Monarch of the Square, page 25
Yes, I’m an Italian citizen, but I’m still Moroccan. Otherwise, the Argentinians would be able to expatriate Carlos Menem and send him back to Syria. You can use that as a point of comparison. I’m sorry, don’t worry about me; my nerves may be on edge because I drank a lot yesterday. You too? In that case, you have the right to do whatever you like in this world. It’s worth living, because we were not created of our own will. What’s the use of existing without knowing how to live? You say there are obstacles in our path. I don’t disagree, but we have to use our minds a little in order to overcome such roadblocks.
You don’t seem to understand me. I say one thing, and you say something else. I’m talking about human relations, and you’re talking about the airport. Genoa airport is very close. You’ll travel and return to your country. The taxi won’t cost you very much. It’s a pretty airport that extends into the sea. When you get on the plane, you’ll be able to see Genoa; how beautiful it is, built around a lofty fortress just like Chaouen in your country. . . . There are lots of cities in Italy built close to mountains and valleys, and sometimes seaside beaches and rivers, as well. Wherever they feel good, they set up camp, even in Mittenwald (the Bavarian village). It’s built on a mountain, the way Genoa is in a valley, as you’ll see.
I can’t hear you very well. What are you saying? Oh, it’s a garbage truck. Look, it is about to pick up the trash dumpster, empty it, then put it back in place. When you go back to your country, please don’t tell anybody about it. Unemployed Moroccans are already spending the night in these dumpsters. After they’ve cleared them out, they use them to sleep in. But other people have discovered a different solution. They buy a broken-down car and use it to sleep in until they can find a place of their own; I won’t call it a home. Sometimes they even occupy the offices of bankrupt companies.
They come back to their country with gold chains around their necks, you tell me. That’s possible. They’ll do absolutely anything here. Some of them do nothing at all. Just look at that boy, for example, the one cleaning the car window. He’s from Morocco. His mother may well be working somewhere else. Many children are doing the same thing as this boy. Over there, paralytics rent children; here they rent window-cleaners. You’re wondering how they get here. I have no idea, but they do. I know they have to pay a lot of money to get a visa.
I arrived here years ago. I may go back or may not. That doesn’t matter. I’m alive. I feel I have to talk to you about these Moroccans here. You don’t know them. I’ve lived here for many long years and have no problems, but I feel sorry for them. Some get rich quickly. No one knows how, but things are clear enough. They trade, whether it’s drugs, humans, or something else. Only God or the Devil know what . . . as we all say, assuming that the Devil exists in human form. In the morning the child window-cleaners are all over the place; they’re rented out or sold like retail cigarettes. Their sisters or mothers do other things at night.
You’re yawning. Obviously you didn’t get enough sleep. I know you need a beer. The “Gira La Terra” bar’s open. Once you’ve had a drink, you’ll understand what I’ve been telling you better. The problem is that any conversation about what’s happening here is bound to go on for a while. I hope some Moroccan journalists will come here on a visit and see the dumpsters, the women, everything, for themselves.
We can cross to the other sidewalk now; we’ll use the underpass. Don’t bother; I’ll take care of the bill. We can finish our conversation about what goes on at the Genoa beach sometime later. When you get back there, tell them that he didn’t have enough time. He was taking care of me because I’m one of you. Tell them, too, that he’s still one of you, even though he’s become an Italian. He’s not the exact image of Mu’awiyah Ibn Hady, the first conqueror of Italy, when he destroyed the gates of Sicily.
Okay, let’s use the underpass. Are you listening to me?
The Rat and the Birds
There were no pedestrians on the street, just a few cars parked bumper-to-bumper. In the space between the cars little Fattah seemed to be playing with something. At first, the man didn’t notice as the boy came rushing out from between the cars, yelling and looking behind him.
“Hey mister!” the boy shouted when he saw him. “There’s a huge rat over there. It went into that storm drain. It was about to eat me.”
“It can’t eat you. You are a human being. Rats are afraid of them.”
“It went in there. It’s bound to come out again. It may bite my sister Kawthar’s toes. She’s asleep. She’s scared of mice, cats, and dogs. Cats are beautiful, but the black ones are bad.”
The man looked at the boy, then at the storm drain between the cars. There was no sign of a rat, just rubbish, piles of magazines, and an empty bottle of wine—all perfectly normal. The street is always full of trash, and lazy trash collectors always come late. There are lots of cars, but not many rubbish collectors.
Fattah moved back a few steps and pointed toward the storm drain. “It’s disappeared,” he said. “If Kawthar had woken up and come outside, that rat would have bitten her toes. It’s fat; but I couldn’t find a stone to kill it. Here’s where it went in.”
Fattah went back to his spot, rubbing his eyes. The man put one hand on the car and threw away the thing he was holding in the other; it might have been a piece of paper or something else.
“Is your brother Nawfal still asleep as usual?” he asked.
“No, he got up early this morning.”
“Did you wake him up, or was it your mother?”
“When I woke up,” the boy replied, “I didn’t find him beside me. There was only Kawthar and Faysal, who was snoring. It’s Sunday; so we don’t have class. Nawfal got up early to bury the bird in the yard.”
“Did you have a bird?” asked the man.
“Yes. Nawfal bought it the day before yesterday. It was a pretty little bird, but it died. Nawfal dug a hole and buried it before a rat or cat could eat it. There are lots of cats and rats. This one’s hiding in that storm drain.”
He moved back a bit and pointed to the storm drain. As he bent his thin body between the cars, he looked like a piece of threadbare cloth that had been discarded and was waiting for a trash collector. He rubbed his groggy eyes again.
“The bird was beautiful,” he said. “We wanted to keep it as a pet. Actually, we didn’t buy a cage. It may have died because Nawfal tied its leg with a piece of thread. Kawthar tried to feed it bread, but I don’t think it eats breadcrumbs. But we don’t have any seeds in the house. My mother sent the wheat we had to the mill, so there’s nothing left, not even a seed. That’s how that poor bird died, so Nawfal got up early and buried it. It’s better that it died and was buried before a cat or something else came and ate it. You know, Nawfal sleeps a lot, but he got up early to bury the bird. Nawfal almost burst into tears.”
As the man was listening to him talk, a small jeep drove by behind him, honking its horn to get him to move out of the way.
He lit a cigarette. He may well have been moved by what he had heard, especially since he didn’t usually smoke in the morning.
“I’ll buy you a bird and a cage,” he told Fattah. “Tell Nawfal. Tell him so. He shouldn’t cry. Tears won’t bring the dead back to life.”
“Where’s the bird gone now? Does it have a soul like us? Teacher tells us we all have a soul. When we die, we’ll find beautiful things if we don’t behave badly during our life on earth. Is that true?”
“What teacher told you is true. If your bird dies, you must bury it so that no other animal can eat it. Some kids don’t bury dead birds; they just throw them into the street. That’s bad. Those children won’t find the things your teacher told you about. You and Nawfal aren’t bad boys. You’ll find those beautiful things in a place called Eden.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s in the hearts of believers,” replied the man.
“Who are believers?”
“When you grow up, you’ll know them. They’re in Rabat.”
“When I grow up, I’ll travel to Rabat to meet them. I’m sure they bury birds there and don’t throw them into the street.”
“They grill men instead of birds.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When you grow up, you’ll understand. What’s important is that you and your brother have buried the bird. You did well to chase the rat. Otherwise, it would have bitten Kawthar’s toes.”
“At first, I was afraid of it, but when it stared straight at me I tried to kick it. Eventually it ran away and went into the storm drain. It must have a family there.”
“Sure. Have you had your breakfast yet? Or is your mother still asleep?”
“No, I haven’t had any breakfast. My mother always gets up early. She used to do that even when my father was with us; that was before he went to France to work there. He sends us money and clothes. When he comes back, I’m sure he’ll buy us birds and cages.”
The man thought he had talked to the boy too much. He took a handful of coins from his pocket, gave the kid a dirham, and left. Fattah went back into the house. The door was half open.
The man walked along the narrow sidewalk toward the newsstand, hoping to find a newspaper before it sold out. The street was totally empty. When he had almost reached the pharmacy, he sensed a strange movement, but it was only Nawfal, sitting on the curb between two cars. When Nawfal saw the man, he ran towards him.
“It’s dead,” he sobbed. “My beautiful bird has died.”
Nawfal tried to dry his tears.
“Don’t cry,” the man said. “Men don’t cry. You’re a man. Tears won’t bring the dead back to life.”
“It was a beautiful bird.”
He took out a handful of coins and gave them to him without even counting them. “Here, take these,” he said, “and go buy another bird.”
With that, he turned away and made his way along the street leading to the newsstand, but from a distance he could see that it was closed. He decided to go back home and have a second cup of coffee without his newspaper. It is often sold out, in any case.
Ward #36
I won’t lie to you. My father never taught me how to lie. He passed away without teaching anyone how to lie, whether to himself or anyone else. My grandfather did not know how to lie either.
He was a quiet old man who always used to sit by the tree to smoke his pipeful of kif. The tree is still standing in our yard, by which I mean the courtyard of the nuns’ school where my grandfather used to work as a guard. When he grew old, my father took his place. Now I live in a house next to the school.
Forgive me for speaking in French. I can read Arabic, but I’m used to speaking French, since I grew up at the nuns’ school. They are really good at Arabic, but they generally speak French and sometimes another language as well, probably Latin. I said I live in a house there, but not alone. Again, I won’t lie to you. I live with my mother, and I have a married brother who sometimes visits us. He comes on his own because my mother doesn’t like his wife.
That’s all there is to it. I remember how often my brother and I used to play around the tree; in summer we used to spread out a straw mat under its branches and get high on hashish. I’m not shy in front of my brother; he is just like a friend. My father and grandfather used to smoke kif by the tree trunk too. Maybe you’d be surprised if I told you that my grandfather used to bury lumps of sugar around the tree trunk and water them. I’ve no idea why he did that. When my grandfather died, my father kept doing it. Now that my own father is dead, I’m still doing it.
I wish you would come to the nuns’ school with me, to our house. Then you’d see the tree. Every evening I put sugar there and water it; I’ve no idea why. It was just my grandparents’ idea. They always had great ideas, things we didn’t understand. They knew better than we do, that’s for sure. It’s true that people used to fight a lot . . . at least that’s what I read at the library of the nuns’ school. The world has seen so many wars in which everybody died: people who fought, people who got in fights, and even people who didn’t fight at all. And you know that we’re all going to die eventually, even if it’s not by being stabbed with a knife or shot at. We’re all going to die. You can be sure of that.
I’m not lying to you. My father never taught me how to lie. That’s what he didn’t learn from my grandfather, nor did he learn it from his grandfather. There are so many liars in this life, but I’m not one of them. As proof, I told you yesterday that I had sold my bike so I could buy a golden bracelet as a present for one of my female friends who got married recently. I still have some money left. I’m going to buy two bottles of wine, and we’ll get drunk together. Actually, I don’t like getting drunk. It’s just that I like to drink, especially with someone like you. They say that drinking wine is forbidden in Islam, but I’ve watched so many people drinking!
I got used to drinking wine at the nuns’ school. They can drink, but they don’t get drunk. You have seen for yourself how Muslim women drink. They drink, then start fighting each other, smashing bottles and glasses and tossing chairs at each other’s heads. Rest assured, I’m not one of them; I could never do anything remotely like that. . . . They even fight their friends. You’re my friend, but I would never think of behaving like that. Besides, I’m always at your side. It’s true that I am taking care of that patient, but I care more about you. To be honest, there is a big difference between you and him.
He’s nice, but he’s stupid too. I get a decent salary. I’m well aware that his illness is caused by his parents’ separation. His father’s a surgeon who’s living in France now, but his mother still lives in Morocco. She swore on her grandparents’ graves that she would never go back to France. She’s a teacher with lots of friends, but I can’t even remember them all. They drink a lot; it’s almost as if the entire house is a whiskey store.
You know better than I do. Her son has stopped shooting up, but I still have to give him tranquilizers whenever he starts hallucinating. He is nineteen years old and keeps accusing me of having an affair with him. He has a Jewish girlfriend. Sometimes after I’ve given him a few pills, I kiss him just to calm him down. He falls asleep in my arms. I’m not having an affair with him, the usual kind of thing anyone could picture. You know full well that people can imagine anything, whether it’s about themselves or others. Take me, for example. Sometimes I see myself as his mother. I forget about my only son who was taken from me by his father when he left Morocco. What’s important is that my son is living with his father in the country that can provide many things for him. Don’t think I’m talking this way because I’m drunk. I’ll tell you everything. Why should I keep anything hidden? Other people can hide their own stuff if they want. To each his own life. What counts is that I have only one concern, and that’s you.
I’m not lying to you. My father never taught me how to lie. . . . I chatter too much, but you must forgive me. I keep on listening to him. He says a lot of things without actually saying anything, yet I still put up with it. You told me once that people need to be tolerant; that’s the only way of dealing with a life that none of us chose to enter. Do you remember? Of course you do. You remember everything. That’s why I love you. For sure, I’m going to teach you how to put sugar lumps around the tree trunk, then we’ll water them together, just the way my father and grandfather used to do and maybe others before them. I don’t need to say it again: we need to follow the example set by grandparents, whether they were stupid or wise. I understand you very well. You don’t like hearing the word “love,” but I do love you. You know that love isn’t affection. I feel as much affection for that young man as I do for his mother, who is busy drowning herself in alcohol. Sometimes I wonder why she’s doing it, slowly killing herself. They’ve put her in hospital many times, but she always starts drinking again. Her son managed to stop drinking and shooting up, but, as I’ve told you, I still give him a few pills and keep lulling him until he falls asleep like a docile child.
I feel for him. When my husband left me and took my only son away, I was in the same predicament. I was committed to Ward #36 in the psychiatric hospital; I overheard the doctor telling the nurse that I was psychotic. I don’t know anything about this illness. I can feel something hurting me, but I can’t tolerate anyone who doesn’t understand me, even if it’s my own fault. Think of it as a kind of egotism. But in the long run, one can still be held responsible for one’s own temperament and behavior. You told me once that there are things we can’t understand, things far beyond our mental capacities. So don’t think I’m being selfish if I happen to make a mistake and reject the idea that people cannot bear something. That’s my nature, some things are beyond my mental capacity. In the same way, the things that have pushed that young man and his mother towards addiction are beyond their mental capacity, too. I know that very well; I learned it from you. I sympathize with him just as much as I love you. I loved my husband as well, but then he did what he did.
A woman just can’t trust men—pitiful, these men! Every time she trusts one of them, he gets all puffed up like a turkey and struts around like a peacock. You’re claiming just the opposite. I’ll agree with you that what applies to men also applies to women. I used to know two cats, a male and a female, that lived in the yard at the nuns’ school. They were inseparable. However . . . another female cat showed up from somewhere—over the fence, perhaps—and the male cat fell in love with her. Do cats fall in love?! Yes, you say. I agree with you. The first female cat meowed for days, became weak and skinny, then died. Good heavens! I didn’t die when he took my son overseas. I stopped eating for a while and cried a lot. The cat meowed, and I cried.
