Marrakech Noir

by Yasin Adnan

  My brother, who we didn’t take into account, opposed the marriage, and threatened to burn down the whole riad. He was shaking with anger as he cursed Saeed: “How dare you do this, you villain? You are not a man . . . Having had enough of her, you now pass her on to an old Nazarene the age of her grandpa.”

  Saeed snapped back in the same violent tone: “It’s you who is the villain . . . You just want your sister to keep supporting you and the family. If you were a real man your sister wouldn’t have had to go to work in the first place!”

  The marriage proposal turned into a brawl. At one point my brother tried to grab me and threatened to kill me, while my mom cried and begged him to calm down. I don’t know how I suddenly got the courage to stand up to him for the first time in my life.

  “How dare you deny what Allah has permitted?” I bellowed. “Philip agreed to convert to Islam. Since I’m not a minor, the new family law says I don’t need the permission of anyone. You’ll keep receiving your pocket money as usual. As for me, I embrace my freedom whether you like it or not!”

  We left the house—Philip, Saeed, and I—escorted by my mother’s tears and my sisters’ laments.

  I married Philip after he converted to Islam by saying the shahada; we married before a cleric and two adls: There is no god but Allah, and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah. I never imagined things would be so easy, especially since I knew Philip to be an atheist. After the wedding, which was quite intimate, I became the Lady of the Riad but severed ties with my family—my brother disowned me and forbade my mom and sisters from having anything to do with me.

  Philip was happy with our relationship and did everything to make me happy too, as I gave his life a sense of plenitude. One day, he confided in me about his past life in a tone verging on bitterness: “I was a bank manager and I had so many friends, but retirement revealed my shallow relationships with my colleagues. Once one retires, work-based relationships also retire. Those human ties rarely survive outside the walls of administrations and offices. Like chairs and files, they depend on space, not people. Only my relationship to my late wife grew stronger after my retirement, which is the reason why we decided to leave Paris.”

  While Philip was enjoying his new life, I was striving to convince myself that I’d made the right decision. A decision now spoiled with the taste of fear and anxiety, especially as Saeed’s material demands and greed grew with time. Saeed asked to work at the reception desk next to Leila, so he would know every penny that entered the money box. I never liked Leila, there was something mysterious in her behavior that hinted at a big secret in her life, and, frankly, I didn’t like her way of flirting with Saeed. She wasn’t beautiful. She was one of those Marrakech girls with brown skin and curly hair, but she was attractive and witty in a way I could not be. Everyone called her Flifla, which meant hot little pepper—because she was so hot and sexy.

  Longing for my mother and sisters began to tear me down, and I felt increasingly trapped by Saeed. He no longer showed any interest in my body. He justified that by saying he didn’t want to draw attention to our relationship, since to Philip I was Saeed’s best friend, and his flirting with Leila was only a cover.

  I would cringe whenever Philip hinted at something going on between Leila and Saeed, while Leila would only lower her eyes and smile in the kind of hypocritical way my townspeople were so good at. My nerves were frayed. The virus of jealousy took hold of me and I began to experience an unbearable sense of tension as I became the Lady of the Riad, and thus bound to behave decently, especially with clients used to the special messages. Naturally, I stopped giving massages after I trained two new girls to do the job. This act impressed Philip, who took it as an expression of faithfulness.

  Faithfulness is a term that has no place in the riad, where the client is king and everyone else a slave. The client gets to live out The Thousand and One Nights in the Scheherazade Riad (I forgot to mention that Philip changed the name of the riad on our wedding night). Saeed’s drug trade started bringing a special kind of client to the riad, and the reception desk became a secret place for all sorts of illegal business behind Philip’s and Leila’s artificial smiles.

  Saeed would be evasive whenever I tried to dot the i’s. He would say, “Do not be stupid and spoil everything with your pathological jealousy. Am I jealous when you sleep with Mr. Philip? Of course not, because it’s just a plan to unite later in times of prosperity. This was our choice, together! Don’t be crazy.”

  The problem was that I wasn’t sure whether anything happening around me was actually my own choice. I was involved in a mean game, believing that I held all the cards, but the actual winning card remained in Saeed’s hands. He ended up taking a room at the riad after making his presence necessary there, and winning the trust of Mr. Philip, who considered him almost a brother-in-law. And why not? Isn’t he like a brother to me?

  I could no longer understand Saeed. Sometimes he would express his impatience to get rid of Philip and I would urge him to wait. I became afraid of my own shadow. Other times I felt he enjoyed his new status and was in no hurry to change anything.

  During one dismal week, news of my mother’s death reached us. My sorrow was immense, especially since my brother, who blamed me for her passing, prevented me from attending her funeral. Philip tried his best to mitigate the impact of the shock, but my grief was as deep as my feelings of loneliness. A month after her death, he decided to take me abroad for a change of scenery.

  While preparing for the trip to Paris, Saeed handed me an official-looking paper and asked me to make Philip sign it before leaving. “It’s just a proxy for me to be able to purchase supplies for the riad in Philip’s absence,” he explained. “This will also help us plan for our future together.”

  “How so? And if he asks me about it, what will I say?” I asked him.

  “Serve him a few glasses of champagne and massage him with your magic fingertips. I am sure he will sign anything you put in front of him,” Saeed replied sarcastically. He then stepped forward and hugged me, and I suddenly realized how much I had missed his embrace. Then, he added: “It’s in Arabic, you can translate it any way you want. Do this, my dearest Scheherazade, and soon we will get rid of the ghost of this old man.”

  I did as he said. Philip promptly signed the paper, which I presented to him as a certificate of residence, confirming that I officially lived in the riad. I added that my brother needed it.

  We departed Marrakech, leaving the riad to the care of Saeed and Leila. Although I had always dreamed of traveling abroad, I could not enjoy my time in Paris. I felt bitter in Philip’s arms. A feeling of dissatisfaction haunted me and a sense of guilt tore me down when I remembered the death of my mother, who had taken her grief for me with her. How strange that now that I had a car, wore expensive clothes, ate food prepared by chefs, and enjoyed sessions of personal massages, misery was creeping into my life. Laughter no longer tasted of joy nor smiles of satisfaction. I felt as if a void was growing larger inside me every day. My dreams had become real, but their color was gray.

  Meanwhile, a voice inside me kept whispering that Saeed was lying to me. I could no longer stand Leila’s presence at the riad. I wanted to kick her out, but Saeed was against the idea and kept saying that she was an important piece of the plan, that we had to keep her there until everything was over. I tried to put an end to my suspicions, and I convinced myself that jealousy was the cause of my tragedy, hoping that I would soon get rid of her. For now, I just had to trust Saeed and his secret plan. But things were not so simple.

  * * *

  After my return from Paris, I went to see Aunt Mannana, as I often did when I felt down.

  She welcomed me early in the morning in her semidark room on the roof of a decadent building, amid the smoke of incense. She had fear in her eyes, as her henna-dyed fingers arranged the cards on a small table in front of me. “There’s an adder in your home . . . wriggling under your bed. Beware of the adder, daughter,” she said.
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br />   I was terrified as I imagined the snake coiling over my body. Who could it be? It was Leila, no doubt. I could no longer bear her yellow smile as she cast her shadow over me every morning and said in her Marrakech accent: How are you this morning, Lalla Scheherazade? And how is Mr. Philip?

  The words of the fortune-teller stoked the flames of doubt in my heart as jealousy ravaged me. And so, during a dawn that was grim with insomnia and longing, I slipped from Philip’s thorny arms and crept on the tips of my fingers and toes down to Saeed’s room, seeking a little love. Overwhelmed with burning desire for the warmth of his body, I opened his door quietly so as not to wake up the servants. To my surprise, he was fast asleep with Leila, who should have been at home in her own bed. I almost fainted as I fled the specter of betrayal and rushed toward the bathroom where I vomited up my bitterness. Philip got up and rushed after me. He carried me back to the bedroom and called a doctor. The doctor said that it was food poisoning. He was correct in his diagnosis, for I had indeed swallowed the venom of the adder and her lover—the traitor.

  * * *

  I spent a week in bed utterly dejected with Philip playing the tender nurse. But tenderness was hard for me to accept as I began to hate men, the world, and myself. I thought a lot during that week about a plan to take revenge on Saeed—the ignoble creature whose trust with Leila polluted the riad and suffocated me. Yet what if I complied with his plan? Made him get rid of Philip alone, so that he could spend the rest of his life in jail while I eliminated Leila and poverty.

  Philip was a nice man who really loved me, but he was old and had lived his life and realized all his dreams. As for me, I was still at the beginning of my journey, which would remain forever postponed if I didn’t act quickly. I had only myself to rely on.

  I met Saeed in private and questioned him: “What’s your plan? I see you’re no longer in a hurry to get rid of Philip.”

  “I prefer to keep the plan to myself so that I don’t implicate you with me, dearest Scheherazade,” he told me. “You’re so sensitive. I’m afraid you might become weak and give away the secret. Let me act on my own. Stay calm and affectionate toward him, and let no one suspect us. Forget about Leila, she is good and loves you.”

  How dare he defend her in front of me? How impudent. I was about to tell him what I knew about his affair with Leila, but then I thought better of it. He kissed me passionately and whispered in my ear: “Do not let the devil toy with you, sweetie. You know I wouldn’t do anything without you. You are Philip’s wife and his only heir, and even if I did care only for his money, I’d have to marry you to get it. Besides . . . what good is money without your love?”

  The power of his persuasion equaled my vulnerability before his affection. I tried to calm myself with the idea that Saeed’s relationship with Leila was only sexual, and invented all sorts of arguments for that: she must have been coming onto him, and a virile male in our culture cannot repel a woman who makes such advances. Then I decided to confront her instead—yes, I should threaten her. Tell her that if she didn’t keep away from him, I’d kick her out and take my bread out of her mouth. Maybe that would scare her and prevent her from further shenanigans with Saeed.

  With this in mind, I seized an opportunity and invited her to Philip’s office one afternoon. I told her: “We are women and we know about each other. This is why I want to tell you that Saeed is like my brother, and I know what’s going on between you . . . I want you to put an end to your relationship with him or I’ll kick you out of the riad.”

  I was surprised at her reaction. She burst into laughter and looked at me with insolence. She brought her face closer to mine and whispered mockingly: “Keep your lies for your Nazarene husband. I know everything about you. I know how jealousy is ravaging your heart.”

  I fumed with rage and couldn’t control myself; I raised my hand to slap her in the face. “Respect your mistress, slut,” I hissed.

  Leila returned the slap with similar violence. “You’re nobody’s mistress, you idiot,” she tossed back defiantly.

  I lunged at her and we started punching and pulling each other’s hair while exchanging vile curses and insults like bullets. Suddenly, Saeed rushed into the office and tried to separate us.

  “What’s your problem? Everyone can hear your screams across the riad!” Saeed shouted. “Enough!”

  I could feel my lower lip bleeding as he pulled us apart. “Do you see what you’ve done?” I yelled back.

  Saeed turned to Leila, held her hands, and said almost soothingly: “Don’t be silly.”

  “It’s you who are silly!” I growled. “Don’t defend her.”

  My limbs froze when I saw him hug her. “Calm down,” he whispered to her. “It’s not the right time yet.”

  “What do you mean by that, you traitors?” I demanded.

  At that very moment, Philip entered as the room, anger illuminating his pale face. He took hold of Saeed and cried out: “How dare you do this to me? You robbed me, you son of a bitch!”

  Saeed pushed him and Philip fell down. From the floor, he lifted his eyes to me. “And you, were you his accomplice?”

  I didn’t understand what was happening, so I asked: “What’s the matter? What did you do, Saeed?”

  “You see, it is the right time,” Leila jumped in, as she ran a hand through her disheveled hair. She walked toward me. “The game ends here. Didn’t I tell you that you were nobody’s mistress? The riad is no longer his. It now belongs to someone else.”

  I asked for an explanation as I helped Philip to his feet.

  “You’ve been outsmarted,” Leila gloated. Then she turned to Philip. “What good is money to you when you’re about to kick the bucket? Come along, Saeed, let’s get out of here—we have what we need.”

  Saeed followed her to the door and Philip rushed after them. “You can’t get away from me so easily!” he barked. He grabbed Saeed’s shoulder, but Saeed turned around and shoved him hard. Philip fell to the ground again and Saeed unleashed on him, punching and kicking him while he was down.

  I screamed and tried to pull him away. “Stay away from him! You’ll kill him!”

  Saeed pushed me as well, and I fell to the floor as he turned his attention back to Philip.

  Leila stood by the door, smiling maliciously. “Enough, darling. Let’s go,” she said.

  Saeed got up, leaving Philip listless on the floor, and headed toward the door, his back turned on me. Shaking with rage and hatred, I jumped up, grabbed an iron statue from the desk, and hurled it at Saeed with all my strength. It hit the back of his head. Blood immediately gushed out of his skull and he fell to the ground.

  Leila shrieked: “You killed him, bitch!”

  At the sight of so much blood covering the floor, I lost consciousness.

  * * *

  I opened my eyes to the sight of a paramedic.

  “Wake up. Are you okay?” he asked.

  The room was crowded with policemen. The ambulance took Saeed to the hospital while Leila and I were arrested.

  * * *

  Leila turned out to be a fugitive from Belgium, where she was involved in a drug-trafficking ring. She confessed to the police that she was the one who had planned everything. Leila had known Saeed before he’d employed her. Together, they had sold the riad and its contents using the proxy that I made Philip sign, and were about to flee abroad with the money. They were each sentenced to ten years in prison.

  Saeed was transferred to jail after spending several weeks in the hospital. Some police informants who used to protect him now revealed his involvement in prior criminal cases, which increased his sentence to fifteen years.

  I myself spent a few months in custody before I was released on bail that Philip paid. He also forgave me. “Behaving badly once does not make someone a bad person,” he told me. He did his best to save me from any further trouble.

  I must say that during the time Saeed was in the recovery room, I oscillated between two contradictory attitudes: on the o
ne hand, I wished for his death so that Leila would be deprived of her lover forever; and on the other hand, I prayed for his safety so that I wouldn’t be deprived of my freedom. Luckily he didn’t die, because freedom was far more meaningful than love.

  I am now living at Riad Scheherazade as the undisputed lady there, taking care of Philip (my fortune come from afar). He recently suffered a stroke. I massage him with tenderness, using my painstakingly acquired methods. Who knows? He may recover from his hemiplegia. Isn’t the secret in the fingertips?

  Translated from Arabic by Norddine Zouitni

  Delirium

  by Mahi Binebine

  Souk Semmarine

  To share the same body with a wayward being is no easy feat. Kamal and I were in constant conflict, most often over nothing. We argued day in and day out, and our fights sometimes grew so heated that passersby, ignorant of our history, would take us for fools. We spoke as one on a single matter: our love for Mama Rosalie—an intense, unconditional love.

  It would be hard for me to give you an accurate account of my companion, as we can only know ourselves subjectively. Mama Rosalie had drummed into us an old story her mother used to tell: A rock suspended in the heavens is fated to fall on the head of the man who disparages himself on earth. Since the dawn of time, this meteorite has been floating in the firmament. And so I can only speak well to you of Kamal because, whatever people might say, we have a certain affection for each other. He’s a little bit of me, and I’m a little bit of him. We are, then, rather handsome young men: well-built, baby-faced, with those dull eyes—bloodshot, but kind—particular to men who’ve ceased to dream, who’ve thrown in the towel and no longer expect anything of anyone.

  Our greatest asset was the language of Goethe. In all of Marrakech, we were the only tour guides fluent in German. We might as well have been oil barons. Not a Kraut in the land of the Moors escaped our nets. We were the rightful rulers of the coach buses crammed with white bodies, hormone-fed, laughing and avid, ready to spend a fortune at the Semmarine, the grandest souk in town. We would lead them into our friends’ bazaars, singing the praises of our ancestral handicrafts, so elegant and refined, the work of a gifted people living in the most beautiful country in the world: This carpet here belonged to the mistress of King Moulay Ismail, who took tea at her home on a hilltop overlooking Meknes all throughout his reign; that sculpture there was custom-made for the regent Ba Ahmed, who commissioned the Bahia palace with its 156 rooms in the Old Medina of Marrakech; this dagger, once belonging to Tashfin Ibn Ali, son of the founder of the Red City, served to cut the throat of an Andalusian rebel who’d come with his compatriots to build the wall encircling the old town; and this box before your eyes is an extremely rare piece: the bones of a mythical camel that crossed the Sahara a hundred times, encrusted in thuya wood by the chief of the Jewish artisans of Mogador. We rattled off our string of lies without blinking an eye, with remarkable eloquence, a penchant for anecdote, and absolute conviction. Thomas Mann, Stephan Zweig, and Herman Hesse lent their music to our hoaxes; they were, so to speak, our accomplices. Their words peppered our speeches, helping us to justify the exorbitant prices that we charged with reassuring nods of the head. A good share of the booty was paid to us afterward.