Marrakech Noir

by Yasin Adnan

  Issoufou overflowed with appreciation. Unlike Bilal, Issoufou didn’t generally waver in love. And as far as joining the love with business, it couldn’t wait. He called Aissatou and asked him to get in touch with his friends in the Sufi order to arrange a marriage contract with Noura. He would later get an officiant to sign the contract, with Aissatou and his Sudanese friend Uthman Mustafa Sheikh serving as witnesses.

  Noura didn’t resist any of this, wanting to exercise her rights under the new Moroccan family law. Besides, she wasn’t going to wager her happiness on seeking her stone-faced mother’s approval. Back at home, she told her mother that she had to attend the wedding of Hayat’s sister. She dressed in her red and white kaftan, embroidered with gold thread. She draped her white-riveted djellaba over that. She put on her white high-heel shoes patterned with pink flowers. She asked her neighbor’s son to get her a taxi to take her to the Tijani Order Center near Bab Doukkala. The taxi driver parked and waited for her at the entrance of the pathway, near the courtyard, because Lalla Aweesh Street was too narrow for a car to pass through. Noura pulled up the edges of her kaftan to avoid the trash and potholes that made the short distance treacherous in heels. She walked without stumbling or twisting her ankle, heading in the direction of her destiny.

  * * *

  Everyone was gathered at the Tijani Order Center when she arrived, waiting for her to ratify the marriage contract. The officiant Moulay al-Ghali, wearing a white djellaba, registered the declarations of the two witnesses who were also dressed in traditional white clothing. Meanwhile, Issoufou remained true to form, sporting a tailored black Armani tuxedo with gray piping and a white shirt with a bow tie, as if he’d just stepped out of a Hollywood film. Next to the others, he resembled a five-star hostage of a terrorist.

  * * *

  After the ceremony, Noura felt like she was floating with happiness, despite some lingering anxiety. The newlyweds celebrated their secret marriage in al-Fassia restaurant on Boulevard Mohamed-Zerktouni in Gueliz, far from all the riffraff. With Andalusian music softly playing in the background, the hostess led them to a private dining room with only two tables. The lights were dim and the table next to them was empty, all of which allowed the necessary intimacy for the most romantic night of Noura’s life. Issoufou ordered a bottle of champagne with hors d’oeuvres, and insisted she toast to their eternal happiness; it was the intoxication of love that hindered her ability to refuse. She hadn’t even tried alcohol before, since she had been raised to believe that it inevitably led to debauchery and prostitution.

  “But champagne is something else,” Issoufou said. “It’s the drink of rapture, of honor, of joy.”

  She felt she had to obey her husband. The server opened the bottle dramatically, causing the golden liquid to bubble over. Her eyes wandered over to the main room of the restaurant: the customers were mostly tourists. She took a sip from her glass, the bubbles tickling her nose. She yielded to another glass soon after and felt the tingling of this wondrous drink in her soul, which started to tremble with elation. They ordered grilled meat with plums—the traditional Moroccan wedding dish. She put aside her knife and fork and used the bread to scoop up her food, as was customary. She found it strange to be eating this dish in a restaurant. Her life had entered a new track from the station of the marriage contract.

  * * *

  When the taxi dropped the couple off at the entrance to their building, Noura was unconcerned about the prospect of encountering Bilal or any of the other rubberneckers standing around the front door. Inside, they only passed Hafidh the textile worker hurrying up the stairs in the company of his wife Badia. They pulled their kids behind them as their eyes remained fixed on the newlyweds. Noura climbed the stairs with the confidence of a queen heading to her promised throne. Aissatou had used his extra key to tidy up Issoufou’s apartment in advance. He had started by fixing up the office, then cleaned the bathroom, and finally arranged the bedroom before pumping a half bottle of perfume into it. He had placed candles throughout the room, around which he scattered rose petals. After he paid his respects to the newlyweds, wishing them a joyous night, he left.

  The night had started as any virgin would have hoped—passionate gazes were exchanged before they came together in a long, feverish kiss that concluded with them naked in bed. All the familiar intimate opening movements, which delivered Noura into a frenzy, were consummated that evening. Issoufou accomplished this great mission like a professional, as she released an intense scream of ecstasy. A scream that was followed by powerful, hurried knocks on the apartment door: “Open up! Police!”

  Terrified, Issoufou’s eyes quickly scanned the room while Noura searched in confusion for her underwear and bra which she had thrown someplace in the heat of the moment. Her mind turned to that jackass Bilal—obviously he had gone through with his threat to call the cops. The dog. He didn’t even know that Issoufou was now her husband, according to the Holy Book of Allah and the sunna of His Prophet.

  Outside, panic and chaos spread across the first floor of the building. Naima the Whore’s door opened to allow a frightened man to leave her apartment. He tripped over himself, believing that the police were raiding Naima’s place. But he found it difficult to break through the forest of Malians that had sprouted in the middle of the hallway, also heading for the exit. Likewise, Majid and Chakib were seen jumping from their apartment’s balcony to escape in their car, the black Kangoo. Irina, who couldn’t restrain her curiosity, peeked out to see what was happening. For once, she looked truly disheveled, dressed only in a light nightshirt.

  “Irina, what are you doing here at this hour?” asked Umm al-Khayr, who was not used to encountering her Polish neighbor in the evening. She was at her post in front of the door, watching over the scene disinterestedly.

  Meanwhile, Lalla Tamou approached in pure mockery, relishing the sight. She was trailed by her other boys Farid and Said, who seemed equally gleeful. Then there was Uthman, the Sudanese man, standing upright like a watchtower monitoring everyone’s movements.

  The police didn’t wait long. They were not forced to break into the apartment because Aissatou had instead used his key to reveal Noura behind the door wrapped in a shawl. In her hand she held her newly minted marriage license—proof of her innocence against the accusation of indecent activities.

  Bilal emerged and broke through the rows of onlookers, confused and infuriated. Standing in front of the door, he glimpsed Noura wandering through the apartment, scared, sobbing, traumatized. He tried to move toward her, but a police officer standing by the door turned him away harshly. Bilal’s heart filled with pain, and he wished he could tell Noura that he was not responsible for this mess.

  Rather, it was Aissatou who stepped resolutely into the apartment to show the security forces several passports, stacks of counterfeit bills in different currencies, as well as other forged documents held in an iron safe hidden in the office closet. A wealth of evidence implicated a man named Mamadou Alseeka, a.k.a. Issoufou, in crimes of establishing and defrauding various businesses in Tangier, Fes, Casablanca, and Marrakech. Further still, they had living proof, scandalously seminude, embodied in the freshly victimized Noura Foukhari. Seizing Issoufou’s computer, they would later discover correspondences with other victims he’d conned, as well as with his accomplice—a Frenchwoman named Déborah Lizan, who went by Katherine, and who was illegally residing in the country. They had been forwarding money orders as proof of legal and administrative assets that granted them access to the profits of a fake company which specialized in the production and exportation of uranium.

  Issoufou felt dizzy and sick to his stomach, and asked an officer to give him a minute to throw up.

  The cop answered sternly: “You’ll have plenty of time to puke in prison, you no-good con artist.”

  Noura didn’t understand one bit of what was happening around her. Her face was streaked with tears, her mind was racing, and her strength had collapsed. She looked around as two officers led
her knight in shining armor—Issoufou, or rather, Mamadou Alseeka—away in handcuffs and silk Armani pajamas, on their wedding night.

  Two other officers dispersed the curious bystanders, including Hafidh and his wife Badia, who were now listening from their front door. Hafidh was quite pleased with his abrupt decision to move from this miserable building in Hay Saada to live in the neighboring Hay Sharaf—the so-called Honor Neighborhood.

  Translated from Arabic by Ghayde Ghraowi

  [The translator would like to express his enormous gratitude to Nader Uthman, Thouria Benferhat, and Olga Verlato, whose help made this translation possible.]

  A Person Fit for Murder

  by Lahcen Bakour

  L’Hivernage

  Whoever said that murder is tricky? It’s extremely simple. As trivial as can be and cowardly too. It doesn’t have to involve someone with a heart of stone, a dead body, or a rapid-fire weapon to take the place of a shaking hand. All you need is someone fit for murder, a bit of weaponry to store the desire for the first drop of spilled blood, and, once in a while, a bit of uncertainty and some crazy coincidences. That’s all that’s needed when it comes to having someone give up the ghost, and stopping the heart from beating.

  I’m not a retired criminal, someone who has grown tired of murder’s costs, who wastes time rehashing postponed decisions, or who simply rambles on regardless. No—I know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m a real killer, someone who still has fresh blood on his clothes!

  That’s right, I’m a killer! At that particular moment, I was squatting alongside the corpse of my victim. It was Guillaume, my enormous and wonderful friend who was lying beside me, totally peaceful, as though he was exhausted after an intense bout of lovemaking—except that this time his face wasn’t flushed with the same kind of elation that usually follows total satisfaction. This time, the rigor enveloping his body was far greater than the feeling of lassitude that normally follows such pleasure.

  My hand was shaking. It had gone back to being as weak as it usually is. Just a few moments ago a weird, satanic power had pulsed through it. My hand kept a firm grip on the knife handle as I finished off my enormous, gentle friend Guillaume. After that I squatted down beside his body for a bit so I could shed some tears and try to figure out why I had killed him.

  We had arranged to meet today; that’s why I came. I had no particular grudge against him. I assumed he was waiting for me as usual. There was the same level of excitement and anticipation, as though we were meeting for the very first time. He lingered under the shower before putting on expensive deodorant. Covering himself with a pink silk bathrobe, he took out that box, put it on the table by the bed, and sat there waiting for me. No sooner had I gone through the entrance to Bab el-Jadid and crossed the street in the direction of the Winter Quarter where I was to meet Guillaume than I was struck by that abrupt transformation inside me, the one that my senses accepted so smoothly. I shook off all the remaining vestiges of noise, crowds, and an almost complete absence of individuality—all to be found in the popular quarter where I live—and plunged into another world, one of quiet and space, no noise, space between people, buildings, and things, the kind of vast, scary silence that arouses your curiosity to find out what’s going on behind those high walls and double-glazed windows.

  As I walked along the sidewalk, all I could hear was the sound of my own footsteps and the swish of passing limousines as their tires rolled across the asphalt. Meanwhile, the fresh faces of people who had spent most of the day working or sleeping were getting ready for nighttime.

  But here you will never see young men leaning their backs against the low walls in case they collapse, while they take turns smoking their way through a shared cigarette; or women sharing gossip the way cats do, with a ball of wool; or even narrow, winding passages where bodies unintentionally bump into each other as they pass by.

  No, all you’ll see around here is an aged gardener carefully tending and watering the flowers at a villa, a maidservant opening the trunk of a car and carrying provisions into the kitchen by a back door, or a house guard alert and ready to perform any tasks demanded by the people living there.

  Guillaume had done well for himself by renting an apartment in this particular area. People here do not usually poke their noses into other people’s business. Provided that you take precautions and don’t go overboard, you can do pretty much anything you want. Even so, every time I’d come to visit Guillaume, I’d feel beset by worry and concern. Experience has taught me to stay on my guard. Sometimes you may get the impression that the police are not interested or ignoring you completely, whereas in reality the noose is gradually tightening. That’s why I’m being more and more cautious; I watched every single step I took before following it with the next one.

  Upon reaching Guillaume’s apartment complex, I texted him to open the door and leave it ajar, a precaution that we had always taken. Pushing the door open, I snuck inside. The whole place had a wonderful quiet about it. A soft aura of music pervaded the lounge, just like the floral scent that filled the space. At that moment I had a prickly sensation, a feeling of regret that I had decided to come. However, it vanished as quickly as it had first manifested itself. I could hear Guillaume humming to himself in the bedroom and realized that he was setting the mood. He was waiting contentedly, just like a baby about to get a present. Once he realized that I was there, he rushed over and gave me a big, nervous kiss that revealed the extent of his passionate love. We sat there in the lounge for a while and drank a cold beer to celebrate our reacquaintance, but then sheer desire pulled us toward the bedroom.

  For some reason, I grew tense and fidgety on the bed, but I did my best to put things right and not spoil our reunion, not only because Guillaume was so good, but also because I was completely broke—I urgently needed the hundred euros he had promised me. At the end of our sessions together, Guillaume would always feel jubilant. When he felt that happy, he would become incredibly generous as well; that hundred euros could turn into 120 or even a bit more.

  Guillaume let out a long sigh and bellowed like a slaughtered ox. His huge body was taking up most of the bed, and he looked totally satisfied as he let it cool off. For a while we both lay spread-eagle side by side on the bed. He rested his head on my chest and I started using my fingers to play with the abundant hair on his chest, the way he liked me to do. Then I went back to the lounge while he stayed in the bedroom.

  After making love, Guillaume liked to be left on his own; at that point he felt a kind of momentary depression. He spread his body out on the space between the bed and the large wardrobe that occupied the entire wall.

  Guillaume was an extremely stylish man; he kept an impeccable collection of suits and shoes. Extending his back to the edge of the bed and stretching his feet to the front of the wardrobe, he leaned back and slowly smoked a cigarette before heading for the bathroom and surrendering his body once again to the seductive temptation of water.

  I lay out on one of the benches in the lounge, listening to the hiss of the water from the bathroom. If I were in a better mood, Guillaume would invite me to share the shower with him. We would repeat the same game there, relishing the feel of the water as we had done several times before. But today he had noticed that I was a bit on edge, so he made do on his own.

  Guillaume was a good person who worshipped money because it could make all roads lead somewhere; as he often told me with a wink, he could open all doors, and windows as well. But he worshipped the body even more, especially if it was male, hairy, and of a light-brown color.

  * * *

  My acquaintance with Guillaume was a genuine gift. When I first met him I was just emerging from a grim and rough experience with another Frenchman—old and skinny, a real miser. Every time I thought back to him, I couldn’t help laughing and feeling sorry for him. It took him forever to emerge from the airport that first day. Just as I was about to leave, the arrival gate spat out yet another traveler, walking slowly and dragging a r
idiculous antique suitcase behind him. He looked totally oblivious to his surroundings, like someone who had lost his way. I was the only person still waiting and he moved in my direction, staring hard at the sign I was holding and audibly sounding out the name written on it. With that, his features relaxed a bit, and he came rushing over like an aged penguin that had fallen behind its colony. In the photograph that he had sent beforehand, he still possessed a vestige of his youthful glow, but the man now standing in front of me extended a leathery hand, veined and marked with blotches.

  After swallowing this bitter pill, I decided to exploit this old man and fleece him for all he was worth. But he proved to be an intolerable skinflint, only ever putting his hand inside his wallet under duress. For three whole days I put up with him, like a sack of garbage that weighed me down, but eventually I got rid of him with no regrets.

  He was really ugly. When he was naked, he resembled a snail without its shell. He tried long and hard to arouse in that old body of his a desire that had died ages ago. Eventually, I discovered that what he really needed was someone of the same sex to sit with him, stay with him at the dinner table, and sleep alongside him in the same bed, only touching each other occasionally. In the best of circumstances all we did was exchange frantic kisses which tasted like dust.

  You poor old man, dragging your feeble body and sallow spirit around and traveling so far to get here; and then only to strip naked in front of me! He was shivering from old age more than he was from passion, uttering fake, pleading sighs, and then going back the way he had come.