THE ROAD FROM MOROCCO

by Wafa Faith Hallam

  Be prepared to meet a new man… since I really don’t look the same, he had written me.

  I had no idea what to expect and, judging from my own nervousness, could only imagine the level of his anxiety. What was he going to look like with a hairpiece attached to his skull? I wondered.

  It was early afternoon, and the sun was shining brightly, that late February when the aircraft touched the ground and shook me out of my reverie. I got off the plane a little inebriated, an inane smile on my face and my cheeks on fire, ready to discover the City of Lights.

  But first I was about to meet the “new” Paul… I walked slowly, taking deep breaths. I tried to regain my composure while keeping in step with the flow of passengers. First, the police… The young officer behind the glass pane took my passport. He asked me where I was staying while stamping my document and giving it back to me.

  “Have a nice stay,” he said nonchalantly. I nodded, hoping for the same.

  I was expecting to see Paul in front of me at any moment. But not quite yet: I had to retrieve my luggage, then go through customs—more dazed walking and finally people gathering just ahead of me greeted by their loved ones. My heart was now beating faster, my head pounding a little. I should stop thinking and relax, I kept urging myself. And then I saw him.

  Damn… It looks so bad, so very obvious, I thought.

  It looked exactly like what I had feared, a toupee placed where his bald spot once was. Combed to the right and parted on the left side, the dividing line of the part showed no skin at all giving away what it was supposed to hide. It was long enough to cover his ears, his long fashionable sideburns, and the back of his neck. He did not have a long neck to begin with, but now, it seemed his head sat directly on his shoulders in the most unbecoming fashion. I smiled bravely back at him, well aware that his eyes were two glaring question marks. He took me in his arms.

  “You had a good flight?” asked Paul with a cheerful tone.

  I felt weird being held so closely in public. But I wasn’t in Morocco anymore, I reminded myself. Suddenly, I had mixed feelings about him, about us. The whole thing was so bizarre. He stepped back, pulling away from me with his hands still on my shoulders.

  “So, what do you think, huh?”

  Slowly, he turned his head left then right; he sounded so happy, eyeing me from the corner of his eyes, so proud of himself. I knew I had to lie; there was no way I could tell him how I felt. Was that thing not affixed forever, literally stitched to his head? I laughed nervously.

  “Wow, it’s incredible. It’s really—” quick, what was the proper word? I was trying to think fast—“nice!” I said finally. I was aware that did not sound too “nice.” Thankfully, he helped me out,

  “It takes some getting used to, I know,” he offered.

  His eyes were smiling at me now with that familiar twinkle I loved so much. I kissed him and took his hand in mine, not wishing to say anymore.

  In the end, I did manage to have a wonderful time in Paris, even forgot Paul’s silly prosthesis. The glorious French capital made yet another lifelong conquest and enthusiast of me. I felt at home with the language, the culture, the food, and going back home was the hardest thing I had to do. When Paul saw me off at the airport, holding me tight for a goodbye, neither he nor I could ever have imagined that we would never see each other again.

  I landed in Rabat under a heavy rain, which only worsened the feeling that I was literally returning to confinement. Going back to the grind of a terminale year evoked panic attacks in me, studying for the Baccalauréat even more. I knew I had not prepared nearly enough for the exam. Time had been running out on me fast. I was doomed to fail. I had far too many absences, and there were too many gaps in my scholastic requirements. I was just denying reality, only pretending I was still in a position to do well enough to pass.

  Deep down I knew it was not going to happen, but I couldn’t admit it to myself, let alone divulge it to anyone else. For the first time in my life, I had flunked an entire academic year and I felt as removed from student life as I could possibly be. I had entered an entirely different universe and I needed a way out. I was just waiting for a pretext to call it quits and save face.

  Michel presented me with the excuse I was hoping for. He reappeared in my world as soon as I got back from Paris. He had no idea I had gone to meet my previous, and still very present, boyfriend. I had mentioned, when I first met him, that I was seeing someone. But then, when I started seeing him regularly, he assumed it must not have been very important, and hence, for him at least, the case was closed. Only it was not, not for me, which really meant I was unfaithful to both men in earnest, a situation about which I was in total denial.

  It was springtime in Morocco, the best time of year for Michel to be extending book prospecting to Marrakech and the great south with his entire team. Traveling to the most remote parts of the country, well beyond the urban areas, was his way “to combine necessary tasks with pleasurable ones,” as he put it. Morocco had always been one of his favorite destinations.

  “Come along with us,” he proposed with his usual alluring, everything-is-possible magnetism. “You can learn the business, make some money and at the same time get to know your beautiful country.”

  The offer was far too tempting to turn down. My academic battle was already lost, and the amorous war in my heart unsustainable. Yet when my body soon again yielded to Michel’s ardent demonstrations, my reason valiantly tried to stand adamant. For over two weeks, I followed Michel in his adventure, thinking this was only temporary folly. How could it be otherwise? He was not a man with whom a young woman could build a family. I was keenly aware of that.

  I wanted to believe that I was still Paul’s girl and that I would soon return to my sanity. On the other hand, and for the first time, I learned the skill of bookselling, earning in the process my own commissions and receiving my very first paycheck—all of which came as a revelation to me then, and opened a new world of possibilities.

  Toward the end of March, Paul was still in Paris and had no idea what I was up to-until I got a short express-mail letter where he laid down his doubts, anger and frustration with scathing sarcasm.

  Fourteen days without any news from you is absolutely abnormal. I had your brother on the phone and by manipulating him […] I learned that it was all a big party for you now. Erfoud last week (I didn’t know that, in that region, books sold so well) and Marrakech this week […] I realize how much of an idiot I have been with you. In any case, I don’t begrudge you; I’m the only ass here.

  His letter made me feel dreadful. I thought of myself as a monster of insensitivity, a ghastly, horrible slut. I was sure he was hurting badly; I could feel his pain and puzzlement at my behavior. It had been just a little over three weeks since I left him in Paris, after what had seemed like an idyllic romance.

  Worst of all, I could not even explain my behavior to him because I myself had no idea what I was doing. I had abandoned all pretense at controlling events around me, simply grateful he wasn’t there to confront me face to face. That night, I cried in shame and baffled remorse. My reason was completely muddled, and I had no one to confide in or ask for advice; doing so would have been tantamount to admitting my disarray, mostly revealing my true self, and the very nature I was steadfastly hiding underneath a self-assured veneer.

  Besides, whom could I really open my heart to? My mother was self-absorbed by her own sense of rebirth, that magical unearthing of love, lust, and sex that one stumbles upon for the first time. She was also unaware of the drama that I was going through because I appeared grown-up, more mature, and happier.

  Moreover, she and I had just begun enjoying what I think of now as a sort of nascent peace, an imaginary amity. Today, I cannot even call it friendship, though that’s exactly what we thought it was then. Friendship implies intimate confidence and the sharing of secrets between peers. Not that mother-daughter relations cannot be friendly, obviously they can, but not at such at an early age, a
nd only within defined boundaries.

  Now, I believe a parent must insist on, and a teenager must show, fundamental respect at all times. A mother should not hesitate to step in and impose strict limits and purposeful guidance when necessary, which a peer cannot. In reality, my mother did not know any better, and, as a consequence, I failed to show her any real deference. From her perspective, there was reason to rejoice. There were no more sour arguments between us. I apparently was no longer in the throes of depression, although something else was fermenting beneath the surface, of which my mother was oblivious. In the end, her own beguiling love affair and my misleading poise combined to dupe us both.

  Perhaps because she had been married so young and had her children at about the same age as I was then, she felt I was capable of assuming responsibilities on my own. Today I feel her permissiveness was an abdication of her parental obligations rather than an appreciation of my trustworthiness and maturity. Furthermore, the belief that if you trust your children they will do the right thing is quite erroneous in my view, because they are not in a position to know what the right thing is, especially when events become too confounding.

  In my case, warning signs were everywhere, apparent to all who were willing to take notice. The impulsive surrender of my mother’s maternal duties during my teen years contributed to my making the wrong choices when my life became entangled. Instead of striving to surmount the academic and emotional obstacles I encountered, I simply evaded them, hoping they would get resolved somehow.

  When I saw Michel again, I was aware he was probably going to tell me he was leaving soon. I was toying with the idea of telling him about Paul but could not come up with the proper words. Instead, he promptly rescued me from a mortifying confession.

  “This is going to sound crazy,” he began, after our lovemaking. “I want you to come with me.” He spoke quickly as he reached for his cigarettes on the night table.

  I was lying in bed, next to him, sweating in the cool moistness of his hotel room, caressing his back with my hand, feeling its wetness. I had been thinking of his looming departure and of Paul’s imminent return, not knowing what to make of either, not wishing to let Michel go or to face up to Paul just yet. I doubted that my life could get back on its old track, or that I wanted it to. I was just biding my time, waiting to see where another day would take me.

  Michel turned back toward me, with a second cigarette for me. He smiled with his lips closed, squinting, as he exhaled the cigarette smoke out of his nose, before declaring, “I love you! I can’t possibly leave without you.” He pulled me against him and laughed lightly.

  Ordinarily self-assured, he was always awkward in romantic moments. But his eyes were dead serious. I knew he meant it.

  “I love you too. And I don’t want you to leave me here, either,” I blurted out without a second thought.

  I was relieved he had decided for me. The thought that my mother could object did not even occur to me. This was the answer to all my problems, I thought, the end of the mayhem that my life had turned into. Oh, there was no question I was smitten with him. And it wasn’t just sexual craving. The lure and excitement of the adventure ahead got the better of me as well.

  By then, I had demonstrated to him and myself that I could sell books and earn money too. I had a natural talent for salesmanship and Michel had trained me very well. Plus, there were all those fascinating countries he wanted to show me and I was dying to discover.

  As I expected, my mother did not seem to object…or did she? I don’t recall whether she tried to change my mind at all. It is actually very possible that she attempted to make me reconsider. Watching me drop out of high school in the middle of my senior year, when she’d always been so proud of my academic achievements, must have been disheartening to her.

  In all fairness to her, I knew full well that she was easily fooled, and I often took advantage of that fact. She was quickly overwhelmed by me because, in all our interactions, I never failed to shut her down with my knowledge and vehemence. And even if she did voice her disagreement or apprehension, I simply didn’t listen. Furthermore, my sister had already started her own overseas travel by going on a six-week trip to Algeria with some musician friends.

  By the time Paul returned to Morocco, a few days later, I had already left the country with Michel.

  12

  Running Away

  We drove through Spain all the way to Toulouse, on a road trip that took three days and two nights. Michel let me drive his Porsche, rooftop down, the music of Jethro Tull’s Aqualung blasting out of the powerful speakers, the wind in my hair, blowing my worries away. I had left everything I had ever known behind, not without regrets for all the pain I had caused the first man who really cared for me.

  In France, Michel and I stayed a few days in a stately villa owned by two business associates in Pechabou, a small village seven miles from Toulouse. Built on the outskirts of the old village, the grand ivy-covered mansion boasted more than half a dozen rooms that served as a sort of free and impromptu bed-and-breakfast to all the reps who stopped by on their way to and from different parts of the globe. Three double French doors opened from the large salons onto a paved veranda, which in turn led to a big tousled garden.

  There, an old dried-up fountain covered with pigeon droppings stoically endured its continual defacement. Tall sycamore trees bordering the garden conferred a sense of former glory on the property. Under the bright sky of the Midi-Pyrenees region, the beautiful old villa insisted on holding its head high, disheveled because no one stayed there long enough to care for it, yet still resolutely swollen with pride.

  In its state of apparent anarchy the house perfectly matched its bohemian occupants. A cheery irreverent camaraderie, and a carefree attitude, infused everything and everyone all the time. I was not at all used to such easy, blithe living. Nobody took offense if you slept in their bed, couples changed often, privacy was unheard of, and it was not a shock to anyone to find someone in the kitchen preparing a cup of coffee in their birthday suit.

  My jumbled mind might have been appeased by the non-judgmental disposition of those around me, had it not been for my own rigid, ambiguous principles. I was disorientated and felt painfully normal, almost old-school. The house in Pechabou was not an actual hippie colony, but it was not far off. These were venturesome young people who loved to travel but also wanted to make money and own fast cars. Universal love and pot-smoking did not necessarily exclude materialistic pursuits in their minds.

  The queen bee of the community was the main owner of the house himself, a forty-something, good-looking bisexual with graying temples, tight jeans, and cowboy boots. Jacques was the embodiment of laid back, make-believe fantasy. Married once and divorced, with no children, he had lived through the rebellious sixties penniless and free. He now wished to triumph over the seventies with the same freedom, only with vastly more money and a lot more sex. If he could only stop time! In his head, he was a twenty-something still, hip and cool. He slept with women half his age, pledging neither love nor fidelity, and drove a shiny white Porsche Carrera and a racy red Lamborghini.

  Most unsettling to me was Michel’s unanticipated attitude. No longer was I the exclusive center of his attention. He seemed perfectly comfortable in the casual promiscuity of the Pechabou villa. Clearly, from the anecdotes he and others were fond of telling, he had long been a master of the incessant game of luring and seducing young, beautiful women for one-night stands. My presence was not exactly conducive to such diversion, I was convinced of that, though he frequently set out to mollify me.

  “I can’t believe these chicks, always walking about half-naked, sleeping around with whomever, indiscriminately,” I exclaimed in disgust one morning when I returned from the bathroom and slipped back into bed next to Michel.

  It was already midday, and the sun was high up in the sky. It was not unusual for us to get up at such hours. We were often staying up late into the night with scores of strangers, acquaintances, fri
ends, and associates.

  “Come on, baby, don’t be such a prude,” he muttered in my ear teasing. “At least you know you’re the only one I really care about.”

  He knew what to say, what I wanted to hear.

  Then he added half-jokingly, “Hey, how about we play together sometime?”

  His clear insinuation was not at all amusing to me. “Are you crazy or what?” I snapped, pulling away.

  I faintly recognized the knot of angst building just below my solar plexus, and I was fighting hard not to let it overcome me.

  I barely heard him murmur with a chuckle, “You don’t know, you might just like it.”

  “Stop it! It’s stupid, and I don’t want to hear of it.” I had raised my voice and jumped out of bed, reaching for my robe.

  “Look, relax, okay? It’s just a game, an inconsequential and harmless game,” he said calmly, a smile still playing on his lips.

  But I knew all too well his persuasive talents. I didn’t believe or trust him, when it came to sex. I was trembling with the now familiar, helpless, rage that jealousy awakened in me.

  “Relax, baby, I’m just fooling with you.” He knew not to insist further. He pushed the sheets away and got out of bed.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” he said, and left the room.

  That was easier said than done for me, and, of course, when mixed with my bemused state of mind, very disturbing. I had no intention of partaking in the orgiastic mood around me. I was mightily jealous and, from then on, became suspicious of every girl I met.

  Thankfully, we remained in Toulouse and its region just long enough for Michel to show me around his hometown. La Ville Rose, as it is called—thanks to its older, rose-red bricked buildings—is famous for its grand plaza, charming pedestrian streets lined with alluring stores, its Garonne River, and the many canals that crisscross the town. Toulouse is also reputed for its museums, art galleries, and some of the most impressive churches in Europe, though we visited only a couple. The historical and cultural attractions of his home town were of somewhat lesser interest to Michel than to me, and I did not know enough then to venture out on my own.