My sister’s reaction to the same circumstances was entirely different. Where I never broke the rules and worked very hard to stay on top of my academic obligations despite my perpetual angst, Nezha was getting totally disinterested with school. She, a quiet and dispassionate little girl, had turned into a wild and impertinent teenager after our parents’ divorce. She had first been thrown out of the Lycée Descartes at the end of ninth grade for failing mathematics and Arabic. Her precarious academic situation was apparently aggravated by her insolence toward her teachers.
Mom then had her enrolled in ninth grade in a reputable all-girls high school that offered a similar curriculum but with even more emphasis on the two classes she had flunked. That did not last long. Nezha dropped out of that school the first year and refused to go back. Recently, she told me that the principal had ordered her to her office and, in no uncertain terms, told her that without math and Arabic she could not hope to go very far.
To which she had replied without missing a beat: “Well, then, I’d better leave right now. That way, I won’t waste your time or mine.”
She giggled at the thought of that scene.
“Incredible… the nerve and insouciance!” she exclaimed. “I think I felt a sort of superior intelligence. I was above everyone else… I, who was once so reserved and timid,” she sounded truly puzzled, “I wonder why suddenly, at that age, my personality changed so completely?”
She paused for a moment and then said very deliberately, “I think it had to do with the divorce, the new lack of restrictions we all felt. Living with dad was like living in a prison.” Another pause, before adding intently, “So much fear, so many worries, all that hurt and all at once, freedom…”
I was baffled that my little sister had experienced the same feelings as Mom. To me, the freedom was always double-edged, exhilarating, yes, sometimes, but ultimately frightening, too. And yet when she decided to drop out of school, she had not stopped to consider she could be hurting Mom, causing her a great deal of disappointment.
Nezha had literally turned into a little monster, bold and disobedient. For one thing, she loved to go disco dancing and would just go out several nights a week without permission. She would patiently wait until Mom went to bed. Once she was sure she was asleep, she’d slip out of the apartment and stay out until the wee hours with her adult friends in discos around town.
I was a wimp compared to her, always afraid, always anxious. Most astonishingly, in spite of her wild behavior, Nezha never came back home drunk, or high, or pregnant. She smoked a little but did not drink much and never did any drugs even when surrounded by people who did a lot of them. She did not have sex until much later than me, and only when she fell in love for the first time, and then she took the pill.
One time, she was caught returning home at three or four in the morning. Mom yelled and slapped her hard, mostly because she had feared for her. Nezha just decided to run away from home, leaving Mom devastated. For days, she searched for her desperately, asking friends and acquaintances in vain, until my sister took pity on her and resurfaced.
I could never have done anything even remotely as irresponsible as that. I realize today that I hurt my mother in ways that cut far deeper than my sister did. I had spent most of my life obsessing about my wasted childhood and shattered adolescence. It had been all about me, my feelings, my anger, my pain. Suddenly, it became crystal clear to me that I had been blind to my mother’s hurt and dismissive of her wasted childhood, shattered adolescence, and broken dreams.
Throughout my youth I never fully appreciated her profound despair while living with Dad, never given a thought to her difficulties with her children, particularly with my sister’s acting out and my hostility, never once considered her lonely struggle to keep us safe at all cost. I never reflected, then, on the unfairness of her condition, her dogged battle to survive in a world hostile to her gender, unprepared and unarmed with no education or fortune. I was way too angry, too resentful and totally insensitive to her plight.
The abuse she endured from me, her oldest child, she did not suffer from any other human being, not even my dad, because she loved me unconditionally and she forgave me, always, as only a mother can.
My mother, my sweet tender gentle maman—I weep uncontrollably as I write these words and my belated sorrow overwhelms me. Why did it take me so long to recognize my obstinate refutation?
Over the years my sister often reproached me for not being kinder and more compassionate toward our mother.
“You judged and condemned her incessantly,” Nezha reminded me time and again, adding, “You sympathized with Dad more eagerly than you ever did with Mom.”
And then my sister said something that made it all transparent:
“You showed more compassion for Dad because he seemed weak and you felt he needed your protection. Mom, on the other hand, appeared strong and stubborn, magnificently daring and brave. She could handle your pouncing.”
She spoke the words purposely, yet she managed to not sound judgmental.
All the same, her statement felt like a blow in my stomach; I had been fooled by my mother’s façade and not looked below the surface, not penetrated the depths of her solitary struggle. In the past, I had just brushed off my sister’s accusations, always rejecting her arguments outright.
Denial, I find, is a strong sentiment; it can take over one’s lifetime perception and still not be vanquished. Today, I finally understand how, in later years, my self-righteousness might have contributed to her devastating illness and ultimate collapse. Ironically, in my teens, instead of being insubordinate and defiant like my little sister, I behaved more “responsibly” by projecting my angst and fear on my mother—and I steadily tore her down.
9
Wanton Times
Unlike my sister, another way I acted out was to attempt to fill the void left by my father’s absence and my mother’s perceived indifference by indulging in casual sexual relationships. Although in those days, throughout the Western world, promiscuousness was common behavior. I was attracted to older men, often ones I admired in some ways and hoped to emulate—but also men, whose love, protection, and guidance I yearned for like a lost orphan.
The contradictory messages I was receiving from my environment did nothing to help me control my urges and wait for more meaningful relations. My mother’s own conduct was of no help to me; she was older and ready and she was entitled to a fulfilling liaison. I needed to feel loved and was looking to fill the emptiness within. The society I was part of was split between a forbidding traditional convention and a liberal Western code, itself in full transformation. I entered my sexual years with mixed signals and great needs.
My first lover happened to be a neighbor, a handsome artist who had been acknowledging me from afar with a broad grin and a friendly wave. I could see him standing at his window across the rooftops of our neighboring buildings. I finally met him on the street one day, on my way back from school, and he introduced himself with a smile and affable demeanor.
“Hey, you’re my lovely neighbor!” he exclaimed with a cheerful tone and a piercing gaze into my eyes. I took the hand he was extending.
“Yes, I recognize you. You work from home?” I asked.
He laughed, “Yes, I am a painter. That’s my studio.”
“Really?” I was instantly interested, “What kind of painting do you do?”
“Oil on canvas,” he said, quickly adding: “Actually, I’m putting in the final touches for a show next week. Would you like to come?”
I was sold. Kamil was indeed a charming and free-spirited up-and-coming artist of medium height, lean, and dark, with intense black eyes. His paintings were compelling and shadowy, a fusion of abstract expressionism and cubism, a wholly intangible evocation of a tortured psyche, which at once fascinated and intrigued me.
I met him a few times at the gallery where he displayed his paintings, then, when the exhibit ended, he asked me to visit his studio. Predictably, when I
arrived, he quickly took me in his arms and greeted me with a long kiss. In spite of my slight apprehension, I had expected it, and it felt good. Underneath his untamed appearance, Kamil was kind and sweet… and married, although this fact concerned him not in the least. A self-confessed hippie, he rejected all established social values that could put any restrictions on his belief in universal love and peace.
According to him, so did his French wife. He explained this to me matter-of-factly as he kissed me and battled with my bra.
“This is my first time,” I had whispered to him without him asking, “but I’m on the pill.”
“Good,” he’d let out under his breath.
The contraceptive had been prescribed to me by my mother’s gynecologist, to regulate my erratic menstrual cycle, so I was never burdened with the fear of an undesirable pregnancy.
Kamil was not interested in the details at that moment. I felt awkward, self-conscious, and could not stop thinking his wife could walk in on us at any time. He’d told me she was working and would not be home until much later. Nonetheless, laying there against him, on the couch of his studio, surrounded by dozens of paintings propped against the walls, with the smell of paint and solvent infusing the air, I found it hard to relax and take pleasure in the moment.
This first sexual encounter felt like an odd mix of effort and embrace; I was not sure what to make of it. It was a bit too raw and painful to be entirely pleasurable, and it was not at all romantic. I was relieved to be rid of my hymen and pleased that he had been both gentle enough, and patient enough.
Afterwards, he got up, disheveled and stark naked, lit an already-rolled joint, and offered me a hit. I shook my head. I took a cigarette instead, partly covered my exposed body with the towel he had used to cover the couch, and stared at him. The pungent smell of weed invaded my nostrils.
I was fascinated by his ease and lack of shame. He flipped through a clutch of brushes, jammed into a large cup, and picked one. Then he mixed some paint in a small, stained tray before applying it on a canvas in an easel, in front of the window. The shades were pulled all the way up, and the late afternoon sun was streaming right through the glass, highlighting the specks of dust hanging in the air.
I watched him in silence, smoking my cigarette. Standing in glorious nudity with his dark shoulder-length hair, short beard, and slim waist, halfway between the shadows and the light, he looked like a cool picture of Jesus. He took deep hits from his joint, head tilted to the side, contemplating his unfinished work.
I felt out of place and edgy in that strange, untidy space where no set of rules or preconceived notions seemed to apply. I gathered my clothes and asked him where the bathroom was. He turned sideways, grinned at me, and pointed with his paint brush in the direction of the hallway.
“The first door to your right,” he mumbled holding the smoke in his throat.
When I came back, all dressed and cleaned up, he had put his jeans back on, zipped them up, keeping the top button undone. A stained rag was hanging out of his front pocket.
“I’m leaving now,” I said. He put down his brush and walked toward me.
“Will you come back soon?” he asked.
As he did when I had arrived, he, again, took me in his arms and buried his head in my hair in a warm bear-hug.
“I’d like to see you again,” he said affectionately. The hair on his chest felt soft against my cheek.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
I enjoyed the comfort of his hold. He kissed me on the lips and looked at me keenly, with the pensive look of one in hashish bliss.
“I’m glad you came today,” he murmured.
Strangely, I, too, was happy; I couldn’t have hoped for a more casual defloration. It was perfect as far as I was concerned. I thought about it often, and always fondly. It felt honest. No big words or promises or pretenses. We were merely attracted to each other, expressed it, and moved on, period, no strings attached and no remorse.
Still, I needed to share that momentous event with someone, so I told my sister, who, in the course of a heated dispute, immediately broke the news to our mother. It landed me a memorable slap on the face; perhaps my mother felt she had to do something about my new condition. I can’t really say; we never spoke of it again.
The only other time I had sex with Kamil was during a birthday party he and his wife were giving in their flat. She had welcomed me as if she knew me, which I thought was a bit odd. By the end of the night, almost everyone was gone and I was thinking of taking my leave as well. I’d had a little too much to drink and was blissfully tipsy when he dragged me to their bedroom and began to make love to me in the semi-darkness. I thought that was creepy but did not find it in me to push him away.
Within a few moments, I felt the presence of someone else in the bed with us. I didn’t know how it happened, but his wife had apparently joined us, and before I realized what was going on, I felt her touching me, intimately, slowly at first and then with resolve. I started to protest feebly but swiftly felt my loins overwhelmed by the most elating sensation I’d ever experienced. A giant tidal wave was rolling over me, rising and falling, over and over. I entered a tunnel of ecstasy, my breathing accelerating, my heart beating frantically. She would not let go of me,
“Yes, yes, that’s it,” she whispered in my ear, breathing hard herself. All at once, the growing fever engulfed me, a volcano erupting and crashing over with astounding fury, and I let out a cry, which she silenced with a hungry kiss, her hand lingering on me. For a few minutes, my body twitched and quivered until she turned away and I lay there, limp and unresponsive, thinking I’d lost consciousness. It was all bewildering, incomprehensible. I was sure I had died, and that was why I was shedding tears, a sort of release weeping.
My hosts busied themselves with each other now. I finally gathered the strength to run out of there, my legs still wobbly, ashamed, and confused. Later, I realized I had just experienced my very first orgasm, but had also been used as someone’s birthday present. For a while, the feeling dallied with embarrassment in my mind. I never saw them again and never told anyone. Secretly, I confess, I had been initiated to a new wonderful world of self-gratification.
My subsequent lovers were as different as they were colorful, and endearing, each in their own way. There was my eleventh-grade French teacher, whom I found not particularly good looking. He was small of stature, blondish with bright blue eyes and a very deep and sexy voice. He was highly intelligent, sharp, and witty. If his looks were not what had attracted me to him, I was captivated by his irreverent wit above all. I was also under the spell of his voice and particularly his laughter, a deep, mocking laugh that lit up a cheerful twinkle in his eyes. A hardened bachelor and chain smoker, he lived alone in a small apartment littered with books, papers, and half-full ashtrays, where the odor of cigarette permeated the walls and the sparse furniture.
I loved French literature, and he made it even more exhilarating for me. His class was my favorite because of the lively debates he encouraged and moderated. Our relationship started innocently enough, with long after-class conversations on Voltaire and Sartre around coffee and cigarettes, often with other students, sometimes in his place.
Eventually, we ended up in bed, and that actually was what prompted the demise of our affair. Sex was rather pathetic. He seemed as inexperienced as I was, and I was clueless about what the problem could be. Our attraction was more intellectual than physical and should have remained that way.
Years later, I learned he was in Paris, living with an old classmate of mine. Said was one of my best high school friends. Pretty and effeminate, he was joyful and fun-loving. We had some great moments together but never ever brought up his sexual orientation. He playfully dated girls and acted the heterosexual part even though it was apparent to all who knew him that it was blatantly deceptive.
When I heard of his ongoing romance with our old French teacher, it all made sense to me. My teacher’s inadequacy during our intimate moments w
as explained, Said’s sexual preference confirmed. Sadly, Said died of AIDS in the early years of the epidemic that spread throughout Europe and North America. I never again had the chance to get back in touch with him or my unfortunate teacher.
I was introduced to David at a party attended by all of Rabat’s rich and beautiful people, and from the way he looked at me, I immediately thought him a womanizer. His seductive smile, perfect tan, and sweet talk were all red flags. But I was too young, easily flattered, and I let him seduce me without much resistance. A successful Jewish business man, highly attentive to his appearance, he was a charming, attractive dandy, and not much of an intellectual. He was in his mid-thirties and thought himself a paragon of elegance and style. He drove a brand new German car and had a pad in the center of town, where he enjoyed his extra-marital affairs discreetly. I happened to be one of them.
At first, I was surprised by the location of his little love-nest. Then he explained to me that there was so much business and pedestrian traffic in that neighborhood that no one could really tell who was coming or going. It was like hiding in plain sight. He picked me up from home as he would any business associate. The first couple of times at least, he opened the car door for me like a gentleman. But David was married, and he was known in town, meaning we could not be seen together on a date anywhere in public.
Our relationship almost immediately turned into a sordid sex act and little else. We had no real conversations and nothing in common besides those precisely timed encounters. Quickly, the bare sex turned stale and I couldn’t help but feel like the heroine of a cheap novel. I grew frustrated and supremely bored with him and soon ended the affair.
When I met Jean, the beautiful and stylish son of an African ambassador, I was looking for something more exciting, if not more fulfilling. A very tall and athletic, sexy young black man who moved on the dance floor like a born performer, he was beyond good-looking—he was stunning. When he danced, he exuded sexuality and, true to his persona, he made love like a God. I was not in love with him but with his looks, his shiny, ebony skin, statuesque body, and soft thick lips. He introduced me to the soulful music of Marvin Gaye and other Motown legends such as Smokey Robinson, Otis Redding, and Aretha Franklin. Despite his youth, he had an aura of worldliness and sophistication about him that fascinated me. Because of him, I would forever associate Barry White’s sensual music, deep baritone, and explicit lyrics with slow and sultry lovemaking. But he had just graduated from high school and was about to attend college in France, which quickly put an end to our relationship.
THE ROAD FROM MOROCCO Page 9