A Tunisian Tale. Hassouna Mosbahi

who could make me forget all about the pitch-black shadows of that awful day, which was like nothing I had ever experienced in my life before. It was clear to me from the start that my southern friend Aziz had been right when he told me how the girls in Sousse during the summertime are like worms wriggling through the earth after the autumn rains. Whichever way you turned, one might wound you with her deadly charms. With this one it’s her black or bluish-black or blue eyes, with that one it’s her short boyish hair, with another it’s her prominent chest that nearly pops right out of her see-through shirt, with a fourth it’s her pleasantly sexy gasp, with a fifth it’s her ass that lights a fire inside your body until you feel as though you’re burning up, with a sixth it’s her belly button that appears to be drawn clearly at the top of her pants, and with another it’s her way of walking to the beat of the song, “Bend over, little deer, bend over.” Another one tells you with every move she makes how badly she hungers for your thing, to the point that you get so horny and bursting with passion that you’re unable to stand still. Every color, O generous woman, give me what you got . . . ahh . . . ahhh . . . aaaaaaah. O night, O eye. I raced like a madman from one to the next, smiling at all of them, treating them gently with sweet words I had learned mostly from movies and TV. My hunt didn’t last long, though, because I was with her when the clock struck eight. My God, my God. What a blessing—she was just my type. Her name was Zumurda. She was from Kairouan and came to Sousse every season because it’s her favorite city. It’s true that she had been to Hammamat and Nabeul and Manastir and the capital and many other places but Sousse was her favorite. Zumurda said she was a secretary but I knew she was lying. Something unmistakable about her marked her as one of those women whose only job in the summertime is to cruise for men on the beach at Bu Jaafar or at one of the big hotels. Whatever. The important thing was for me to spend one unforgettable night with her, and to hell with her after that! Besides, I had lied to her, too. I told her I was an engineering student from a wealthy family in Carthage. If I had been honest and told her that I was from that dirt-poor village in the woods of Kairouan at the western foot of Mount Tirzah she would have run away from me in a panic as soon as possible. Ahh. Lying is always useful in this country. People say that lying is some kind of monstrous act and that liars are going straight to hell without any mercy or pity, but everybody in this country lies, making an art form of it in a way that is unlike any other people in the world that I am aware of.

      After strolling along the beach at Bu Jaafar together for half an hour I invited Zumurda to a restaurant. We ate delicious fish and I drank three beers. Afterward we hopped in a taxi that took us to a hotel disco she knew. We danced for more than two hours, then we went for a walk on the beach that was nearly empty because it was so late. Just then, we plunged into torrid kisses, but fearing that we might get caught in the act by some “night demons” we agreed I would get a room for her and one for me back at the same hotel where we had gone dancing. And that’s what actually happened, although I must confess that up until that night I hadn’t been entirely confident in my manhood. Previous experiences had left me feeling disgraced and ashamed of myself. For example, this one time, my friend Aziz, who has a bigger heart than any of my other friends (who you can count on one hand), came into a bit of money and invited me to spend the weekend with him in Hammamat. We booked a room in a nondescript hotel near the entrance to the city. After dinner we went out to a nightclub, started drinking beer and flirting with girls. Without trying very hard we caught two olive-skinned young ladies who looked so much alike they could have been twins. After a short walk down by the beach each one of us went off with his new friend. My new girlfriend was named Naima, I think. It was a warm fall night, the stars were twinkling in the sky and there was nobody else around. At least that’s how we imagined things were. As soon as her soft little hand touched my body it stood up all engorged. She was mesmerized and stroked it a little with her hand, then whispered as her body yielded and grew more and more pliant, “Stick it in, quickly, please. Stick it in. I can’t wait any longer!” Upon hearing her whisper those words I felt as if someone had poured cold water all over me when I wasn’t looking. And just like that the fire that had been scorching my body was extinguished, and it went limp and shrank down to the size of a fava bean! She tried to grow it back to its former state, with kisses at first, then with caresses and dirty talk, but it stayed like that, unaffected by what she was doing or saying. She cast me a contemptuous glare I haven’t forgotten until this very moment and then hurriedly stormed off in the direction of the nightclub. I ran after her but she shouted in my face, “Don’t come near me before making sure you’re a real man!” I was hurt by what she said and I went back to the hotel scatterbrained and disoriented only to fall into a deep sleep punctuated by terrifying nightmares. The next day I discovered that the one I think is named Naima told Aziz everything that had happened and he avoided looking at me for several days.

      I had bitter experiences with other girls and the scenario was always so similar that some of my friends started to whisper among themselves that I might be impotent. The very idea sent me into a panic. However, what gave me some comfort was the fact that whenever I was alone in bed, thinking about that girl sipping a cool drink in the Belvedere Garden or about another one who kept smiling at me on the Metro from Bab al-Asl Station to Republic Square, or about that other one I followed through the crowd at the al-Qarana market, I’d come in absolute pleasure, doing it five or even six times without getting bored or stopping to eat. I have as many fantasies about being with famous actresses as I have hairs on my head. Egyptians, Lebanese, Turks, French, Italians, Americans—they all come obediently into my cold bed at night, where they ignite a roaring fire that doesn’t die down until the white line of dawn becomes discernible from the blackness of night. I undress them in my imagination and then have my way with them. My favorite is that French-Algerian woman. I get especially turned on whenever she cries, and I long to be there beside her, to comfort her and dry her tears. Or that blonde American with short hair and a perfect ass who plays the role of the young wife cheating on her rich older husband with an unkempt young man who doesn’t even have enough money to pay for dinner—she’s my heart’s delight. I can’t get that scene out of my mind in which we screw on the dinner table late at night while the duped husband loudly snores away. Even Princess Diana, may God bless her and install her in the paradises of His heavens, couldn’t escape me. I did it with her a number of times before she died in that tragic accident in the Paris tunnel. But whenever I found myself face to face with a real girl my fire would always go out and “he” would betray me, leaving me there to wade through the remains of my disappointment and inadequacy, so it was only natural for me to go to bed with Zumurda that night with my fingers crossed. I managed to do it with her once, a second, and a third time. How long could I keep this up? She screamed and hollered as I pounded and pounded and pounded away until I imagined that all of Sousse could hear her, and what I was doing to her. We went on and on like that. Before drifting off to sleep we did it once more standing up, our faces turned toward the sea, which looked purple and green in the breaking dawn.

      We woke up at eleven. In the shower I thought about how a talented hunter wouldn’t be satisfied with just one catch. So I lied to Zumurda and told her my father was leaving the next morning for Rome and that I had to get back to Carthage right away. Then I gave her twenty dinars and set off for Manastir. By the end of that evening I had caught this Dutch cow who was more than ten years older than me, though seeing her ass jiggle with every step she took made me overlook the difference in age between us. Maybe because that Dutch heifer was so happy to wind up with an olive-skinned young man like me, who was younger than her to boot, she spoiled me rotten that night. She invited me to dinner at a fancy restaurant, where we had two glasses of red wine, and then she went on to drink two glasses of cognac by herself. Afterward she booked me a room in the same hotel where she was staying. I learned new positions from her on that crazy night, which made me more confident in my own masculinity. I left Manastir armed with that new knowledge and headed to Hammamat, where I arrived at noon. I dropped my suitcase off in a small hotel and then went down to the beach. I went swimming for more than two hours and strolled along the shore until I approached South Hammamat. Then I went back to the hotel. I took a shower and fell asleep until seven. I had some very bad grilled lamb for dinner and then headed out to that same nightclub where I had gone with my friend Aziz, praying to God that I would run into that woman I think is named Naima so I could show her what those who come from rough villages do to girls who complain about their manhood. God didn’t hear my prayer so I got annoyed. Trying to get rid of that feeling