For Bread Alone

by Choukri, Mohamed; Bowles, Paul;

  I felt the need, too. As we stood there leaning against the door of a shop, people came running by. Ahead of us in the Saqqaya we saw a young man lurching along, leaning heavily to the right under the weight of the bag he was carrying. We’re in luck, said el Kebdani. Here’s Qaabil. We’ll go with him up to his shack at Sidi Bouknadel.

  El Kebdani had often spoken about Qaabil and how he had worked for him as a cargador.

  Is that the smuggler you told me about? I said. The one who has so much money?

  That’s the one. He’s got enough to bury you and me from head to foot.

  He doesn’t look as if he had a hundred pesetas in the world, I told him.

  The little square was empty of people. Occasionally a few men ran across it in one direction or another.

  Qaabil! cried el Kebdani.

  Qaabil stopped walking and set the bag down on the pavement.

  Where are you going? el Kebdani asked him.

  To the shack. Come on with me. Sallafa’s there with Bouchra. I’ve shaved the dirty bitch’s hair and eyebrows.

  Qaabil and I carried the bag between us as we climbed the steps in the direction of Amrah.

  What’s going on? el Kebdani asked him.

  I don’t know. When I came out of the bodega there was a lot of running around. I didn’t see anything more.

  Didn’t you hear the shots?

  I heard a few, but they were a long way off, and I couldn’t find out what was happening.

  The police are shooting at the Moroccans, said el Kebdani.

  What for?

  It’s the thirtieth of March.

  And what are the Moroccans fighting with? asked Qaabil.

  Rocks. What do you expect them to fight with?

  Are there many dead?

  They’re shooting at everybody they see, if he’s a Moroccan.

  A voice from behind us shouted: Clear the way!

  A man was carrying a wounded friend on his back, while a third walked behind.

  Who’s the friend with you? Qaabil asked el Kebdani. What does he do?

  He used to sell soup and fish in the street, and he worked at a restaurant in the Zoco de Fuera.

  Qaabil’s shack was built at the very edge of the high cliffs above the Sidi Bouknadel beach. One of its doors opened onto the cliff. The other gave onto an alley that led downward in the direction of Amrah. It was a real smuggler’s shack.

  When we went in, Sallafa was groaning a song of Farid el Atrache’s: Forget him who forgets you, and don’t regret his loss. Her hair and eyebrows had been cleanly shaved with a razor, so that now she looked like a handsome boy. She wore a lightweight, black and white striped zigdoun. Bouchra was stretched out on the divan in a red and gold brocade caftan with a gauzy dfin over it. She had a sebsi in her hand. The girls put me in mind of the three days I had spent with Abdeslam and Sebtaoui at Sida Aziza’s house, back in Tetuan. I had a thousand pesetas in my pocket at that time, I thought. And today, holes in my pockets and no work.

  A tajine of fish and potatoes sat on the taifor, ready to be served. Sallafa brought us the tas with a kettle of water and a cake of soap, so we could wash our hands. She nearly lost her balance while she was pouring the water for el Kebdani. When my turn came she smiled at me. She poured, smiled, and poured again, holding the kettle unsteadily. When she got to Qaabil she began to laugh. He seemed annoyed with her, and pulled the kettle away from her, crying: Let go of that, you dirty whore!

  Always talking about your mother, she said.

  He made as if to slap her. El Kebdani intervened, taking up the kettle and beginning to pour the water over Qaabil’s hands.

  The next time I won’t just cut off your hair and eyebrows. I’ll drop you off the cliff out there.

  Try it if you dare, she told him. Just try it, and we’ll see who goes over the cliff.

  Aren’t you two ever going to stop? Bouchra cried.

  The tajine was excellent, and very heavily spiced. We sat around the table afterwards, until five in the afternoon, mainly talking about the trouble in the streets as we drank our wine, smoked our kif, and listened to old records by Om Kaltoum.

  I had already fallen asleep on the divan, when el Kebdani called out my name sharply. Mohamed! We’re going out. Stay here with the two girls until we get back. Go back to sleep if you like.

  All right. I’ll sleep a little.

  I heard them shut the door and turn the key in the lock. Sallafa and Bouchra both lay asleep, Bouchra on her right side facing the wall. Sallafa lay on her stomach, with her face also towards the wall. She lay like someone who had been dragged out of the sea. It seemed to me that her buttocks needed to be given first-aid treatment. As I was dropping off to sleep, I heard her move. Then she said: Has that dog gone out?

  Slowly I opened my eyes. She had got up and was turning on the light. So you weren’t asleep after all, I thought.

  She stretched in such a way that she managed to project her bosom and her buttocks at the same time. Then she stood up straight and looked at me archly. Her eyes seemed half-asleep.

  Are you asleep too? she asked me.

  I pulled myself up into a sitting position. I’m just resting a little, I said.

  She lifted the half-empty bottle of wine and indicated the two glasses on the table. Come into the other room so we won’t wake up Bouchra.

  Shall I go in or not? I said to myself. Why not? She’s the boss here, the mistress of the house.

  When I got to my feet I realized that my head was heavy. There was a dull pain in my right temple. I glanced at Bouchra, wondering if she too were awake. She’s attractive, but I don’t dare go near her.

  What difference does it make? I thought. I’ll follow Sallafa into the other room. Women have their own system. They know how to act in such cases.

  I walked into the room. It was a completely furnished bedroom, not at all what I had expected to see in a shack. In one corner there was a high pile of cartons. Perhaps they contained some of Qaabil’s contraband. She was sitting on the edge of the bed. I sat down on a couch facing her.

  Sit over here by me, she told me.

  I hesitated.

  Are you afraid of Qaabil?

  It’s not that, I finally said. I just met him. El Kebdani and I were in the street when they were shooting. We were on our way down from the Zoco de Fuera to the Saqqaya.

  Even if he finds you here with me, he won’t do anything. I know him. A dog that barks.

  He might not do anything, I was thinking, looking at her. He might just throw me out of the shack and go on living with you, if he loves you. And there’s no doubt he loves you. From what I’ve seen and heard, it’s you who manages him, and that means he loves you.

  I rose and went to sit beside her on the bed. She filled the two glasses herself. Then she reached out to the table beside the bed and lit a cigarette. Her eyelashes were black and her eyes were bloodshot. She placed the cigarette between my lips and lit a second one. I thought of Lalla Harouda back at the brothel in Tetuan, and of how she had done the same thing. Today everything is different. Today is better than yesterday.

  And if Bouchra should wake up? I said.

  She’s my sister.

  Your sister!

  Well, like my sister.

  Ah! I see.

  She smiled as she looked at me. Her lips are tiny, like a ring for the finger. I had heard that a small mouth on a girl indicated a very tight sex. I smiled back at her. She finished her drink. I was thinking of the boy who had been shot by the police. She took my hand and lay back, looking up at the ceiling as she smoked. From time to time she squeezed my hand. She too must be thinking of something. Her hand is warm. Her long slim fingers seem made to nibble on. I lay down beside her and smoked, staring up at a doll that hung on the wall. I press her fragile hand, thinking of the boy who had come and tried in vain to get behind the booth with us. I felt sorry now that we had not let him in.

  The short young man sprang, landing on top of the policeman. He
pounds his head as if he were driving in a nail. The second policeman comes, and he is rolling on the pavement.

  We stayed a while quietly, she with her hand in mine. I wondered if Qaabil enjoyed tranquil moments like this with her. She stirred. So did I. We looked at each other and smiled.

  Wait, she said. I’ll undress. She snuffed out her cigarette in the ashtray. Ideas of ecstasy tickled the inside of my head as she pulled off her clothing. Her panties are pink and she wears no brassiere. Her breasts are tiny, like two lemons. My mind went back to the time when I had sucked the oranges on the tree woman at Oran.

  Get undressed.

  It’s better if I keep my clothes on. If Qaabil and el Kebdani should come back I wouldn’t have time to get dressed.

  They won’t be back for another three or four hours, she said.

  Where do you think they went?

  I don’t know. He never tells me where he’s going. But whenever he goes out he stays a long time, especially if he has one of his friends with him, because then he feels more daring and does crazier things. Maybe they’ve gone to the whorehouse together. That’s what I think, if you want to know.

  Her face was heart-shaped, white, with pink cheeks. It was also the face of a boy. I shut my eyes and let my head fall onto her warm breast. A pillow of flesh, I said to myself. I’ve got my head on a pillow that’s pulsing with life. All I could think of was the cushion under my head, and how beautifully it calmed the pain in my temple. She buried her fingers deep in my hair, and I reached out blindly for her head, forgetting that it had been shaved. The hard short hairs tickled my palm. When I rubbed them the wrong way they stood up. Why did he shave off her hair and eyebrows? He must have been jealous. I licked the hard nipples. Then with delight I began to suck on her right breast, filling my mouth with it. I could feel the tight hard part in the middle of the softness. When I tried to do the same with her left breast, she laughed, squirmed, and covered it with her hand. She tries to direct me back to the right breast, and I keep insisting on the left one. The left breast must be very sensitive. It becomes a game, and soon she cannot bear to have either breast touched. We go on for a little while with the game, both of us laughing.

  I’m ticklish on that side.

  You’re ticklish on both sides now.

  She laughed and pulled off her panties. Then with a smile she unbuttoned my fly. The blind dragon rose up and stood rigid in her hand. She smoothed it briefly from its head to its roots, and set to work rubbing it against the lip between her legs. The hairs of the black triangle there are as rough as those on her scalp. The dragon feels the roughness as he scrapes his bald head on them.

  I want to go inside, but she wants only to rub. She squeezes it, chokes it, measuring its size at one end and the other with her hand. I pulled away from her. Then she let me inside and hugged me with her arms and legs. I imagined talking to my sex: There you are, dragon! Blind and bald. This is your first combat in Tangier. Fix it so she’ll never forget you. Be strong whether you like it or not.

  It was Bouchra’s voice that awoke me. Get up, Sallafa! Are you asleep?

  I sat up quickly. Has el Kebdani come back? I asked her.

  Not yet.

  I went out into the larger room. From there I heard Sallafa saying to Bouchra: Hasn’t the pimp got here yet?

  I’m afraid they may have arrested them and taken them to the police station, with all the trouble in the street.

  They can take them all the way to Hell, Sallafa said.

  I went into the latrine. My sex was limp and stuck to my thighs. I came out and sat down with Bouchra. She seemed preoccupied, even sad. I watched her. Something was bothering her. Sallafa bustled in, she looked at me, smiled, and came over to me, leaning above me. Then she took my face in her two hands, and stroked it. Finally she gave me a resounding kiss on the lips, the way one kisses a baby. I smiled.

  She went into the latrine and shut the door. I remembered the day in Aïn Ketiout when the girl gave me brown bread with butter and honey and put perfume on me and kissed my lips, and I told her I was leaving with my family for Tetuan. Where can she be now? It’s a different situation here with Sallafa. I looked at Bouchra, sitting dejectedly with her elbows on her knees and her head between her hands. The way she sat reminded me of the way my mother had sat after she had heard that they had caught my father. Presently she got up, went to the phonograph and put on a record. Oukkeddibou Nafsi it was, with Om Kaltoum singing. It made me think of Aïn Khabbès in Tetuan and the hashish-smokers and drunks at the café where I had worked.

  The key turned in the door and I sat up. El Kebdani came in first, then Qaabil. They looked tired.

  What news? I asked el Kebdani.

  He turned down the volume on the phonograph.

  It’s all over, he said. A lot of Moroccans are dead or wounded.

  Qaabil went into the bedroom. El Kebdani sat down facing me. Sallafa came out of the latrine.

  Where have you been? she asked el Kebdani.

  We had something to do.

  Why don’t you admit you went to a whorehouse? she said, laughing. You went to Seoudiya el Kahala’s. Or else it was Zohra el Hamqat’s.

  Before el Kebdani could answer, Qaabil shouted: Are you going to shut that dirty mouth?

  Whose dirty mouth? Yours?

  She went into the bedroom. El Kebdani got to his feet.

  Let’s go out for a little while, he said. We can come back later.

  We went out through the other door that gave onto the cliffs and the beach below. The cold wind slapped my face. We lit cigarettes and stood there. The lights of the ships anchored in the harbour were brilliant.

  I’ve got something important to tell you, said el Kebdani.

  What is it?

  Qaabil has agreed to let you work with us tomorrow.

  Yes. That is important, I said.

  But on one condition. You have to stay up here at the shack tonight and all day tomorrow. At least, until the time comes to go to work.

  I was thinking: That’s just what I want. It’s a condition that’s fine with me.

  To him I said: But why?

  I’ll tell you why. Qaabil doesn’t know you yet, and he’s afraid you might talk to somebody.

  And you? You think –

  He interrupted me. No! But then, I know you. I told him about you, and that persuaded him. I said you were serious and honest and tough.

  Good, I said.

  You see, he’s had a lot of trouble with his cargadores. He’s sure the only reason he had this run-in with the Customs and the secret police was that he used new cargadores. Half the time it’s the police themselves who send out the cargadores to work with the smugglers. That way they find out where the work’s going to be done, what time it’s going to happen, and even what’s going to be moved in. The police give them three or four times as much as the smugglers do.

  I didn’t know that, I said.

  They feel protected, you see. After a pause he went on: Qaabil’s a good man. The only trouble with him is that he’s stingy. If you want to get what’s coming to you, you practically have to steal it from him.

  I laughed.

  He’s only generous with women. With girls like Sallafa, for instance.

  We both laughed. Is he jealous of her? I asked him.

  He knows she’ll open her legs to anything. Even a monkey.

  And in spite of that he loves her?

  That’s right.

  But why did he shave off her hair?

  He’s crazy about her. He cut off her hair and eyebrows so she wouldn’t go very far from the shack. Sometimes she’ll wander off and stay ten days or more, and he’s like a maniac the whole time.

  Where does she go when she runs away like that?

  She gets drunk and stays with friends. Where would she go?

  Do you think she loves him?

  He laughed. Yes, she loves him, he said with irony. Does a woman like that love anybody? All she wants is the cash. I’ve heard
her say it straight out. One day I heard her tell him: You’re wasting your time with me. Look for another one to love, she said. Get it into your head that I don’t love you!

  And what does he say when she talks to him like that?

  What do you expect him to say? Either he doesn’t answer, or he threatens to beat her up. But I’ve never seen him lift a finger to her.

  I’ve noticed. But in spite of all she says, he still loves her. He’s a strange one.

  He thinks she’s worked magic on him.

  And you? Do you think she’s got him under a spell?

  I don’t believe in spells, he said. He loves her, and that’s all there is to it.

  But how did he ever manage to cut off her hair?

  He got her drunk, and then he put hashish in her tea. When she passed out he got to work on her with the razor.

  And when she woke up?

  She smashed a few dishes and swore she’d get even with him. But she’s like him. She won’t do anything.

  And Bouchra?

  Bouchra’s her best friend. Sallafa goes crazy when she’s separated from her.

  Hasn’t Bouchra got a lover?

  I don’t know, he said slowly. I think the only one she likes is herself. She’s hard to get on with. But she’s a nice girl. Not a mean bone in her body. She only talks when she has to.

  I saw that.

  We lighted more cigarettes. I thought of telling him what had happened between me and Sallafa, but I was afraid he might turn out to be jealous, or might envy me for my good fortune. Or he might go out of loyalty to Qaabil and tell him.

  When we went back into the shack the penetrating voice of Om Kaltoum was singing:

  I’m jealous of the lucky glass that touches your lips.

  And I would stop it from reaching them.

  9

  All morning Sallafa and I stayed at the shack. Qaabil and el Kebdani had gone without giving me any idea of their plans. Bouchra had decided to visit her mother, whom she had not seen in several days. I assumed that Qaabil and el Kebdani had gone to arrange for the passage of the contraband that we would be moving later.

  Sallafa was cleaning the bedroom. I reclined in the sala smoking, uneasy in my mind. I called out to her: Have you got a glass of wine in there?