God only knows what it will be like in America! I’m going to a town called San Francisco. Horse Mouth showed it to me on a world map. It’s on the other side of the planet. You cross the entire Atlantic Ocean and when you reach the American coast, you still have the same amount of distance to go to get to San Francisco as what you’ve already traveled. And only then do you arrive. But I’m still a long way from there.
We’ve just finished eating. I really went to town on the tray they served us for dinner. I inhaled everything. To tell the truth, I’m living this to the fullest. Anyone else would do the same. Especially when you know the price of the ticket. I didn’t pay out of my own pocket but a woman who works for a travel agency in town told me how much it was. A million eight hundred rials, can you believe it? Now, I’m going to watch the film that Horse Mouth and I picked out before I take a nap. I chose a Hindu film that looks incredible. Shah Rukh Khan* is in it. And that other bombshell whose name I can’t remember.
I have a television screen to myself, on the back of the chair of the person in front of me. I took off my shoes, I put on the socks they gave me and I reclined my chair back as far as it goes. I even covered myself up with the blanket they give you in the beginning, when you board.
You know, now I’m settled in and starting to get used to all of it, but this morning at the airport, I didn’t know what I was doing. Even though Samira and I had tried to prepare for the trip. And even though we said that I would be careful, there are moments when it’s all so unbelievable that my mouth takes me by surprise and my tongue starts flapping all on its own.
Who would have thought that I, Jmiaa, would be going to America because a film I acted in was accepted as part of a festival? When Horse Mouth contacted me from the Netherlands three months ago to tell me that the film would screen in America, I didn’t believe her. And even now that I’m on the plane, I still don’t believe it. Even now.
I remember what I was doing at the exact moment when she called. It was a Friday. Since the end of filming, I had resumed work, my two-bit life and the patterns that go along with it. I spent the money from the film. The cameras were a thing of the past. Abdelali’s generosity had dried up. Okraïcha’s kindness was no more. The moqaddem’s smiles had disappeared. There was nothing left. There was only me, my costumes, and the framed, lonely photo on my bedroom wall.
If I was anything like Halima, you would have found me crying about my fate, staring at the photo, a river of snot coming out of my nose…But anyway, to each her own.
That Friday, I was drinking a beer and it was seven o’clock on the dot.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Jmiaa, today is a big day. Pack your things!”
Horse Mouth was yelling into the telephone. By the time she explained to me what was going on and I finally understood, she had already hung up. I was in shock.
It wasn’t until the next day that I started to realize. First I called back Horse Mouth to make sure I hadn’t imagined any of it. With all the pills in my system, you never know. And after that call, when it had finally sunk in, I made moves, and everything moved with me.
* * *
—
I withdrew all the money I had and bribed everyone I had to for a passport. And before that, I had to get a new national ID card. I scattered my money around to stack the odds in my favor. The caid,* the moqaddem, the guy at the wilaya,* the friends of Samira’s guy Aziz, everyone. Nearly everything I had disappeared in the process. I called people I knew and people I didn’t know. People I’ve fucked and people who’ve fucked me.
I couldn’t tell you who did what, but I can tell you that it worked.
And in the end, all those days I spent moving heaven and earth passed without me realizing it. I didn’t start to really grow afraid until I received my passport. I was afraid that, for one reason or another, it would all come crashing to a halt. The day when I went to the US consulate for my visa appointment—and before I got to the guy who asks you questions—I must have lost ten pounds of sweat alone.
Every time someone spoke to me, I would tell myself: “All right, now they’re going to stop me.” And every time I passed to the next stage, I would say to myself, “I made it this time, but I’ll be stopped next time.” That’s how it went until I was sitting in front of that man with the red mustache, the American who asks you questions about why you want the visa and what you’re going to do over there. He speaks to you in Moroccan. Not in English. They speak to you in Moroccan at the US consulate. Isn’t that incredible?
I lined up in the street, where there are police and those big metal machines that look like dumpsters filled with flowers. You know, the ones they installed the day after another crazy guy blew himself up in front of the consulate a while back. I lined up a second time on the other side of the street, behind the barrier, where there’s another swarm of cops who check your papers and your appointment. I passed.
I lined up behind a desk at the entrance, where there’s a donkey who speaks to you as if he were the white Obama. I passed.
Next, I followed the flood of people until I got to the place where they search you and take your phone. I passed there too.
I don’t know how I did it, but I passed every time. And when I reached the guy with the red mustache, I was afraid like never before in my life.
When he was finished with his questions, he told me that they would return my passport along with my visa in two days and he smiled at me. I stayed there waiting for the next thing. I didn’t budge until he said again, smiling even wider, that I was free to go. And then, afraid he would change his mind, I grabbed my things and took off.
I think it was the sura that I repeated in my head before reaching his desk that blinded him. Or else the purse filled with nigella seed that the faqih gave me made an invisible wall between me and the others so they didn’t see me. Or else maybe I did a good deed one day and I just don’t remember. I have no clue.
In any event, the guy hardly asked me any questions. He looked at the papers that Horse Mouth gave me, he saw my airplane ticket, he asked if I was leaving my daughter at my mother’s, and he told me to have a good trip. That was it.
After that, two more days passed, I picked up my passport and I went to the bus station. I bought a ticket and I went to Mouy’s. Directly. Without stopping along the way. It had been two years since I’d last seen or spoken to her. Two years.
As for Samia, I swear if I hadn’t carried her in my stomach, I would never have recognized her. When I saw her again, it was like someone hit me. All at once, I felt the weight of those two years. Day to day, you don’t have the time to reflect, but there are moments when, for whatever reason, you feel things. And in that moment, I felt that I had missed Samia.
In Berrechid, everything was exactly as I’d left it. Including the key for the front door on the sill.
I arrived at a time when I knew that Mouy would be alone. I showed up in the living room like an apparition. Before she’d had a chance to raise her head to see who’d entered, I was already kissing her feet with the passport raised in my rig ht hand.
Without stopping to catch my breath, I asked for her blessing. I wouldn’t go anywhere, I wouldn’t take any plane without her blessing. Not for America, or Sweden, or anywhere else. I wouldn’t go to the film festival in America even though I’m the star of the film. I wouldn’t go to America to find a job. I wouldn’t go to America to build a future for myself and for my daughter. I wouldn’t go to make enough money to send home substantial payments each month. I wouldn’t go to begin another life. I would kiss her feet and stay there until she gave me her blessing. And only then would I leave.
As I spoke, I handed her an envelope full of money for her to keep in case something happened to me during the trip.
I cried that day. I cried as long as I needed to and when I was done, she lifted me up and she forgave me. That’s how I left.
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WEDNESDAY THE 24TH
Holy shit, we’re in America. We’ve arrived. We’re driving on a freeway like you’ve never seen before. I can’t count the number of lanes there are on each side of the barrier that separates the two directions. Four? Five? Six? My neck can’t keep up. Cars are rushing from all directions. You’re asking yourself where that car came from and then suddenly another one overtakes you, leaving you in the dust. It’s as if there were a giant behind us, thighs open, giving birth to one after another, her spawn in a hurry to join the world. Fatema’s niece is full of shit. Cold, in America? There’s a sun bright enough to blind you and every other motherfucker on the planet! Horse Mouth has on her black sunglasses and is looking through the window, with that perpetual smile on her lips. That idiot forgot the bag with all the cartons of cigarettes we bought on the plane, but she doesn’t seem to care, the dummy. Her lips are happy.
Mine too, I think. Barely out of the airport, I smoked two of my own cigarettes, one after another. They grounded me.
Holy shit, I’m in America. I can’t believe it. I have arrived in America.
And in front of us, look at that bridge! No, it’s not a bridge. It’s bridges. Going in every direction. Like the legs of a spider. We pass under one.
To the left and to the right, the gray walls begin again. Since leaving the airport, sometimes we catch glimpses of the city, its trees, houses, stores like Marjane. But sometimes we see nothing but walls.
God only knows what’s behind them. What’s certain is that it’s not like our country. It’s not possible that they’d have things to hide here. It’s not possible that they would have corrugated iron, filth, and rags to conceal.
“What’s behind those walls?” I ask Horse Mouth.
“What walls?” she asks, turning her head toward me. “Those?” and she points to the wall with her finger.
I nod my head yes. Frowning slightly to signify that it’s nothing, she says, “It’s nothing. It’s just residential neighborhoods. They put up walls so the residents have privacy.”
Bullshit. No one lives behind those walls. Since we got in the car earlier, I haven’t seen any bridges for people to cross or any other openings for people to leave through.
If I knew how to speak English, I would have asked the taxi driver. He would know what’s behind them. Taxi drivers always know. Because she lives in the Netherlands, she thinks she knows everything. Hey, Horse Mouth, wake up, this is America! There are things that even you don’t understand.
Fuck, my head is spinning. I don’t know what time it is. I asked that crazy woman when we arrived. She said it was Tuesday, 6:30 in the evening. But we left Tuesday morning at 10:30 am and the hands of the clock have already made their way around the dial since then. I don’t know how she came up with that math. I’ve been trying to add it up, I can’t figure it out.
“Look over here. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” says Horse Mouth.
I lean over to see the buildings with the sea in the background to our right. And on the other side, in the distance, there’s a mountain like the one in Agadir. The one with the inscription “God, Country, King.”
I’ve been to Agadir once in my life. I was so drunk that I don’t remember anything except for that mountain. In any case, it’s the only thing anyone remembers when they go there.
On this mountain, there’s writing like in our country. In white, directly on the earth.
“What’s the motto in this country?” I ask Horse Mouth, showing her the writing on the mountain.
She turns her head to see.
“Huh? Oh, that!” and she laughs. “It’s not their motto. It says, ‘South San Francisco The Industrial City.’ ”
“Hmmm.” I turn back to my window.
Idiot!
MONDAY THE 6TH
Wow wow wow, the food they have here. You should see the portions they give you. I didn’t hesitate for a second when Horse Mouth asked me what I wanted to eat this morning: a traditional breakfast, that’s what I wanted. Something to fill my stomach, one hundred percent American. They really know how to eat here.
If you ever come here one day, that’s what you have to order. I have eggs. An omelette filled with vegetables. I wouldn’t even be able to describe everything that’s in it because there’s so much. Zucchini, herbs, green red and yellow peppers, onions. There’s even tomato. And on the side, potatoes cut up into cubes, and slices of their breakfast bread. Big square slices. To be honest, I prefer our bread, but this is fine. They also bring you butter and jam for free, just because you ordered eggs. I also ordered a bowl with all kinds of fruit and Dannon yogurt.
I didn’t order a pastry because I wouldn’t have known where to put it, but you should have seen them. You’ve never seen such big pastries in your life. They’re tall and have multiple layers. On the bottom, there’s cream, in the middle, there’s cream, on the top, there’s more cream. It never ends. Sometimes they have five or even six layers.
I ordered a latte to drink. They have a crazy system here. When you order a coffee or a Coke or anything to drink—except alcohol—they refill you and refill you until you can’t take it anymore. When you finish your glass, the server comes to ask if you want more. You could have twenty refills if you wanted. They do it because the people here are idiots. Even when they’re in a group, they all order drinks, rather than having one and sharing it.
To be honest, I find their population a bit stupid. We might be poor but we’re not stupid. They have everything they need and they don’t know what to do with it. For example, if you buy something and you don’t like it, or it’s not the right size, or whatever other reason, you return it to the store with the packaging and your receipt and they give you back the money. Even if it’s open, even if you’ve worn it. They don’t even ask you why and they give you back all the money you paid for it.
Once I discovered this trick, I bought three pairs of shoes. And three bags. And I also bought two scarves and two pairs of socks. It bothers Horse Mouth because she’s the one who has to talk to the cashiers to get reimbursed. I don’t care. If she’s been contaminated by their stupidity, how is that my problem?
In fact, I haven’t spent any of the fifty dollars that Horse Mouth gives me each day. I’ve accumulated four thousand two hundred dirhams. Four thousand six hundred if you count today.
But that’s not even the best part. Since I arrived, my favorite thing has been walking and taking photos. Downtown under the crazy tall buildings. In the Chinese neighborhood in front of a store with a giant tortoise on the door. At a restaurant, with an enormous green building behind me and a bowl of spaghetti in front of me. Next to the fountain downtown, with the statue of a woman and her two children. In the park, which goes all the way to the ocean. Next to the red bridge which they say is the most beautiful in the world. A bridge that withstands everything. Earthquakes, tsunamis, everything. There’s no corner of this city in which I haven’t been photographed.
There’s only one thing I haven’t taken a photo of. But that’s for a reason. It’s the homeless people. Holy shit, this city is full of homeless people. It’s worse than Casa. I don’t know where the hell they all come from. Since Horse Mouth always takes the photos, I made a point of telling her from the beginning: “Take photos of me wherever you want, whenever you want, but no homeless people in my photos. This is America.”
“Wbuca hnioea ilea moea coffü?”
“Yes please,” I answer, holding out my cup.
The server has come with her pitcher to ask me if I want more coffee. I told her yes, thank you. That’s one of the first things I learned. That and thank you, thank you very much, no, how much for this, and okay. In French that’s “merci,” “merci beaucoup,” “non,” “combien pour cette chose,” and I’m sure you understood that okay means “d’accord.” It’s like in Arabic. The people are nice here. That’s why I learned all the phrase
s. So that I could talk to them too.
Like the other day, something too funny happened to me. I had just woken up, I wanted to smoke and we didn’t have any cigarettes. Horse Mouth was dead asleep. I quickly threw on my djellaba and my sandals, grabbed my wallet and covered my head with the first scarf I could find to tame my hair. I was walking to the store behind our hotel when suddenly two guys in a red car drove past me.
They passed me and I saw the one in the passenger seat point at me and tell his friend to turn back around. When they passed in front of me again, just for a laugh, the one in front lowered the window, scowled, and said, pointing at me like he was holding a pistol: “Bam.” He was a good actor, he looked serious and didn’t laugh. And with his shaved head and his tattoos, he looked really mean.
But he didn’t know who he was messing with. To show him that I, too, can act, I brought my hands to my heart as if I had been hit and pretended to collapse on the sidewalk.
My acting was so good both of their jaws dropped.
There’s no doubt about it, if I win a prize at this festival, it’s because I’m just too good.
I had my dress for the event custom-made. As soon as I knew I was coming, I went to the seamstress. It’s modeled after the outfit Najat wears on the cover of her penultimate album. The one she wore again for that televised event, a long time ago. It’s a pink lebssa,* with silver embroidery on the front, the collar, and the sleeves. And big gray pearls in the middle of gold flowers all along the design down the middle. With a gold sirwal,* which narrows at the ankles. And a giant belt, with no pearls because they’d fall off. It’s a wild outfit.
And for it to be truly complete—and for the first time in my life—I bought matching underwear. A bra and panty ensemble. Both lace.
And like Najat, I have gold high heels and gold dang ling earrings. They’re not real gold, but you’d swear they were. And I’m going to do my hair exactly like hers in the photo I brought with me so I don’t screw it up the day of the event.
Straight from the Horse's Mouth Page 18