For Bread Alone

by Choukri, Mohamed; Bowles, Paul;

  Another round? the waiter asked.

  Bring a full bottle of cognac, I told him.

  Right, said Kandoussi. Bring a bottle, and I’ll drink that.

  But how did he die? I said.

  When he rowed back to the ship it wasn’t there. They’d caught sight of a Customs boat coming their way, and had to get out. He had to row ashore. The rowboat must have been thrown against a rock. They found him and the pieces of the boat lying on the beach. Poor Kebdani!

  That was the death written for him, said Kandoussi.

  Yes, I said sadly. You’re right. It was written that way. But it’s not right.

  Poor Kebdani.

  The waiter brought a bottle of Terry and opened it at the table. He filled the glasses, set the bottle on the table, and went away.

  The only things that can happen are those Allah decides must happen, said Kandoussi.

  And Qaabil?

  He’s been arrested.

  Arrested? For what?

  They’re trying to connect him with Kebdani’s accident. They know Kebdani worked for him.

  Did they take the ship? I asked him.

  No. They stopped it and went aboard and searched it.

  Then they let it go.

  Where’s Qaabil now?

  The secret police have him.

  What has he told them?

  So far he hasn’t admitted to anything.

  I finished my glass and refilled it.

  You’re going to be drunk fast if you go on like that, he said.

  I could drink this whole bottle without moving it from my lips, I bragged. And I put my hand on the bottle. You want me to show you?

  Kandoussi also put his hand on the bottle. No! Don’t be crazy. I know you could drink it. Tell me: why did you leave the key with Sallafa?

  She asked me for it. Naturally I let her have it. She’s the one who ran the shack.

  I know that. But she’s run away.

  Run away?

  She took everything she could carry with her out of the place, and disappeared.

  Where to?

  How should I know? It’s a safe guess she’s left Tangier.

  So she’s gone, I said to myself.

  It always ends that way if you let a whore into your life, he said.

  And Bouchra? Hasn’t she come back yet?

  She must have gone with Sallafa. They’ve never been separated, not since they were kids down in Dar el Baroud.

  They’ve gone together to Casablanca, I thought. I looked out into the Zoco Chico, full of drunks wandering up and down, and said: Well, things are back the way they were before the trouble.

  Things aren’t good, though, anywhere in Morocco, said Kandoussi. We’re going to see much bigger trouble than that before too long. They’re going to be demanding independence.

  El Kebdani told me that only six funeral processions went to the mosque, and everybody knows that dozens were killed.

  A lot of bodies are beginning to be washed up along the shore, he said.

  I see. They threw them into the ocean afterwards.

  They say that even live people got thrown in, sewn up in sacks. And some of the dead bodies had no bullets in them or any marks on them. They found one boy on the beach at Larache, with handcuffs still on his wrists. But no marks on his body anywhere.

  Very bad, I said.

  They’ll probably keep coming across bodies for a long time. But you can never get to the bottom of all that. I have five hundred pesetas for you. Your wages for the work you did the other night. I was going to pay you tonight, but I think tomorrow would be better, now that I see how you are tonight.

  Whenever, I said. It doesn’t matter.

  I’m going to leave the money with Sidi Mustafa at the Café Raqassa. He’s reliable. Do you know him?

  Yes. I go there often.

  He’s taking care of me, I thought. He doesn’t want me to spend the money tonight.

  I’ve got something else to say to you.

  What’s that?

  You’re not to tell anybody that you’ve worked for me. The other three cargadores who worked with us are all reliable. There’s nothing to worry about there. But you never know what can happen. If they should arrest you and begin asking questions, deny everything. They may beat you, but hold on, and don’t be afraid of them.

  Don’t worry about me.

  There’s one good thing, at least. You’re not known as a cargador.

  Wouldn’t Qaabil tell them everything if they tortured him?

  I don’t think he would. But who knows? They’ve certainly tortured him by now.

  Is the stuff in a safe place? I asked him.

  We delivered it to the Hindu the same morning.

  I nodded my head. I see.

  You’d better sleep at your hotel tonight. But look for another place to stay. I’ll find you a place that won’t cost you more than fifty pesetas a month.

  Who’s staying at the shack now?

  Nobody. Sallafa left the key at the baqal Qaabil always used. That shack is no good to anybody now he’s in jail.

  You mean the police are watching it?

  They may be.

  We got up. The bottle was still half full.

  Would it be all right if I took it with me? I asked him.

  Take it. But be sure you don’t go back to see Laila.

  Do you think I’m crazy? I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.

  You’re still young, and Allah’s days are long, said Kandoussi.

  I went outside to wait for him while he paid the waiter. He came out. We shook hands.

  Can you get to your hotel all right? he said.

  Of course. You think I’m two years old?

  Remember. Don’t go back to the whorehouse.

  No. I told you, I’m not crazy.

  I walked down the Calle del Comercio. In the alleys on each side there were drunks and whores standing around. It was about twelve o’clock, and I myself was drunk. I staggered along, feeling well able to protect myself if anyone should attack me.

  On my way up the steps at Djenane el Kaptane I came face to face with a young man who was very drunk. There was no one else in the street. He turned as I brushed past him.

  Where are you off to, handsome?

  What do you care where I’m going?

  He put his hand on the bottle I was carrying. Can’t we go and drink this together?

  Take your hand off the bottle, I said. Get out of here.

  I stepped aside and started ahead, but he blocked my way. I live near here. In Derb Zeynana. Come on. We’ll stay together all night.

  What do you want of me? I cried angrily.

  Why are you so skittish, gazelle? he murmured close to my ear, trying at the same time to stroke my face.

  Get out of here! I shouted. What do you want?

  You still don’t know what I want of you? he said, leering. I want you, that’s all. Come on. Spend the night with me.

  I gripped the bottle by its neck. Go and spend the night with your mother or your sister, I told him.

  You’re talking about my mother, you little maricón? he roared. Insulting my mother? I’ll fix you!

  I backed up a bit, and he followed. Then he kicked me in the groin. I bent forward, clutching myself with both hands, while stars of pain flashed in front of my eyes. He kicked me again in the same spot. I fell and rolled down a few steps. The bottle smashed, but I went on holding the neck in my hand. He kicked again, and I ducked so he would not hit my face. His foot hit my hand instead. He went on kicking with both feet, furiously, while I made every effort to see that he did not get my face.

  A girl’s voice came from a nearby window: That’s enough! Leave him alone! Don’t kick him like that. He’s younger than you.

  I am trying to grab him by the leg. I duck one of his more vicious kicks, and at that moment he loses his balance and falls backwards onto the pavement. I made a great effort and got to my feet. Then I kicked him in the face.

  I
heard the girl’s voice again. Stop it! You’re going to kill each other!

  He had his face covered. I went on kicking him. When I was tired of kicking, I used the broken neck of the bottle on the two hands that were spread over his face. He was bellowing like a beast. My face! My neck!

  I ran on and left him there yelling. The girl’s voice cried: That’s what you wanted, you two. You’ve finally got it.

  I fell several times as I ran up the stairs. Blood ran from my face, my knees, and from the hand that had held the bottle. I could still hear him bellowing as I went through the arch of Bab el Assa. I took out my handkerchief and put it to my nose. Blood was coming from my mouth as well.

  At the entrance of Derb ben Abbou I stumbled on one of the steps and fell, letting go of the handkerchief as well as the broken neck of the bottle, which I still had in my hand. It took my last remaining strength to get to the hotel door. The window was open and the light was on. I called hoarsely: Zailachi! Come down quick!

  From the window above he leaned out. With him were Naima and Faouziya.

  Mohamed! What’s the matter?

  Come down.

  A moment later the door opened, and he stood there barefoot and with a knife in his hand. What’s happened?

  I wiped the blood from my face with the sleeve of my jacket. I got into a fight with a drunk, I said. I think he’s still after me.

  BouChta leaned out of the window. What is it? he said. I’m coming down.

  Come down fast, you pimp, said Zailachi. Then he said to me: Come on. Follow me. Was he by himself?

  I spat out some blood. Yes. He was alone, the son of a whore.

  Hurry up.

  I slipped again in the street, trying to follow him. Where the alley turned he slowed down. Then he stopped, and peered cautiously around the corner. After that he began to run again, and stopped only at the entrance to the Place de la Casbah.

  Where was he?

  On the stairs of Djenane el Kaptane, I said.

  BouChta caught up with us. He too was barefoot, and he carried a club.

  We did not find him. The same girl was still in the window. He’s gone, she said. And you go away too. Be sensible. Do you want to wake up the whole neighbourhood?

  She was right. Already a good many men and women were leaning out of the windows and bending over the balcony railings, to see what was going on. There was a pool of blood in the place where I had left him. We followed the trail of blood down the steps for several metres, until it suddenly ended.

  Where’d he go? mused Zailachi.

  Come on. Let’s go back. He’s gone, I said.

  Lucky for him he got away.

  Going back up to the hotel I told them the whole story, from the moment he had blocked my passage to the point when I cut him with the bottle and began to run.

  BouChta walked along beside us, saying nothing. I knew he was the sort who would not even dare disturb a sitting hen, but in spite of that, his presence made us feel better, more ready to deal with whatever trouble might present itself.

  Do you know that girl who was talking in the window? Zailachi asked me.

  No, I said. Who is she?

  Her name is Fatiha Cherifa. Her husband was a policeman who got tuberculosis and tried to cure himself at home. He had a friend who used to go and visit him, and it seems the friend used to smoke kif and get drunk with the policeman’s wife. Sometimes the man with tuberculosis would take a chance and smoke and drink with them, and half the time ended up vomiting blood. I think he knew his wife was playing with the other man, but he was patient. One night they drank more than usual, and the friend began to pay attention to her right in front of him. He went at the friend with a knife, but the friend pulled out his pistol and shot him.

  He stopped talking.

  Did it kill him? I asked.

  He died when he got to the hospital.

  What about her? What did they do to her?

  What would they do? They questioned her and let her go.

  BouChta spoke up. When women and love get mixed up, the story is always dirty.

  She’s got two baby girls, said Zailachi. The Missionaries adopted her when she was little, and made a nurse out of her. She speaks three foreign languages. But her greatest talent is right between her legs, like all other women.

  Naima Mesrara and Faouziya Achaqa were leaning out of the window above our heads. Naima, open the door, said Zailachi.

  Push on it. It’s open.

  There was talking and laughing inside. On the second and third floors some of the roomers were still up and around. The night-watchman came out of one of the second-floor rooms, a cigarette hanging from his lips. He must have been having a drink with the people who lived in that room.

  Everything all right? he asked us.

  Zailachi said: Yes.

  We went upstairs, and he stood looking after us. Our room had been a very large one. The proprietor had made three rooms out of it by erecting partitions. It was my section where everyone liked to gather at night. They sat there even when I was not at home, because it was the only one of the three rooms that had a window in it. The window looked out into the alley of Derb ben Abbou.

  Faouziya, go down to the kitchen and put some water on to boil, said BouChta. At that moment Zailachi noticed the rip in my trousers at the knee.

  Come into the other room with me, he told me.

  We went into his room. He took a pair of flannel trousers from his bag and held them out to me. Wait until Faouziya comes and washes your cuts, he said.

  I told him to bring me a glass of cognac. He went back into my room. The door into the corridor opened, and Faouziya came in carrying the tea-kettle.

  Here’s the cognac, said Naima.

  Take off your clothes to wash, Faouziya told me. Are you afraid of us?

  I took my jacket and trousers off in front of them both, and stood in my underwear. My left elbow was skinned and bleeding. I let the two girls rub my wounds with hot water and cognac.

  Zailachi was busy opening another bottle of cognac. Suddenly there was a loud knocking on the door. I started to get up to open it. The girls had finished taking care of me.

  Stay where you are, said Zailachi. He set down the bottle and rose. The knocking went on, very loud.

  Who is it? said Zailachi.

  A hoarse voice cried: Open the door!

  Naima and Faouziya grew pale. The police! murmured Naima. Only the police knock like that. They’re the only ones who ever pound that way.

  Hide the bottle somewhere, said BouChta.

  I was sitting on the couch. I reached out and took the bottle. I sat there holding it. Then I got up and looked out of the window. Two policemen in uniform stood in front of the entrance door downstairs.

  Zailachi opened the door, and we saw two secret policemen standing there.

  What took you so long? Why didn’t you open up? one of them said. Well, say something.

  He slapped Zailachi. The two came into the room. I still held the bottle in my hand.

  Girls and liquor, is that it? Give me that bottle.

  I handed it to him. He looked at it.

  So you drink Terry, do you? Your papers.

  I have no papers.

  He turned to BouChta. And you?

  BouChta took out his identity card and handed it to him. The man glanced at it and slipped it into his pocket. Then he turned to the two girls and said: Put on your djellabas. Quick!

  The other one handcuffed Zailachi and me together.

  We all went downstairs to the first floor, where we found three young men and two girls with another secret policeman. Two of the young men were handcuffed together, and the third had them hanging from one hand. The officer shut the open handcuff on BouChta’s wrist. The four girls walked out first and the rest of us followed. When we were outside, the police pointed in the direction of the Place de la Casbah, saying: That way.

  Two of the youths were whispering behind us. No talking! yelled a policeman. />
  There were two jeeps in the Place de la Casbah. The girls got into one, and we got into the other.

  They’ve caught a lot of game this time, I thought.

  We were sitting very close together in the jeep. When we got to the Souq ez Zra, the other car continued down towards the Zoco de Fuera. Ours stopped there at the Brigada Criminal. There in an office they searched us one by one, taking away our belts, shoestrings and money. All they left us was our cigarettes and matches. One of the three other youths had a small knife in his pocket.

  What’s this supposed to be for? asked the policeman who was searching him. No? All right, we’ll see about that later.

  After they had taken down our names they turned us over to a man with keys in his hand. Zailachi and I followed him down a narrow corridor until he stopped in front of a door. As he was opening it, one of the men who had brought us in the jeep came up. He pushed us through a doorway into a room where a light bulb hung down from the ceiling. Three other prisoners sat in the room, but one of them was asleep. The policeman unfastened the handcuffs, stepped outside, and slammed the door.

  Everything they do here is part of the punishment, I thought. My left wrist hurt a little, and I rubbed it. I looked at the door that was reinforced with metal plates, and reflected that this door was stronger than any of the doors that had shut me in before. The doors are getting tighter. Here I am, finally, in a real prison. Zailachi sat down on the floor with his arms on his knees. Sit down, he said.

  I sat beside him facing the two young men who were awake. The floor was cold as ice. Great spots of dampness covered the walls and ceiling. In one corner of the room was a latrine hole with a water tap directly above it. Whatever they give you here they give in a way that makes it all a part of the punishment, I thought. I glanced at the hole in the corner. The stench that came up from it made me feel sick to my stomach. Zailachi brought out a pack of cigarettes and passed it around. The one who was sleeping sat bent over with his head resting on his folded arms.

  Zailachi pointed in his direction. What’s the matter with him? he asked the others.

  He’s drunk.

  He’s better off like that, in this cold, said Zailachi.

  The two young men were shivering.

  How long have you been in here? Zailachi asked them.