Yes.
He handed me one of the butts. I sniffed at it. Virginia tobacco. He brought out a box of matches and lit it for me. I inhaled a deep breath of smoke, and let it out. A delicious feeling of peace descended upon me.
Do you know Tetuan well? I asked him.
Not very. I ran away and came here after only about two months.
What does your father do?
He’s a street porter. And yours?
Nothing. He was in the Spanish army and he deserted. They caught him and gave him two years. He hasn’t worked since he got out of jail.
Who works in your family?
My mother. She sells fruit and vegetables in Trancats.
And you? What did you do?
Sometimes I worked for her at the stall and sometimes I had other work.
Why did you run away?
Because my father was always beating me up. Sometimes he’d hang me upside down from the branch of a tree and beat me with his soldier’s belt. That was when we lived in Aïn Khabbès.
My father beat me every time his wife told him to.
And what do you do here? I asked him.
I’m a street porter. What else do you expect me to do? After a moment of silence he said: I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.
It was about one in the afternoon when I went down to the port. I felt very weak. At one of the waterfront cafés I asked for a glass of water. Nearby was a stand that sold bean soup. Only one peseta, and I could have a bowl. But where to find the peseta? My life is not worth even one peseta now. After a few minutes of walking in the strong sun I began to feel sharp pains in my stomach. This sun will drive me crazy. I picked up a small fish that lay on the pavement, and smelled it.
The odour was overpowering, unbearable. I peeled off the skin. Then with disgust, with great disgust, I began to chew it. A taste of decay, decay. I chew it and chew it but I can’t swallow it. I can’t.
From time to time the small sharp stones hurt the soles of my feet. They hurt. I went on chewing the fish as if it were a wad of gum. It was like chewing gum. I spat it out. Its stink was still in my mouth. I looked down with rage at the mass I had spat out. With rage. I ground it into the pavement with my bare feet. I stepped on it. I ground it under my feet. Now I chew on the emptiness in my mouth. I chew and chew. My insides are growling and bubbling. Growling and bubbling. I feel dizzy. Yellow water came up and filled my mouth and nostrils. I breathed deeply, deeply, and my head felt a little clearer. Sweat ran down my face. Running, running. I thought of the boy who had saved me from the police last night. Why didn’t he wake me up this morning? Why? Did he try, and couldn’t because I was sleeping so heavily? Perhaps he tried. I was sorry we had not given each other our names. I was sorry. The fisherman sat in his boat, eating his loaf of bread. He eats it, and I, I am eating it too as I watch. He leans over the gunwale, and I watch him wearily. I watch and watch, thinking that he may throw something away, something I can eat, as he is eating. The monkey tied to the mast seizes something, and nervously cracks it between its teeth. I hoped the fisherman was chewing without pleasure, the way I had chewed my rotten fish. I watched the loaf of bread avidly. He was gazing distractedly at the waterfront skyline, running his eyes vaguely over old Tangier. Throw away your bread now, the way I threw away my fish, I told him silently. He threw the bread into the water. A delicious taste of salt filled my mouth. Delicious. A feeling of pleasure revived my weak body. In spite of being so tired, I felt better. I stripped off my shirt and trousers, and plunged into the water. I swam beneath the bread and saw that the slab of meat that had been inside it had already sunk to the bottom. There goes half my luck, I thought. The fisherman began to laugh uproariously. I raised my head towards him, my hand clutching the bread. I looked at him and at the bitten piece of bread. Lumps of shit floated all around me in the water. Floating, floating. I squeezed the bread in my hand. It was spongy, and sticky with oil from the boats. That bear is laughing at me as though I were a big fish he was going to catch. He’s laughing at me. I’ve swum into his net. Inside. I began to swim towards the concrete steps, passing other small lumps of shit and bread bobbing in the water in front of my face, bobbing and bobbing. I pushed them away as I swam. In my mind they became connected: bread and shit. Connected. A little water went down my throat, went down. I choked, choked. There was pain in my head and chest. I climbed two of the steps. On the third step I slipped and rolled back down into the water. Again the water ran into my throat. Again. The idea came to me that I was going to go on for ever, climbing up the steps only to slip and fall back into the water. On and on. Even as I got to the highest step, I imagined myself falling backwards into the bay. Falling again. I was very careful where I placed my feet. My body was covered with sticky oil. I picked up my shirt and trousers, and started walking. On my way, I looked behind me and the fisherman waving at me. Laughing. The sound of the laughing dies away little by little. Dies away. Now he has stopped laughing. Stopped.
He called after me, wheedling. Hey, boy! Come here! It’s only a joke. Come on. Here’s another loaf of bread.
Poor kid, said the fisherman in the boat with him.
I did not turn around and go back towards them. The humiliation was very great. Too great. Ahead of me on the pavement there were some more small fish that had been trampled on. Trampled underfoot. I raised my face to the sky. It was more naked than the earth. More naked. The hot sun struck my face, struck it. I began to tremble with fatigue. I tremble and shake. I see a cat reclining comfortably in a shady corner. It looks at me half-asleep, with indifference. Indifferent. Its white and black belly rises and falls slowly, slowly. I picked up one of the small, dry fish. Dry. It had a worse stench than the first one. Worse than the first. I began to vomit yellow water again. That was what I wanted. I wanted it. I vomited and vomited, until only the sound came out. Only the sound, the tight sound of retching. That was what I wanted. I walked towards the beach, feeling empty, weak. Now and then it seemed that I was about to fall and not get up again. In order not to think about what had happened and what might be going to happen, I began to look back at the footsteps I was making in the sand. The waves broke over them shortly after I made them. I watched my footsteps and the waves. I threw my shirt and trousers down onto the sand and began to rub my body with seaweed and sand. I rub and rub. My hair is even stickier than my body. Stickier. I went on rubbing and rinsing until my skin was red, red. The skin on my body was still sticky with oil, but not so dirty as before.
In the afternoon, after wandering far and wide, I sat down on some steps opposite the railway station. I did not manage to carry any suitcases for the travellers who arrived. I failed. I did not dare approach them. One of the porters yelled into my face: Get back! Out of here! Go on! This was a good town until you all landed here like a swarm of locusts!
They swore at me, spat on me, and shoved me away. A muscular young man gave me a hard kick and chopped me on the back of my neck. But I was determined to stay there. I stayed there. Later I succeeded in persuading a European to let me carry his suitcase. It was heavy. As I was lifting it up to carry it, a big man grabbed me and began to swear at me. He managed to convince the traveller that he was more capable of carrying the bag than I was. Violently he yanked the handle out of my hand. Violently. The situation has not changed at all so far. When I was seven or eight years old I always dreamt about bread. And here I am at sixteen still dreaming about it. Am I going to go on dreaming about bread for ever? The cat on the fishermen’s pier was luckier than I. It can eat fish out of the gutter without vomiting. Yes, without vomiting. There’s nothing left but begging or stealing. But it seems to me that a beggar sixteen years old is not going to collect much. Yes, it is difficult. Sebtaoui was right: begging is a profession for children and old people. If a young man can’t find work, it’s more shameful to beg than to steal. That’s what he used to say. I wonder where they are now, he and Abdeslam. Who knows?
A young man sat down near me and took out a pack of black cigarettes
. Do you smoke? he said. I turned my head and answered weakly: Yes.
What’s the matter with you? Are you sick?
No.
He came nearer and I took a cigarette from him. He lighted a match.
Thank you. Not now. Thanks.
He got up, saying: Wait for me. I’ll be back.
I smelled the cigarette. If I smoke it I’ll vomit again without vomiting anything. The same as at noon. I heard the sound of a plane flying overhead, and raised my eyes to the sky. The noise slowly grew fainter, and I did not see the plane. A feeling of sleepiness stole over me. I heard the young man talking. Here!
The cigarette had fallen from my hand. I must have slept. Yes, I’ve been asleep.
He was holding out half a loaf of bread stuffed with tinned sardines. I saw a bottle of wine in his hand. He took a small glass out of his pocket and filled it. When he had drunk, he refilled it.
Raising the glass to his lips he said: Where are you from?
I answered as I ate. I’m from the Rif. My family lives in Tetuan.
He emptied his glass again and licked his lips contentedly. When did you come to Tangier?
Yesterday.
And where do you sleep?
In the street.
I was happy eating. I swallowed some mouthfuls without being able to chew them. He filled the glass and handed it to me. Do you drink?
Yes, I said, and drank it at one gulp.
I began to feel things getter clearer. I smoked the cigarette and had a second glass. When I had finished the third, he said: Do you want to sleep at my house?
I looked at him surprised. His expression was not reassuring. He wanted something of me, and I thought I knew what it was. Yes, his eyes tell me that’s what he wants.
No. Thank you. Thank you very much.
As you like. He shook a few drops of wine out of the glass and put it into his pocket. See you again, he said.
Thank you. Goodbye.
I had almost told him that I slept in the graveyard. Luckily I stopped in time to avoid such stupidity. I walked along the street where the palm trees grew. The soft breeze revived me, and I saw everything clearly in my mind. Then I stopped walking. From a car an old man was signalling to me. What does he want? I went over to the curb and leaned down to the window. He opened the door and said to me in Spanish: Get in.
I got in and sat beside him. He drove slowly. ¿Adónde vamos? I asked him. He made a circular motion with his hand. A paseo, he said. A little paseo.
He wants something different, I thought. But I’m not afraid of him. Just what is it he wants, though?
Are you from Tangier? he asked me.
No. I’m from Tetuan.
We were on the outskirts of town. He’s a maricón. That much is certain, I thought.
He stopped the car in a dark section of the road. The lights of the city sparkled in the distance. He turned on the overhead light. So the short ride ends here. With a caressing movement he runs his hand over my fly. And the other ride begins. Button by button, very slowly, he unfastened the trousers, and my sex felt the warmth of his breath. I did not dare look at his face or even at his hand, whose warm pressure had made my sex rise up.
¡Bravo! he was saying. ¡Macho bravo!
He began to lick it and touch it with his lips, and at the same time he tickled my crotch with his fingers. When he pulled half of it down his throat, I felt his teeth. And if he bites it? I thought. The idea cooled my enthusiasm. To bring it back, I began to imagine that I was deflowering Asiya in Tetuan. When I finished, he still had me in his mouth. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his lips. His face was congested, his eyes very wide, and his mouth stayed open. I buttoned my fly and folded my arms over my chest as if nothing had happened. Taking out a pack of cigarettes, he offered me one and lighted it for me. Then he lit a cigarette and turned on the radio. A beautiful calm music came over the air. I sat enjoying it, and was reminded of Oran and my work with the lovely Monique. Monique! Today it’s only a name, to be remembered or forgotten.
We did not say a word to one another as we drove back to the city. He gave me fifty pesetas and let me out near the place where he had called to me. He shook my hand and said: Hasta la vista. His hand was warm and smooth. I waved to him. Hasta la vista!
The air was full of smoke from the car.
They suck it for five minutes and they give you fifty pesetas. Do they all suck, the ones who are like that old man? Are all the maricones as nice as he was? Do all the ones who suck have cars, and do they all give fifty pesetas? A new profession, to add to begging and stealing. I must pick one of the three until a further choice appears. One of the three or all of them, depending on the circumstances. And why not? I took out the fifty-peseta note and looked carefully at it. Then I folded it and put it back into my pocket. I was afraid of losing it. If I had been that old man I should have vomited. Does he get the same pleasure from sucking me that I get from sucking a woman’s breast? Does he get excited while he does it? My sex still felt warm and sticky between my thighs. Suddenly I was struck by my conscience. What I had done was no different from what any whore does in the brothel. My upright sex was worth fifty pesetas, looked at in that light.
I went into a little restaurant in the Zoco de Fuera and asked for a plate of fried fish and half a loaf of bread. The two men facing me were masons. On the table stood a one-litre Mobiloil can. The three of us took turns drinking tepid water from it. Each time I lifted it I smelled the foul odour it gave off. At the other two tables there were working men, men out of work, and thieves of various kinds. They all ate in silence. There were only the sounds of spoons and dishes and kitchenware, and the voice of the proprietor giving commands to the boy who assisted him. From time to time one of those who has finished eating emits a loud belch, followed by a drawn-out exclamation: El hamdoul’ illah! I handed four pesetas to the proprietor and went out. It had been hot inside the restaurant. Egyptian and Moroccan music came from the cafés and restaurants. A young drunk, naked to the waist, stood outside the door of one café, cursing Allah in a piercing voice. Two other young men came out of the café, forced him to lean over, and then poured a jar of water over his head. Then they pushed him back into the café. I noticed that they too were staggering. I thought again of the boy who had saved me the night before from the police raid. I wonder if he is asleep in the graveyard now. If I don’t find him there shall I sleep there alone?
I went into a baqal and bought five Philip Morris cigarettes. I was approaching the entrance of the cemetery, and it occurred to me that a graveyard is the only place you can go into at any hour of the day or night, without having to ask permission. They’re right. Why should they have a guard here? There’s no money in here. The dead are not afraid. They don’t get angry or hit anyone. Each dead man is in his place. When his gravestone crumbles they put another dead one in the same spot.
The cardboard boxes were piled in their place in the corner. Have they caught him? What has happened to him? I spread out some boxes on the ground. Perhaps he will come. I lit a cigarette, took three wax matches and twisted them together to make a torch. Then I held them up to inspect the writing on the marble plaque. I saw from the numbers there that the person had lived for fifty-one years. The numbers were all I could read. He or she, I didn’t know which, was no longer living, and I was still here. But what does it mean, a man who was alive and now isn’t? What does it mean, that I should be sleeping here in this corner of a family grave? From the tiles and the well-kept plot I can see that the family was a rich one. What does it mean to allow a man sixty or seventy years old to suck on me and then give me fifty pesetas? There must be answers to these questions, but I don’t know them yet. The questions come easily, but I am not sure of the answer to any one of them. I thought the meaning of life was in living it. I know the flavour of this cigarette because I’m smoking it, and it is the same with everything. I smoked with great gusto, and then I threw away the cigarette and went to sleep.
I a
woke early. A new boy lay asleep in the place of the other one who had saved me. Quickly I felt to see if what remained of the fifty pesetas was still in my pocket. My fortune was there. The boy had been right when he said there was no safer place than the cemetery. I think the human race respects its members more when they are dead than when they are alive.
At Bab el Fahs I bought a pair of rubber-soled alpargatas for fifteen pesetas. My feet were dirty. I had breakfast in a café and smoked the first cigarette of the day happily. A new day to live through. What shall I do during this new day? Will I manage to pick somebody’s pocket the way Sebtaoui and Abdeslam do in Tetuan? Why not? I must try before what money I have left gives out.
In the middle of the morning I walked into a market. A European woman was buying something at a stall. She paid and put her change purse back into her handbag. Then she caught sight of me, staring fixedly at the handbag. Her eyes seemed to be saying: Aren’t you ashamed? And so I felt ashamed, and went out of the market. I spent the whole day letting the alleys swallow me up and spew me out. In the evening I discovered that you could sleep in the Fondaq ech Chijra. You paid only one peseta at the gate in order to get in, and you could sleep where you liked. There are two levels. The animals sleep below and the people above. It was nine o’clock when I went in. A café, a restaurant, small rooms they rented out, shops, fruit and vegetable stands. The Fondaq is like a city. On the stairway I ran into a drunk. He reached out to touch my face, saying: Aha, gazelle! Where are you off to, beautiful? I pushed his hand away violently, ran up two steps and glared at him. He guffawed.
What are you so nervous about? Afraid of me?
In his hand he held an empty bottle. I’m going to fill up this bottle, he said. I’ll be back.
He went on downstairs, laughing, and I continued up, feeling more frightened each minute. He called back to me: Wait for me, handsome. I’ll be right up. I’m not going to let you get away.
There were scores of men on the balcony, some of them already asleep, but most of them sitting up, drinking, smoking kif, chatting and singing. I caught sight of a drunk hugging a boy. Then he kissed him on the cheeks. One of the others cried: Leave him alone! Not now! Later, later.
For Bread Alone Page 7