For Bread Alone

by Choukri, Mohamed; Bowles, Paul;

  The same one who had spoken before answered now. They arrested us this afternoon. We were playing cards in the Café Debbou.

  The other one smoked silently, looked at the floor. He raised his head only to take a long pull on his cigarette from time to time. Then later, his head down, he would exhale, and the smoke would look like someone’s breath on a cold morning.

  12

  By the time morning came, we were all shivering with the cold. Each time one of us got up to use the latrine the others crouched further forward, staring at the floor. And the smell grew worse. The young man who had been asleep during the night drank a great deal of water, the same as Zailachi and I. It was the great thirst of the morning after drinking. Zailachi stood up and began to do exercises. He was in a good mood.

  Get up and do this if you want to get warm, he told me.

  No, I said.

  Each time he made a vigorous gesture the others glanced up. I watched him during the entire time he did his gymnastics.

  Get up! he said. What’s the matter with you? There’s nothing better if you want to stop feeling the cold.

  The cuts on my knee and my elbow hurt. They’ll begin to bleed again if I start doing that.

  He did not say any more. He was beginning to pant, and his motions were growing slower. He walked over to the latrine hole and spat into it. He turned on the water tap and washed his hands and face, wetting his hair and smoothing it back. He squatted, urinated, washed his sex, and then washed the hand that had washed the sex. He drank a little more water and came back to sit in his place on the floor with his hands on his knees. Drops of water ran from his chin and from the tips of his fingers. He bent his head forward. Little by little he began to breathe normally. Then he raised his head towards me. We looked at each other smiling for a moment, and then he burst out laughing. This made me laugh too.

  The sons of whores! he said. They caught us the way a cat catches a mouse.

  Where do you think they’ve taken the girls? I said.

  The Zoco Chico police station. Where else would they take them?

  Do you think it will be a morals charge? I asked him.

  I don’t believe so. We weren’t making any trouble. They found us drinking with two whores, that’s all.

  How many days do you think they’ll keep us here?

  Not later than Monday or Tuesday, he said. Today’s Saturday. After a pause he went on: You’re lucky. BouChta too. He’s just a tailor.

  I’m lucky? I cried, astonished.

  Yes. You’ve never been convicted of anything. You’ve never been in jail. But I have, and they may accuse me of a new robbery or something.

  I wonder why they didn’t put BouChta in here with us, I said.

  They just didn’t happen to. I don’t think there’s any reason. They’ll let him out too on Monday or Tuesday.

  You think they’re going to let BouChta and me off that easily?

  You’ll see, he said.

  And Naima and Faouziya? I said after a moment.

  They’ll be out drinking and whoring again on Monday or Tuesday. The worst that can happen to them is that they might make them go into a whorehouse to work, where they can give them a medical examination every week. Anyway, I think BouChta and Faouziya will be getting married as soon as they get out of here.

  You mean he’s in love with her?

  I don’t know. But he wants to live with her.

  And you?

  What do you mean, and me?

  I mean you and Naima, I said.

  He put his forefinger to his temple and drew circles with it. Are you out of your mind? She’s like every other whore I ever knew. I didn’t come into this world to marry a whore.

  I heard the sound of footsteps close by, outside the door. We all turned in that direction. The little square window in the middle of the door opened. Then the door swung inward rapidly, making a great noise.

  They do it that way to scare us, I thought. Even the way they open the door is part of the punishment.

  Two old men came in, one of them carrying a large tea-kettle and a basket full of metal mugs to drink out of, and the other a white canvas sack. They said good morning. Behind them in the corridor stood two guards. They gave each of us a loaf of bread and a mug of tea.

  You’ve got fifteen minutes before they take out the mugs, said one of the guards.

  The two old men went out and the guards shut the door. The little window remained open. Both the tea and the bread were hot. We ate and drank without speaking.

  Leave half your bread for the afternoon, Zailachi advised me. They won’t bring anything around again until this time tomorrow.

  I nodded my head. After we had finished, Zailachi pulled out a cigarette and passed it to the others. He and I shared a second cigarette between us. I noticed that the two youths who had been arrested in the Café Debbou left none of their bread for later. The third one, like Zailachi and me, saved the greater part of his. Always when I have drunk and smoked a great deal, the following day thirst takes the place of appetite.

  We continued to smoke in silence, sipping what was left of the tea. My body had begun to glow with warmth. The little window stayed open. It may be because of the window that we remain so quiet. What would life be like, I wondered, if all of it had to be spent sitting like this here in this room? We would all have to exist only in our memories, acting out the parts we play here until we were so bored by both them and the memories that we came to rest in a silence like this one. We would disappear one by one, until all of us were gone, and the unluckiest of us would be the one who disappeared last. I prefer to be with people, even though they may be my enemies. I would rather be shut up in a place like this with others than be free and solitary. It would be better to be the first rather than the last to disappear.

  The door opened, and the old man who had brought the tea came in. A guard stood behind him watching us. We finished off the last drops quickly, and dropped the mugs into the old man’s basket, on top of those that were already there, and we thanked him.

  May Allah forgive you and us both, he said.

  Some of us answered: Amin.

  The guard slammed shut both the little window and the door. The violent sounds were no longer producing their effect. I had become indifferent to them. With time I should not even notice them, and perhaps not even notice the fact that I was shut into a room. But I am still not used to solitude.

  Zailachi took out a small pencil and set to work writing on the wall.

  What are you writing? I asked him.

  I’m writing two lines of a poem by Abou el Qacem Chabbi. He was from Tunis.

  And what did he say?

  Here’s what he says:

  If some day the people decide to live, fate must bend to that desire

  There will be no more night when the chains have broken.

  Do you understand?

  No, but it’s magnificent. What does it mean?

  He’s talking about the desire to live.

  And what does the desire to live mean?

  It means that if a man or a country is enslaved and decides to try and get free, Allah will help. He says: the dawn will respond and the chains will break because men will make it happen.

  I see.

  Abou el Qacem Chabbi was a great poet, he said. The others were listening attentively.

  You’re lucky, I said to Zailachi.

  Lucky? Me? He was surprised.

  Yes. You’re lucky.

  Why?

  Because you know how to read and write.

  So I can read and write, he said. What good is it? Here I am in this room. Who knows what they’re going to accuse me of? Things I’ve done? Things I haven’t done?

  He began again to write on the wall, asking me at the same time as he formed the first letter: What’s this?

  I don’t know.

  It’s alif, he said. Then he made another letter. And this?

  I don’t know. What is it?

  Tha
t’s ba. And this?

  Tsa, I said.

  How do you happen to know that one?

  Because I’ve always heard people say: alif, el ba, et tsa. And I repeated with him the reading of the three letters.

  We can make words out of these three letters, like aboun, baboun, bata, taba.

  He stepped away from the wall. Some day I’ll teach you to read and write, he said. You could learn easily.

  Do you think it’s easy?

  Why not? Aren’t you a man?

  I asked him to repeat the verses by the Tunisian poet several times, until I had learned them by heart.

  During the afternoon the young man who had been asleep the night before began to pace restlessly, from one end of the room to the other. The rest of us sat quietly, watching him. At one point he seized the piece of bread he had saved from the morning, walked over to the latrine, and crumbled it in his hands, dropping the pieces down the hole. I looked at Zailachi.

  It’s his business, he whispered. Let him do what he likes with the bread.

  The other two glared angrily at the youth. It seemed to me that if he made one more move, there might easily be a fight.

  Why’d you throw the bread down the hole? one of them demanded.

  I can do what I want with my bread, he said, glowering.

  But you threw away bread, en neama d’Allah!

  I tell you I’m free! the other cried.

  You’re a pile of shit!

  I’m free to do as I like with my bread, and with myself, too!

  Yes, but do it when you’re alone.

  Suddenly the young man began to pound the wall with his fists, and soon he was butting it with his head. After a few blows he slid to the floor unconscious, his hands and forehead running with blood. Zailachi rose and knocked loudly on the door. The little window opened and a guard said: What is it?

  Somebody hurt himself, Zailachi said. He came back and sat down. That’s all we can do, he whispered.

  The young man who had been objecting now said: That’s what he gets for doing what he did.

  The door opened and two secret policemen entered, accompanied by the uniformed guard. What’s going on in here?

  He crumbled up his bread and threw it down the latrine, Zailachi said. And then he started to hit the wall.

  And before that, what happened? asked the other secret policeman.

  Nothing.

  You didn’t quarrel first?

  Zailachi looked around at all of us.

  No, he said. Ask him when he comes to.

  One of the policemen walked over and examined the blood stains on the wall. We’ll see later whether there wasn’t some sort of trouble here before he began to hit himself, he said.

  The youth lay quite still, with the blood coming out slowly from his cuts. The men went out and shut the door, leaving the window open.

  A quarter of an hour later they came back, bringing two attendants with a stretcher. They lifted the young man onto the canvas and carried him out, still unconscious. There were puddles and smears of blood where he had lain. Again the door shut and the window remained open.

  There must be something the matter with him, I said.

  Let him do what he likes, said Zailachi. He’s either an alcoholic or he smokes too much kif.

  The young man who had been critical added: Or Allah has put a curse on him. Or his father has.

  Of course, said the other. You get punished for whatever you do.

  We were silent. Our cigarettes had given out. The butts we had thrown away were extremely short. I picked one up, however, and smoked it.

  We awoke Monday morning completely exhausted. The two others merely sat, bent over, and Zailachi did not do his morning exercises. In spite of the ugly grey pallor his dark skin had taken on as a result of hunger, he seemed in better condition than the rest of us. I felt only like vomiting, and I was certain that I should, if anyone used the latrine. I thought of that noon I had spent on the docks, when the idea of bread mixed with excrement first flowered in my mind.

  The guard threw open the door and called out my name. I stood up, and found that I was dizzy and that my knees were trembling. I said goodbye, even though I had no idea whether I was going to be let out or not. I went along with the guard, and as I climbed the stairs my laceless shoes flapped. Being out of that hateful cell was like being half-free. We went into a room where a large camera was set up in the centre, with a chair in front of it. The guard withdrew, and the photographer told me to sit down. The room was heated. To remember the cell was like remembering being shut into a refrigerator. The man came over to me and arranged my pose. Then he went behind the camera and told me to look into the lens. He took one full-face picture and two profiles. This must be for their records, I thought. He asked my name, and showed me how to push my fingers, one by one, onto the ink-pad and make their marks on a piece of white paper.

  A secret policeman entered and began to speak in French and Spanish with the photographer, who was a Moroccan. When the work was finished, the photographer ran his eyes over the paper and asked me if I knew how to sign it. I said no.

  Most of them are like that, said the policeman.

  Of course, the photographer said.

  Next they asked me to push my thumb again into the ink-pad, and make my sign with it at the bottom of the paper. I did not dare ask them what was written on the paper, but I did tell them that I had done nothing.

  I have nothing to do with that, said the photographer. Now go down and report to the guard who brought you up here.

  Then the secret policeman, speaking in Spanish, asked me what kind of work I did. I told him I had no work.

  And so what do you live on, if you have no work?

  I don’t know. I just live. I do whatever work I can find, wherever I find it.

  I see, he said. Well, go on downstairs.

  I left them talking together, and went out, shuffling in my open shoes. On the floor below I looked in vain for the guard. I stood in the corridor, with the door into the street open before me. I could see the people going past. Two men dressed in civilian clothes entered and walked in front of me. Secret policemen, I supposed. Zailachi was right when he said they would release me on Monday or Tuesday. It looks as if it were going to be today. A guard came out of an office.

  Have you finished with the photographer? he asked me.

  Yes.

  Come with me. He took me into his office. There were two other men inside, both dressed in civilian clothes. They had me put my thumb-print on another sheet of paper covered with words. I told them my name and they gave me back my money, belt and shoelaces.

  I wondered what they had written about me on this piece of paper. They can write whatever they want, since I have no idea what the ink marks mean. Nor do I dare ask them to bring someone who will read it to me before I sign it.

  Get out of here, said one of the secret policemen.

  I turned and stepped out of the office, having completely forgotten my fatigue and my nausea. As I went through the doorway I ran into a man wearing civilian clothing, and excused myself. He shoved me violently aside, so that I hit the wall.

  Look where you’re going, you halfwit! he said. He went on, and I stooped to pick up one of my shoes, which had fallen off.

  He must be a policeman. Only a policeman could behave like that.

  When I got into the street I put the laces into my shoes and attached my belt to my trousers. It was a clear cold day with a bright sun overhead, and I breathed deeply as I walked along.

  I went into Harouch’s restaurant in the Zoco de Fuera. He sold bean soup. I was thinking about the money Kandoussi had said he would leave for me with the owner of the Café Raqassa. And I also was casting about in my head for an idea for some sort of work. I must find a new way to live.

  13

  The alarm clock began to ring. I reached out into the darkness and shut it off. Then I got up and turned on the light. It was five o’clock. I could feel sleep still ha
nging there deliciously close, just inside my eyes. The boat will come into port in an hour, I was thinking. I glanced at Naima. She was sleeping quietly. I hate to live with a girl who never works. All she ever has to do is open her legs, to me or someone else. Does she expect me to marry her, the way BouChta did Faouziya? I haven’t gone that crazy yet.

  I dressed rapidly, picked up the market basket, and snapped off the light. Then I went softly out of the room. Downstairs I washed my face in water that was like melted snow. I was careful when I woke the night-watchman. He began to pummel the air with his fists, as he always did when anyone woke him, and then he stared wildly at me, saying nothing.

  Abdeslam! I said. It’s Choukri. I want to go out.

  He gave a great sigh and got wearily out of bed. I followed him to the front door of the hotel. As I went out, he said: May Allah be kind to you this morning. I nodded at him and went down the silent alley. The day was violet-coloured now. The signs of poverty, blotted out by night, were becoming visible once again. The lucky ones are at home in bed at this hour. They don’t get up to work. They lie there, comfortable as excrement enfolded in the belly. There are many things for them to rely upon: Allah, their own personalities, love, power. But I can rely only upon my own health and the fact that I am young.

  I stopped just inside Bab el Assa and looked out over the harbour. I could see that the water was rough.

  When I got down to the waterfront I found Boussouf standing by a kiosk having a bowl of bean soup. I said hello, and ordered a bowl for myself. Between us we arranged the price. He would do the work for me for 3,000 francs.

  I heard yesterday that the steerage is going to be full of Jews on their way to Palestine, said Boussouf.

  I’m more interested in the French and Senegalese soldiers on their way to Algeria, I told him. They don’t bargain so much. But Jews! Most of them are businessmen themselves. Even the ones who aren’t know just how much everything is worth.

  But they’re leaving Morocco for good, and they’ll be sure to want souvenirs from the last port of call.

  We’ll see.

  We walked out onto the breakwater and got into the rowboat. He began to row slowly. Watching the oars cut the water put me in mind of the time when I had been working in the vineyard at Oran with the old man, I ploughing the earth, he yelling and scolding. Come on! Watch where you’re going! To the left, you good-for-nothing Riffian! Come on! You’re still half asleep! I’m going to get Monsieur Segundi to put you in the kitchen peeling potatoes. Hit the mule harder! That’s all you’re good for, peeling potatoes and washing dishes.