A Riffians Tune (44 page)

N
ot meaning to, Kadija left me standing alone with my feelings for her apparent on my face. Fortunately, there was no one to notice. Already lonely and with barely enough money to get home, I had no choice but to move on.

To get a ticket at the train station was a matter of strength. Travellers, wrestling and shoving, swarmed the ticket booth, and the shoving ended only with the train's departure. I pushed and swerved to buy a fourth-class ticket on bare wooden benches. Men, women, children, the fit, the sick and some animals all shared the car. The train was long and slow. I imagined it had been built by French colonialists to transport their armed soldiers and livestock. However, it was the fastest engine I could afford.

Kariat Arkmane was lifeless when I arrived. Shops and cafés were closed, except Café Marhaba, where professional gamblers and hashish consumers spent the long nights fighting, sipping and smoking. Belly dancing crowned the nights.

Racing against the darkness, making a beeline, I found myself on Rabbia's doorstep. She seemed pleased to see me. ‘Mrs Malani asked when you were coming and whether I had heard from you,' she told me.

Heavy, dragging footsteps thumped outside the main door; it was her husband. He looked tired, his face spotted with dust. He threw his sandals chaotically behind the door and dropped himself on a small rug woven by my mother. He fell asleep lying on his back. His mouth dropped open and he began to snore.

‘Was it a busy day for you and Baghdad?' I asked him later. ‘Rabbia told me that you and Baghdad trade produce in the village.'

‘We do,' he said, declining to chat further.

After my long journey, the evening was comfortable and it was late when I arrived at my empty house.

At dawn, I was awakened abruptly by a heavy thumping that sounded like a drum. It was Uncle Mimoun banging on the door, frustrated by having to wait. Surprised to see him, I wondered why he was there so early and how he knew I was back home. He was desperate for my help. His daughter, Haloma, was getting married soon and, full of pride and trepidation, he wanted to impress and offer the best possible wedding in the region.

‘The wedding is in a few days,' he told me. ‘I have invited over a hundred people but, as you know, two-thirds more will turn up with no invitation. I want you to fill my barrels, all ten of them, with water and buy fourteen kilos of grapes.' I couldn't say no to Uncle Mimoun, even though he lived five kilometres away from the water pipe.

‘Running out of water on a wedding day is second only to my daughter turning out not to be a virgin and being brought back to me as damaged goods, with compensation due to the groom!' he stewed.

For three days, I did nothing but transport water on an old donkey to fill the barrels for the wedding. When the donkey was not carrying water, I rode him like a yo-yo, back and forth, passing Mrs Malani's house.

As I ploughed along the dusty and rocky path, several metres below her prickly-pear fortified wall, she rushed out of her house and, descending the hill, stopped me on one of my trips. Tense and unsmiling, her large eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. ‘How many more trips will you make?' she asked me.

‘Until the barrels are filled, provided not too much water is wasted,' I answered.

‘Expect that. The bride bathes six times before leaving!' she told me. ‘Why didn't Uncle Mimoun hire one of those lazy lumps from the bingo club to fill his barrels?'

‘I don't know,' I answered. I didn't understand Mrs Malani's hostile tone. Overburdened, the donkey was restless and I tried to hold it steady.

‘How is your mother, Mrs Malani?' I asked, to change the subject.

‘Old and frail. Her bones are one of her main problems, but she's in marvellous form, spiritually satisfied. When are your exam results due?' she asked me.

‘In three weeks, I hope. It's been a very tough year for me,' I answered.

Mrs Malani noticed the donkey struggling, stomping the ground, carrying its heavy weight and not moving. She touched its head with a gentle stroke and said, ‘Sorry, donkey. I kept Jusef talking and you waiting. Has Mr Mimoun more tasks for you?'

‘Yes,' I responded. ‘He needs grapes for the wedding.'

‘Ah, can he not buy them from Baghdad and Rabbia's husband? They know all the farmers and who has what.'

‘I've already thought of Baghdad. Now that you mention it, it's a perfect idea,' I told her, but then remembered that Uncle Mimoun hated Baghdad.

She smiled, went away, and I continued my chore. Then I began to think,
Uncle Mimoun wants me to get good quality grapes: seedless, sweet, fully matured in the sun, with no sign of ageing or shrinkage. All that to glorify Haloma's wedding and collect praise for himself.

I went to Arkmane and strolled, looking for good grapes, in the open market. I found Baghdad standing behind a huge pile of grapes on the ground, with pears and mint beside him.

‘Good morning to you!' he shouted at me. ‘Taste! Taste! Today grapes are from Boya-Bach, sweet and thin-skinned.'

‘Fantastic!' I said, after tasting some. They were spicy and sweet, but I was hungry, having walked for three hours with nothing to eat. ‘I need about fourteen kilos of white and black grapes for Uncle Mimoun.'

‘Ah-h-h! For Haloma's wedding!' said Baghdad, realising I was serious. ‘Do the rest of your shopping and return at eleven. The best is still to arrive. I am expecting a farmer about eleven.'

I whiled away the time at the beach and returned to Baghdad at eleven. I was alarmed to find no new grapes had arrived as promised. Knowing the importance of grapes at a wedding and the intransigence of Uncle Mimoun, Baghdad said, ‘Let's go and see Largo.' Leaving Rabbia's husband to struggle with the business, Baghdad and I rushed to Largo's stand one hundred metres down the row.

‘Jusef needs about fourteen kilos of grapes of the best quality to impress undeserving wedding guests,' Baghdad said.

‘You know me! I sell only good quality, but of course, I'll have to charge more. That's why I always finish after you,' Largo answered with a smile.

Largo was called from every corner, encircled by his clients. Some knew his name, some didn't. ‘Two kilos of grapes, please!' shouted a client who didn't know him.

‘Largo! Largo! One kilo of plums,' called someone who knew his nickname.

‘Mr Ishram! Mr Ishram! One kilo and a half of peppers!' shouted another.

‘I heard you! I will be with you!' Largo said when he wasn't able to cope with the barking clients.

True to his word, Largo sold the best grapes in the village Arkmane, but at a price. Sadly, Uncle Mimoun had not given me enough money for the purchase. Not wanting to hurt his pride or let him down, I bought the grapes on credit. Having spent every penny on presents for his daughter's wedding, Uncle Mimoun had starved himself of cash, and burdened himself with all sorts of debt.

Haloma got married, went to a new home, but took away her father's pride and wealth, and sank him into debt. Unfortunately, I found myself lumbered with Uncle Mimoun's bill. Rabbia and Mrs Malani were livid that I had been stupid and sucked into Uncle Mimoun's wedding extravaganza.

* * *

THE SUMMER DAYS, JUST
like the winter nights, wore slowly, and gave rise to anxiety or boredom. Haloma's marriage failed; all my efforts to fill the empty barrels had been in vain. The time came to discover whether I had failed or passed my exams and where life would next be taking me. With the Sabbab's money, I travelled to Fez. My heart pounded the moment I reached the entrance to the school, the barricade and the two massive French doors. It was quiet and hot with no cars or pedestrians passing, no thugs to be feared; it was peace from heaven. The doors were wide open and the janitor was bustling from his office to the bathroom, cooling himself by flushing water on his face and bare feet. As I sneaked in, he grabbed me, but soon recognised me.

‘You passed!' he shouted.

I rushed to the board to see for myself. On the corner, a white page with black ink, the same as all the rest but somehow more important, carried the following heading: ‘BAC Passes', and not more than a dozen names were listed. I saw my name and kept reading.

‘Are you obsessed by that page?' the janitor shouted at me.

‘Yes,' I said.

‘You defied the odds,' he replied.

Leaving the school behind for good, I took the pedestrian path crossing the cemetery where I had seen and heard people making love and went down into the bowels of the town. Before reaching the centre, I stopped at the Catholic library and picked up a letter, an acceptance from a Belgian university to study medicine. Blind with joy, I ran to see Kadija.

Her mother answered and peeped around the door. Knowing who I was, she said, ‘Kadija is in Casablanca.' On my way to the coach station, I came upon Kadija coming out of the Turkish bath. Both surprised and ecstatically happy to find one another, we moved to a corner where we hid, we talked, we shyly embraced. We both knew that what we wanted couldn't be. She was forbidden from taking me home, and I wasn't in any better position to take her with me.

She went with me to the station where the coach already had its diesel engine revving, ready to go. Leaving her there, watching her through the coach window, I wanted nothing but to bask in her presence, but cried inwardly knowing I never would again.

I had applied and hoped for a grant to allow me to go to university in Belgium. While at home, bored and waiting, an intimidating, official letter arrived, written on green paper. ‘No grant awarded,' it said. Devastated, I thought of pleading. I made the long, expensive journey to the grant office in Rabat and hoped to be helped by someone.

The chairman was a Frenchman and refused to see me. ‘I am busy,' he told his secretary. ‘He should go home and read the letter,' I overheard, as if I didn't know the content!

‘I won't move from here until I see the chairman,' I told the secretary.

I sat outside the office, keeping vigil, for the entire week, but I was ignored. The chairman relented and called me in just before six o'clock on the seventh day. His secretary opened the door to the inner office and motioned me to enter. The chairman stood behind a massive desk covered with rich brown leather. He struck me as being too tall compared with the locals, and so well-dressed with a paisley tie that few natives could compete with him. I remained standing.

‘Are there any academic reasons for my grant application to be refused?' I asked him.

‘Not that I am aware of,' he answered.

‘Any other reason?' I queried.

‘No,' he answered.

‘Is it the luck of the draw, then?'

‘No,' he responded.

‘And yet my application is refused?' I asked.

‘Yes. It's in the letter,' he responded. ‘Take my advice. Apply to be a teacher.'

I told him, ‘I am a native Moroccan, come from far away to seek a native grant … from a Frenchman! Nepotism is thriving, but I am not going to be crushed!' I paused for his reaction. Getting none, I nodded my head and left.

His secretary ushered me out.

Back home, every day I looked for a job, even the most menial (except shepherding), but there were none. I was forced to face the danger of going back to black market currency trading, but anxiety gripped me.
Can I really go back to Melilla, trade as I did, and stay alive?
I wondered.
All trades takes place either in Café Morina or nearby. Mr Marjosi is a dangerous man. I was stupid to challenge him and lucky to get away with my life. I don't have money to start with. Uncle Mimoun is no longer solvent, and Mr Amakran knows it. Would he still trust my ability to make money, now that Uncle Mimoun is no longer my backer?

I was stuck, and the only stepping stone was currency trading. Melilla was a hub for men and women looking for money and one-night stands. Spanish women, married and unmarried, sailed from the mainland to make some money and taste the difference. Local girls did much the same. A booming illegal trade, from sophisticated perfume to socks, forced smugglers to carry guns that they were only too willing to use on whoever dared challenge them.

Without anyone knowing, I ventured to Melilla, but with no money to trade except a few hundred pesetas. There was no safe place to go except Café Morina, despite the threat of Mr Marjosi.

When I arrived, the street was busy, and the café was full, but there were no traders offering currency exchange.
Something has changed
, I observed. With two hands, I grabbed a heavy chair and sat across from a middle-aged man, chicly dressed, well-groomed, with sunglasses covering two-thirds of his face, making him look like a Mafioso. He was sipping a
demitasse
of espresso. Glancing at him sideways, not wanting to stare, I wondered if he was Mr Timsamani.

I ordered a coffee, and the moment I opened my mouth, Mr Timsamani recognised my voice and looked at me. ‘I never thought you would dare set foot in this café again. Mr Marjosi still describes how wicked you were,' he said. ‘What has brought you here?' he asked me. ‘Not the trade, I hope!'

‘Exactly that!' I confirmed.

‘Things have changed,' he said. ‘The bankers have caught up with the small traders and are buying Deutschmarks, French francs, sterling and dollars at competitive rates. They have silenced the boys.'

‘I had hoped to work with you,' I told him.

‘Sorry. Impossible. I have changed trades. I live and sleep in my yacht, under no nation's jurisdiction in international waters,' he explained, nodding.

‘Has Mr Marjosi changed as well?' I asked.

‘Of course. A Spanish doctor put him on some medication that blew him up just like a Spanish
toro
. Now he's belligerent and dangerous, always looking to gore something or someone. In the absence of people, he gores the walls and doors,' laughed Mr Timsamani.