by Harlan Ruud
'Because I like it here,' she replies, shrugging.
I look at her.
I wasn't bringing a whore, I think. I was bringing a lady.
'So, you didn't answer my question,' she says. 'Did you just wake up? Your eyes are all puffy.'
'Are they?'
'They are.'
'Well, yes,' I lie. 'I did just get up.'
'I should hope so. You were as high as – well, I don't want to say a kite but – you were high, my brother.'
I should hope so. Why, I wonder?
She leans forward, resting her elbows on the small, wobbly table between us, and smiles.
'Or do you even remember last night?' she asks.
Beneath the table, she pushes her knee against mine.
'Of course I remember last night,' I reply.
She kicks me lightly in the shin, then leans back in the chair and folds her slender arms across her stomach. She says:
'So do I.'
Just then, the man from behind the counter walks up to us and abruptly sets a cup and metal pot of tea on the table. Before we can say anything, he turns and makes his way back through the crowded, smoky café.
'Cocksucker,' Maggie whispers, leaning forward and opening the small pot's lid. 'Just like I thought; half-full.'
She shrugs, pouring the tea, then again folds her arms and rests her elbows on the table. She is no longer wearing nail polish, I notice.
'So,' she says, smiling mischievously, 'is there anything you want to take back?'
'Take back?'
Over her shoulder, I can see that the man beneath the television is, again, staring at me. He is, however, no longer alone; across from him, looking up at the television, is a man wearing a rust-colored djellaba and a New York Yankees baseball cap, worn backwards.
'Well?' Maggie says.
I look at her.
'Sometimes,' she says, 'we say and do things when we're high that we later regret.'
Puzzled, I look at her and ask:
'What are you talking about?'
'I thought you said you remember last night,' she replies, taking a sip of her tea.
'I do remember last night, and I don't remember doing or saying anything I want to take back. Is there something you want to take back?'
'Not at all.'
'Good. Me neither.'
I raise my cup of tea, as if to toast her, then take a drink.
She sits, watching me, then tilts her head to the left and smiles.
'Do you remember,' she asks, 'telling me that you murdered your father?'
I set down the cup.
'Did I say that?'
'So, you don't remember last night, then?'
'Not that, I don't. Well –'
My mind begins to spin, pulling together the minutes, moments, of our previous night's conversation.
'You sure did,' she says. 'Among other things.'
I look at her.
'Like what?' I ask.
She laughs softly, then says:
'God, I can't even remember it all. Brotherman, you sure like to talk when you're high.'
She lets out a long, soft whistle; the three man at the table on our left turn and look at her, then at me, and then away.
'No, I don't,' I say. 'I don't like to talk, period.'
'Well, last night you did. That's for certain.'
My mind still spinning, working to remember, I look at her.
'Well,' I say, 'can you give me an example?'
'Tell you what,' she says, reaching beneath her scarf and retrieving her small, red-sequined purse, 'let's play a game.'
She takes a pack of Gitanes from the purse, lights one, and rests back in her chair. Inhaling, then slowly exhaling, she looks at me.
'And what game is that?' I ask, slightly irritated.
'True or false,' she replies. 'I'll tell you what you said, and now that your mind is – is clear – you can tell me if it's true or false.'
I shrug and say:
'Okay. Shoot.'
She looks up at the ceiling, then down. She takes another drag of her cigarette. On the middle finger of her right hand is a huge turquoise and silver ring.
'Your name is Ulysses Dove,' she says. 'You don't have a middle name.'
'True.'
'Your father's name was Toussaint. And your grandfather's name was Permanus.'
'True,' I reply.
'They were both coalminers and, for awhile, so were you.'
'False.'
She giggles.
'Okay, then. You're a dancer.'
'That's true.'
'You came to Morocco to dance at a festival in Rabat, but it was cancelled and you came here. To – to rest.'
'True. Basically.'
'When you were a boy,' she says, 'you used to like to eat dirt.'
'True. And I still do.'
'You don't eat red meat, normally, but sometimes you eat goat. Specifically, curry goat.'
I smile.
'True,' I say.
She smiles as well, taking a drag of her cigarette. Without moving her head, she looks at the men next to us, then again at me.
'You spent four years in prison for armed robbery.'
I look at her.
'Did I say that?' I ask.
'Just answer the question.'
'Well, false.'
She smiles.
'I was just testing you,' she says. 'You never said that.'
I lean forward, frowning, and pretend to knock her on the side of the head.
'Okay,' she says. 'Next one.'
'Go for it.'
'You were raised by your father and grandfather.'
'True. Unfortunately.'
'Your father wrote a book of poetry that he never told you about.'
'True.'
'Okay. You never knew your mother.'
'True.'
'Your father never knew his.'
'True.'
'But your mother was Indian. From Canada? And you think of yourself as mulatto. Or Métis. Or – Mestizo. But not black.'
I smile.
'True. But I doubt if I said Mestizo.'
She raises her cigarette, inhaling. She is silent for awhile, continuing to look at me, and then softly she says:
'Sometimes you black out and, when you come to, you don't remember what you did. Or said.'
'True. Kind of. I mean, sometimes I just get so caught up in my thoughts that I forget where I am. But no, I don't actually black out.'
'Well,' she says, 'that's not what you said last night. You said you blacked out. So, that's your first lie.'
I smile at her.
'Let's just call it a misunderstanding,' I say.
She frowns, then says:
'Next question.'
'Okay. Go for it.'
'Your favorite singer is Nina Simone.'
I smile.
'True,' I say.
'That's funny,' she says, giggling. 'I was sure that one was false. Rats. Brothers always lie about their favorite singers. Saying they like Nina and – and Phyllis Hyman – just to impress a sister.'
'Well,' I say, 'it's true.'
'Okay. If you say so.'
'Next.'
'Next,' she repeats, pausing for a moment.
I watch her.
'Well,' she says, 'you killed your father – you didn't say how – and you buried him in the woods by your house.'
'False.'
She looks at me, her eyes narrowed, and asks:
'You sure about that?'
I smile.
'I hope so,' I reply. 'He's dead and – and I buried him. Let's just leave it at that.'
We sit, looking at one another. I glance at the man below the television; he is now sleeping. I look again at Maggie as she takes a drag of her cigarette and stares at me suspiciously.
'I think you did it,' she says.
'Did what?' I ask.
'Killed your father.'
I shrug, thinking, Who cares?
'Are you going to turn me in?' I ask.
She smiles.
'No,' she says. 'I've never known anyone who's killed their father before.'
'Well, now you do. Congratulations.'
Still she smiles.
'Has anyone ever told you that you're a very unemotional man?' she asks.
'As a matter of fact,' I reply, 'yes.'
'That's typical of murderers, you know.'
'I doubt that,' I say. 'Maybe serial killers, but I'm sure most murderers are – well, why would we kill someone unless it was based on – unless it was a result of emotion?'
'For fun,' she replies, smiling.
'Not a father,' I reply. 'No one murders their father for fun. Out of necessity, perhaps. But not for fun.'
'You're quite the expert, my brother,' she says, 'for someone who didn't do it.'
'Who said I didn't do it?' I ask.
'You.'
'But I thought I said I did do it,' I reply. 'Last night.'
'So cold,' she says, shaking her head. 'So cold. You laugh. Softly, of course, And I bet you sometimes show your anger. But that's it. Right?'
She drops her cigarette on the floor and crushes it with the heel of her sandal. Around her ankle, I notice, is a thin, silver chain.
'What else is there,' I ask, 'besides anger and laughter?'
'Sadness,' she replies. 'Vulnerability. Pity. Joy. Jealousy. Frustration. Fear. A lot of things.'
'A man can feel something,' I say, 'without expressing it. Just because he doesn't show it doesn't mean he doesn't feel it. And just because someone does show it doesn't necessarily mean he, or she, feels it.'
She raises her eyebrows.
'Maybe,' she says.
'And just because I don't express it,' I say, 'doesn't mean I'm ashamed of it, either. Maybe I just want to keep it to myself.'
'Like admitting that you killed your father?' You want to keep that to yourself?'
'If I really killed him, do you think I'd tell a woman I just met?'
'Hey, you don't even remember telling me.'
'Maybe I do and I'm just saying I don't.'
Again, she smiles.
'And even if I did do it,' I say, 'what does it matter? We're in Tangier. Nothing matters in Tangier.'
She looks at the men next to us, and again at me.
'Nothing matters,' she says, 'to an American in Tangier. That's why we're here, right?'
'We sit, looking at each other, and smile.
'That's right,' I reply.
I look up at my father; he is looking away, above my head, into the clear, summer sky. The preacher, a light-skinned black man with freckles and slicked-back red hair, looks at the large pine coffin at the grave's bottom and says:
'Dirt. This is what we are. We come from dirt; we return to it. And here now on this glorious summer Sabbath we say goodbye to yet another, Lord.
'His body, like all bodies, is where it belongs now. Yes, Lord. This is where it all – it all – belongs; deep in the earth, the dirt, the soil, from which all earthly life arises.'
But what about fish? I wonder.
'This is where we belong, Lord,' he continues. 'But his soul, his spirit, Lord, his soul – it is free. And it is this freedom that frightens us – not the physical death so much as the spiritual freedom. This is what frightens us.'
'Yes, Lord,' I hear my father say.
I look at him; he looks at the sky.
'Permanus Lucien Dove was a hard man,' the preacher continues. 'We know he was, and we won't lie about it now. No, we won't. He was a hard, hard man. He was an angry man. But here in this part of Your earth, Lord, we know what it is that makes a black man hard. We know this. And this knowledge is what helps us understand Permanus Dove – what helps us pray here today that You, our Father, will find forgiveness for this man.'
Why, I wonder, is the preacher using so many words to describe something so simple? Why not just say goodbye?
'He was an honest man,' he continues. 'He was a smart man. And he knew how to work. He knew how to work, Lord. He provided for his son, and for his grandson, and there's many good-hearted men who refuse even to do that. We know this, too. So as we stand here today, frightened and humble, we do ask You, Lord, to forgive Permanus Lucien Dove.'
Abruptly, as if impatient to get the whole affair over and done with, the preacher bends, grabbing a handful of the freshly dug dirt, then stands and says:
'This is all we are, Lord: dirt.'
He slowly sprinkles the black soil on the coffin.
'From dirt we arise,' he says, and to dirt we return. Amen, Lord. Amen.'
'Amen,' my father says.
He looks at me and nods his head, frowning.
'Amen,' I say.
'Well, men,' the preacher says, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling them up to his elbows, 'let's get busy.'
Quickly then, and silently, the three of us begin to fill the sunlit grave with dirt.
'You're rather big to be a dancer,' she says. 'Aren't you? Are you sure you're not lying about that, too?'
I look at her and smile.
'You know, Maggie,' I say, 'I learnt a long time ago to let people think what they want. If they think I'm lying, then I let them go right on thinking it. Doesn't matter what I say; they're going to think it, anyway.'
'True,' she agrees, nodding her head. 'I believe you, though; don't worry.' She smiles.
'I'm not worried,' I reply. 'I don't really care what you think. Not yet, anyway.'
She takes a sip of her fifth, or sixth, cup of tea and looks around the café.
We have been here for several hours, and as it is no longer raining, there are only a few customers left. The man behind the counter is washing dishes, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.
'I like you, Ulysses,' Maggie says, looking at me.
'I like you, too,' I reply.
She takes a cigarette from her purse and lights it.
'Do you want to be my boyfriend?' she asks.
She blows on the match, then tosses it on the floor and looks at me.
'Sure,' I reply, smiling. 'Why not?'
'Why not? You don't sound too enthusiastic about it.'
I shrug, watching her.
'Or worried.'
'Why should I be worried?' I ask.
'Well,' she replies, 'maybe I'm the one who's crazy.'
'I didn't know it was a contest.'
She giggles.
'Besides,' I say, winking at her, 'beautiful women are always crazy.'
'Oh, really?' she groans. 'Is that supposed to be a compliment? I hate compliments.'
I smile.
'You know,' I reply, 'Malcolm X believed that women, innately, couldn't be trusted; as proof he offered the fact that a woman who dislikes you will, when complimented on her appearance, begin to like you. That's all it takes.'
'Some women,' she says. 'But there're men like that, too. Besides, fuck Malcolm X.'
I look at her.
'He was just another man,' she says, 'traveling around the world while his wife stayed at home and did all the housework and looked after the kids.'
'Maybe she wanted to stay home and look after the kids. Have you ever thought of that?'
'Maybe she did. Maybe she didn't. But I'll tell you this: if she didn't, it wouldn't matter. She'd still have to do it. There was no choice.'
She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, and looks at me. Her tobacco-brown eyes are bright, searching.
'Hey,' she says, 'I love Malcolm. Honestly, I do. He was one of the brightest, most – most fascinating men to ever live. But he was still just a man.'
'That's not a bad thing, Maggie.'
'No,' she agrees, 'it isn't. But neither is it, in itself, a cause for celebration.'
'You've been reading The Color Purple, I see.'
She giggles, then says:
'Fuck you. And fuck Alice Walker. All I'm saying – regardless of whatever good qualities Malcolm had and inspired – is that
his wife was still left at home to change diapers and scrub toilets while he was touring France and Saudi Arabia and – and Egypt.'
'And who's still alive? Him or her?'
'Hey,' she says, 'we all have to die; death is no penalty.'
And so it goes. We sit, talking, for perhaps another hour, then decide to leave the Medina. As I am at the counter paying, I turn and see that Jonathan, or someone I presume is Jonathan, has entered the café. He is standing next to Maggie, talking.
Returning to the table, I extend my hand and introduce myself. He is younger than I had imagined: twenty-nine, thirty?
'Hey there,' I say. 'I'm Ulysses.'
His handshake is solid, strong.
'Hey, Ulysses,' he replies. 'I'm Jonathan.'
He looks at Maggie.
'So,' he says, 'this is your partner in crime?'
Maggie looks up at me and smiles.
'Yes,' she replies. 'He kidnapped me last night in the hotel and dragged me to every wretched nightclub in Tangier.'
'I think it was Maggie who did the dragging,' I say, winking at Jonathan.
He is of average height and slender, with short, thick, black hair and strong, masculine features that are, I guess, either Jewish or Italian: full lips, prominent nose, brow, and jaw. He is wearing crisp but faded blue jeans, leather, thick-soled sandals, and a white, long-sleeved, button-down shirt.
Cornell, I presume, or perhaps Princeton. But not Yale. Either way, I am certain he is a Democrat.
'We were about to get something to eat,' I say to him. 'Of course you'll join us?'
He looks at Maggie; she smiles.
'Sure,' he replies, looking at me.
His teeth, I notice, are flawless.
We leave the café, waving at the waiter who grunts in return, and walk through the narrow, busy streets of the Medina.
As we walk, I am reminded of Mark Twain's description of Tangier: a crowded city of snowy tombs. Even when it is busy, crowded, there is an almost eerie peace that suggests complete solitude, its noisy rhythm coalescing into a dirge.
Tangier, surely, is the loneliest place on earth.
Leaving the Medina, we walk downtown and find a small restaurant on the boulevard Mohammed V. Though we are the only patrons, we wait nearly an hour for our food: a large chicken tagine, which we share.
There is tension, I soon notice, between Maggie and Jonathan. Though the conversation is steady, lively, it is primarily between Jonathan and me, or Maggie and me, and rarely between the two of them. Occasionally, they look at each other, as if in silent acknowledgement of a shared secret, then look away.