For Bread Alone

by Choukri, Mohamed; Bowles, Paul;

  No. I’m not going to sleep here, I told myself. I’d rather sleep in the graveyard.

  As I started to go back, someone called to me. Hey, beautiful! Come over here with us and make us happy. I did not turn to look. My heart was pounding. I must buy a knife or a razor. I ran down the stairs very fast, stopping only when I got to the animals’ quarters. Luckily human beings are not the only thing in the world. I walked over to a dark corner and sat down. Then I smoked a cigarette. Did Allah mean to make the world like this, with such disorder and confusion? The smell of the beasts was very strong. A mare stood beside me. I folded my arms on my knees, bent over, and fell asleep. I slept sitting up because I was afraid of being raped.

  All at once I was being drenched with warm, pungent water. I jumped up, terrified. What’s that? I cried. The last drops of urine are still trickling from the mare’s puckering hole. She takes a step backwards. Quickly I get out of the way, in case she kicks.

  At the door the guard asked me if I was coming back.

  No! I cried with feeling. I’m not! I’ll never come back!

  Why? What’s the matter? Did they do something to you?

  Yes. A mare pissed all over me while I was asleep.

  What were you doing sleeping down there? Why didn’t you sleep upstairs on the balcony? Go to a hammam and wash before you go to sleep, or you’ll be sick.

  Keep your advice for yourself, I told him. He slammed the gate after me.

  The air was tepid and the streets were empty. Where to go now? To the baths? And my clothes? I am soaked through. I began to scratch.

  Three drunks sat singing in front of the entrance to the old Jewish cemetery. As I went past, one of them called to me. Come here! Where are you going?

  I looked over my shoulder and kept walking.

  Come on, gazelle! He stood up unsteadily and began to follow me. One of the others said: Let him go. Come back here.

  The street leading up to the Zoco de Fuera seemed to be the best way out. As I ran I looked back and saw the drunk sitting down again with the others.

  I bought a cake of soap in the Zoco Chico. The square was filled with drunks, whores, maricones and beggars. In the Calle de la Marina near the Djamaa el Kbira two Moroccan police stopped me.

  Your papers, said the first.

  I haven’t got any papers.

  Where do you live?

  In Tetuan.

  Hearing this, the second one demanded: Where in Tetuan?

  In Trancats. Behind the Jewish baths.

  Do you know Moulay Ali?

  He’s a neighbour of ours.

  What are you doing here?

  Nothing. I came to look for work.

  And where are you going now?

  I was sleeping in the Fondaq ech Chijra and a mare pissed on me.

  A mare!

  Yes, a mare. I was asleep downstairs with the animals.

  The two men looked at each other, and the second asked me: Do you know where Dar Debbagh is?

  No.

  Come with us.

  At the corner he pointed out the place, saying: Go in there. You’ll find a fountain. Wash yourself, and in the morning wash your clothes.

  The water at the fountain was warm. After I had bathed, I washed my trousers and shirt by trampling them underfoot. Now and then from the nearby café there was the sound of men’s voices as they argued over their card games. A man staggered out and came over to me.

  What are you doing? Are you crazy, washing your clothes at night?

  I stopped stamping and explained why I was doing it.

  A mare!

  Yes. A mare.

  Mmmm, he said at length. I see. Well, take a good wash.

  When I had finished, there were my wet shirt and trousers on the ground in front of me. There was no other solution. I wrung them out as much as I could, and put them back on.

  I stopped walking when I came near to the railway station. Shall I sleep in a freight car or go to the beach? On the sand nobody will ask me any questions, whereas a guard can come through the freight car. The main thing is: will I be able to protect myself against someone bigger than I am?

  Again I heard in my head the words of the boy who had taken me to the graveyard: If they don’t find anything to steal on you they rape you. I had more than twenty pesetas in my pocket. Will that be enough to protect me? Maybe the boy was right, but he was talking about what they do in the middle of the city. On the beach, or in a freight car, though, they could rob you first and rape you afterwards. They could even cut your throat. And on the beach who could hear? So it’s the freight car. I climbed the wall and let myself down. I could feel the sharp points of the gravel through the soles of my alpargatas, and I worried that they would cut through. I went along slowly, carefully, until I came to the first freight car. I climbed into it and lit a match. It was empty.

  Suppose someone comes along and attacks me, I thought again. I jumped down to the ground and picked out the two sharpest stones I could find. As I climbed back up into the car I heard the soft sound of cloth ripping. My trousers.

  Bad luck! I threw myself down on the floor. One stone was in my hand and the other lay beside me, near my head. I must buy a knife. Or at least a razor-blade. And I’ve got to find a friend somewhere in this city. What has become of the boy who saved me? Is he staying away from the graveyard on purpose? How long will I have to go on living by myself? Ought I to go on accepting this life as it comes up each day, or not?

  8

  We were in the Café Chato, and I had just lost my last centimo playing aaita. When we had begun to play, twenty-five pesetas left, and el Kebdani told me: This isn’t your lucky day. Stop playing.

  Don’t worry about me, I told him sharply. I can manage myself and my money.

  Now, a little after noon, el Kebdani had just lent me five pesetas. I bought three pesetas’ worth of kif and paid two for a glass of green tea. We were sitting up on the balcony; through the little window I could see the whole Zoco de Fuera in front of me. It was Sunday. The big square was crowded with circulating salesmen and buyers, as well as the others who were walking through without buying anything. The wind had come up and the sky was dark with clouds. All the Moroccan establishments were shut – restaurants, cafés and shops. Above each doorway there was a Moroccan flag, and tacked beside it a black flag. In some cafés the owners sat playing cards, treating the day as one of leisure. Earlier that morning I had asked Chato what the holiday meant. It’s a bad day, he answered in a voice that came half from his mouth and half through his nose.

  And what does a bad day mean?

  You don’t know?

  No.

  I’ll tell you. The thirtieth of March nineteen twelve was the day when the French began to protect Morocco. That was under Moulay Hafid. And today’s the thirtieth of March nineteen fifty-two, so it’s forty years of protection. And that’s why it’s a bad day.

  But what do we want the French to do today?

  Don’t you know what we want them to do?

  No. What?

  We want them to get out! The Protectorate was supposed to last forty years. It expires today.

  Do we want the Spanish to get out too?

  He looked at me with annoyance. Listen, I haven’t got time to talk about it now. Go up onto the balcony and ask one of your friends to tell you all about it.

  El Kebdani had won about three hundred pesetas, when he suddenly announced he was quitting.

  Finish the game with us, one of the players said angrily.

  Suppose I don’t feel like it? I have to go on playing anyway?

  No, but it’s not logical to stop now. You’ve won everything we had. Finish the game out to the end, since you’re the winner.

  I’m hungry, el Kebdani said. I’m going to get some lunch.

  We’re all hungry, they told him. Play cards.

  If you don’t want to finish the game, divide your winnings.

  That’s right. Makes sense. That’s the thing to do, unless
you want to go on with the game.

  El Kebdani laughed sarcastically, and took the sebsi I had filled for him.

  I’m warning you. You’d better finish this game.

  It looked as if there were going to be trouble. Chato yelled up: I don’t want noise in my café! Go out into the street if you feel like killing each other.

  When the gamblers had thinned out, Chato had gone back downstairs. Usually he stayed on the balcony keeping track of the winnings so he could collect his commission. When he had left, I had thought to myself: He wants us out of here. The stakes aren’t worthwhile.

  Suddenly a furious voice came up from the Zoco de Fuera. People! People! Moroccan patriots! This is a black day. Exactly forty years ago today, in nineteen twelve, the French signed the treaty of the Protectorate over Morocco. And we’re still not free.

  We all crowded around the window. It’s crazy el Merouani, the one who sells the pastries in the Zoco Chico, said el Kebdani.

  What’s he saying?

  What can he say? He’s completely out of his head. He’s just having some fun with them.

  They say he’s an informer for the Spanish.

  It wouldn’t surprise me.

  You shouldn’t say it unless you’re sure. Where’d you hear that?

  I know. He belongs to a secret party run by some Spanish who want to get rid of the International Zone so they can run Tangier by themselves.

  Again Chato yelled from below:

  That’s enough up there! I don’t want to hear any politics in this café! Go out into the Zoco if you feel like talking politics or fighting.

  El Merouani went on shouting in his wild voice, shaking his arms excitedly in the air. Out with colonialism!

  Out! Out! shouted the crowd.

  Long live free and independent Morocco!

  Aache! cried the crowd.

  Down with the traitors! screamed el Merouani.

  Yasqot!

  Holy war, in the name of Allah!

  El jihad! El jihad ya ‘ibad Allah!

  A Djibliya woman in a straw hat climbed up onto a wooden crate and began to scream: Youyouyouyouyouyouyou!

  We ran downstairs and stood looking out over the barrage of benches and tables that were stacked in front of the entrance.

  In his half-mouth, half-nose voice Chato said: Either go outside or back upstairs. Out or up!

  I leapt over the barricade and stood outside. Are you coming or not? I called to el Kebdani. He hesitated a moment, and then jumped too.

  Come back here! cried one of the players. Don’t listen to fuckface there.

  The fuckface is your mother, I told him.

  He spat at me across the barricade, and I spat back at him. Then he threw a bench out at me. I dodged it, and insulted his mother again.

  We’ll see about this later, he said. I’ll show you who’s who. When I get hold of you I’ll spit up your ass!

  I grabbed my groin and shouted: Come and get it!

  Kill each other outside, Chato was saying. Go on out, all of you!

  El Kebdani pulled me ahead by the arm. Shit on their mothers, I told him. They want you to stay there. They think maybe they’ll be able to get some of their money back.

  I was born a long time ago, he said. I know what the sons of bitches want.

  They were cheating. Did you notice?

  I noticed, yes. But they’re idiots. I could follow everything they were doing.

  El Merouani was beckoning to the excited crowd, trying to make it go in the direction he wanted. We came nearer to the multitude.

  Most of these people are from somewhere else, said el Kebdani. They’re not from Tangier.

  Where do you think they’re from?

  The Rif, most of them. Can’t you tell by their faces? Look at them! They’re Riffians! Aren’t they Riffians?

  You’re right. They certainly look like it. They’re from our country.

  The crowd had begun to run towards the main bus stop.

  Piles of stones lay here and there because the street was being repaved. The men were collecting the stones. Then they went in four principal directions: up the Calle del Estatuto, down the Cuesta de la Playa, through the gate of Bab el Fahs, and into the narrow Semmarine where the money-changers stood. There was another group that ran up to the police station at the top of the steps and began to throw rocks. El Kebdani and I followed the crowd that had gone into the Semmarine. They were stoning a policeman. Some of the stones hit his head. His white helmet fell onto the pavement. The blood ran down his face. He put one hand on the top of his head and the other on the holster of his revolver, and began to run towards the Zoco de Fuera, followed by the stone-throwers. One of them suddenly turned and hurled a rock at a large clock that hung over the entrance to an Indian bazaar. The clock said 1.15 when he smashed it. Then they broke the windows of a shoe store and a camera store beside it.

  Let’s get some of those watches and cameras, I said.

  No.

  Why not?

  Because we don’t know yet what’s going to happen. They could stop us and search us.

  But look at them all grabbing the watches over there!

  Let them grab, if they want. And if they jump into a well, are you going to jump in, too?

  There was the crash of more plate glass being broken.

  You’re crazy, I told him. You’re afraid! I didn’t think you were like that.

  You’re the crazy one. Steal by yourself, if you want.

  Shots rang out from the region of the police station.

  The police have begun shooting, said el Kebdani. Look at what they’re doing to the Zapatería Rex!

  A group of men came running in our direction, all of them carrying rocks. Women and children were screaming. The peddlers and stall-keepers were abandoning their merchandise and fleeing. El Kebdani pulled my arm. Come on! Run!

  We rushed and hid behind the booth of a Jewish money-changer almost at the entrance of the market. The smashing of the shop windows continued in the Plazuela Pérez Galdós, and the sound of shooting was coming closer. Everyone is running and crying out. The shots are very near. I raised my head and peered out. A man was rolling on the pavement in front of us, blood pouring from him. A Moroccan policeman ran behind, nervously brandishing his revolver.

  Duck! cried el Kebdani. Do you want them to kill us?

  Look through this crack, I told him. Can you see all right?

  Yes. I can see.

  I think that one’s dead. He’s not moving.

  I see him. But shut up.

  People run and shout. The rapid gunfire comes closer.

  A Moroccan youth tried to crawl in with us. We pushed him away. Find another place! Yes, get out of here! There’s no room here for you.

  Or stay out there where you are until they shoot you, I added.

  Three other youths halted in their flight and stood still near us. The two taller ones helped the shorter one climb up onto the roof of a shop. Once he was up there, he looked around quickly and called down: Let’s get out of here fast!

  The continuous gunfire was louder. A cry, and there is the thump of a body falling to the pavement.

  They’ve got another, I said.

  I’m listening and watching, he told me.

  A policeman appeared, carrying a machine-gun. As he passed, the short youth uttered a cry, and leapt down on top of him from the roof. We both raised our heads above the booth. The policeman is lying face down, with the young man on top of him, hammering his head with his fist as if he were pounding a nail.

  Do you know who that policeman is? said el Kebdani.

  No.

  That’s Inspector Barcia. His father’s Moroccan and his mother Spanish.

  The youth rose and picked up the machine-gun that lay a few feet away. Jerkily he turned it this way and that, trying to understand how it worked. But it was no use. He had no idea.

  The Inspector lay there unconscious.

  Suddenly the young man raised the machine-gun w
ith both hands above his head and, uttering an oath, threw it to the ground with all his might.

  Inaal dinek!

  Then another policeman appeared, firing one shot after another. The short youth spun around, crying out. The policeman fired again, this time hitting him in the belly. He fell and rolled into the gutter.

  He got it in the back and front, I said.

  I’m watching.

  I’ve never seen a man shot before, I said. Only in the movies.

  Well, now you’re seeing it before your eyes, said el Kebdani.

  They must be killing people like this all over town.

  What do you expect them to do?

  El Kebdani’s forehead was covered with sweat.

  Keep calm, I told him.

  What are you talking about? he demanded. I don’t need your advice.

  You’re trembling, though, I said.

  I’m not trembling, he whispered furiously. Can’t you shut up? Do you want them to spill our guts here, like that one out there?

  What a coward you are, I murmured.

  All right. I’m a coward. But shut up.

  A third policeman came into view, shooting one shot into the air. He helped the other one lift the Inspector from the ground where he had been lying. The other picked up the machine-gun and put the Inspector’s cap on his head for him. How do you feel? he asked him.

  I’m all right. Just dizzy.

  I got that dog, the policeman told him.

  They walked over to the youth. One of them moved him with his foot. Then they turned and began to run down the hill towards the Zoco Chico.

  Let’s get out of here, whispered el Kebdani.

  Where to?

  Anywhere. If they find us in here we’re finished.

  There was the sound of more shots approaching.

  Come on. Fast, he said.

  I climbed out first. Look! The boy’s moving. He’s still alive!

  Hurry! El Kebdani pulled me by the arm. Do you want them to get us too?

  We saw the three policemen running down the Siaghines. And we ran down the Calle el Mansour. Halfway down the hill el Kebdani stopped. Wait a minute. I’ve got to piss.