A Riffians Tune (45 page)

Mr Marjosi suddenly emerged from inside the café, saw me and rushed back inside, picked up the telephone and made several calls. I felt a chill when I saw him and, listening to him, heard Spanish words pouring out of his mouth like water bursting out of a pipe, but I could make no sense of them. Mr Marjosi emerged again with two trays, one with coffee and the other with beer, and walked with a wobble, his enormous tummy bulging from his trousers.

Ten minutes later, two men in their late twenties arrived. They hurried inside and came out immediately to grab two chairs. Instinctively, I knew they were on to me and planned to corner me when leaving. I kept talking to Mr Timsamani.
I am not going to leave until a taxi passes by
,
I thought to myself. That didn't happen, and Mr Timsamani left. The two men, guzzling beer, grabbed Mr Timsamani's chair, and pulled another one to my other side to sandwich me.

‘You're not local, are you?' asked one.

‘No,' I answered.

‘We are local. We could show you the town,' one offered.

‘No, thank you. What's your job?' I asked.

‘We're doing our job now!' They laughed and winked at each other. ‘And what's yours?'

‘Last summer, I was a currency trader, and now I sell passports,' I answered.

‘Has the man you were speaking with bought a passport from you?' asked one.

‘Yes, I am in the process of providing him with three,' I said.

‘Amazing! Could you get passports for us?' asked the other.

‘Yes, if you pay.'

‘How much?'

‘Three thousand pesetas.'

‘How long will it take?'

‘One week, but I need your name, address, and a picture,' I answered.

‘It took my cousin five years,' said one, watching his friend bite his lip.

‘What's the time?' said the older-looking one, looking at his watch.

‘One o'clock.'

‘Is the photographer in the park?' asked the older-looking one.

‘Yes, he's always there, like a magician poking his head under a black cloak. We could get one now,' said the clever one.

‘Do you really think he will procure a passport for us?' I overheard the smaller one ask.

‘Yes, yes,' answered the other. ‘He's a friend of Mr Timsamani. Mr Timsamani doesn't chat to just anyone.' They rushed away, bickering, to the park. I knew the photographer was there and it would take him forty-five minutes to deliver two photos.

By that time, I was in the second coach, heading to Nador.
I will only go back to Melilla to take a boat to Europe. Life stops, good perishes, but evil always survives. There are people who don't trade themselves, but they won't let you trade. There are others who don't study, but they won't let you study … and so it goes
,
I concluded.

Not knowing what to expect, I headed straight to Mr Amakran's shop in the late afternoon to seek a loan. I found he had changed. He had shaved his long beard, thrown his hat away and grown grey hair. Facing him, I bowed; probably he thought I was one of the beggars who invaded his shop daily.

Full of himself, he didn't spend more than one and a half minutes with me. Knowing Uncle Mimoun was bankrupt, he asked me for security, which I didn't have, so he declined the loan.

I felt my dream begin to crumble; I left the shop, my head down like a sheep's. I headed to the coach station, destination Arkmane.

On that quiet moonlit night, on a dirt road, with no sounds of any kind, I struggled to get home. It was about eleven at night when I knocked on Rabbia's door. She had visitors: Mrs Malani, Uncle Mimoun and Mimount. For fresh air and to escape the heat of the sitting room, they sat outside in the courtyard. I heard them talking well before reaching the door.

‘It's my brother!' said Rabbia when she opened the door.

‘This late?' asked Mrs Malani in surprise.

I joined Uncle Mimoun. Talking to him, I heard Mimount crying in the living room.

‘Monster! Monster!' she shouted.

‘Who is this monster?' I asked Uncle Mimoun.

‘My new son-in-law,' he answered.

I crossed over to speak to Mimount. ‘What's the matter?' I asked her.

‘The groom is a monster! The marriage was arranged with his full agreement. Now he's seen my youngest daughter, and he's accused me of tricking him and giving him the ugliest daughter. The bounty of gifts he received from us was just a cover-up, he claims. He demanded I go to the mosque to swear in the presence of the mullah that I hadn't swapped daughters. Still unhappy, he now wants to exchange his wife for my other daughter!' explained Mimount. ‘Haloma is despised and unwanted.'

Feeling sorry for Mimount, I took her to the courtyard to join the others. To change the subject, Mrs Malani asked me, ‘How was your day?'

‘Mr Amakran has refused to give me a loan,' I answered. ‘He needs collateral.'

‘You could use my jewellery, my bracelets, Jusef,' offered Mrs Malani.

‘I will give you mine as well,' said Mimount.

I had thought of using my mother's bracelets, but they had disappeared from the house. I suspected one of my sisters had stolen them, but didn't know which one.

I went home excited and full of hope, wondering when Mrs Malani and Mimount would entrust me with their jewellery. A few days passed and I didn't hear a word. I occupied myself by chopping an old, dried tree, a substantial source of energy for cooking.

Deeply anxious, I visited Uncle Mimoun. When Mimount heard my voice, she came, wearing her bracelet on her arm. She gently pried it off and handed it to me. I held the bracelet carefully, surprised at how heavy it was, and marvelled at its intricate artistry.

Excited, I rushed to see Mrs Malani. She was having elevenses outside in her orchard. I saw her rushing to meet me when I called. Watching her hurrying toward me, I wondered why she lived alone. She met me with a smile and teased, ‘Have you just gotten up?'

‘I've come from Uncle Mimoun's house,' I said.

She insisted that I have a cup of tea with her. ‘What do you want to do next?' she asked me. ‘Is marriage in your mind?'

‘I'm happy that I've gotten my baccalaureate. It was a real struggle – the strikers almost killed me. I've been offered a place to do medicine in one of the best universities in Europe, but I have no grant and no money.'

She went in the house and came back with a pouch in her hand. She untied it slowly and gently eased two bracelets out. They were in perfect condition, as shiny as gold ever could be. ‘I hope these bracelets will make a difference. You are the bravest boy I've ever known,' she said, with a quiver in her voice. ‘May the Lord help you.' With that, she stood up and hurried away.

I left Mrs Malani, Mr Amakran in my mind.
He will not give me a loan if the jewellery is defective or chipped, and even if it is perfect, he will only loan half the value. I'm sure he lends on the basis the borrower will default, then he can sell the jewellery at its full value
, I thought to myself.

The following day, I took the dilapidated, archaic coach from Arkmane village to Nador. I arrived, nervous, my mind full of scenarios, the worst being Mr Amakran would just say no! The shop was open when I arrived. Mr Amakran was inside his office, dozing in an armchair in the corner, a wooden table in front of him.

‘Good morning to you, Mr Amakran,' I said with a cheerful confidence I didn't feel.

Mr Amakran looked surprised to see me. I watched his gaze drop from my face to the pouch in my hand and he said, ‘Is that hashish on its way to Malaga, crossing the sea?'

If it were, I wouldn't need you. I would be rich
, I told myself.

‘Take that seat beside me,' he said.

I sat down and moved the chair closer to the table, a few inches away from Mr Amakran's beard. I displayed three beautiful, shiny bracelets on the table like a sacrifice on the altar for him to examine and admire, valuate, or reject.

‘Are they for sale?' he asked me.

‘No, they belong to Uncle Mimoun's wife and Mrs Malani,' I answered.

‘Who is Mrs Malani?' he asked. ‘I recall a Captain Malani killed in a sea battle nearly eighteen years ago. He was a captain in the National Liberation Army, supplying its members with arms.'

‘I have no idea,' I said.

‘Obviously, they have faith in you and your project. I will hold the bracelets and give you a loan,' he told me.

I couldn't believe my luck. I asked if there were any papers to sign.

‘No need,' said Mr Amakran. He stood up, moved out of his armchair, turned around and opened a closet with two doors. The closet was full of jewellery, bracelets, necklaces, rings and watches.

Watching him take the bracelets away, I felt sad, but kept quiet. Back in his armchair, Mr Amakran wanted to know about his old friend, Uncle Mimoun, whom he hadn't seen for a while. ‘He's all right, but he refused to let Mr Mahria exchange one of his daughters for another,' I told him.

‘A curse from hell!' exclaimed Mr Amakran.

Surprisingly, he invited me and his brother to have lunch with him in a restaurant a few yards away from his shop. The restaurant was packed, and the menu was simple but attractive. Mr Amakran didn't open his mouth or move his eyes away from his dish. His brother didn't seem to be interested in anything; not uttering a word, he just laid his head back against his chair. He was tired, I assumed.

A waiter came, the bill in his hand, and carelessly tossed it in front of Mr Amakran, nearly skimming his nose. ‘Take this bill away! Have I asked for it? Have I finished? More tea! And clean the table!' bellowed Mr Amakran. The rude waiter hadn't known Mr Amakran was the owner of the restaurant.

* * *

AS I FELT BARRED
from Melilla, I rented a café on a monthly basis from an old retired man, Mr Bouaza, in Arkmane. During the day, I served tea and coffee, but at night, beer and wine. Gamblers from the whole region came to the beach to bet, bring their lovers and feel free. Nights were lucrative, but fraught with danger from hashish traders, gamblers and prostitutes, some of them armed.

One night, danger became a near-disaster. A group of Moroccans and one Frenchman spent the night gambling. The Frenchman won consistently. As the Moroccan loser realised how much he had lost, a group plotted to hit the Frenchman and retake the winnings. Hearing the plotting, I whispered to the Frenchman to run. Very proud of himself, he yanked a gun out of his pocket, but soon came to his senses. He jumped out of the café and into his car.

To liven things up, a group of men brought a woman singer and young girls of different ages, colours and sizes. The heat and the sand outside made the beach a comfortable place to lie around. The singer sang the entire night, and everyone called her Fatoma. Each time she got tired and stopped, someone would shout, ‘
Lalla
Fatoma,
zid!
(More!)
Zid!
' She would revive, enjoying the attention and the fuss.

During the day, life in the café was normal. Baghdad came in often, to order a pot of tea, and talk to Mr Bouaza and me. Charismatic and generous, Baghdad pulled in other people. I served them tea, and they told their life stories crowded around little tables.

On the twenty-first of August, after he had sold his goods and the market had thinned to a few men, Baghdad, looking very tired, came into the café. In a torpor, he nearly fell asleep on an uncomfortable wooden chair. Twenty minutes later, Mr Ishram popped in with Mr Ali. Their rough voices woke Baghdad. Mr Ishram ordered two pots of tea, which I served with fresh mint.

‘It's my birthday today,' announced Mr Ishram in a shrill voice, holding his head high.

‘How old are you?' asked Baghdad, who never missed making a joke, knowing that Mr Ishram had no birth certificate.

‘Nineteen!' he replied, chuckling.

Mr Ali said nothing but enjoyed Mr Ishram's fantasy. ‘I was born on the sea. It's now been nineteen years since our ship capsized. Captain Malani, the brave captain, died and so did the other six men. I was the only survivor,' said Mr Ishram.

‘Do you know Mrs Malani?' I asked, suddenly interested.

‘I know of her, but not personally; but Captain Malani lived near the Tassamat and Makran mountains. When he died, he left behind his wife and a boy a few weeks old.' Mr Ishram's description of the gun battle on the Mediterranean Sea sounded to me like a cowboy film. The difference was that seven men actually died, and their bodies were never recovered.

‘Do you regret that adventure?' I asked.

‘I don't regret joining that noble team, headed by such a heroic captain, but I lament the absence of recognition,' he said.

On my way home, my memory retrieved every word that Mr Ishram had uttered.
Mrs Malani has been a widow as long as I remember. The captain must have been her husband, but what happened to her son?
I wondered.
Do I dare
ask her?

I had not forgotten the document I had found in my mother's trunk, though my subconscious was reticent to delve further into the story. The document, without mentioning Mrs Malani by name, had described the gun battle on the Mediterranean Sea with the captain and six of his men losing their lives. Though I couldn't shake off my resistance to find out the truth, I couldn't account for it either.

My night-time business prospered. The seekers and gamblers came to meet and take revenge on life and moved from the café to the beach nearby. They feared neither man nor God. They rid themselves of all codes, be they social or religious, overflowed with youth and never resorted to the hopeless witches and wizards. Each time the sun set, they tipped their hats in full respect and believed it might never rise again. Every time the sun rose, they sang and danced.

Mr Ali, a Tarzan lookalike, was addicted to the nightlife of the café and owned a massive yacht. The Mediterranean Sea was, for him, just a creek. He sailed along the Spanish coast and knew every nightclub around Marbella. He and Mr Ishram had grown up in the same village. They had sniffed the same air and the same dust had filled their nostrils, but they had ended up in different worlds – Mr Ishram, a broken man and defeated idealist, but Mr Ali, a joy-seeker and sailor of yachts. Despite their entwined paths and final score, they respected each other.