Straight from the Horse's Mouth

by Meryem Alaoui

  There are so many people that I can’t even see them all. They’re squeezed against the barriers, like on the news when the king passes. And the moqaddem* is sitting over there, on the set with us. I had never seen his teeth before today. Normally he greets you with a grimace distorting his unfortunate face. When he saw me and realized that I was in the film, you should have seen his expression. As if he were at the door of paradise and I held the keys. When he approached me, I greeted him. I sat him at a table, one of the ones they put on the sidewalk to the right of the set so that the actors and technicians can rest. I told the assistant to bring him a coffee and I gave him a cigarette. When I took out the pack of Marlboros, his jaw dropped. What, did he think I was going to pump my lungs full of those disgusting Marvels all my life?

  Samira is sitting at the table next to him. I asked that she join the actors and the team today. Horse Mouth didn’t protest. Samira’s wearing a djellaba that I’ve never seen her in before. I don’t know where she pulled that one out from, the minx. It’s yellow. Like the inside of an egg. The color of her hair actually. And with a slit in the front! She’s holding a Fanta in one hand and in the other she’s taking a drag, flaunting in front of all those watching. It’s an incredible spectacle. The moqaddem doesn’t know whether to stare at Samira’s thighs or at what’s going on around him.

  “Let’s go!”

  Jaafar tells us to take our places. We’re going to film the scene where we enter the jewelry store to scout out the location and plan our heist. Kaïs is a knockout, and they’ve dressed me in a fantastic outfit! So that the jeweler wouldn’t recognize me, they changed my clothes, my hairdo, my makeup, everything. They put me in a short brown wig, a bob. And my ensemble is somewhere between green and brown, with pants and a matching vest. They put me in a white blouse and I’m carrying a handbag.

  I’m pretending to be a teacher. And Kaïs is my fiancé, and we’re entering the store to choose a ring for me. The people watching us can’t believe it’s me. I really blow them away.

  “Action!”

  Horse Mouth has spoken. Now it’s my turn.

  “You go in first and I’ll follow you?” I say to Kaïs before we reach the jeweler’s door.

  “Listen, we already talked about this. I’ll go first and I’ll open the door for you to go in,” answers Kaïs, passing me to reach the jeweler’s.

  “…”

  I have to say something. I don’t know what. I forget. Kaïs turns toward me. He stares at me. He’s waiting for me to say my line. Behind him, Fouzia’s head and neck are bent backward, she’s laughing so hard at seeing me like this. I can’t remember my line. Fuck, I can’t remember my line.

  “Cut!”

  Horse Mouth orders the cameraman to stop.

  “Let’s start over.”

  And she turns toward me:

  “Jmiaa, focus, please.”

  I remember. I have to say: “But that wasn’t a good plan.” I get back in my starting position. “Action!”

  “You go in first and I’ll follow you?”

  “Listen, we already talked about this. I’ll go first and I’ll open the door for you to go in.”

  That bitch Fouzia is still laughing. She’s still in the same spot as before. Even Bachir is laughing now.

  “No, not like that. Let’s go this way,” I respond, turning to Kaïs.

  Kaïs looks at me without saying anything. I don’t remember exactly what I just said but I don’t think it was right.

  “Cut!”

  Horse Mouth again. I look at her. She pokes her head out of her black box. Her look signals to me that I need to focus and her mouth says calmly, “Take your places again. From the top.”

  Kaïs turns his back to me to return to his place. It’s hot in this outfit. And this vest is restricting me. Especially around my waist. Sheesh, it’s really tight. And this wig is starting to get on my nerves. It’s making me hot. And I know myself. When I have things clinging to me all over, it gets on my nerves. But with all these people watching me, I can’t complain.

  “Action!” says Horse Mouth.

  We start filming.

  “You go in first and I’ll follow you?” I say.

  “Listen, we already talked about this. I’ll go first and I’ll open the door for you to go in.”

  “Action!”

  What is this shit?

  “Action! Action! Hello? Yes, Madame Rhimou?”

  I don’t know where that fucking noise is coming from. When I look behind the barrier, I see some people laughing, others looking around like me, turning their heads to see where the sound is coming from.

  “Action!”

  It’s coming from my left. Behind Bachir, that idiot Mbarka, the old woman, screaming like she does when the bin-ou-bin pass and she shows them her ass. She walks, swaying, toward the center of the crowd. Her arms are on her hips and she yells as she walks.

  “Action!”

  No one knows what to look at anymore. Should they look at me, where the real film is going on, or at the other film that the crazy lady is directing over there? She walks like a goose. She’s hiked up her djellaba above her knees, holding it at her waist. And the lipstick she’s slathered on is all over her mouth.

  The others laugh, looking from her to Horse Mouth to see how she’s going to react. They understand that she’s the boss, who says what to do and what not to do. Horse Mouth is at a loss.

  She’s crazy, that Mbarka. I look at Samira and I barely have time to laugh before a cop grabs the old woman by the collar and drags her away. She falls backward, directly onto her ass. Another cop arrives to help his friend.

  Mbarka doesn’t understand what’s going on, and with all that lipstick, all we can see of her face is her mouth in the shape of a big “O.” Samira and I are on the ground we’re laughing so hard. The entire neighborhood is on the ground. The cops take her to the end of the street to smack her around a little while she kicks frantically in the air.

  “Hey, no, no, what are you doing? Leave her alone!”

  Horse Mouth has jumped out of her seat, she’s running toward the cop. Fuck, what is her problem?

  “Leave her alone! No! No!”

  Horse Mouth gets to the barrier quick as lightning. She tries to climb over it. Fouzia steps back and watches to see whether she’ll manage to get to the other side or not. One of the cops stands behind Horse Mouth.

  “No, madame, leave it, we’ll take care of it,” he says to her in French.

  She continues to jump like a madwoman trying to cross the barrier. The cop doesn’t know what to do anymore.

  “No, leave it, madame, leave it.”

  He speaks to her politely, the son of a bitch. This guy who normally pulls out his club as soon as he sees people throwing themselves over barriers doesn’t dare grab her by the arm, the moron. His hand keeps extending toward Horse Mouth’s elbow, but he doesn’t touch her.

  “Return to your place, madame, we’ll take care of her,” he says, looking at her with adoring eyes.

  “Is that so? What do you mean, you’ll take care of her? Look how they’re treating her!”

  Horse Mouth points her finger toward the crazy lady, who is still being dragged backward by the two cops, punching at the air and screaming at them to let her go.

  A guy named Khalid who works with us on the set gets involved. Khalid grabs Horse Mouth by the elbow. I sit down next to Samira, I have a sip of her Fanta and light a cigarette. We’re not filming, might as well kick back and watch the show. The moqaddem has gotten up. Now, everyone surrounds Horse Mouth.

  The Dutch have joined her league for the defense of human rights. The Moroccans and the cops try to explain to them that we have to get back to filming. That nothing’s going to happen to the old woman. Even Fouzia and Rabia get involved.

  “No, madame, you have to go over there
,” says Fouzia very seriously to Horse Mouth in French.

  All the girls burst out laughing. Samira and I do too. It encourages her.

  “Yes, madame, you have to go over there. They’re waiting for you,” she adds, still in French.

  Khalid tells Horse Mouth and her team to stand aside, he says that he’s going to take care of it. And he goes to talk to the cops. He turns back toward Horse Mouth to tell her that everything’s okay. She tells him that they’re not going to resume filming until the elderly woman—that’s how she describes the crazy lady—has come back from where the cops dragged her.

  Khalid wants to smack her, it’s obvious.

  Honestly, in his place, I’d want to do the same thing. She’s really a pain in the ass sometimes, that Horse Mouth. But Khalid says nothing and goes to take care of the problem. There must have been blue bills* involved because immediately after, the police let go of the crazy woman.

  Mbarka walks back toward us, adjusting her djellaba and turning around to make sure the cops aren’t following her. She understands that it’s because of the film people that they let her go so she shoots the cops a snooty look. Horse Mouth approaches her, I don’t know what she says to her but Khalid opens the barriers to the madwoman to let her in. What bullshit!

  They’ve even given her a chair now. And they brought her a Fanta too. Bullshit! And look at her! Now she’s playing the victim in front of them. She’s showing the scars on her legs to Horse Mouth. And the scars on her elbows. And the cold sore underneath her lipstick which she wipes off on the sleeve of her djellaba. She’s out of her mind! And all you people who fuss over her and her antics are out of your minds too! It’s your pockets you should be fussing over. She’ll clean you out before you can even say “aye.”

  But I’m going to let it go because it’s not my problem. And let that crazy woman live it up while she still can. Because those cops over there, trust me, they’ll be nice and calm until the Dutch pack up their circus, and then they’ll make her spit back up that Fanta she just drank.

  “Jmiaa, get in position, we’re going to start again.”

  It’s Jaafar. About time! I fix my pants and my blouse and I let out a big sigh to show everyone that they’re giving me a headache with all their crap. Children! Every last one of them.

  THURSDAY THE 5TH

  Yesterday, for the first time since we started filming, I spent my day off in the neighborhood. You should have seen how they welcomed me.

  First I went to the house to check out my room and make sure everything was in its place. I stayed for fifteen minutes and then went back down. I had put on a new djellaba. Green, with yellow trim. And I was wearing new sandals too, and I had my hair down.

  What I’m trying to say is, I looked good. And I didn’t even have time to get down the stairs before I was accosted by people who wanted to speak to me. The first person I saw was Okraïcha. Guess what: she invited me to have tea at her place. It was the first time I’d been in her home. As soon as we were seated, Samira and I, she served us msemens, honey, olive oil, olives, and she made a perfectly sweet tea.

  Her daughter was there, and even her mother, who is living with her right now while she takes care of some things at the courthouse.

  I showed her that she’s not the only one from a good family. Samira was on her best behavior too. When I wanted to leave because it was getting late and there were other people I wanted to see, I nodded at her and she announced our departure. Samira thanked Okraïcha for welcoming us and told her we had to leave because we still had a lot of things to do. That I had people to see and that they were waiting for me back at the hotel to prepare for tomorrow’s shoot. I acquiesced, adding another layer of excuses. Okraïcha said that she understood and that we were always welcome, that it was a big day for her to have entertained us. She and her daughter accompanied us to the hallway. She’s kind, that woman, it turns out. We just didn’t know her before.

  Then we went into the street, where it was total madness. Everyone came to greet me, everyone wanted to have tea with me. Everyone wanted to know what it was like on the other side.

  I had expected that they would assail me. I had brought a two-hundred-dirham bill to pay for a round. We went to a café with the girls. I brought them to Abdelali’s place. There were six of us. Samira and I, Rabia, Fouzia, and two others you don’t know. Najiba and Kebira. We sat inside, we ordered two big teapots and every kind of pastry they had. We laughed, we drank, we ate.

  I told them about the film crew. All the necessary preparation. The script, the makeup, the lights, the outfits, the memorization. I taught them things they would never have learned otherwise. And I also told them what people say about me over there. Like the day when Maaizou told me he had never seen anyone assimilate as quickly as I had.

  Their mouths were agape the whole time I was speaking. Abdelali and his server too. They pretended to be setting the tables next to us so they could listen to our conversation. I took pity on them and raised my voice so that they could hear without straining too much.

  On my phone, I showed the girls my photos from the hotel, by the horse, at the pool, the restaurant table. With the Dutch people. With Horse Mouth. With Hasna and Wafaa doing my makeup and hair. With the costume designer, the giant blonde. With Nasser, the driver, next to the car. I showed them all the photos I’d taken. Of my hotel room too. Everywhere.

  We must have stayed at the café for a full two hours. When we wanted to pay, Abdelali refused to bring me the bill. I insisted. But he refused to take a single rial. Before leaving, I told him that I would tell the film crew—who I’m friendly with now—to come to his café for their meals. And we left.

  I continued to make my way through the neighborhood, talking to the girls. We went to the market, the bakery, the avenue, Pommercy. I gave everyone a bit of my time. Even Hamid.

  But when I walked by Hajar, who was sitting on the steps—like a turd drying in the sun—I looked straight through her and her friend. Let her go run and tell Bouchaïb what I’ve become so that he’ll regret ever leaving with her and daring to raise a hand to me. You know, I can forgive everyone, except for him. I can forgive Hamid, my husband who took off and left me. Mouy, who kept my daughter and turned her back on me as if she hadn’t brought me into the world. Houcine, who for all these years has taken money that I earned through my own hard work. I’ll forgive all of them. But I’ll never forgive him.

  FRIDAY THE 20TH

  Today, it’s Friday. I’m in my room, in town. We finished filming.

  They gave me three and a half million, all the costumes they had made for me, the makeup, the bags and scarves. They took good care of me.

  Before we left, there was a big party at the hotel. And we spent our last night together. It was barely a week ago, but it seems like so long ago, like it never happened.

  At the end of the night, we took a group photo.

  Horse Mouth brought me a framed print of it yesterday. In a black frame, simple and thin, but the photo is magnificent, and I hung it on the wall opposite my mattress.

  Everyone is in it. We’re all standing behind the pool, on the roof. You can see the water shining, the lights, the candles…everything.

  I’m standing in the middle, next to Horse Mouth. I’m wearing a long, red dress that I bought the other day in Maârif. Kaïs is on the other side of Horse Mouth. And everyone else is around us. We’re all laughing. I had just let out a spectacular youyou. You can still see it on my face.

  Today, Horse Mouth took the plane. The Dutch left, the Moroccans scattered. Everyone is gone.

  There’s just me, lingering here.

  And I have no clue what to make of it all.

  TUESDAY THE 23RD

  You’ll never be able to guess where I am. Never. I’m on a plane.

  On a plane that’s bringing me to America. Yes, America. The United States of America, as they say.


  And this is the second plane I’ve taken today. The first brought me from the Mohammed V airport to France, where I changed planes. And now I’m on this one.

  I’m sitting next to the window. It’s tiny, round. Outside, it’s pouring. When we took off from Casablanca, the sun was beating down hard. God only knows what the weather will be like in America.

  Saïda, the niece of Fatema, our neighbor in Berrechid, who lives over there, told me it’s cold. Sometimes, it snows so much that the schools close for an entire week. So I brought a big wool shawl, thick socks, and Mouy’s green winter djellaba, the one that she had made last year before going to see her sister in the village.

  Speaking of Mouy, you should have seen her just now at the airport, the poor thing. She cried her heart out when we said goodbye. Neither my daughter, nor my brothers, nor their wives, nor their children, not even the policeman who was standing there, managed to calm her down.

  She didn’t stop until I reached the customs area, where they only allow in the people with passports and tickets. She stood there, sheepish, gaze distant and hollow. Put yourself in her place: your only daughter is going to America; God knows what she’ll find over there…I understand. I asked forgiveness from everyone before leaving. You never know, something might happen on the way and then I’d have to answer for it up above.

  At the airport, the woman who was next to me as I went through security felt sorry for me when she saw my mother in such a state. The poor lady, she’s a good woman. She lives in France with her husband and her children. She’s been there for thirty years. Now her children are grown up and she came to Morocco because her mother, God bless her soul, is sick.

  I met her where you drop off your suitcases for them to be loaded onto the plane. Since I wasn’t sure how it worked, I asked her and she told me to follow her. She showed me everything. And when we arrived in France, she brought me to the hallway that led me to where I boarded the plane I’m on now. I swear to you that without her, never in my life would I have gotten here. Also, she gave me her number and told me to go see her one day if I’m ever in France.