THE ROAD FROM MOROCCO

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THE ROAD FROM MOROCCO Page 6

by Wafa Faith Hallam


  Never in her life had she felt anything like the fire that kiss had suddenly ignited. It went on for what seemed like an eternity; time was standing still.

  “I’ve been dying to do this since the day I first saw you,” he whispered under his breath. “You’re so beautiful; you’ve been driving me insane, completely insane.”

  He squeezed her arm while he was still kissing her lips, biting them lightly. Pulling her hair back with his other hand, he lowered his head to her throat, kissed her neck, licked her earlobe, and went back to her parted lips. It was all very fast paced, very intense, messy, getting out of hand. Then swiftly she felt his hand on her breast as he was pushing the fabric of her sun dress and then pulling her bathing suit strap down her shoulder, his fingers touched her naked breast.

  She trembled at his touch, but she couldn’t get enough of the taste of his mouth, of the sweetness of his tongue and the softness of his lips. She responded to his kisses with all the passion she could muster, deeply breathing the sun-tanning oil on his skin, and it all felt so staggering and so good, until she sensed his hand reaching down between her legs. She wanted to cry her desire, her longing… Oh, how much she wanted him… she so wanted… but… the sound of children screaming outside—no! She was mad. What was she doing?

  A fleeting moment of consciousness flashed across her numbed mind: her four children were waiting on the beach for her… This couldn’t be happening.

  “Wait! Stop it,” she heard herself finally say. “I can’t do this.” It was a sigh more than anything. She tried to push him away from her, tried to collect her thoughts, her senses…

  “Shhhhh. Don’t say that.”

  He seemed not to believe her and he went back to kissing her lips.

  But it was over; the burning guilt had entered her brain and shattered the magic of the moment. She wanted to shout her pain and frustration.

  Instead, she whispered, “You should leave. Please…” She didn’t look at him.

  “I can’t do this. Just… go.”

  She finally met his eyes, and he looked hurt and incredulous, but he didn’t say anything. He straightened his shorts and shirt slowly, still staring at her, brushed back his hair, then he gave her a peck on the cheek, unlocked the door, and left.

  “I’m going to check on the kids,” he said at last. She quickly locked the door after him, let herself down on the floor, and closed her eyes, trying to gather herself and overcome the deluge of sensations that had just submerged her, her nostrils still full of his scent.

  She could not believe what had happened. She had known him for about two months, since he came over one Sunday afternoon and talked to the children on the beach. He introduced himself to her with a seductive smile.

  His name was Youssef; he was a lifeguard in the summer, a middle school teacher the rest of the year. He couldn’t be older than thirty, probably much less, mid-twenties. He offered to watch over the kids during the week, to teach them how to swim, and she readily accepted. He seemed friendly and looked so handsome, lean, and muscular, his hair lightened by the sun and his teeth bright white in the middle of his sunburnt face. She had felt the attraction between them right away, and she loved seeing him every Sunday when she and the children went to the beach together. He never failed to join them and spent a couple of hours in their company.

  She’d enjoyed the ongoing flirtation; it had all seemed safe and innocent somehow, until that moment. She’d asked him where she could find a bathroom, and he’d offered to take her to the nearest café, explaining that it would be a lot cleaner than the public facilities set up on the beach.

  Next to him, during the walk to the café, she had felt the rising sexual tension and lost all her poise—had let him follow her, wanted him to follow her. She could not explain it to herself. It had just happened, caught her off guard, and swept her off her feet, erasing any reasoning power she had left. And now she had known her first real kiss, her first lustful encounter, and it was as if she was born again, she had felt… alive. She knew her life would never be the same.

  My two brothers had become fast friends with Youssef the lifeguard, playing ball, burying him under the sand, and learning to body surf the small waves. My sister did not mind him either. I did not like him a bit. For no reason at all, I just couldn’t stand his jokes, particularly when they were at my expense. The others seemed to like his stupid tricks, though; one of his favorite was to pretend that he liked me so much that he was going to marry me. I was ten already and old enough to know better, but at the mere thought of matrimony, I would just fall apart and cry my heart out. For years, my family laughed about that joke and my bizarre reaction to it, and for years I could not understand or explain what it was that had provoked my tears and my irrational fear.

  Were it not for my mother’s intimate confidences much much later, neither my siblings nor I had any recollection of anything of particular interest that last Sunday on the beach. Our summer vacation in Casablanca was fast coming to a close and we were already thinking of school starting in a couple of weeks. That fall, and for the first time, all four of us were going to be attending l’Ecole La Bruyère in Sidi Kacem.

  My mother’s new hair salon was adjacent but separate from my uncle’s store. It had its own entrance and window on the street, and, because of its great location and pleasing décor, it immediately attracted a clientele. She had been planning its design over the summer and had my dad inquire into the cost of the equipment, necessary plumbing, and renovations. A meeting with her brother Abderrahim had cleared up all the authorizations and financial hurdles, and nothing seemed to be standing in her way. The opening took place about a month after school started, and it immediately gave my mother, not only new financial leverage, but also a belief in herself that was both exhilarating and empowering.

  The school year went by painfully, though. My mother threw herself into her new occupation and neglected her home and children altogether. Her relationship with my dad was worsening as her old dislike of him turned into deep-seated, unrelenting hatred. My father seemed even more bewildered, and found solace only in drinking and crabbiness, which did nothing to improve the tension in the family.

  She would not have sexual relations with him, if she could avoid it; no longer willing to put up even with the smallest form of intimacy she used to tolerate from him. Things had changed, going from bad to worse, and he did not know why or what to do about it, except showing his discontent with his unpleasant scowl. He withdrew further into himself, talked less, and looked for his old friends’ companionship whenever he could. He travelled back to Meknes frequently, drank heavily, started attending Moussems and religious festivals again, and slowly deserted his responsibilities at the store.

  My siblings and I spent more time at Aunt Fatma’s house. She was a fabulous cook and enjoyed spoiling us. Her husband, Uncle Mehdi, entertained us by cracking jokes and making fun of her. He would ask her for his doctor-prescribed “dietetic meal” after he had just fully enjoyed the delicious specialty she had prepared for lunch or dinner. At other times, he made hilarious faces for our benefit when she fell asleep in front of the TV and snored loudly with parted lips. He was also able to make our warts disappear within days by lightly spitting on them, first thing in the morning, and then rubbing the saliva into the wart with his finger. We thought he was a magician, at once fascinated and sickened by his wizardry.

  The following summer, my grandmother passed away. She was sixty-five. The entire family came together for her funeral in Rabat, including my father’s side of the family. Of all her sisters’, my mother’s bereavement was the most heartbreaking. She was devastated and grieved for days on end. When she returned home at last, she found herself confronted with my dad’s professional neglect. She had no choice but to assume his load and cover for him at the store while attending to her salon at the same time. The world slowly seemed to be caving in around her. This went on for almost a year as things gradually came unglued.

  The pol
itical situation in Morocco at that time had also been showing signs of profound popular discontent. The country was beleaguered by mounting economic problems, uncontrollable demographic growth, a soaring unemployment rate, and a continuous rural exodus into the urban centers. The opposing political parties were uncooperative and irreconcilable, the king unable to form a government of national union as he had wished. After massive political upheaval and rioting in Casablanca in 1965, Hassan II personally assumed full executive and legislative powers under a State of Exception, which was to remain in effect until the seventies. This was the beginning of an era that came to be known as the Years of Lead (Les Années de Plomb), so-called because of the ruthless and cruel political repression that ensued throughout the land.

  My family’s own years of turmoil began in earnest in 1968. Uncle Abderrahim, who was expanding in Casablanca on a big scale, was no longer interested in keeping his mismanaged Sidi Kacem store, especially after some troubles erupted between him and his partner in that venture. It was decided that the store was to be sold—and, with it, Mom’s hair salon.

  That’s when my mother determined that it was time to move to the big city. That summer, while my father stayed behind to oversee the store closing and assure the smooth transition to the new owners, she rented the first floor of a two-family house in les Orangers, a picturesque Rabat neighborhood. By the fall, and with the help of Auntie Jacqueline, she had enrolled my two brothers and my sister at l’Ecole Lamartine, a French elementary school nearby; I was accepted in the Lycée Descartes in 6th Grade.

  For almost a year, the store’s ownership transfer was bogged down by partnership and legal issues, and my father travelled back and forth between Sidi Kacem and Rabat, getting desperate about his precarious situation, both professionally and emotionally. He would certainly have preferred that we returned to live in Meknes and for him to look for a job similar to the one he had held in the past. But under no circumstance would my mother even consider that possibility. She was happy to be away from my father, and she started fantasizing about life without him, toying with the idea of leaving him and opening a hair salon in Rabat.

  Only in Morocco then, family laws were entirely governed by traditional Islamic Sharia Law, and a woman could not get a divorce unless her husband decided to grant her one or simply repudiate her, neither of which my father had any intention of doing, for he neither believed in divorce, nor did he want to be separated from his wife and children.

  Their life together was turning into a tragedy of sorts. As often happens within dysfunctional couples, the more she wanted to run away from him, the more he refused to let her go. Fortuitously for him, two factors worked in his favor. First, my mother’s fantasy was still in its infancy and had not yet taken hold in her mind; second, her family put considerable pressure on her to return to her senses, for her children’s sake.

  Uncle Abderrahim once again came to the rescue, in the summer of 1969, by getting my father a manager’s position in an orange grove farm in Bou Maiz, a few miles south of Sidi Kacem. The news was perceived as a death sentence by my mother, who ultimately had no choice but to pack up and return to her husband’s side. There was no middle or high school in Sidi Kacem or its province, so while my siblings returned to l’Ecole La Bruyère in Sidi Kacem in the fall, I stayed in the boarding school of the Lycée Descartes in Rabat.

  The farm in Bou Maiz was beautiful. There were hundreds of hectares of all kinds and varieties of citrus fruit—oranges, clementines, grapefruit, lemons, and limes, planted in long rows and irrigated via a modern system of canals. In the spring, all the trees came alive with sweet-smelling orange flowers that could make one dizzy, so strong was their perfume. We had never drunk so much fresh-squeezed orange juice or eaten more delicious oranges and clementines as when we lived in the midst of those magnificent groves. To this day, I cannot find an orange that tastes as sweet and delectable.

  The house, which had been built by French settlers, was as typical as to be found in the heart of Provence. It had a red slate roof, wood-burning fireplaces, shaded verandas, and a big, stone construction that gave it an imposing allure. Adding to its appeal, magnificent, tall cypress trees bordered the long path leading up from the main road to the house. The beauty of our new property somewhat reconciled my mother with her lot, and she appeared, at least on the surface, to have accepted her new circumstances.

  She initially occupied herself with gardening and taking care of a vegetable patch near the house. She would also play tennis in the town after she dropped off my siblings in school in the morning. But soon, she again got involved with the daily running of the plantation business, especially when she felt my dad was slacking off and not performing his duties adequately. She’d hop on, and drive, a tractor if there was a shortage of workers, or keep the books if they were falling behind. The quarrelling and infighting resumed anew, and I was glad I was away in school for weeks at a time, coming home only during long school breaks and vacations.

  Before I was kept away in boarding school, I was not a particularly sociable and outgoing child. In fact, I was a rather withdrawn and serious girl. My favorite pastime was reading, reading, and reading some more. I read at home, taking my books to the dinner table until my father rebuked me and put a stop to it, and then I ate as fast as I could so that I could return to my story. I read on vacation, staying indoors, until I was pushed outside for fresh air, and then took my fiction with me, too. I read during visits to relatives, whom I barely heard or replied to when they spoke to me until my parents reprimanded for my rudeness. I read during long road trips until I got car sick and threw up by the roadside. I read late into the night until my mother showed up at the door and turned off the light, and then, as soon as she left, crawled under the cover and read with a flashlight. I was so totally absorbed by the fantasy world books opened up for me that I grew up without even knowing it. I cannot remember times when I played with dolls or other little girls, not even my own sister.

  Perhaps reality was too raw for me to make sense of and cope with, so I wanted nothing to do with it. I was well aware of my parents’ ongoing, all-consuming discord, and as much as I tried hard to keep out of it, it was too hard not to side with my mother. She was closest to me and my siblings, the one to look after us and our well-being, our friend and confidante. At the same time, I was unconsciously bewildered by my betrayal of my father, whom I loved and needed to admire in spite of his off-putting character and cantankerous demeanor.

  From birth and during my early years, I had known I was his favorite child. I had never really acknowledged my profound attachment to my father, was not even consciously aware of it. In fact, I had never admitted to it openly for fear of alienating my mother, whom I also wished to protect. As to Mom, she was in many ways far too juvenile and uneducated to realize the damage the rift between her and my father was having on her children, and especially on me. So until I reached my teenage years, books remained my dearest and most reliable refuge.

  6

  Forbidding Years

  Sleeping at last… ending the pain… erasing the present…

  My thoughts were slowing down, the pounding in my chest finally quieting. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, feeling the wet pearls of sweat forming on my upper lip. The room was dark, the air moist and heavy. Faraway thunder began rumbling. It was soon going to rain. I was lying on a mattress on the floor with my clothes on, my dark hair spread on the white pillow, my left cheek still burning. But my fear was now gone.

  In my head, the images of that evening were flashing on the blank screen of my mind like one of those black-and-white silent movies playing in slow motion. She had slapped me across the face with incredible violence and with all the fury she couldn’t rein in.

  “Because of you, I ruined my life. I sacrificed it all for you and this is how you repay me!” she spat the words at me like a snake.

  I did not know which hurt the most, the blow or the words. But I couldn’t stop to think; I screa
med back at her, my hand on my burning cheek.

  “You are destroying our life now. You only think of yourself, always… only you… but what about him? What about us?” I threw my arms wide open, I could still see the tears in my dad’s eyes as he left me standing outside the house. “I don’t think he deserves such hate, such anger… all the time… every day. Just stop the insults… just stop.”

  I couldn’t speak any more; I was choking on my words, tears streaming down my cheeks, my face distorted with rage and despair. I hated her so much, wanted to hurt her back, have the last word. But I could see in her eyes, she was not going to let me. She was beyond mad at me; she couldn’t believe I could be defending my father again, taking his side so blatantly, knowing what I knew.

  “Get out of my face, or I’m going to kill you, you hear?” she hissed.

  She turned around and left me standing there in the middle of the patio, sobbing noisily, defeated; I slowly walked to the small bedroom I occupied with my siblings and was relieved to find it empty. Through my tears, I could see the mattresses lined up directly on the ground with the sheets folded under the pillows. I sat down on the edge of one of them, howling even louder.

  Holding my head in my hands, I let my grief pour out of me like air out of a balloon. My head was killing me. Oh God, why? Why is this happening? I can’t take this any longer; can’t live like this anymore… Couldn’t she see how much pain I was in? Oooh, my head!

  I stood up and walked to the bathroom next door. There was no one there; it was all silent, and I felt forlorn. My siblings were all watching TV in the living room on the other side of the house, trying to stay out of the storm that had once again broken out between Mom and me.

 

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