I laughed heartily, saying mockingly, “Martini vermouth.”
“Only?”
“Champagne… gin.”
“And the food he prefers?”
“Bastilla, couscous… grilled lamb… chicken with olives.”
“Fruit?”
“Strawberries… cherries.”
“Does he have a servant?”
I unintentionally bowed my head, as I always did when words escaped me. “Not a servant exactly, because he doesn’t consider him one. You could say he’s a friend, or a companion,or a brother.” I was silent, but the word flashed before me, and I said, “An assistant—yes, an assistant. But he’s going to France.”
She smiled with satisfaction. Before eating she had tied back her coal-black hair in a striking fashion, which made my eyes ache whenever they strayed from her. She spoke spontaneously, and her good table manners seemed automatic.
“The statue?”
I began to laugh. “Yes, the statue.”
“He’s a dumb lamb.”
I cut her of. “He hasn’t harmed you.”
“I don’t like him. But tell me more about Si l-Habib.”
Her cheeks were flushed after several glasses of the wine, and her lips had begun to shine. Cigarette smoke formed magic pictures as it circled her face.
I had the sense that I was falling passionately in love with her. Nonetheless, I repressed a flare of lustful tension: I felt clearly that she was safely on the other bank of the river separating us.
“Why?”
She smiled. “I love him.”
I began to laugh. “That fast?”
She laughed too. “I swear to God.” She set down the glass and raised her right hand as if taking an oath in court.
The sun occupied a few inches of the window sill as a light that wasn’t strong began to pour into the room and reflect on her face. I laughed for no reason. “Is he the first?”
“No.”
Her shining eyes were fixed on the remains of the wine in the glass. Her voice had the ring of truth that drink causes in some people. It occurred to me that her attractiveness, which I cannot begin to describe adequately, came not so much from her unique, glaring beauty as from something else. Perhaps it was her candor, her amazing capacity for delicate behavior. Maybe that’s what pushed me to make a big mistake, for I cried unconsciously, “And will he be…?”
The word “the last” was written clearly in my mind, but my courage failed me before I spoke it. She smiled, leaving me certain that she realized what I had wanted to say, but that my silence after this little outburst pleased her. Then I enlisted under the banner of a long daydream, which made me a partner in a silent conspiracy that seemed absolutely immoral. Finally she looked at me with her bold eyes, and wondered, “And women?”
I got up and went to the window to hide the signs of my tension. “What of them?”
“What kind does he like?”
“All women.”
“Dreamer!”
“Who?”
“You.”
I smiled again. “He loves all women but he will never have a relationship.”
“He hasn’t found the right one.” Then she looked grave, as if she were taking the first step in a plot: “He has found me now.”
She got up, so I said, “You cannot.”
She made a sign with her eyes. “We’ll see. Do you want to bet?”
I stood like a statue, staring at her. I had never dreamed that any woman in the world could combine desire and candor. At that moment I doubted my manhood: she had not categorized me as a rival for her; rather she made me into a being with no value sexually. Since I felt I loved her and wanted to possess her, she had brought me into a struggle of severe torment where I had no desire to be, a struggle whose outcome was foreordained.
“Where will you have your siesta?”
I came to, and said in confusion, “I’m going to Casablanca, and I’ll be back in two hours.”
“To Casablanca, or are you going to bring Casablanca to your friend’s house?” She burst out laughing, a symphony of rippling pleasure.
“What ’s his name?”
She began to think, smiling, the alcohol making her glow. “Hmm…Al-Baqqali.”
“You’re a devil!”
“Know then that I am going to sleep now and that I won’t open the door before four.”
chapter 3
Someone leaving the heart of Mohammediya and passing the Ibn Yasin High School comes to a new brown wall in the old Moroccan style, which rises to enclose the Casbah on its eastern side. The eye is beguiled by its massive white arches and hidden doorway, with their carefully studied harmonies that speak of a calm, mythic greatness. It ends in a square surrounded by a group of modest concrete apartment buildings, which the sun heats with lashes of flame from noon until sunset, leaving them like a pimple appearing on the beautiful features of a young face.
Since this was the only area devoid of beauty on the secondary road to Rabat, the regular traveler would turn his eyes unthinkingly to the wall, preferring to read from a book of secrets going back to a time just before the dawn of the present. But someone leaving for Rabat could not help but forget this a few seconds later, as his spirit took its perpetual pleasure in the embrace of the sea and the dewy forest alongside a road reflected in its waves, swelling in tearful longing for the anxious shore. Since I remember the place through my senses, I was prepared to probe its depths closely.
After the marvelous afternoon I had spent drinking with al-Baqqali and a group of fascinating young