Straight from the Horse's Mouth

by Meryem Alaoui

  “Yes, that’s true,” I answer.

  And after a moment: “Yeah, but what if someone recognizes her over there? Someone who’s been here?” I say, winking. “Will she give him lessons too?” I continue wriggling my ass toward Samira’s giggling face.

  Samira smacks me on the butt and we have a good laugh.

  “Okay, forget about Halima. Where were you yesterday?” she asks, taking a drag.

  “You know I like to disappear from time to time,” I answer, evasive.

  I’m not going to say anything to Samira about Horse Mouth. Samira is very suspicious. She mistrusts her own shadow, the poor thing. Sometimes it’s helpful. But sometimes she overdoes it. Since I’m not really responding, Samira says to me, with an expression suggesting she thinks I had a good time the night before, “Sounds like Chaïba was involved.”

  A lie served on a silver platter. I couldn’t have come up with anything better.

  “Yes, that’s it, I saw Bouchaïb.”

  I change the subject. “I’m going to the hammam. I didn’t go yesterday. Want to come with me?”

  “No, go without me. I’m on my period. In any case, I have to go,” and she puts out her cigarette, exhaling the smoke lingering in her throat.

  * * *

  —

  I pass in front of the Majestic before going to the hammam. Hamid isn’t in his usual spot. From a distance I see his colleague washing a car. The car belongs to the Jewish woman opposite. Not the one who lost her daughter. The other one, who’s always coming and going with her gym bag. It’s like she’s training for the Olympics, she exercises so much.

  I continue on my way. Hamid will call me to hear about my outing with Horse Mouth, no doubt. I see right through him. Soon, he’ll start talking about money. His little smiles to Horse Mouth and that tea he prepared for her and those cigarettes he wanted her to smoke, it’s obvious he’s buttering her up. He can’t pull the wool over my eyes.

  Honestly, I don’t blame him. Everyone has to get theirs. I ask only one thing of him: that he take a second commission from the girl because if he thinks he’s going to make money off of my back, we’re going to have a problem.

  In any case, I’m going to tell him so that everything is on the table: everyone for themselves.

  * * *

  —

  I just got off the phone with Horse Mouth. And it was a whole ordeal to find my telephone, I won’t bore you with the details. I’ve only just started hanging out with these film people and I’m already starting to lose it.

  Just now, coming back from the baths, I started to wash my underwear, as usual. I put on a Najat song that I like.

  The story is there’s a girl who’s sure her man is cheating on her. She realizes it through a glimmer in his gaze that betrays him. She’s already given herself entirely to him, and she doesn’t understand that he’s been hooked by another. And she doesn’t want to let him go because she’s convinced they’re meant to be together. So she tells this to everyone who will listen. Nothing out of the ordinary. But even so, I like this song. I listen to it often. And at full volume, as always.

  It’s good to have a place where you can do what you want without any busybodies meddling with your life. In my room, since my daughter and Halima left, there are only the walls, the television, the radio, and me. I do what I want. And I turn the volume all the way up. If I feel like it, I can crank it until my eardrums burst.

  Anyway, just now, I put on the CD and started to do the washing. When the song began, I was singing over the basin. I had my underwear in my hands and I was rubbing the pairs gently against each other, humming to the music. At one point, I got up to dance a bit, because I love to dance. Especially when the rhythm is catchy, like this song. I sped up slightly and started to tap my feet on the ground, moving my hips from right to left. Dun, dun, dun.

  The song sped up. The audience applauded Najat, unleashing a yell like the sound of a wave. And then, the guy meets his mistress.

  It starts to heat up.

  I followed the rhythm. Tapping harder and harder with my feet and swinging my hips farther and farther.

  The girl looks the guy in the eyes and realizes that something is wrong.

  I started to spin around, arms down at my sides, my feet continuing to strike the floor. Noisy taps. Booming loudly.

  The girl tells him to do whatever he likes with her, she tells him that she belongs to him.

  I followed the rhythm. I started to spin, spin, spin, like a top, arms wide like a flying bird, a pair of underwear in each hand.

  The girl reminds him that she gave herself to him at his first smile. She tells him that she’s going crazy.

  I took off my scarf because it was starting to constrict my head. I tied it firmly around my pelvis, knotting it to one side. And my butt cheeks started to smack against each other like the wings of a butterfly.

  The girl tells him that she’s put all her trust in him.

  I took out my clip to free my hair. I started to swing my head from right to left with my hair still wet from the bathwater. It sent drops rolling over my shoulders and splattering over the walls.

  Then, the girl asks God’s forgiveness for having strayed from the right path. She declares that her beauty and her beautiful black eyes are to blame for all of this.

  And then I really let loose. That story wasn’t my problem anymore. I felt the sudden urge to put a pair of underwear in my mouth. Just because. I bit down with all my teeth and plunged my hands into the basin to grab more. The bnader* started up. My ears became one with the bnader’s taut skin.

  I started hanging the underwear everywhere on me. From the scarf tied around my butt. Around my throat. On my dress too. I filled my mouth, I had underwear in my hands. Everywhere! In that moment, I no longer cared what the girl was saying. Let her shove it up her ass! I wanted to jump. The underwear swung from everywhere to the rhythm. My butt jiggled in the air. My head spun on my neck. My dress lifted up in rhythm with my feet, which had sent my sandals flying against the wall.

  And amid all this commotion and celebration, I heard the telephone ring. I don’t know how I managed to hear it. I pricked up my ears. I looked everywhere trying to follow the sound but I couldn’t locate it.

  Najat continued the celebration. I started to search under the cushions. I wet them with my hands. The underwear hanging from my thigh was dripping. My hair streamed over my arms.

  I stopped, standing in the middle of the room. I looked around me, I saw the underwear in all four corners of the room, water on the walls and the mattress. As though a dog had been brought to the sea and then back to my place. As though someone had set the dog in the middle of the room and said: “Here, go ahead, you can shake yourself out now.” That’s what it looked like.

  I was seized by a laughing fit! It sprung out of me like a firework. It didn’t want to stop. One explosion after another. I laughed, laughed, laughed, like a crazy person. And speaking of crazy people, I was suddenly afraid of someone entering, someone seeing me like that and thinking I had gone insane. And that then I would be sent to Thirty-Six.* So I bounded toward the door to turn the key in the lock, my hair sticking straight up. I must have looked like a demon or Aïcha Kandicha.* It made me laugh even more. I leaned with my back against the door, and while I slid toward the floor, the fits of laughter came out relentlessly. I don’t know how long I stayed like that, sitting on the ground.

  Truly, I laughed until there was nothing left in me. And when the last hiccup had passed, I dried my tears and, between us, I thanked God for that moment. It had been a long time since I’d laughed like that. It’s possible I had never laughed like that before.

  People say it’s not good to laugh so much. They say that when you laugh like that, Satan isn’t far off. That he’s taking advantage of your distraction to approach you. That he’s ready to pounce.

  Wh
at I think is that the people who say such things are just incredibly insecure. They do it because they’re bored with their lives and want for everyone else to be like them: miserable.

  Or else, they’re paranoid and can’t bear when someone laughs because they think it’s about them.

  Or else maybe the person who came up with that bullshit was just a moron with rotten teeth. And so now we have this fable because it was too late for him to fix his teeth. Stupid asshole!

  In fact, you want to know the truth? The truth is that I believe it. Because of course Satan is nearby! If it’s not me he’s hovering over, then who is it?

  * * *

  —

  Eventually I found the telephone as I tidied up the mess I had made. It was on a kitchen shelf. I didn’t recognize the number on the screen. So I put the phone back in its place. If someone wants me, they can pay the money to send me a message.

  Horse Mouth called back. She wanted to know if I had thought things over. She got straight to the point. I like direct people who speak without beating around the bush. What I had to do, she explained, was simple. I would sit with her for a few nights, talk, tell her what I was ready to tell without forcing anything. Just say what came to me. She would ask me questions, to which I would respond if I wanted and if I didn’t have any issues with it. And if possible, I would introduce her to one or two of my friends. But only if it was possible, otherwise, it was no problem. She would be very happy already if I agreed. She also told me that she had allotted seventy thousand rials of her film budget for me. She said that she took it out of her own pocket. As if it made a difference to me where it came from. The important thing is that there was money, rig ht?

  Before she called me, I already knew that I’d say yes. I knew it from the moment I met her in the shed. Going to the bar only confirmed that I would work with her. I knew that what she would ask me would be easy enough. What would we do together? We’d chat and down a few beers? We’d drive through the neighborhood when people are normally asleep? I would tell her stories and she would use them to make her own? If that was it, I could help her out with a different film every week if she wanted.

  When we spoke about money, I didn’t try to negotiate. At first because when she called, I was with Samira and I hadn’t told her anything about it. Also because I planned to smoke and drink for free the entire time she was here. Trust me, I’d get her to double her budget.

  THURSDAY THE 30TH

  Between the other day and now, Horse Mouth and I have gone out several times. Four or five times, I can’t remember. Mostly at night. To that place we went the first time. It’s called La Mygale.

  Each time, we had a good laugh and I told her some of the stories of my life. We drove around the neighborhood. I showed her the girls from a distance. I told her about Samira’s asshole Aziz. I told her about Halima. That was my job: help her so that she could finish writing her story. Piece of cake.

  Now she’s in the Netherlands. She left yesterday. She’s going to sign a contract with the people who will give her the money to make her film. And she’ll come back once it’s ready. I don’t know when, but it shouldn’t take too long. She told me that she would call me when she was back. She agreed that I could come for a day while they were filming. Based on what I know of her now, she’s a woman of her word. She’s going to follow through.

  In the meantime, I’ve resumed my normal life. Nothing new.

  Except that Chaïba is often around and there are a few ripples between us now.

  Since I was busy with the Horse the past few days, I didn’t have time for him. And he didn’t like that. And I don’t like when people meddle in my life. Even if that person is Chaïba and I’ve known him forever.

  The day before yesterday, for example, I was with Horse Mouth and Chaïba called me so we could meet up. He had already tried calling twice at a bad time when I wasn’t free. I think it bothered him that I didn’t hustle over as soon as he called the first time, as if I didn’t have a life of my own.

  He gave me a hard time before that too. During Ramadan, he had called me so we could meet up while I was still in Berrechid. He usually disappears during Ramadan. He stays shut away in his house. He can’t handle the fast: no cigarettes, no coffee, no alcohol, and he’s worthless. But when he called me, he wanted me to come and see him. Who knows, maybe he was sick of his wife and his three monkey children. Honestly, I feel sorry for him. I saw them in town one day. They were with him in the car and they were jumping around in the back. When they drove past me, Bouchaïb had turned toward them and he was yelling at them. His wife, who was in the passenger seat, was staring straight ahead with her lips pursed. She’s got one of those faces. Let’s just say I understand why he spends his time out of the house.

  Anyway, I wasn’t available to see him, but when I came back to Casablanca, I returned his call. We saw each other. We went out. We were at Atomic, another bar he takes me to sometimes. That night, he hadn’t brought those two idiots Saïd and Belaïd. We were sitting at the back of the room. The two of us, it was nice.

  The entire night, we drank, we laughed, we ate. He had brought me a scarf, red and yellow. A beautiful scarf. Later, we were at my place. We left his car by the bar and we went back on foot. We were loud in the street and we weren’t walking very straight. Once at my building, we went up the stairs and down the hallway, talking and laughing. We were all worked up, we started to touch each other.

  At the second floor, he was so excited that he wanted to have me on the spot. He had lowered his zipper and when I pushed him away, telling him to wait until we were inside, he decided to piss in the hallway. It was good timing, we weren’t far from Okraïcha’s door. I signaled with my eyes toward the door so that he would relieve himself on it. As soon as he finished, I quickly pulled him away in case she heard us and came out in a rage. Even at two in the morning, you never know. We had a good laugh about it.

  We continued up the stairs, banging against the walls to the right and the left, partly because we were drunk and partly because we weren’t looking in front of us, too busy sliding our hands under each other’s clothes. Once we were in my room, we didn’t even make it to the mattress. I’ll admit that I was really turned on too. He grabbed me when the door had barely closed, we melded together like dough and we threw ourselves onto the floor, rolling around, like how it used to be with my husband when we were young.

  When we finished, we sat on the rug with our clothes and our hair disheveled, smoking a cigarette. And then we were hungry. Ravenously hungry. I made eggs with olive oil, which we gorged on with cold bread. The eggs gave him the strength to get up, haphazardly. He mostly tucked his shirt into his pants, stood, and took off stumbling.

  He came back five minutes later. I don’t think he’d reached the bottom of the stairs before he’d decided to come back.

  When he knocked, I was already beached on my mattress, in a djellaba because I hadn’t managed to put on my nightshirt. I stood up, running my hands over my hair to smooth it before opening the door. I found him leaning against the wooden frame, hunched slightly forward. He was having trouble standing up straight. Some of his shirt had come out of his pants. His enormous lips were hanging open and I found him utterly ordinary. I couldn’t stand him.

  “What did you forget?” I asked, turning back toward the room to see if I could find anything.

  “I forgot the most important thing.”

  He made a half attempt at a smile, put his hand in his right pants pocket, and handed me some crumpled bills. I couldn’t stand it.

  FRIDAY THE 19TH

  Hamid (my husband, not the moron from the garage) crawled out of the hole he had been sucked into. It had been a while since I’d heard news from him. When I saw all those numbers on the screen, I knew that it was an international call. I thought it was Horse Mouth calling to give me an update.

  When I answered, it was him. He needed 1.5
million dirhams, he said. He had found a guy who could draw up his papers quickly, for three million. But he couldn’t come up with the money because of the economic crisis over there. He said that times were tough. I don’t know why he was telling me about his life as if I were his mother or something. Times are tough for him, okay, what do I care?

  First of all, even if I wanted to, where would I get 1.5 million from? Everything seems simple to him. He calls, he asks for 15 thousand dirhams, and then he goes and farts around in front of a latte while waiting for it to arrive. Does he think I birth money? That each month, instead of having my period, dirhams line my underwear?

  The only effort he makes is walking the two hundred yards between him and the grocery store* where I send the money. And sometimes it’s that whore who goes to get it for him.

  What made me laugh is that he had already figured out the other half. I’m sure his wife gave it to him. But anyway, that’s not my problem and I don’t have time for it now. I have to get to work.

  It’s eleven in the morning and I haven’t stepped a foot outside today. It’s not very nice out. I quickly put away the breakfast crepes, I put the plate of olive oil on the shelf, I put on my djellaba and I go out.

  This hangover every morning, I’m sick of it. It only goes away when I drink. You’ll say, that’s better than those disgusting pills Rabia takes. Most of the time, she doesn’t remember anything that she’s done. She doesn’t even know where she spends her money.

  I circumvent the garage so that I don’t have to pass in front of it. I have no desire to run into Hamid. He wants part of the money Horse Mouth gave me. Even though I’ve already told him to figure it out with her, and even though he has no idea what I’ve made, he wants his piece.