Marrakech Noir

by Yasin Adnan

  “Till next time!” he told me as he waved goodbye at the airport. He was smiling happily, as though he had successfully completed an important project. And with that he went on his way, dragging his silly suitcase behind him. As I watched him disappear slowly into the distance, I could only think again of the lost penguin. I laughed.

  * * *

  Guillaume emerged from the shower a totally different person, revived and smiling as though his soul had taken a shower with him. Rubbing his thick gray hair around the temples with a towel, he came toward me and stretched out his neck to give me a kiss. Once again, I was struck by how disgusted I was by his eyes; their green coloring made me nauseous. It was only with difficulty that I stopped myself from pushing him away. After he kissed me, I closed my eyes, not because I was thrilled, but because I could not stand having that same glance so close to me.

  Ever since I first glimpsed those eyes, I had loathed their soft, limpid green. For ages, I’ve had an overwhelming desire to plunge into their depths, fathom their secret, and then relax. But I could never look at them for very long. More than once I found myself staring at him intently, but without even meaning to do so. On one occasion, Guillaume snapped, “Stop staring at me like that. You’re making me nervous!”

  I watched as he went into the bedroom. At precisely that moment, and without any prior intention or clear motive, I found myself heading for the kitchen. My right hand was shaking as I went over to the drawer to take out a large knife with a wooden handle. No sooner had I clasped the knife and taken a look at its sharp blade than my hand stopped shaking. As my feet guided me toward the bedroom, my outstretched hands went ahead of me. I didn’t even see Guillaume in front of me, only those hateful green eyes with their sleazy look.

  He was standing by the table, rummaging through a box. I approached him cautiously. When I drew close, he became aware of my presence and turned toward me. It was then that I stabbed him with a violent thrust—it was both treacherous and utterly unexpected. Guillaume reeled, let out a loud cry of pain, and put his hand over the gushing wound. After that, I couldn’t remember the details exactly. All I came up with were a few fragmentary images—pictures and sounds intermingled, as though I were dreaming or delirious with fever.

  Once I recovered consciousness and found myself squatting over Guillaume’s motionless body, I wept bitterly, scarcely believing that I had actually killed him, and wondering to myself how I had managed to do it—me, the feeble coward! My hands were stained with his blood and shaking wildly, while the bloodied knife lay close to the body, its task complete.

  Blood everywhere—on my hands and shirt, on the floor, on the pajamas that were almost completely off Guillaume’s body. Once I realized exactly what had happened, I nearly died as well. For a moment my heart stopped beating. My mind packed up, and all my senses went numb, but then a flood of images and sounds came surging back to the surface of my consciousness like a roaring river. I heard Guillaume screaming in pain; I saw him collide with the wardrobe and stagger around after that first treacherous thrust. He tried to fight back, falling down, then staggering to his feet again. Eventually he collapsed, and his hulking body lay still in the space between the bed and wardrobe. On his pursed lips was the burning question: Why? All at once I felt a terrible pain over my entire body. Not knowing which of my limbs to check to see if I was hurt, I found it extremely difficult to bend over. At least two ribs must be broken, and I could not see out of my left eye; the whole thing was completely swollen, and it felt as huge as a zucchini. Guillaume had obviously put up a fierce fight, but his efforts had come too late.

  The bedsheets had fallen to the floor and were spattered with dark-red blood, our moments of pleasure now a distant memory. The small suitcase was open, having fallen near the table; its contents were scattered at the foot of the bed: a plastic dildo, lube, and bottles of oils. Guillaume had had no time to arrange them all carefully as he usually did before putting them back in the suitcase and shoving it all deep inside the wardrobe like hidden treasure.

  * * *

  Oh, my dear Guillaume, how I’m going to miss you! In fact, I was only a hundred extra euros away, or slightly more, from actually loving you. That’s why I really can’t answer that burning question which you yourself were unable to put into words, and which stayed on your lips like an extra Adam’s apple: Why? Yes indeed, I too don’t know why I killed you. I have no idea where I got the power and courage to pick up that dreadful knife and thrust it into your hulking body, still fresh from the shower.

  True enough, my dear, you’re dead now. There’s no way I can bring you back to life. But I owe it to you to at least respond to that last unanswered question of yours. I have the feeling that your spirit is going to linger around here, refusing to leave until it knows what particular curse made me pierce your body. Maybe then it will be able to relax a little before turning away to meet its maker.

  I’ll not conceal from you, my dear, that, like anyone who finds himself suddenly involved in a murder, I thought of getting away and leaving the place as quickly as possible; either that or throwing myself out the window as a means of escape. But I couldn’t do it. My entire body was shattered; it was covered in welts and bruises. The very thought of moving was extremely painful. At the same time, I decided not to leave this place because I needed to understand.

  * * *

  What do you say, my dear, to us having a chat while we’re waiting?

  I’m well aware that you disliked delving into personal matters; you always kept a veil of secrecy over your personal life. I realize that and understand your motives. I also admit that you never tried to get me to reveal any details about my own life. But who were you really, Guillaume?

  Were you a sexual idealist, someone who subsumed all life’s pleasures in those of the body? Or maybe you were married and lived a perfectly pleasant life on the other side of the Mediterranean. Once in a while you managed to smuggle out a small part of your family budget and come over here or to other spots across the globe. There you could spend lavishly on your passion before returning to your life as a straight man who loved women, someone who worked hard and waited for the weekend so that he could relax a bit and enjoy a drink with friends.

  What harm will it do, Guillaume, if we talk frankly about this final encounter of ours?

  Personally, I suddenly have a burning desire to tell you a bit about myself. So, will you listen to me, my dear? You are under no obligation to reciprocate. I won’t take long because the police will arrive at any moment; that will terminate all possibilities of such frankness and put an end to all this suffering. By now the stench of death has probably permeated the entire building through the gaps in the doors and windows; it has probably reached all the public spaces. At this point, I can almost see the crowds gathered by the entrance and in the interior courtyard, all of them struck by the electric lightning of curiosity and indulging in all kinds of gossip until the police get here.

  Long ago, when I was just a child, I had no interest in rolling a soccer ball around in the dust or clambering up palm trees in the wilderness outside the city to pick dates. My feet much preferred to play hopscotch or jump rope with the girls in the humid alleyways. When I got involved in typical boy fights, with a good deal of insults and even punching, my voice always let me down. When I yelled at my enemy and really needed to sound vicious and harsh to compensate for my puny stature, it always came out lame and meek; it was as though I wanted to flirt with my enemy, not beat him up!

  My father sold cigarettes and was permanently drunk. He only emerged from prison in order to bash in someone’s head or get arrested for selling his foul hashish to other poor addicts. Then he would return to his favorite spot outside the city walls. My mother made good use of his absences to liberate herself from his violent behavior. She even managed to forget the pain that his cowardly fist would inflict when he drunkenly left terrible bruises on her stomach. Forgetting about me was not something that caused her the slightest distres
s or hardship. That explains how the proprietor of the games hall in our quarter had no trouble gradually bringing me into his open arms. He kept me a prisoner inside the dark hall when he first groped me in the quiet of that afternoon that I have never forgotten. Once he’d had enough, he pointed a knife at me, with the blade shining straight into my eyes. Rubbing the point slowly over my face, he used his other hand to grab my cheek and plant on it the final kiss. Then he invited me to come and play whenever I wanted, and without charge.

  He was a bit weird and kept himself apart from the others in the area. He disappeared soon after my childhood was over—a taciturn old man who spent all day in the games hall, which was always packed with unemployed men and children cutting school. He used to sit by the door, smoking and sipping cups of tea. Once in a while he would disappear inside with a group of young men; they would smoke some hashish and get drunk on wine. But I still remember . . . oh, the sheer horror of it, my dear! Can you even begin to imagine? That man, the one from my childhood, who fiddled with my young body to his heart’s content. It went on that whole summer inside the hall. And he had green eyes too.

  Those eyes were sultry and slimy green. I could hardly bear to look at them. Whenever our gazes met, I immediately looked at the floor and kept my head down; I had a strange feeling, a mixture of shame, surrender, and other feelings I did not understand. My own footsteps led me inexorably toward him because I was mostly on my own and had no idea what to do with my spare time. With just a brief gesture from those green eyes, I would slink inside the hall.

  * * *

  Dear Guillaume, let me adjust your position a bit; I would like to rest your head on my knees. My, my, how heavy you are! I would like to have you as close to me as possible so I can whisper some last words to you.

  Please, Guillaume, don’t head into the void with that sarcastic look on your face. That’s what you always used to do in responding to my stupid questions or justifying your opinions. Don’t do that when I tell you that the reason I killed you was those green eyes. Don’t scoff like that—I think it’s true.

  Your eyes! It is only now that I can carefully examine them as much as I like, without bothering you or having you stare at me with that syrupy look. But now their light has gone out. That green color has now turned into something dead. The gleam of life has left them; their pupils have faded away as though they were made of plastic.

  Do you realize, dear Guillaume? I was thinking back to the moment of our very first meeting near the Cinema Mabrouka. I could see your huge hairy fingers reaching up to your sunglasses and preparing to take them off. A smiling acknowledgment of our agreement was lighting up your face, but then you changed your mind and kept them on. At this point, I was telling myself that if you had actually taken them off, your misty eyes with their nasty green color would have repelled me, and I would have refused to be with you. I would not have assumed this heavy burden that will keep weighing me down like an ugly hump for as long as I live.

  Just imagine, dear Guillaume, a normal, trivial movement, repeated thousands of times a day. You could have made my fate completely different. I could still be trawling on the edges of Jemaa el-Fnaa and walking the streets in Gueliz, picking up customers rather than simply getting old and letting my bones freeze inside the walls of the Boulmharez Prison. And most likely you would still be enjoying life, pursuing your hankering for hairy brown bodies. Eventually somebody else would kill you, but this time for an obvious and unambiguous reason; either that, or the police would surprise you and put an end to your passions.

  My dear, I can fully understand the panic you must have felt when we met for the first time. There you were, with your powerful, athletic figure chasing after my own puny brown body that was strutting along, putting everything on display. You were walking along like any normal tourist who had come to expose his body to the Marrakech sun and his spirits to its delights, but I was exposing you and making your inclinations public. At the time you must have thought people were watching you, and that made you anxious. When we entered a dark alley opposite the post office and I spoke to you, I could tell how worried you really were; beads of sweat were glistening on your forehead. You had heard the comments hurled at us like invisible rocks from passersby, beggars, and shopkeepers standing by the doors of their stores. Those things no longer bother me, but you did not understand a word they were saying.

  As soon as I spotted you that very first time, walking along the side of the square with a huge camera over your shoulder, I could easily guess what kind of pleasure you had in mind. There was no need for us to even look at each other—the smile you gave me managed to combine lust with something like fear. No, as soon as I saw you sauntering around, anxious, alone, and without a woman, hiding behind your huge sunglasses, I knew exactly what you wanted. I was certain that women did not interest you. With that, I hurried over to you before someone else snatched you away first.

  It looks like I’m getting a Dutch or German customer, I told myself, as I hurried toward you and took in your enormous manicured body. It was then that I realized you were another Frenchman, but different.

  * * *

  Oh my dear! I’m exhausted and sad. I need to rest. If only I could get a bit of sleep, but my eyelids keep resisting and refuse to stay closed. And you, my dear Guillaume, aren’t you exhausted as well? There you were from the very start, lying on your back and leaning slightly to the right. Now that you’re dead, perhaps you really want me to help change your position, but I too am unable to move.

  How long have you stayed like this, my dear Guillaume? An hour or less, a day and night, forever?

  Beyond the window, lights are shining in the neighboring apartments, shadows come and go, and television screens gleam and dance. Other bodies might well be making love as though there were no corpse in this apartment, a murdered man and his murderer . . .

  I can hear a scary noise in the building. Let’s listen for a bit.

  * * *

  At last—the police seem to have arrived. I can hear their voices bouncing off the walls, magnified as though through loudspeakers. There was the sound of their footsteps coming cautiously up the stairs. By now they’re clearer and louder. They bang on the door for some time, but I can’t get up to open it. They’ll knock it down. They’ll still find everything in place: the murdered man, his murderer, and the weapon. They’ll face an extremely simple problem, one that won’t require any real effort to investigate.

  They’re right by the door now. At first, they knock quite normally, just like any guest or neighbor. But after some tense moments of silence, the knocks get louder and more insistent. Then they start fiddling with the lock; it looks as though it won’t hold out for long.

  Now here they are, pushing the door down. That causes a ringing in my ears. I’ve gradually gotten used to it, and now it goes on and on, like the music of finality.

  As though on a bright, flickering television screen, I picture myself as an old man, back bent over, gray hairs invading my temples, walking along the wall of the Boulmharez Prison on a steaming-hot Marrakech day. An ailing spirit lingers inside this man, and he drags an exhausted body around, no longer recalling how to walk on ground that was not bounded by walls or stifled by roofs.

  Cautiously, the cops move toward the bedroom. Their highly trained senses tense at the stench of murder that pervades the entire apartment. And now they are using their bodies to block the entrance to the room.

  My dear Guillaume, if only your eyes hadn’t been green—if only they hadn’t been green!

  Translated from Arabic by Roger Allen

  ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

  Halima Zine El Abidine was born in Marrakech in 1954 and has published five novels: Obsession of the Return (1999), Citadels of Silence (2005), On the Wall (2012), The Dream Is Mine (2013), and It Wasn’t a Desert (2017). She has also written three plays: Who Is in Charge (1987), The History of Women (2003), and Hnia (2004).

  Mohamed Achaari was born in 1951 in Moulay Driss Zer
houn. He has published a collection of short stories, eleven poetry books, and three novels. After being jailed for his political activities, he went on to serve in a variety of government posts, including as Minister of Culture between 1998–2007. He has twice been elected president of the Union of Moroccan Writers, serving from 1989–1996. He was the joint winner of the 2011 Arabic Booker Prize for his second novel, The Arch and the Butterfly.

  Taha Adnan grew up in Marrakech and has lived in Brussels since 1996. He works at the Ministry for Francophone Education. A poet and writer, he directed the Brussels Arabic Literary Salon in Belgium. His poetry collections and plays have been translated into French, Spanish, and Italian, and published internationally. Two anthologies he edited, Brussels the Moroccan (2015) and This Is Not a Suitcase (2017), were published in French in Casablanca.

  Yassin Adnan was born in 1970 in Safi and grew up in Marrakech, where he still lives. He is best known today for his weekly cultural program Macharif on Moroccan television. He has published ten works—including four books of poetry, three short story collections, and two books about Marrakech: Marrakech: Open Secrets and Marrakech: Vanishing Places. His novel Hot Maroc, which also takes place in Marrakech, was nominated for the International Prize for Arabic Fiction.

  Lahcen Bakour was born in Mtougga in the countryside near Marrakech in 1977. He works as a civil servant, and is a short story writer and novelist. He has published three works: a collection of short stories, Man of Chairs, in 2008, and the novels Isthmus (2012) and The Last Dance (2017). He has received two literary prizes in Dubai and Sharjah in the United Arab Emirates.

  Abdelkader Benali is a Moroccan-Dutch writer who was born in 1975 in Morocco and moved to Rotterdam when he was four years old. Benali published his first novel, Wedding by the Sea, in 1996; it received the Geertjan Lubberhuizen Prize. For his second novel, The Long-Awaited (2002), Benali was awarded the Libris Literature Prize. He has since published the novels Let Tomorrow Be Fine (2005) and Feldman and I (2006).