Determined to catch up on my artistic education, I dipped into my savings and spent every minute of my free time immersing myself into London’s rich cultural life. New York had been my initiation, whetting my appetite for art. London offered the same wealth of inspiring, high-quality events. I even put my fast-improving English to the test by sitting through Arthur Miller’s masterpiece, Death of a Salesman, at the National Theatre.
After almost three months on my own in London, Uncle Hak announced that my brother Larbi, who was failing miserably in Toulouse, would join me to learn English. In mid-April, I moved to a large, furnished room on Draycott Place, in Chelsea, a couple of blocks from King’s Road. The studio-type accommodation had all the charm of a hospital suite, equipped with two beds, an open kitchenette, and a coin-activated black-and-white television set. At least the bathroom was on the same floor.
Larbi descended on London at the end of the month and immediately felt at ease in the bustling city, happily tagging along to the cultural events I was sampling. I made many friends in London, but sadly lost sight of them within a few years. That sojourn was positive on so many levels, though. Most of all it was a turning point, the affirmation of my new life and future outlook. I was prepared for bigger and better things. My optimism had reached new heights.
At about the same time, my sister, who had broken up with her boyfriend, went to Florida to visit Hamid, a friend of ours studying in Gainesville. Soon, she met Michelle, a French-Canadian and University of Florida student. Michelle spoke French in a delightful Quebec accent with all its peculiar colloquialisms. The daughter of a rich Montreal businessman, she drove a sleek white two-passenger Camaro with a sky-blue stripe painted on its sides, and lived in a big house with Diane, Hamid’s girlfriend. She and Nezha got along so well, she invited my sister to stay with them. For the following three months, she introduced her to the famed party life of the local student community.
Nezha loved every minute of her visit and returned home with, literally, tears in her eyes and the crushing desire to return as soon as possible. When she wrote me in London, I was applying to college in Paris and had not given any thought to the States; my memories of New York had faded away. Nezha kept insisting that Florida was where I ought to be looking for college because of the fun, glorious weather, and conviviality of the American people.
At the beginning of August, Larbi and I returned to Rabat without a clear idea of what to do next. I was still considering college in France when Nezha asked Hamid to meet us at Uncle Hak’s to tell the family about college in Florida.
Exactly six weeks later, on a Saturday night, September 6th, 1980, my three siblings and I landed in Gainesville and anxiously waited for Hamid to pick us up at the airport.
“Do you see him anywhere?” asked Nezha.
“Nope,” I said, “He may be a little late.” I looked around one more time. “Do we even have a phone number for him or an address?” I inquired.
“I bet he forgot about us,” joked Larbi.
“No way!” I said indignantly.
“Knowing him, it wouldn’t surprise me!” Abdu chuckled.
Nezha nodded and feverishly searched her bag for a phone number.
“Here it is.” She pulled a small piece of paper out of her handbag.
After several failed attempts to reach our friend from a payphone, we stood there in a row, an air of disbelief about us and our luggage piled in front of us. It was getting late, and the small airport was emptying quickly.
“He’s not showing up,” Nezha muttered, voicing what was slowly dawning on us all. “He forgot about us, I’m sure!”
“Okay, since we don’t even have his address, let’s go to a small hotel for the night,” I decided, taking things in my own hands.
We got the last taxi available to drive us to a motel near campus, where we booked a single room with two full beds and, after a quick shower, went to sleep, exhausted by the five-hour jetlag and close to twenty-hour trip.
Early on Sunday morning, while awaiting his turn in the bathroom, Larbi turned the television on. He tried changing stations but was astounded to discover that channel after channel was showing the same brand of fervent Christian televangelists preaching to their flocks with dramatic theatricality.
The spectacle left us speechless. Of all the things we’d heard about the United States, that over-the—top religiosity was not one of them. Suddenly, it felt like we had been duped.
Dismayed, I turned to Nezha.
“What the hell is this?” I asked her. “Did you know about these fanatics?”
“No, I didn’t. I never saw this when I was here,” she replied. “But, then, I never watched TV either.”
Later on that day over a gargantuan brunch of pancakes, eggs, and hash browns, Hamid ruefully confessed that he had indeed forgotten all about our arrival.
“I’m sorry. At least you slept fine, right?” He smiled with his usual nonchalance.
“Still, it was unnerving to not see you at the airport,” I complained feebly.
“Hey, man, what are those Christian fanatics on TV?” interrupted Larbi in an effort to change conversation. Hamid, after all, was offering to put us up for a few days until we moved to our own place.
“Oh, yeah, the Christian televangelists… They’re a staple of the Sunday TV lineup. That’s all part of the American paradox; a country where liberalism and ultra-conservatism, even fanaticism, exist side by side.” He laughed and began telling us a few anecdotes about the miracles some of the priests routinely performed.
Since we had arrived in Florida with student visas and the academic year had already started, we all enrolled in different levels of English as a Second Language (ESL) classes. In January, I decided to attend the local community college rather than wait for the following fall, as my siblings were doing, then transfer to the University of Florida. In one calendar year, I completed an associate’s degree while on the Dean’s List.
In the fall of 1981 about thirteen months after our arrival in Gainesville, on Halloween night, I met Robbie.
15
Robbie
The face of an angel, I thought.
High cheekbones framing a flawlessly straight nose; arched eyebrows drawing attention to deep, dark-blue eyes; full lips begging to be kissed; silky brown hair, parted off the middle that fell gently on the forehead highlighting a pale complexion: He was beautiful. The instant my eyes met his, I felt an electric shock, a gut-jerking, heart-pounding pull, an irresistible magnetism.
A slim, six-foot-two, twenty-two year old, Robbie looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of GQ. My mind went blank, and a fever mounted in me that I could hardly control. Adding a sexy elegance to his demeanor, he spoke softly with a refined English accent—though I can’t remember a word he said at that moment. I was utterly incapable of thinking. I left him talking to my brother and cousin and ran to the kitchen after Cynthia, grabbed her arm.
“Oh, my God,” I exclaimed, staring at her intently, “Who is this guy?”
My friend chuckled, delighted with the stir she was pleased to have caused.
“That’s Robbie, the guy I’ve wanted you to meet for so long.” She spoke slowly, arranging little cheese hors d’oeuvres on a platter.
“God, he’s absolutely gorgeous!”
“Yeah, I know, and a great lover, too,” she added with a wink.
“Really? Wow, Cynthia, I’ve got to have him.”
I hesitated for a short second. I, of course, knew Cynthia was married, though I did not know anything about her marriage and never cared enough to ask. She had been dating Hamid when she went on summer vacation to Paris, then Morocco, with him. There she had met me, my brothers, and cousins.
A cute brunette, she exuded confidence. She was smart as a whip and engaging, and she had no second thought about introducing her husband to her male-friends.
“Not tonight, Wafa. Tonight he’s with me. You can have him tomorrow!” she said with a composed face, “My husba
nd is in the Bahamas, playing golf, and I am all alone and horny.”
“Oh come on, Cynthia…you’re not serious, right?” I pleaded.
“Sure I am.” She looked up from her crackers. “Surely, you can wait a little longer, can’t you?” She smiled with a calm detachment.
“No, um, um, I can’t, really I can’t. I don’t know what’s got into me. I’m telling you, it’s like a train just hit me.”
I was following her back into the living room, switching to French so as not to be understood. Cynthia turned her head to me, still holding her tray.
“Il parle le français!” she said under her breath.
“Here you are,” interjected Larbi in my direction. “We’ve gotta go, Wafa.”
“No, wait, I just got some hors-d’oeuvres,” said Cynthia, “What’s the rush?”
She put down her platter.
“We’re meeting some friends and going to a Halloween party,” said Tahar while giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“You did a great job with the make-up,” Robbie said as he shook my hand.
I had just spent hours drawing intricate and vibrant designs on the faces of Larbi and Tahar, and both looked striking. I myself was dressed up as a gypsy, wearing heavy, elaborate make up and flashy jewelry adorning my neck, ears, and wrists. My long curly black hair was partly hidden under a colorful scarf and my shoulders covered with a long fringe shawl. At that moment, I felt out of place and unattractive. Neither Cynthia nor Robbie was in costume.
What is he thinking of me? I wondered.
My second Halloween night in Gainesville fell on a Saturday in 1981, a cool, clear, crisp night full of the promise of carnival-like titillation, a new experience for me. What was Halloween, anyway? During a trip to Mexico with Michel many years before, one November first, I had witnessed the festivity of El Dia de Los Muertos, the Day of the Dead. I had been astounded by the people’s joyous celebration and the open display of skulls and paraphernalia traditionally associated with death and the afterlife. Far from being gruesome, the Mexicans were happily remembering their beloved departed. By comparison, in France on the same day, La Toussaint-All Saints Day-is a solemn national holiday, a kind of French family Memorial Day, where people bring flowers to the graves of their loved ones.
Halloween, I was told, was of Celtic origin. It was believed by the ancient Gaels that, on October 31, the worlds of the living and the deceased briefly merge, and the dead come back to bring mayhem to the living world. It was in an attempt to appease those souls that costumes and masks were worn and treats sought under the threat of trickery.
When Cynthia called me at home to ask that we come by for a drink, I had first turned her down explaining we were getting ready for our first Halloween party. The year before, we had just arrived in Gainesville and the whole concept of dressing up and going wild had seemed childish and off-putting to me. This time, the boys had convinced me to join them. Suddenly, I didn’t want to go anywhere else. All I wanted was right there in front of me, and I couldn’t get it just yet. Nonetheless, I forced myself to go out as planned and wait, as Cynthia had insisted.
In the early afternoon the next day, right after they woke up, I asked Larbi and Tahar to call Robbie and invite him over. It turned out he didn’t have a car, so they drove over to his place with my old, beat-up, two-door Oldsmobile Cutlass.
Almost three hours later, they had yet to show up. I tried to occupy myself as best I could, doing my homework and biting my nails. I called Cynthia and asked her for Robbie’s phone number. When he answered, he sounded calm and collected.
“Hello?” said Larbi casually after taking the phone from his hand. Apparently the world had not caught up with my feverishness and was quite indifferent.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked impatiently, “You were supposed to come back home with him.”
“Oh, we’re just talking,” said Larbi unflappably. “I guess we forgot the time.”
“You can say that again,” I snapped. “I’ve been waiting for you for hours already.”
“Sorry,” said Larbi, “We’ll try to be there soon.”
“Well, I’m going to a movie with Cynthia at seven. I hope you’ll be home by the time I get back.” I needed to quiet my nerves.
“Oh, yes, sure. What are you going to see?” asked my brother.
“Ingmar Bergman’s Smiles of a Summer Night. It’s a 1955 black-and-white movie. Do you wanna join us?” I asked without really meaning it. Sure, I was anxious to see Robbie again but not in a movie theater.
“I don’t think so,” said Larbi. “We’ll see you afterwards, alright?”
“Larbi, wait. What do you think of Robbie?” I tried to steady my tone of voice.
“Oh, he’s a great guy. Very smart, travelled a lot. We’ve been talking non-stop.” He giggled in the way he did when put on the spot.
“Okay, then. And, Larbi, don’t forget, you’re supposed to bring him back home with you,” I again insisted.
When Cynthia dropped me off that night, I noticed my Oldsmobile parked in front of the house and suddenly I could hear my heart pounding and feel my stomach tightening. I covered the few steps to my door, agitated, and pushed it open. The three of them were sitting in the living room, still engaged in animated conversation and smoking cigarettes. My mind barely registered all three looked high from smoking weed all afternoon.
That night, Robbie opened up to me spontaneously. He admitted, in the course of our conversation, that he had been pot-smoking since junior-high and that he really wished to stop, adding that he needed someone like me to help him. His honesty and directness immediately seduced me.
He was half-English, half-American, had lived in a few places in Latin and Central America, Africa, and the Persian Gulf. His British father, a high-level executive working for an American oil company, had been divorced and separated from his first wife and child when he met Robbie’s mother in California and married her. They had three children together; Robbie, the eldest, had been born in Venezuela.
At age nine, Robbie had left home—then in Kuwait—to attend an all-boys boarding school in Kent. A few years later, he was enrolled in a Central Florida boarding school, where the rules were far more permissive than in England. That’s where, at thirteen, he had become a habitual pot-smoker. Money had never been an issue; his parents had always been generous with his allowances.
He was smoking menthol cigarettes as he spoke, squinting to keep away the smoke. I noticed his bitten-off finger-nails while I listened to him, fascinated, with no other thought than to hold him in my arms and lose myself in the dark ocean of his eyes. I was smitten, unmindful to everything else.
Very late into the night, I discreetly urged my brother and cousin to excuse themselves and leave me alone with Robbie.
“Hey, listen guys, I have to go to bed. I have an early class tomorrow morning,” said Larbi as he stood up.
“Actually, so do I,” Tahar exclaimed.
“But I need a ride home.” Robbie looked bemused.
“Don’t worry, I’ll drive you home. I don’t have class till the afternoon,” I offered in a casual tone. “You’ll have to show me the way, though. I am not yet completely familiar with Gainesville,” I said as we walked to the car.
“I live in a trailer about fifteen minutes from here.”
“What’s a trailer?” I asked He laughed. “Oh, it’s a large mobile home, but this one is connected to the town utilities,” he explained, amused. “I’ve been renting it for the past few months because it has a-how should I say?-special bohemian feel to it,” he added.
I was not really hearing him anymore and did not ask any other questions. The road, bordered by thick, shadowy trees, was deserted, the night pitch back. The ambiguity of the moment made it hard for me to reflect. I was trembling inside, trying hard to keep my hands steady on the wheel.
The car stopped smoothly on the dirt road. He gave me a goodnight peck on the cheek and got out of the car. I felt my heart
drop in my chest. I watched him take a few steps in the direction of his door, hesitate, amble back and around to the driver’s side. I rolled my window down, eyes locked on his.
Slowly, he leaned over and turned the car key off before holding my face and kissing my lips sweetly, then eagerly. I felt his arms reach down, grab me by the waist, and pull me out of the car through the open window without even attempting to open the door. He carried me in his arms up the steps of his mobile home to the bedroom, laid me down on soft satin sheets, and made love to me with passion and tenderness.
Our bodies dissolved into one; our souls sang to the gods in heaven. Our cries, tears, sighing, moaning, sweaty skin, and balmy scents, mixed and fused in a state of perfect bliss, in ecstasy. Time and place were suspended; across the universe, nothing else existed but the two of us, reborn into one.
For the first time, without the slightest bit of guilt, I missed class the next day.
I woke up around two in the afternoon to the sound of chirping birds and the smell of fresh coffee and warm toast. I was starving and bewildered when he entered the room carrying a tray.
“Hungry?” he asked with a smile.
“Oh, yes, ravenous in fact!” I sat up and reached for my crumpled tea-shirt on the floor. He was already dressed in a pair of blue jeans and white cotton sweater.
“I hope you like herb and cheese omelets.” He placed the tray in front of me and leaned forward to give me a kiss. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, buttered my toast, and watched me take a bite with a loving gaze.
“Mmm, delicious,” I sighed. “You’re not eating?”
“Already did, actually. I was too hungry to wait for you.” He got up and opened the blinds. “Do you like classical music?” He asked and, before I could answer, went into the living room.
Within minutes, the sound of a Chopin sonata filled the air and he returned with a cup of coffee and a cigarette in his hand.
“I can’t believe I missed class today,” I said with a grin. “First time it happens! Mmm this is delicious. You’re a good cook.”
THE ROAD FROM MOROCCO Page 14