Because, you know, we’re going to be like those people at the film festival in Marrakech that they air on Al Aoula. We’re going to arrive at the theater where they’re hosting the festival, we’re going to stop in front of everyone, we’ll take photos. There will be cameras, journalists, people behind the barriers. Like on the television. We’ve already been to one party, the day we arrived, and it gave me an idea of what it will be like. It was in a hotel downtown. They threw a party on a roof, around a pool, like in Casa.
There were tons of people. Everyone was dressed up. Everyone was happy. There was a buffet lined up with things to eat. And a table full of booze. And everything was free.
The things I drank! Wine, beer, vodka, gin. I drank until I fell over. When we left, the black security guys had to carry me to the car.
The next day, Horse Mouth was angry at me. She said, you can’t behave like that. I didn’t even argue with her. I let her talk and talk. Why would they bring out all that booze if they didn’t want people to party? It’s not like I was a nasty drunk or got into a brawl or anything like that. I drank and I fell over, that’s all.
And also, I told her, if they had given us proper food to fill us up, it wouldn’t have happened. They put out bread cut in two with cold things on top. Is that a joke? But anyway, apart from that we had a great time that night. Too bad Kaïs couldn’t come with us. He would have enjoyed himself. But apparently he’s shooting another film at the moment.
But even without him, I had a good time. I met people, I talked, I laughed, I did it all. No, if you’re thinking that I left with someone, you’re wrong. Nothing like that. Here, I’m a known actress.
I tell them that at home, in Morocco, people say hello to me in the street because I’m on the television, they ask me for my autograph, everything. As if I were Najat. Who’s going to tell them otherwise?
You know, after a few drinks, you start to understand what people are saying. Even if they don’t speak your language. I don’t know if it’s because I’m sharp or if that’s how it is for everyone. But what I know is that I chatted with loads of people.
There was even a guy who knew the group Horse Mouth likes, Nass El Ghiwane, remember them? Fortunately Horse Mouth made me listen to their music. Imagine the shame if I hadn’t known them when an American knows them?
He had even been to Morocco. To Essaouira. He ate fish on the port. And he saw the seagulls. And he was cold because of the wind. He did a lot of things. When I saw that he knew so much about Morocco, I took off at the first opportunity. In case he exposed me.
That night, while I was speaking to people, something bizarre happened. Even though I was relaxed, I was still focused. It was my first night here and we weren’t just anywhere. So a part of my brain was paying attention to what I was doing, another was working to understand what everyone was saying, and another still was observing them to see how they were behaving among themselves.
Amid all of that, I was so busy that I didn’t really take the time to look around me.
Suddenly, my eyes were distracted by a light flickering in the sky. A plane, I think. I looked up. And that’s when I saw. I saw everything all around us.
From where I was, I could see the entire city. All lit up. Yellows, blues, oranges, greens. Every possible color. The cars in the streets—so far below—seemed small, like toys. I couldn’t even make out the people.
And behind the buildings in the distance, a bridge hovering in the air. Like an image that only exists in the mirages of your mind. Gigantic. Illuminated. A bridge like I’ve never seen before and like I’ll never see again, I think. A bridge looming large. Imposing. Watching over the city. Proud. And for good reason.
And those buildings that soar to the sky. And the music that followed them. As if awestruck. The music wants to join them, fly away with them too.
And that sky, vast, unending, full of stars and the dreams of those now asleep.
And me. Me, standing under all of it. Wearing my classy teacher’s costume. And my hair pinned behind my neck. With all those people around me. Put together. Well dressed and happy.
I wanted to cry. I saw all of it, I saw myself and I don’t know why I wanted to cry. I don’t know why.
WEDNESDAY THE 8TH
Today’s the day, we’re here. We’re at the festival. We’re sitting, waiting for the man in the suit on the stage to call the names. A woman in a long white dress is standing next to him. Sometimes it’s her who speaks. It’s our turn soon, Horse Mouth tells me, our turn soon.
I don’t know how I managed to be sitting here on this red chair. I wanted to tell you about my entrance into the theater and the photos and the poses I did for the cameras. And my smiles and the hands I shook. But I can’t. I don’t even know what happened. I don’t know if I smiled or not, if I posed like a peacock or not.
I’m already here, mouth agape. Sitting in front with Horse Mouth and all the others, the film people I don’t know. They’re talking and laughing among themselves.
I’m in a film with no sound, just buzzing all around my head and images succeeding each other. One right after another.
Everything sparkles. The women’s colorful dresses. Their teeth. Their gold. Their diamonds. The white shirts worn by their men.
And my dress too, with its pink satin, its gray pearls and their reflection dancing in the light from the ceiling.
Another image. My feet keep each other company in their golden sandals, with their pearly pink nails.
And Horse Mouth to my left. In pants, black this time. And black leather boots. And a red shirt. And a silver necklace, almost as thick as her neck. And her mane, shy at being let loose tonight. She’s like a frail bird.
And my neighbor, I can only see her knees. Protruding from her sequined white dress.
And her confident hands that frolic about while her mouth sets the tempo. With their red nails at the end and a diamond bracelet on her wrist. Just one bracelet. It’s enough.
And in front of us, the stage. The one where the man in the suit and the woman in the white dress call you. And a podium, where those who win the prizes speak.
I can’t see very well now. They’ve turned out the lights. The sound travels in my direction but it’s still far away. They’re starting to call people, I think.
My saliva struggles down my throat and my chest is too tight for my breath. I want to ask the frail bird if it’s our turn but the words can’t find their way out.
They snag. Headless bodies incapable of guiding their feet.
I watch her, and my eyes—which have taken pity on me—ask her: “Is it our turn?”
“Not yet,” she answers.
Her hand squeezes mine. And she goes quiet.
I feel her fear. She worked hard on this film. It’s her first. Her trembling lips are hanging on by her hope.
They’re calling people. There are several prizes. The man who was just called for this one runs onto the stage. He’s wearing a black suit, he looks magnificent, even if he’s a bit pale. And even if he’s not well shaved. His eyes twinkle in the light shining from above, straight onto him. The flashes of photographers. He says things. He smiles. He lifts his prize to the sky. It seems light. The man’s heart seems light too.
He goes back down. They’re going to call someone else.
“Is it our turn?” my eyes ask again. “Not yet,” her hand replies.
The next person goes up. He doesn’t know where to look. His head spins around in every direction. He says nothing. He cries. He’s a man. But he’s crying like a baby.
In front of the cameras. Those to the side, those in front. And even those above, affixed to the ceiling.
The cameras. The first thing I saw when I entered the theater. Standing on their tireless feet, or affixed to their solid arms, they turn and record the people. From time to time, they pivot toward us, the audience. No matt
er what I do, it will be inscribed forever into their memories.
The man goes back down. Time passes.
My heart races. My stomach is empty and my chest is hollow. Even so, it’s the only thing that matters. I am completely reliant on it. An empty chest that resounds with the beating of my heart.
It’s our turn. The hand holding mine squeezes. It’s our turn. Everything fades away. There’s my chest, hers, and our hands. And the film that we made.
My chest, hers, our hands and the film.
My chest, hers, our hands and the film.
My chest, hers, our hands and our film.
I am pulled to the left and my body lifts.
It passes in front of the shifting knees.
It passes beneath my hair that falls over my face.
It passes beneath light applause.
It follows the black pants and the leather boots.
It moves through an aisle and arrives at the foot of the stairs.
It feels—in the audience—the vibrations of clapping hands.
My sandals guide me. They kiss the stairs, one after the other. Right cheek, left cheek. Right cheek again. They continue to follow the boots that don’t seem to know the way anymore. Once on the stage, they go forward, to the right and then return to the left.
Then they stop suddenly, somewhere near the podium. We have arrived.
I see nothing in the theater. To the right, it’s black. To the left, it’s black. Above, blinding light. In front, I can’t see the people. I hear only the growing applause.
Now, the hand of my friend. It is slender but firm. It trembles between my fingers, full and round.
I squeeze it. With all my hand’s strength.
It cannot break. Her hand is slender but solid. She is slender but determined. She is slender but she brought us here.
She lets go of me. To take the prize—a glass sculpture—and to bring it slowly to her lips. And it quickly comes to rest on the podium, in front of her.
My friend talks, talks, talks. Like the first day we met. Even though I don’t understand a word of what she’s saying, I know that she’s speaking fast. And I know that she’s happy. Very happy. She says loads of things and I hear my name and Casablanca and my name again. She talks and she laughs.
And she gestures to me with the palm of her hand and the people applaud and they applaud and they applaud. And in the hall, I feel them stand as one.
And Chadlia looks at me, with the biggest smile I’ve seen since I met her. She smiles wider than her mouth. She smiles wider than her face. And her palm continues to gesture at me. And she pulls me toward the podium and she hands me the prize and it’s heavy in my arms. I think I’m supposed to say something. The audience is still applauding. They are standing.
I have to say something.
Fuck, I have to say something.
Fucking fuck fuck, I have to say something.
“Uh…Thank you.”
They’re still waiting. What on earth should I say to you?
“Uh…Thank you. Thank you. Thank you very much,” I say into the microphone.
They’re still standing and they keep going. They don’t want to stop.
Something rises in me. I’m filling up. It moves through my feet like ants. And it accelerates. It climbs through my legs, it reaches my waist which swells beneath my belt. Now my chest. My chest fills with air. Air that sweeps through it like a tornado. I think it’s joy.
In a surge, it’s propelled to the sky. The air rises through my neck, it clears out my throat, it clarifies my voice, it penetrates my mouth, it awakens my tongue from its torpor, it spreads my lips. And, pure and clear and light as anything, arms open, it soars through my lips:
“You you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you!”
TUESDAY THE 8TH
“Jmiaa! Let’s go!”
I don’t have the strength to get up. This sun makes me dizzy. I think my last drink was one too many.
“Get up,” says Samira.
“I can’t,” I sigh.
“Get up, that’s enough!” she says to me.
“I’m telling you I can’t,” I continue, wiping my forehead, damp with sweat.
“I need something to help it all go down. I don’t feel very well.”
The sun is beating down rig ht in my face. The street around us is lively. People come and go, everyone’s busy with something.
“Fuck, you’re so annoying,” she says to me, getting up and turning her back to me.
And she adds:
“I’m leaving. I told your daughter I’d take her to buy some clothes.”
Samira’s yellow djellaba swishes: “Pft pft pft pft.” She walks quickly and her hair scatters over either side of her neck.
On my right, I hear:
“Liefje, you’re not feeling good?”
“I need that medicine you give me when the food doesn’t want to stay down. My stomach is going to explode,” I answer.
“Okay, I’ll bring it to you.”
Maaizou turns around and walks into the trailer to my right. It’s only the third day of filming and I’m already tired. I think it’s this heat.
I’m used to the sun and the heat but it’s completely different in Mexico than in Morocco. When the sun beats down, it burrows into your brain until you can’t tell what’s going on around you anymore. To make things worse, we’re filming outside today.
Usually, we’re asleep at this hour, but both the scene we filmed yesterday and today’s scene take place during the siesta. What can I do?
Drink lemonade, that’s all there is to do. And with the lunches they give us, my stomach is as bloated as a goatskin. So I drink the baking soda concoction that Maaizou makes for me to help it go down.
Fortunately I don’t drink alcohol anymore. It wouldn’t have mixed well with the sun. Even when it’s hot like this, honestly, there’s nothing better than a nice cold beer that’s sweating as much as you are.
But I promised: never again. I promised in front of that Doctor Fernando, who showed me the light, and I promised in front of myself in the mirror. “Never again will a drop of alcohol go down Jmiaa’s throat. Never. Not in this world or in the next one.”
It’s hard. But what do you expect? If you want honey you have to put up with the bee sting.
It’s been five years to the day since we won the prize, Chadlia and I. And since that day, everything’s changed.
When I got back to Casablanca, a producer who had seen the film in America called Chadlia to tell her that he wanted to work with me. It had been three months since I returned, and I was already getting together my affairs and some money to emigrate secretly to America. After I won the prize, I was so happy that I couldn’t wait to get back to Morocco to tell everyone about it. It wasn’t until I arrived that I realized I had made a mistake and that I had to leave again.
And then, that guy called from out of nowhere. Rodrigo Buenavista is his name. He wanted to produce a new Mexican show with a Middle Eastern heroine.
The story is set in the previous century. There’s a guy, the owner of a huge ranch, who travels to the desert and brings back a large brunette woman with immense eyes. A stereotypical chubby Arab woman, with long hair that she puts a lot of effort into.
Don Camillo—that’s the hero—meets Oumaïma—that’s me—and after many adventures, I’ll tell you the details later, brings her back with him to Mexico. To his parents’ house. They call it a hacienda here.
His entire family lives inside. His father, his mother, and his seven brothers and sisters. Including him, they’re eight. Plus the servants and the farmhands and their children and even I can’t keep tr
ack there are so many people.
Since Don Camillo is very rich and also the eldest son, his family has countless plans for him. His mother wants him to marry the daughter of her cousin. His father wants him to marry the daughter of the guy who owns the neighboring hills. His sister wants him to marry her best friend. Two of his brothers want to get rid of him so they can inherit the money instead. And so, when he brings me back as his wife, it creates even more of a mess in his crazy family. From that point on, the plot is to eliminate Oumaïma so they can get back to their original plans.
But my character, since she’s clever, she dodges the strikes at every turn. Something unexpected happens in every episode. It’s been on the air for three years. And every year, new things happen.
And since it’s doing so well, it even airs in Morocco. Every day on Al Aoula at 2:30. There’s not a person I know over there who doesn’t watch. Hamid in his shed, the girls in their rooms, Abdelali at the restaurant, Okraïcha on the second floor, Mouy and her neighbors, my brothers and their wives…everyone. Even Chaïba, who’s dropped his whore Hajar, watches, telling everyone—except his wife—that he and I were almost married.
And you know why it’s so popular in our country? Because it’s the first time that a Moroccan actress has had a part on a Mexican series.
* * *
—
Now when I go back, there are people who recognize me in the street. And when I arrive at the airport, Mouy gathers a welcome committee like no other. She brings bnader, my brothers, their wives, sometimes my cousins. They sing, they clap their hands, they yell youyous, as if I were coming back from the hajj. It’s wonderful. Only Samia is bothered by it. She says it embarrasses her. But what can I say? She’s fifteen years old now and that’s a difficult age.
To tell the truth, it’s the death of her father that really upset her. Even if she doesn’t really remember him, she knew that she had a father somewhere in Spain and that one day she would see him again. And last year—his first time back to Morocco since he left—the cursed man’s bus flipped over between Tangier and Rabat. And he died inside. Isn’t that shitty luck?
Straight from the Horse's Mouth Page 19