By the mid-summer of 1974, I had enough self-confidence and experience to feel somewhat in control of my destiny. In retrospect, my early relationships, all put together, were a mix of profiles I admired, wishing perhaps they would rub off on me. It’s enough to say that neither my mother, nor I, had yet experienced a truly loving, giving relationship. It turned out those were just around the corner, waiting for us.
10
Sex and Betrayal
Since early childhood, summertime had always been synonymous with sun, surf and sand for my family. The summer of 1974 was also a time when, Mom, my sister and I spent many Friday and Saturday nights in discos or parties as the best of friends. Such a friendship between mother and daughters seemed special at the time, and even endearing, had it not been for the fact that it indicated the beginning of a profound and, I realized later, questionable transformation in our relationship.
My early promiscuity had an unforeseen effect; it turned my attention, away from my mother, who until then had been the center of my universe, to men. And that shift resulted in turn into a growing harmony between my mother and me. No longer was she the object of all my frustration.
Having escaped the deep level of conflict I experienced, my sister did not perceive such events as intensely as I did. As far as I was concerned, my mother becoming my friend signaled the end of her parental authority. Such authority could have provided not only structure, but also sanctuary, to a teenage daughter in the throes of conflicting emotions and moods. Neither Mom, nor I, was remotely aware then of the enormous implications of such a change in our attachment.
It was around that time that she met Berto. He was the owner of one of the very first well-equipped gyms in town. She had wanted to learn more about it, and Berto had shown her around. The chemistry between them was instantaneous. A handsome man of average stature, he had once been a body-building champion, and photographs of him posing with trophies were posted on the walls of his office. He was thinner than in his pictures but still athletic, and looking even better. His curly black hair and straight, narrow nose gave him the distinguishing look of Michelangelo’s David. Best of all, he was funny and had an engaging personality. My siblings and I enjoyed his company and adopted him with open arms.
My mother loved his lean, toned body, and she was infatuated with his looks. Never before had she felt anything as passionate as she did with this man. He initiated her to gym workouts, including weight-training, jogging, good diet, and nutrition. He was slightly younger than she, was married, but had no children; he was separated from his wife-who had, in fact, left him to go live in Paris in pursuit of a career. He was neither an intellectual nor a spiritual soul; happily neither was Mom. It was mostly his charm and warmth that made him well-liked by everyone who knew him.
What Berto introduced in my mother’s life was infinite care and affection, love and tenderness, laughter and joy, and so it was no surprise at all she quickly fell in love with him. After having experienced the dread and gloom of marital life with my father for two decades, she was delighting in the fathomless pleasures of reciprocated love. In the eyes of her beloved, her true self emerged, and she became something other than mother or wife; she became a woman. The power of his love had freed her from her lifelong shackles.
“Strong” is far too weak an epithet to accurately describe their physical attraction. It was an ardent rapture. They were enthralled with one another. And sex meant the total communion of their bodies and minds. It’s impossible for me to forget how happy and fulfilled my mother was in those days. She floated on a white cotton cloud, her eyes sparkling, her face glowing, her yearning as a woman finally vindicated.
I remember well catching them in the middle of the afternoon, absorbed, behind closed doors, in their uninhibited sexual frolic. I recall smiling to myself, feeling uncomfortable for being there, hearing them laughing like two kids engaged in carefree, intimate games, oblivious to the world outside.
This picture of bliss was not unblemished. Their liaison had to be kept as discreet as possible, because she was a Muslim and he a Jew. And even though both were Moroccan, their religions made it impossible for them to be together openly and even less likely to formally commit to each other. That created a host of problems for them, many of which came from his father.
The Jewish patriarch was very strongly opposed to his only son’s affair, not only because my mother was Muslim, but also because she was a divorcée with four children, and he was officially still married. From the outset, their liaison was doomed. Yet despite the insuperable odds against them, their union lasted close to six years. Long after it was over, my mother remembered it as one of the most fulfilling times of her life.
The night I first met Paul, Berto was taking my mother to dinner and had asked me along. We went to the Jefferson, a popular restaurant that doubled as a disco. Paul, who owned the place with Jeff, an acquaintance of Berto’s, immediately rushed over to greet us and take us to our table. The place was still quiet, with only a few diners sipping their cocktails. The club did not get loud until later, when it turned into a nightclub.
I was not immediately attracted to Paul, not because he was not a good-looking man—he was! Tall and thin with wide shoulders, he had smiley blue eyes and a handsome face, but he was balding prematurely, and quite visibly, on the top of his head, and that turned me off initially. I was only eighteen, after all. He did attempt to hide it with that silly hair sweep balding men seem to favor, thinking perhaps no one would notice.
Of course, it doesn’t seem fair that a thirty-four-year-old man would have to contend with such a random, often traumatic, occurrence. Paul was about the same age as my mother and older than Berto. But age was not the issue; I was almost exclusively attracted to older men. In retrospect, it is odd that it did not raise any red flags in my mother’s mind either. But then why should it? At eighteen, she’s already had two children and the sight of an older man with a much younger woman was, and still is in many places, an acceptable fact of life.
That night Paul was pleasant and thoughtful. Throughout our dinner he hovered over us, attending to our wishes, suggesting special wine and dishes, and never ceasing to devour me with his eyes. When my mother and Berto got up to dance, Paul came and sat next to me.
“Would you like something else to drink?” he asked, lighting my cigarette.
“No, thanks, I’m fine,” I said. “Everything was delicious.”
He smiled. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” He kept his eyes locked into mine. “Are you seeing someone?”
His blunt question took me by surprise. I shook my head. I was beginning to feel his attraction.
He wanted to know everything about me, asked all sorts of questions while barely answering mine. I did manage to learn that he was divorced and had a young son, who lived with his ex-wife. He also owned, with his younger brother, an interior design shop in Place Piétri, a few blocks from our apartment. As the night progressed, he had to turn his attention to his business, but before he excused himself, he asked me for my phone number and handed me his card.
After a couple of weeks, we became lovers, and before long I was spending so much time with him that I was practically living with him. In late August, he took me on my first trip abroad, to Spain’s Costa-del-Sol. We drove to Marbella and Puerto Banus. The marina that would later become the hallmark of the small town was still under construction. I was in heaven.
For the first time since I started dating, and almost a decade after my mother’s first trip to Madrid, I took in the exquisite whiff of unbridled individual freedom. I was free to share a hotel room with Paul, hold his hand, and let him kiss me if I so desired. I was free to wear a low-cut dress and show off my suntanned skin.
Some of which I could still do in Morocco’s big cities in the mid-seventies, but always with the intimate awareness that I was a Muslim girl living in an Arab country. I was mixing with Frenchmen and playing by the rules of a minority foreign culture in a traditional
society. As a modern French-educated young female, I had always known there were things I simply could not do. It was easier for a Muslim man, with a similar education and upbringing, because his gender allowed him to marry a Christian, or a Jew, while a Muslim woman could not.
As a result, I was always careful not to ruffle too many feathers, plagued with the self-consciousness of a social outcast adopting liberal conduct at my own risk and peril. At the most unexpected times, I could be the object of a disapproving stare or demeaning slur, or even humiliated by a perfect stranger by being denied the rental of a hotel room with a non-Muslim, or even simply be arrested by the police.
In Spain, I did not have to be concerned with prying, condemnatory looks from men in the street and everything around me felt exciting and open-minded. By the time we returned home, I was completely in love with Paul, and I felt secure and happy. His charming little villa in the Souissi became our love nest. When I was there, he paid me particular attention, bringing me breakfast in bed and preparing delicious home cooked dinners. He was considerate and sweet, and went out of his way to create a loving environment for me.
In September, school started. The class de terminale, or twelfth grade, is, without a doubt, the most demanding year of high school, and every senior in a French lycée dreads it to this day. I had picked Economics as a major and I knew I had a heavy workload ahead of me. In June, students have to take the baccalauréat (also known as the Bac), which is made up of a series of comprehensive exams over the course of a few days. Failure in one discipline can mean failure of the entire grade. From the onset of the year, neither my head nor my heart was focused on school. Nonetheless, I undertook to do my best.
In mid-January 1975, Paul left on a long business trip in Paris looking ahead for business opportunities with an eye to leaving Morocco in a year’s time, perhaps in anticipation of my own departure for college in France. I felt down and dejected without him, and my objective was to study hard to finish my senior year and pass the exam. I was determined to wait for Paul and write him often. As fate had it, that was counting without Michel, who was about to storm into my life—unexpected and uninvited.
I was sitting on the rug of the living room, my legs folded under me, hunched over the coffee table. My school books scattered in front of me, I had started composing a letter to Paul, instead of studying. At that moment, my sister walked in with three strangers. Michel was among them. I was mildly exasperated by the intrusion, and my first impression of him was one of vague displeasure.
Dark-skinned, with a sharp nose and piercing hazel eyes, Michel had a full head of light-brown hair, a wide, cocky smile that displayed perfect white teeth, and a contagious, cascading laugh. Arrogant and charismatic, Michel was a gypsy-half-blood, who had honed his skills in the school of hard knocks, on the streets of Toulouse, and he spoke with the strong drawl of the region. Something about him betrayed his rough edges, the fact that, at thirty-two, he was a survivor, a sort of rebel, and an experienced hawker.
Above all, Michel was a born seducer; when he put his gaze on me, I was reduced to hapless prey. It felt like there was nothing I could do to save myself from his claws. I looked scruffy and plain, my hair dirty and pulled back, lounging in sweat pants and old shirt, and far from looking my best. And yet, at that very instant, Michel saw something he liked and decided he wanted. Unimpressed, I wished he would leave so that I could get back to my letter and linger in my melancholy. Instead he continued to joke, laugh loudly, and take up center stage late into the evening. My brothers were subjugated, my sister conquered. Michel was really there to sign her up as a new hire.
Nezha was interested in the book-retailing position proposed by Michel because it held the promise of better earnings, even though there was no base salary offer, only a flat commission. This kind of direct book selling was difficult since it involved a lot of prospecting and cold calling on potential clients at their homes and offices. The books, all French, were mostly compilations or expensive leather-bound sets, such as the Jacques Cousteau Collection and the Great French Literary Classics. The targeted clientele was necessarily well-to-do and French-educated. On the positive side, it did not involve being trapped in an office all day and offered the possibility of extensive overseas travel.
Shortly after I first met him, Michel showed up again at my doorstep, but he was not there to see my sister. He asked me out for a drive and coffee, which sounded more appealing to me than studying, so I followed him. He took me to his car, a bright red Porsche Targa with a removable roof. Although I was impressed by the sleek machine, the car actually evoked something in my mind about its owner that I am sure was the opposite of what he wished to convey. It was screaming, I am a bragging show-off, a bad boy, and an immature pleasure seeking playboy, in other words, not exactly the type of man I wished to be associated with. Besides, I was in love with someone else, and the thought of cheating on him was repugnant to me.
But then something happened to my better judgment that I am still trying to make sense of today. Michel was patient and persistent in his courtship on our first date. The afternoon turned into evening, the coffee into dinner, the couple of cigarettes into a full pack, and the casual meeting into a late night in an ocean-side hotel. He told me of his travels to magical lands, his passion for foreign customs and people, his love of freedom and open coexistence.
He did not believe in fidelity and commitment or, for that matter, in marriage and children, or any of the conventional ideals that I valued. He lived by the pleasure principle, in the moment, with no encumbrance or guilt. And he knew how to be convincing. The doubts and arguments of an eighteen-year-old, no matter how astute, were no match for his persuasive talents. The more I tried to resist him, the more charm and seduction he deployed, always with wit and humor.
After he seduced me, and I hesitantly surrendered my body, Michel began his subtle subjugation of my heart by inviting me along, with a couple of reps, for a long weekend trip to the south of Morocco. During the day, we travelled south to Marrakech and beyond. At night, we explored the far-off sensual terrain of our bodies. We went farther than Zagora, to the golden sand dunes of Tinfout, surrounded by high desert mountains, on the edge of the Sahara. After the sun had set, we met in the intimacy of our hotel room and immersed ourselves in the depths of uninhibited passion. It was my first trip to the far reaches of my own country. It was also my initiation to the guilty pleasures of illicit love. Michel had set out to show me the beauty of my land. In so doing, my infatuation with him grew, and so did my insidious entanglement with the deceit and betrayal of Paul.
Upon my return I found Paul’s first note to me, a small 3”x5” card sent more than two weeks after his departure.
Amour, he wrote in a rather succinct way,
A word to tell you how much I miss you. As promised I’ll be brief. Quite a few contacts… I am in good spirit… I’ll call you to explain in details. I hope you’re working hard. I love you. A bientôt, Paul.
I looked at the little card, wondering why he couldn’t find fifteen minutes to compose a real letter. He had never promised to be brief. I suppose he meant he had warned me. I wrote him back eight pages, complaining a little, but it was only to mitigate the news I was about to deliver. This was my first letter to him, and already it shrieked of duplicity.
I want to tell you how much I miss you too and how lonely I feel… I love you as much if not more than before…
I saw a lot of people lately. I didn’t go looking for them; they came to my house while I was working, one afternoon. Since I don’t know the south of Moroccan, I took advantage of the opportunity to go with them for a weekend. We went south of Zagora, to the dunes of Tinfout in the Sahara…
I signed up for the baccalauréat. I applied today and I paid the registration fee. Fortunately you left me a little money… Speaking of which, honey, this situation is no longer possible between us. It is insufferable to me to think that you have been supporting me for a few months already and that i
t’s likely to continue… Luckily I think I found a great job for the summer…
He replied quickly, apparently none too happy with my revelations and focusing on one thing only, my “weekend in Zagora.” “Who were the people you left with?” and he immediately asked that I give him all the details of my trip along with “the first and last name, age, and profession of every person” I had traveled with. But then, thinking he was perhaps too harsh with me, he asked whether I could take a few days off and join him in Paris, since I had a free round-trip ticket. He was referring to a free First Class air fare I had won in a Miss Morocco pageant over the Christmas break.
I quickly jumped at the opportunity, skirted my academic responsibilities again, and was off to Paris.
11
More Lies
It was my first flight ever, and in first class no less. I was served a delicious meal and free-flowing champagne, though it was not potent enough to drown my escalating guilt. Two issues were foremost on my mind: the first was my cumbersome secret. Would I be able to continue concealing my brazen infidelity? Second was Paul’s revelation only a week earlier that he had been getting ready for hair prosthesis, a procedure that would permanently hide his baldness.
THE ROAD FROM MOROCCO Page 10