For Bread Alone

by Choukri, Mohamed; Bowles, Paul;

  That afternoon he was sitting with Grida, Mesari, and old Afiouna, who supplied the kif and majoun to the café. I asked for a glass of black coffee and bought five pesetas’ worth of kif from Afiouna. They were discussing King Farouk, Mohamed Neguib, and the actions of Gamal Abd el Nasser in the July Twenty-Third Revolution. I was interested. I smoked a pipe of kif, and filled another which I offered to Grida. He refused it. I held it out to Abdelmalek. He did not take it either.

  Put your kif away, he told me. We’ve got plenty of our own.

  We want to talk quietly now, without being interrupted, Mesari added.

  I saw that they were excluding me from their company. The qahouaji set a glass of coffee on the table. I asked Afiouna to sell me two pieces of majoun, which I ate as I sipped the hot coffee.

  Kemal the Turk came through the door, drunk. I tried to get him to sit with me, but he refused. Then he leaned over and whispered in French into my ear: I’ve got half a bottle of whisky. I’m going up onto the roof. Do you want a drink?

  You go up first, so Moh won’t notice.

  I continued to sip my coffee for a while after he had gone on. Then, taking the glass of coffee and the pipe with me, I climbed the stairs. I found him drinking out of the bottle.

  Ah! Fill the sebsi for me, he said. I handed him the pipe and the kif so he could fill it himself. In return he gave me his bottle, and I took two swallows.

  How are things? I asked him.

  I’m still waiting for my family to send me the money to go back to Istanbul. He filled the pipe and handed it to me. I passed the bottle back to him. We went on drinking, smoking, and discussing our troubles, until all the whisky was gone.

  What are you doing tonight? I asked him.

  Nothing.

  He hid the bottle under his jacket, and we went back downstairs. Abdelmalek was standing as usual, lecturing on the afternoon news broadcast in Arabic from London, which had just finished. My magazine was still lying on the table. I sat down and asked Kemal to have something with me. He excused himself, saying that he had an appointment with Mahmoud the Egyptian at the Café Dar Debbagh.

  He’s going to lend me some money, he said.

  Moh came up to us suddenly, remarking: I don’t like drunks in this place. Kemal, not understanding Arabic, answered: Es salaam, Monsieur Moh.

  I burst out laughing. Kemal signalled goodbye and went out. Abdelmalek glared at me angrily and sat down.

  Go on, go on, Si Abdelmalek, urged Afiouna.

  How do you expect me to go on with that kid laughing?

  I’m not a kid, I told him. And you talk about Mohamed Neguib and Gamal Abd el Nasser as if you had a conference with them every day. Where do you get all that stuff about them?

  Shut up! Illiterate! he roared, beside himself. You want to talk about politics, you, when you can’t even write your name?

  Mesari was trying to get Abdelmalek’s attention. Don’t listen to him, he told him. He’s drunk.

  It seemed to me that this was a good opportunity to get in a blow at Abdelmalek and his group of friends. They wouldn’t smoke with me, I thought, and I began to cast about for the words that would most annoy him. I could think of nothing to say. My mind was heavy with kif, majoun, and whisky. I’ll have to ask him to go outside with me and fight. It’s the easiest way. It involves no thinking of any kind.

  I’m illiterate and ignorant, I said. But you’re a liar. I’d rather be what I am than a liar like you.

  Ah, get back to your pimping, he told me.

  If you have a sexy sister, send her around. I’ll find her somebody, I said.

  No arguments in this café, Moh cried angrily, looking at me.

  Why do you say it just to me? I asked him. Because he’s a great professor and I’m only a stupid lout?

  Come on, that’s enough, said Grida. Get together and cheat the devil.

  But the devil is people, I told him.

  Then I turned to Abdelmalek. Listen, Zailachi. Come outside and I’ll show you who the illiterate pimp is.

  He jumped up and ran towards me. The three of them, Grida, Mesari and Afiouna, blocked his way, but he shoved them aside. I got up, holding my glass in my hand, and dashed the coffee into his face. He put his hands over his eyes. Someone grabbed me from behind.

  Outside, Zailachi! I cried. The man behind me let me go.

  Be sensible, Grida told me. This is no way to behave to somebody like him.

  Who does he think he is here? He’s just a student who couldn’t stay in school, and now he’s come to Tangier to live like a tramp.

  I saw Mesari and someone else going up to the roof with Abdelmalek. I walked back to my table, and Afiouna sat down with me. He filled the sebsi, lit it, and handed it to me, saying: Here. Take it and smoke. It’ll make you feel calmer.

  I’m not drunk, and I’m not m’hashish, I told him. This isn’t the first time I’ve had alcohol or majoun.

  Then Grida went upstairs.

  Nobody said you were drunk or kiffed, Afiouna said.

  They think I am.

  We all drink and smoke kif, he said.

  I smoked the pipe and coughed a little. Afiouna got up and brought his glass of tea from the table where they had been sitting. I took a sip from it, and stopped coughing.

  I’ve won the argument, I thought to myself. The other men in the café were discussing the altercation, and I noticed that certain of them agreed with me. They must already have felt the same way I did about Abdelmalek.

  Grida came down the stairs, followed a moment later by Abdelmalek, Mesari, and his friend. Abdelmalek had washed the coffee from his face and clothes. Grida came over to me. You’ve got to make peace between you, he told me.

  Yes, said Afiouna. Get up and talk to him. We’re all friends here.

  They insisted, and I rose. Mesari and his friend pushed Abdelmalek towards us, and we embraced. I turned to go back to my table, but they made me sit down with them.

  Come on, Si Moh, give us something to drink, said Grida.

  Kemal came staggering back into the café. He had a black eye.

  Kemal! I said. What happened to you?

  Moh stared at him with annoyance.

  I got up and went over to him.

  There were two of them, he said. They jumped on me. At a whorehouse in Bencharqi.

  Why?

  They took me for a Christian. They wouldn’t believe I was a Moslem. They said how could I be a Moslem if I didn’t speak Arabic?

  But why?

  I wanted to take a Moroccan girl into bed.

  All that trouble for a common whore, I said. Come and sit down with us.

  No. You come with me.

  Where?

  We’ll go to the Zoco Chico and have something to drink. Mahmoud lent me a little money.

  I excused myself to Abdelmalek and his group, and went out with Kemal.

  We went to the brothel run by Seoudiya el Kahala.

  I know the woman who runs the place, I explained. And all the girls.

  Hadija Srifiya let us in. She took us into a room and we sat down. Soon Seoudiya el Kahala came in and greeted me. I introduced her to Kemal.

  Es salaam, he said.

  Is he a Moslem? she asked me.

  Naturally he is.

  Does he speak Arabic?

  No. He only knows a few words.

  But how can he be a Moslem if he doesn’t speak Arabic?

  I told her there were other countries where the people were Moslems but spoke other languages.

  Ana Muslim, Kemal told the two women. Allah oua Mohamed rasoul illah.

  We all laughed. Sit down, Lalla Seoudiya told us. Do you want Hadija to stay here with you?

  I asked Kemal. Of course she should stay, he said. Tell her to bring another pretty one.

  We ordered a bottle of cognac and a bottle of soda water. I told Hadija to find us a girl who liked to drink and talk. The two women went out.

  Do you like that one? I asked Kemal.

  She
’s perfect. Moroccan girls look a lot like Turkish girls, you know.

  Hadija came back carrying a tray with the drinks. Sfiya el Qasriya was with her.

  She greeted me. How are you, handsome?

  I introduced Kemal, and she sat down beside him.

  The drinks are a hundred and twenty-five pesetas, said Hadija.

  And if we add you two to the bill, how much will it be? I asked her.

  She looked at Sfiya and giggled: Three hundred pesetas.

  How much? Kemal asked me.

  Three hundred altogether, for them and the drinks.

  He pulled out two 100-peseta notes. This is all I’ve got, he said.

  I took the two bills and added another. Call Lalla Seoudiya, I told Hadija.

  Give me the money, she said. Don’t you trust me?

  It’s not that. I just want to get everything straight with Lalla Seoudiya.

  Ah! I see. Well, do as you like.

  Sit down, I said. I’m going to fix it up with her.

  I went out of the room in search of Lalla Seoudiya. She was sitting in a far corner of the patio. I want to pay you now for the drinks and the girls, I told her.

  You know how much it is, she said. Two hundred and fifty pesetas. That’s the price I make especially for you, because you’re an old client.

  I gave her the money, and asked her to have me called at half past six in the morning. I explained that the four of us would be using the same room.

  When I got back to Kemal, he had Sfiya’s head between his hands, and was stroking her cheeks and kissing her tenderly. It’s as if he was afraid she was going to get away, I said to myself. Perhaps some day I’ll sleep with a Turkish girl.

  Hadija wanted to know if I had got everything arranged with Lalla Seoudiya. I folded a fifty-peseta note very small and slipped it into her hand, saying: Keep it. It’s for you. Everything’s all settled. She stuffed the money into her bodice and kissed me on the cheek.

  I was just dropping off to sleep when Hadija, lying beside me, said: Did you hear that? Sfiya says your friend the Turk is licking her with his tongue.

  Let him do what he likes with her, I said.

  I’d rather have a tongue lick me than a zib massage me, Sfiya called out. The two girls laughed.

  I want to go to sleep, I told Hadija. I’ve got to get up early and go down to the port.

  Don’t worry, she said. I’ll wake you up as early as you like. I’m a light sleeper. She turned towards me and hugged me. Then she pushed my bent knee between her legs and began to rub herself against it. She wishes it were a zib, I thought.

  Sfiya had started to moan, and Hadija increased her efforts against my knee. Suddenly she pulled at my hair violently. Then she relaxed. Kemal and Sfiya were laughing together.

  Hadija turned over and lay face down. I put out my hand and ran it lightly over her buttocks. She was still pushing herself slowly back and forth against the mattress. I became excited again, and jumped onto her back for a ride. She tried to throw me from my seat, but I held tight and stayed astride. I pretended to myself that if I were unseated I should fall into emptiness. I was on a flying she-camel high over the desert, and to fall off would mean being lost in the wilderness.

  In the morning when I returned from the port I went into a bookshop in Oued el Ahardan and bought a book that explained the essentials of writing and reading Arabic.

  I found Abdelmalek at the Café Moh with his brother Hassan from Larache. I apologized again for what had happened the night before. Forget it, he said. I was in a bad mood too.

  They asked me to sit down with them, and I showed Abdelmalek the book I had bought. I’ve got to learn to read and write, I said. Your brother Hamid showed me a few letters while we were in the Comisaría together. He said I could learn easily.

  Why not?

  Would you like to go to school in Larache? asked Hassan.

  School? Me? I said surprised. It’s impossible. I’m twenty years old and I can’t read a word.

  That doesn’t matter. I know the head of a school down there. I’ll give you a note to him. He’ll take you. He has a soft spot for out-of-towners who want to study. If I didn’t have to go to Tetuan with this trouble I could take you myself to see him.

  He paused, and then said: Why don’t you go and buy an envelope and a sheet of paper, and I’ll write you the note.

  I did not believe in any of this, but I did as he suggested, and hurried back to the café. He laid the sheet of paper on top of a periodical, and began to write. From time to time he stopped and smoked a pipe of kif with us. When he had finished he folded the paper and put it into the envelope. Then he handed it to me.

  When should I go to Larache to see him? I asked Hassan.

  Whenever you like. But try and go soon.

  It was about noon when Hassan said goodbye to us, and went out to catch the bus to Tetuan. As he shook my hand he said: Be sure and go to Larache. I’ll look for you down there in a few days.

  When he had gone, Abdelmalek said: I’ve got to go up to the graveyard at Bou Araqia.

  What for? I asked him.

  I promised some of my friends here in the café I’d chant some surat today. One of them is Afiouna. His mother’s buried there.

  I’ll go with you, I said. Would you be able to chant a surah at my brother’s grave?

  Your brother?

  I have a brother buried there.

  We smoked two pipes and then went out. On the way I asked him: What happened with Hassan? What trouble has he got in Tetuan?

  He’s crazy. They found him drinking wine and smoking kif in the students’ dormitory at the mosque.

  Tough luck!

  He’s always doing stupid things like that.

  As we went through the Zoco de Fuera I bought a bunch of flowers, and at the gateway to the cemetery a sprig of myrtle. Inside we found a few tolba chanting. The relatives of the dead stood listening. We wandered among the graves.

  Do you know where each grave is? Each one you’re going to chant for?

  No, he said. It’s the idea that’s important. I don’t have to be standing beside a grave to chant to it. Where’s your brother’s grave?

  I looked towards the wall at whose base Abdelqader had been buried.

  It’s impossible to find it, I told him. We never made him a gravestone before we went to Tetuan. There was no money. My father had just got out of jail, and my mother was selling vegetables in the Zoco de Fuera.

  We climbed to the top of a small hill, and Abdelmalek began to chant the verses for the relatives of his friends. When he had finished, he asked me: Which part was he buried in?

  Then we walked down towards the ruined wall. Over this way, near this wall, I said.

  He intoned: Ya sin oual Qoran el Hakim ... while I laid the flowers on several nearby graves. My brother is buried somewhere here, I said to myself. Maybe under my feet, or under Abdelmalek’s feet. And the words Abdelmalek is chanting, what are they for? My little brother never had a chance to sin. All he did was to live his illness. The old man who had helped to bury him had told me: Your brother is with the angels. Has he become an angel, perhaps? And I, what shall I become? A devil, most likely. They say the little ones are angels and the big ones are devils, and it’s too late for me to be an angel.