The Final Bet

by Abdelilah Hamdouchi

  First published in 2008 by

  The American University in Cairo Press

  113 Sharia Kasr el Aini, Cairo, Egypt

  420 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10018

  www. aucpress. com

  English translation copyright © 2008 by Jonathan Smolin

  Copyright © 2001 by Abdelilah Hamdouchi

  First published in Arabic in 2001 as al-Rihan al-akhir

  Protected under the Berne Convention

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Dar el Kutub No. 20268/07

  eISBN: 978 161 797 164 8

  Dar el Kutub Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hamdouchi, Abdelilah

  The Final Bet / Abdelilah Hamdouchi; translated by Jonathan Smolin.—Cairo: The American University in Cairo Press, 2008

  p. cm.

  1. Arabic fiction I. Smolin, Jonathan (trans.)

  813

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 12 11 10 09 08

  Designed by Andrea El-Akshar/AUC Press Design Center

  Printed in Egypt

  1

  Among the dozens of restaurants spread out on the Ain Diab coast, Sofia’s was the only one with an air of simple elegance, as if it reflected the personality of its namesake. Most of the restaurant’s customers were summer tourists or French people who lived in Morocco year-round. It was rare for locals to come and enjoy its coq au vin, soufflés, and escargots.

  The last customers of the night left the restaurant around ten o’clock. Business was slow in the fall, except on weekends. Sofia switched off the neon sign outside and locked the door early so she could spend a little more time with her son Jacques, who was on his last night of a weeklong visit.

  Besides Jacques, at the dinner table was Michel, a dear family friend who was an advisor at the French Cultural Center. Next to him was his slender wife Catharine, who had a freckled face and short hair. There was Claude, who worked at the embassy, and his Moroccan wife, who had brown skin and blue eyes. Her name was Fatima, but friends called her Fati. As for Othman, Sofia’s husband, he was adding up the receipts at his desk in the corner, as he did at the end of every night. He was very uncomfortable sitting there, not because he was tired, but because he had been trying to make a phone call for more than an hour. Whenever he reached out to pick up the receiver, he felt his wife’s gaze cut across the room at him. He was terrified of her catching him.

  “Chéri, who are you talking to?” she’d inevitably ask.

  Othman was tall and thin; he had a body exuding masculinity. His dark eyebrows increased the firmness of his eyes. He had a thick mustache, which he brushed often, and an artificially contemplative air. The impression he left on others—and especially women—was that he was a man who symbolized virility and could overwhelm any rival.

  Five years ago, poverty was the biggest problem in Othman’s life. But now, he wore expensive Italian clothes and drove the latest model BMW. He ran a fine restaurant in the chic Ain Diab district and lived in a magnificent villa in Anfa, the most exclusive neighborhood in Casablanca. All this comfort was thanks to his French wife Sofia, who was also the source of his misery. The main reason was their age difference: Othman was thirty-two years old and bursting with strength and vigor, while Sofia was seventy-three. The obvious disparity shocked everyone, especially when they found out this old lady was the wife of such a vibrant young man.

  Othman’s frustration at not being able to make the call caused his hand to shake on the adding machine. He was taking a long time with the receipts, hoping Sofia wouldn’t ask him to join them yet again. He looked at his watch and saw it was midnight. Sofia and her friends danced, sang, and exchanged jokes, as they did all night long. As far as Othman was concerned, they were just making noise. Their loud, horrible laughter pounded his ears as he sat at the desk. His only solace was pretending their outbursts were nails being hammered into his wife’s coffin. For an hour now he used his work as an excuse to stay behind the counter, hoping to make the time pass faster. But here was Sofia, opening another bottle of Beaujolais, filling their glasses, and singing old songs from the days of her distant youth.

  She was happy. No one could see any trace of suffering on her face, despite her advanced age. Also, her figure was deceptive: from a distance, it gave her the appearance of a young woman, especially when she was wearing tight pants, as she was tonight. Her blond hair hung down on her bare shoulders.

  Sofia was only afraid of two things in life: the first was death, which made her do everything she could to stay healthy and fit, and the second was Othman cheating on her. Because of this, she’d keep a close eye on him everywhere he went, scrutinize the features of his face, and listen closely to the inflection of his voice. Maybe she’d catch the trace of another woman on him. She knew Othman was a terrible liar. Whenever she caught him in some white lie, he turned into a shy boy who confessed in no time.

  Through his half-closed eyes, he saw her coming toward him, dancing and holding two glasses of wine. She normally didn’t drink more than a glass a day, but tonight she was having more fun than usual. Sofia was acting like a young girl, letting herself get carried away. Her face was full of joy.

  Othman took a deep breath trying to get a hold of himself. He smiled at her, pretending to be annoyed at all the work he had to do. She pushed one of the glasses toward him and caressed his fingers.

  “Chéri, have you finished yet?” she asked gently.

  “And you?” replied Othman tensely.

  Looking him in the eyes, she took a sip from her glass and put it on the counter. She then ran her fingers through her shiny hair, provoking him with a look full of desire.

  “Chéri, we’re celebrating. This is Jacques’s last night. Come join us. We didn’t have enough customers tonight for all this bookkeeping.”

  Othman didn’t have the strength to look at her. A loud crashing sound coming from the kitchen saved him. As soon as Sofia stepped away to see what happened, he seized his opportunity. He quickly picked up the phone and dialed. After the first ring, he heard Naeema’s voice on the other end, full of anxiety.

  “Othman? How could you leave me outside all alone like this?”

  “I haven’t had a second to call,” he said quickly, whispering as softly as he could. “I’ve tried for an hour to tell you not to wait for me. They’re taking much longer than I thought.”

  He hung up without hearing Naeema’s response. Sofia suddenly came back from the kitchen.

  “Something wrong?” asked Othman quickly, trying to preempt any questions.

  “This Abdelkader, chéri, we’ve got to do something about him. Or get rid of Rahma.”

  She stopped herself, not wanting to ruin her mood.

  “Come, my love, let’s dance,” she continued softly.

  She swallowed what was left in her glass and put on her favorite song, “To All the Men I’ve Loved Before.” Othman felt much better now that he told Naeema not to wait for him. With the skill of a professional actor, he passionately wrapped his arm around Sofia’s waist, showing her the vigor of a real man. He drew her close to him, spun her around, squeezed her tightly, and then pushed her away before yanking her back to him again.

  “Let me go, please let me go!” she yelled out, giggling like a child on a seesaw.

  Her son Jacques got up, staggering a bit. He was fat; he had a strong face and a short frame. Jacques was twenty-three years older than his mother’s husband.

  “For God’s sake, get away from my mother!” he said jokingly.

  The others broke out laughing until
Fati began coughing after she got a piece of olive caught in her throat. Jacques approached Othman, imitating a knight with a sword in his hand. He dismissed Othman with a light shove on the chest.

  “Madame wants to dance with me,” he said grandiosely. “Calm yourself and retreat.”

  Othman lifted his hands as if afraid of a duel. He stepped back, while Fati continued coughing.

  “What a night!” she said a few times as she tried to clear her throat.

  At Mohammed V Airport in Casablanca, most of the arriving passengers were coming from Europe. As soon as they got off their plane, they realized they didn’t need their jackets. The hot weather no doubt surprised them; even though it was the end of November, the daytime temperature was in the upper seventies, though at night, the dazzling sun disappeared and a chill set in. During the week he spent in Casablanca, Jacques got a light tan, which would no doubt be a source of pride once he got back to the miserable Parisian weather.

  They were standing near the border police and for several minutes Jacques embraced his mother like a child not wanting to let go.

  “Poor Jacques,” said Michel, the close family friend who insisted on going with them to the airport. “He’s so delicate and sensitive.”

  Othman looked impatiently at his watch without bothering to respond. The way Jacques held onto his mother seemed shameless. Even after she stepped away from him, Jacques kept holding her by the shoulders, treating her like a lover.

  “I don’t want to leave you, Mama.”

  Sofia laughed and turned to the others as if trying to lighten Jacques’s farewell.

  “We’ll see you next summer, right?”

  “Of course, Mama.”

  “Oh, chéri,” she replied.

  Finally letting go of Sofia, Jacques gave Othman a firm handshake.

  “Watch after my mother,” he said, smiling.

  “Of course, my son,” said Othman.

  Michel laughed so hard he caught the attention of some travelers. Othman’s response was ridiculous. Jacques was old enough to be his father.

  There were about five people waiting in front of the border post. Sofia didn’t want to leave until she saw her son cross through passport control. After ten minutes, which Othman and Michel endured resentfully, Jacques’s turn came. But, in a gallant gesture, he gave his place to a pregnant woman and waved to his mother and the others, telling them not to wait for him any more. His mother blew him a kiss, took her husband’s arm, and turned around to leave.

  As he did every night after he got home from the restaurant, Othman took their dog Yuki out for a long walk. He smoked a cigarette as he strolled in the middle of the road among the grand villas. The neighborhood was calm. There was a line of tall palm trees on either side of the street, the base of each tree ringed by a patch of trimmed grass. The air was so crisp and cool that Othman zipped up his jacket.

  When he reached the square, he was overwhelmed by anxiety. He looked at his watch. It was eleven o’clock. She broke her promise, he thought; she’s not here like she said. She waited for him here inside her car almost every night. While Yuki ran and played, they’d sit together, talking and embracing each other. He remembered her sweet lips on his and felt crushed that he wouldn’t see her tonight. The thought of returning to the villa without the rejuvenation Naeema gave him was unbearable. He could already feel the torture he’d face once he got home. Where would he get the strength to deal with Sofia without seeing Naeema?

  He took out his cell phone and looked around to see if anyone was watching. As he dialed the number, Yuki was running around happily.

  “Hello, Naeema?” he said anxiously, almost holding his breath. “I managed to get out here early. . . . I’m at our usual place. . . . No, Naeema, this isn’t the time to fight. I’m sorry about yesterday. . . . I can’t tomorrow afternoon. I need you now. . . . Please . . . . In the morning I have to run errands and work at the restaurant. . . . Fine, tomorrow at the same time. Good night.”

  He then turned toward Yuki.

  “Come here, you dog!” he yelled out bitterly.

  When he got back to the villa, Othman let Yuki loose into the garden and then went in the house. He walked straight to a small bar in the corner of the living room, took out a bottle of whiskey, and filled a glass. He emptied it in two gulps, making his eyes tear up. He then filled his glass up again.

  From the bedroom above, Sofia’s voice came down to him softly, full of desire.

  “Chéri . . . .”

  Without these glasses of whiskey, he’d never be able to bear having sex with her. He thought she was intent on torturing him. He had to hide his resentment and disgust and approach her with excitement and burning desire. He’d embrace her with tenderness, pampering her and whispering sweet words of love in her ear. He had to force himself to get used to her favorite positions, pretending to love them while praising her body, which was full of splotches like leopard skin and made him sick. After she’d finally climax, his disgust would last for hours as she lay there in bliss. He’d have to keep holding her and repeating words of love and gratitude.

  “Chéri, come lie next me,” she cooed as he walked up to her.

  When he entered the room, she slowly pulled the blanket off her. He could see her dried-up breasts emerge from the opening of her silk kimono. The features of her face seemed fixed, almost artificial. He turned his back to her as he took off his clothes, not wanting her to watch him. He had to get himself ready, feverishly thinking of Naeema’s naked body. If Sofia saw he couldn’t get it up, it would turn into a double torture session. She’d keep asking him what was wrong and wouldn’t let him go to sleep until he revealed his deepest feelings. He had no choice but to endure it all, doing whatever he could to dispel any suspicion of the utter loathing she inspired in him.

  There were only eight people in the restaurant tonight. Most of them drank a lot of wine but ordered just a few appetizers. This annoyed Sofia and she complained that they thought she ran a bar and not an upscale restaurant. As for Othman, this lull in business made him happy. At ten thirty, he told everyone they were getting ready to close and tried to hurry them out. His wife didn’t seem to notice that her husband was in such a rush.

  Sofia opened the kitchen door and inadvertently caught her cook with his hands on Rahma’s full hips. She was in the middle of washing dishes. Instead of yelling at Abdelkader, Sofia went straight to the dirty plates, picking them up and inspecting them angrily. She stared at the two disdainfully and slammed the dishes down in the sink.

  “Everything’s dirty!” she screamed at Rahma. “Why do I have to yell to get you to do things right!”

  Her eyes lit up with anger as she looked over at Abdelkader. He happened to be gripping a butcher knife and seemed hesitant to put it back with the other knives.

  “Don’t get so angry, Madame,” he said faintly. “Everything’s fine.”

  She hated him and knew he was jealous of Othman. At the same time, she couldn’t fire him since he was such a good cook. Before Rahma, she had to get rid of two female workers because of Abdelkader. He was a ladies’ man. He had been married twice and was responsible for five children, not all of them born in wedlock.

  After the restaurant closed, Sofia sat in the car near the front entrance waiting for Othman. She was smoking a cigarette and listening to Mozart as she usually did when she was angry. She saw all the workers leave from the side door and pile into an old Renault 4 parked nearby. After a bit, Othman left too. He locked the front door and hurried over, getting into the driver’s seat next to Sofia. He turned on the ignition, but as soon as the car started, he got out without saying a word, as if he just realized he had forgotten something. He went back in the restaurant as the Renault 4 drove off.

  He walked straight over to a box under the desk and took some money from it. All of a sudden, he heard several metal pans crash to the ground in the kitchen. Othman then heard another noise he couldn’t quite make out. Surprised and a little scared, he careful
ly approached the kitchen door and noticed it was ajar. He heard a cat meow, a sound that seemed odd to him, almost eerie. He stood frozen for a moment, deciding whether to go in the kitchen or not, and all of a sudden, he heard the car horn outside. Othman let out a sigh, chuckled, and quickly left the restaurant.

  In the bedroom, Sofia sat in front of the vanity, taking off her make-up with pieces of cotton. She then put a special cream on her face, looking closely at the wrinkles no cosmetic surgery could fix. She was paying special attention to her appearance tonight; she had on a silk nightgown and a beautiful cloth wrapped around her head. The mirror didn’t reflect her youthful spirit, but a body in need of some help. Sofia wasn’t the kind of person to torture herself, however. For her, the body was independent of the spirit and her spirit was youthful, even if the mirror said something entirely different.

  She slipped under the covers like a small child. It annoyed her that she was always the first to bed and that she had to call out to Othman several times to get him to join her.

  Finally, Othman stood at the bedroom door and smiled at her cheerfully. It didn’t take her long to realize he wasn’t coming to bed. Her mood took a turn for the worse.

  “Coming to sleep, chéri?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  “I have to take the dog out,” he muttered without looking at her.

  “But I already walked him today.”

  Did she know why he left the house every night?

  “I like taking him for a walk after work.”

  After a moment of silence, she smiled indulgently.

  “Don’t be late, chéri.”

  He knew under this calm demeanor, she hid her displeasure. Once he got out on to the empty street, he let Yuki off the leash. He lit a cigarette and walked quickly, almost working up a sweat. If she breaks her promise tonight, he thought, he’d go crazy. He had never felt as lonely as he did right now.

  As he approached the square, he saw her simple Renault 5 parked in the usual place, under the tallest palm tree. He was overwhelmed with happiness and relief. He looked around to make sure no one was watching and slipped into the front seat next to Naeema. Besides the huge age difference between her and his wife, Naeema looked more European than Sofia. She was fair-skinned and had honey-colored eyes. Her hair was fine and long; she pulled it back in a ponytail like a twenty-year-old Moroccan college girl, even though she was twenty-seven. Naeema had a magnificent body, especially her legs. Othman met her at the sports club where his wife worked out. Sofia was actually the one who introduced them. Naeema was Sofia’s aerobics instructor.