Anyway, I don’t even know anymore how much I’ve told you or where we were in my story. Oh yes! I was telling you that I went to the office to try on clothes.
When I arrived, it was the first time I had seen so many people there. They were milling about everywhere and I felt lost. Our elders say, “If you’re lost, hang on to the ground.” That’s what I did. I sat down on one of those three chairs lined up in the entrance.
The mute wasn’t in her usual place and I waited for someone to come. Loads of people passed by me. Someone entered, others left. There were all kinds of people: blond, black, latte colored. There were people speaking in Arabic, others in French, and others who spoke in a language that sounded like Berber but which wasn’t Berber. I think it was Dutch. And everyone was busy.
Eventually, a girl came to ask me if I needed help.
I told her I was there to try on clothes. “Okay, who is it for?”
I looked at her. I didn’t understand her stupid question. What does she mean, who is it for? It’s for me. So I responded, “Jmiaa.”
She gave me an idiotic look. I figured she must have been a bit stupid, so I took out my ID. She grabbed it but she didn’t even glance at it. She said to me, handing it back, “And it’s for what role?”
“I’m Hasna. I’m playing the role of the girl, the one who’s tricked in the end by that asshole Mouad.”
Immediately, she understood. She bared her teeth in a smile and said, “Ah! Salaam, my name is Yasmine.”
And then she added, “Come with me.”
And she started to walk down the hallway until we arrived in front of a door that she pushed open. She called out, speaking to two women who were sitting in the room, “For Hasna.”
She told me that they’d take care of me. And she left.
The room was huge. It was a living room but inside there was no mattress, no table, no nothing. There were only clothes on racks. And to the side, standing against a wall with a big window, was a long table covered in a heap of fabric, with scissors, pins, sewing tools. There were two women. A blonde, foreign, a giant with short hair, a bit of a mess. And a young woman, Moroccan, standing opposite her.
The blonde must have been fifty years old. She said her name was Ludmilla. I remember her name—even though it’s a bit unusual—because there was a Ludmilla in a Mexican soap opera I watched a long time ago.
The young woman next to her had curly black hair. Because she was Moroccan, her name was Lamia. She was wearing jeans. She seemed normal. They both smiled and set down their fabric. They had me try on three typical djellabas. There was a black one, a green one, and a red one with yellow flowers on it. It didn’t take long. The djellabas were exactly my size. It’s what happened next that scared the shit out of me.
“Here,” I say to Samira, “see if you can understand this.”
And I hand her a pile of papers they had given me after the fitting. When I went there, I didn’t know that I would have to see anyone other than the seamstresses. When I finished trying on the last djellaba, the Moroccan woman said, “Come with me, they want to see you in production.”
We walked until we arrived in another office I hadn’t been in before. Inside was Yasmine from earlier. And that’s when things started to get complicated. Yasmine stood next to me and took out a pile of papers arranged in a pink folder. She pulled them out one after another, placing them on the table in front of me as she showed them to me and explained what was written on each one. Honestly? I understood nothing.
There were a dozen papers, each one filled with charts, full of colors. Every color under the sun. And on each sheet were thirty or forty lines, something like that. And Yasmine said that in there I would find the schedule, day by day, the location where they were going to film, the actors, the sets, the dialogues we had to learn. It was written in French. I just stood there, I didn’t know what to do.
I understood only one thing: the yellow squares with the number 2, those are the days when I film. That’s the only thing I took away from all of that crap.
But I didn’t tell her that. Soon I was no longer paying attention to what she was saying, but I was nodding yes all the same. I let her talk until she was finished. I didn’t stop her. When she was done, I told her it was all fine and—quickly—before she could start another sentence, I told her to please excuse me, but I had to go to see my paternal aunt who was sick. And I took off.
I’m reassured: Samira doesn’t understand a thing either.
“So?” I ask her on the off chance, lighting a cigarette.
“What is this crap?”
I laugh and answer, “No clue.”
Why don’t you have the Horse explain it to you?” she asks, turning to face me.
“That’s what I was thinking.”
I don’t know how I’m going to manage all of this. I swear, I don’t know how I’m going to manage all of this.
MONDAY THE 11TH
Today’s the day, we’re about to start filming. Here they say tournage, in French.
We’re sitting, Horse Mouth and I, at the entrance of a hotel called the Hotel d’Anfa. It’s not very far from downtown, in Maârif, next to Twin.* We’ll live here until the end of filming.
It’s early. Not even nine in the morning and we’ve already had breakfast. We’re dressed, showered. My feet move on their own. I can’t sit still. We’re waiting for the car that will bring us to the set. Since it’s the first day, we’re going together. After today I’ll go alone, she told me. They’ll send a car with a driver. He’ll bring me to the set every day. And every night when I’m finished, no matter how late, he’ll bring me back. Classy, right?
Today, I’m going to film four scenes. Last night, Horse Mouth told me not to worry about how their confusing charts work. Each night, she’ll tell me what I need to learn for the next day. At least that’s one less thing to worry about.
Horse Mouth and I are sitting on a brown sofa. There’s a stranger with us. He has blond hair, glasses, and he’s also a giant. Horse Mouth told me his position in the film but I don’t remember what it was. Director of something. And to tell the truth, I was a bit distracted. I was busy looking at the decor.
We’re in a lobby, and what a lobby! It’s like a soccer field. The ceiling goes to the sky and the stairs that lead to the second floor—covered in red carpet with gold embroidery on the sides—are at least six feet wide. The sofas are as big as boats. When you see humans sitting on them, they look like ants.
No matter where we go, horses follow us. There’s a huge statue right in the middle of the lobby, made from iron. There’s a man sitting on the horse. He’s wearing a selham* and a turban and he’s holding a rifle. He’s going to a fantasia.* Probably to a big moussem.* Horse Mouth doesn’t pay attention to it. She doesn’t pay attention to anything anyway.
She’s too busy with her folders. And eating her hair. Judging by her face, I don’t think she’s had much sleep. She looks a bit frantic, the poor thing. I am too, if I’m being honest.
But it’s not because I’m afraid. It’s the lack of sleep. I am a little afraid, if I’m honest, but it’s mostly because I got a bit carried away last night.
They put me up in a room that’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen in your life.
The way the door opens is already enough to give you a glimpse of what awaits. It opens with a card, like the ones you use to recharge your phone. When the guy who was carrying my bags slid it into the slot, I watched how he did it, discreetly. I memorized the movement in my head and as soon as he left, I reopened the door and practiced until I had mastered the technique.
Then I started to make myself at home.
The room was huge, with a window overlooking the city as if it were a movie screen. And a bed as big as a field. Inside, you could fit me, Samira, and my daughter—and there would still be room for more if you wanted.
> But I have to mention two things in particular.
The first is the fridge. Black, small. You wouldn’t spend two rials on it. But when you open it, that’s another story. Coke, Fanta, orange juice, and bottles of all sorts of things. There’s beer, whiskey, vodka, wine. You think of something—anything you want—it’s in there.
My other favorite thing, which made me think that these movie people really know how to live, is the bathroom. A bathtub, a shower, towels, soaps, shampoos, body lotion. If you can resist the temptation of it all, there’s only one possible conclusion: you love grime.
I didn’t think twice.
I went into the bedroom and stripped down to how God made me. Next, I loaded myself up with the contents of the fridge, I went back to the bathroom, and I got the party started!
A sip, a little dip. Another sip. Another dip. And so on.
It reminded me of a guy I brought home one day. He told me stories I had assumed were bullshit. His name was Fettah, I remember him well. He was working as a chauffeur for an Italian guy. One day the Italian brought him into a classy hotel room like this one. In Jdida. The guy had booked a room for himself and a room for the chauffeur. When he saw the price of the room on the door, twenty-six thousand rials, Fettah almost choked. And then he spent half the night awake trying to take advantage of it.
Well, that’s exactly what I did yesterday. After that, how do you expect me to be fresh this morning?
* * *
—
We’re here. We’ve arrived at the filming location. It’s an old building, constructed during the French occupation, next to the central market. It’s really tall, like the other buildings in the neighborhood. The sun is starting to beat down. It’s going to be a hot one today.
“Ready?” Horse Mouth says, getting out of the car and turning toward me.
“One minute, I have to get some nicotine into my lungs,” I answer, getting out and lighting a cigarette.
Today, we’re shooting scenes in the guy’s apartment, Hasna’s Brahim. Oh, I didn’t tell you, but I’ve already met him. Guess who he is. I don’t know how I didn’t mention it before. The day I found out, I didn’t know what to do with myself I was so surprised. It’s Kaïs Joundy! Do you know who that is? The guy who acted in Two Men to Kill. He’s such a hunk! Incredible!
Well, to tell the truth, I think he’s a bit too skinny for the role. They should have cast someone with more muscles. Like that asshole Chaïba for example. He might be a jerk, but he’s huge. Or else someone who looks like Hamid, my husband. With thick hair and deep, black eyes. Eyes you could drown in.
When I said that to Horse Mouth, she replied that he’s a good actor and that they would fix him up so that when I saw him, I would change my mind.
I saw him the other day when we were at Horse Mouth’s, in a studio that belongs to her aunt in the building next to the parking garage. From her terrace, you can see the market, the park, the square with the pigeons, you can see everything that happens in the neighborhood and all the people you know. I saw that son of a whore Bachir the grocer, the one who rips us off on beer prices, remember him? I sent a gob of spit his way! I was so fast that the other two didn’t even see it. Serves him right!
Horse Mouth, Kaïs, and I rehearsed the script several times. Horse Mouth says what happens in the scene, and you do what she says. For example, in something we’re going to film today, Brahim hits Hasna because she slept with another man. So she hits him back and they start arguing and hitting each other. To guide you in how you should act out the scene, Horse Mouth says things like “When he hits you and you get mad, think of a moment in your life when you felt the same anger. When you were so angry that if you didn’t bite your tongue until it bled, or squeeze your fists tight as hell, you would have buried your fingers in the other person until his intestines popped out of his eyes.” Horse Mouth didn’t say it like that but I understood. I know what real anger feels like.
When we rehearsed the scene, “Kaïs Brahim” and I, I didn’t think about anything. Every time I tried to concentrate, I saw Horse Mouth look at me, I looked at Kaïs, I found it all idiotic and it threw me off. So we’d have to start over. Horse Mouth made us rehearse so many times that it did my head in. Finally, I twisted the brat’s wrist because he was starting to piss me off hitting me like that all morning and I threw my script and the bottle of beer right in his face.
“Asshole! It’s not like there are no other men left on earth, I don’t have to put up with this shit!”
Kaïs felt my wrath. Horse Mouth laughed. And she said that was it, I was ready. Later, we all drank beers together and in the end it was a good night.
* * *
—
I finish my cigarette. Horse Mouth tells me we have to go, and that from now on, Jaafar—a guy who works with her—will take care of me. And that she’s going to make sure that everything is ready to go on set. She’s just finished her sentence and we’re still outside when a badly shaven guy in jeans with hair like a sheep arrives. He has dark-brown skin. Even though it’s hot, he’s wearing a black leather jacket as shiny as his gel-soaked hair. He’s clearly very into himself.
“Salaam, Jmiaa? Come with me?” he says with a nod of the head. And he turns back around.
His ass is squeezed tight in his blue jeans. He’s holding a big walkie-talkie in his hand, like the ones the police carry. We enter the building, take the elevator, and go up.
“Here we are. I’ll take you to the dressing room.”
In the apartment, there are a ton of people. Everyone is busy. The ones who notice us—the others are too busy—vaguely nod their heads to say hello. The playboy walking in front of me responds just as vaguely. We arrive at the dressing room. I see the giant seamstress and the girl who was with her before, Lamia.
“How long will you be?” he asks them, glancing at his watch. It’s a quarter to ten.
The Moroccan and the foreigner speak between themselves and the Moroccan girl turns to him and says, “Let’s say twenty minutes. 11:05.”
“Okay, I’ll wait here,” he says, indicating the door. He grabs the walkie-talkie crackling in his hand, speaks into it, and walks out.
“How are you?” the blonde asks me.
She spoke in French but she enunciated each word. So that I would understand.
“I’m good, hamdoullah,*” I answer.
“We’re going to get you dressed, it’ll be quick. And then Jaafar will take you to hair and makeup.”
Before I realize what’s happening, I’m standing there in my bra and underwear. Fuck, my head is spinning!
From behind the door, I hear the playboy’s voice. “All good? Is she ready?”
The Moroccan girl says, “It’s only the first day of filming, Jaafar. You’re not going to start pestering us with your tight schedule already.”
They dress me and open the door. Jaafar, without speaking, signals for me to follow him.
I look in the mirror next to the door. I no longer feel the heat from earlier. The djellaba they put me in is light red. They gave me an orange scarf. Not bad. Also light. They tied it around my neck and picked out some pretty sandals. With a large black band across the front and a sole that looks like cork. Pretty high. They don’t slide. The only shitty thing about my outfit is the chipped nail polish on my toes.
Just as I’m about to walk out, Lamia turns to me and says, also in French, “Go on, good luck.”
I want to shit myself.
* * *
—
They brought me to the makeup artist and to the hairdresser—both in the same room—and now I’m standing in the middle of the set. There are a ton of people. Horse Mouth told me that we would be filming the scene we practiced in her studio, the one with the beer. How does she expect me to do anything with all this chaos? With all the machines and noise. And all these people speaking but you can’t
hear anything they’re saying. Horse Mouth disappeared once Jafaar brought me to her office after hair and makeup. She said I looked impeccable, and then she ran off. Impeccable my ass. If I wasn’t so polite, I would have shown the hairdresser where she could shove her curling iron. She fussed over my head for a full half hour, and you can barely tell the difference from when I walked in.
Fortunately, there’s the makeup to salvage the situation. You can’t even imagine all the products the girl used. She is gifted, but she’s a real bitch. When she finished, since there were nail polishes on the dressing table, I asked her if she had remover, showing her the chipped polish on my hands and feet. She looked at my fingers for a long time, she told me she would ask and she left. You’re going to ask? What exactly are you going to ask? You’re going to ask if you’re going to let me humiliate myself or not? And ask who? Stupid bitch!
The problem is that when she came back, she told me they were going to leave it like that. That it would be better that way. What choice did I have? Grab the bottle and her ponytail by force? When I’ve only just arrived and don’t know anyone here yet? Country whore!
“Go ahead, Jmiaa, let’s rehearse so that everyone can learn their role.”
Horse Mouth appeared like a she-devil. Suddenly she’s right in front of me. We’re getting down to business now.
I really have to shit. I wish my ass would leave me in peace!
And you, Jmiaa, it’s time to show them what you can do!
* * *
—
All that crap was so tiring. When you think of film actors, you imagine them sitting by a hotel pool, sipping an orange juice. You think it must be so cool. You would never imagine that they spend the whole day rehearsing the same scene endlessly. It’s maddening.
Now I’m sitting in the big armchair in my hotel room drinking a beer. But the entire day, I was standing. We went from one scene to another almost without stopping. I don’t know how many scenes we filmed.
Straight from the Horse's Mouth Page 15