The Last Friend

by Tahar Ben Jelloun

  There was one Jew among us. He had probably been arrested in error. The police and the army did not like to admit their mistakes. He was there, said nothing, spoke good Arabic, but found himself alone. His name was Marcel. Ali and I tried to talk to him, but he preferred to remain apart from the group. On the first day of Ramadan, the month of Muslim fasting, he finally spoke up, asking to talk to the officer in charge. He had no reason to fast during the day, like the Muslims. His case was heard in Rabat, where it was decided that hed be allowed to eat during the day. When the officer in charge told him he had won this privilege, Marcel thanked him, but said he had decided not to exercise it. "I'm like the others," he said. "Even if I'm not Muslim, I will observe Ramadan." For him, it was a matter of principle. After this, he felt more at ease, better integrated into the group. But the commander did not appreciate this show of solidarity. He ordered Marcel to eat a piece of stale bread in front of the rest of us. Sure, Marcel was a Moroccan, the commander barked out, but not a Muslim. "You're a Jew, so act like one!" Marcel lowered his eyes, and bit into the hard, stale bread. After the second mouthful, he vomited. The commander put him in solitary confinement for three days.

  7

  Our sense of smell got used to the nauseating odor of camel fat, but I couldn't stomach food cooked in it. Ali ate only bread and noodles. We were all fragile, but Ali took it to the extreme. Of course, there was no question of protesting or expressing ourselves. We fantasized about simple meals on a terrace in the summer, with beautiful girls, eager bodies, and light hearts.

  After all the inmates suffered digestive problems, the commander assembled us and told us he was changing the cooking fat. "Camel fat is good for nomads, but you're sedentary types, so I've given orders that from now on the food will be cooked with beef fat. It's more practical; if you get diarrhea, I can't use you. Consider yourselves lucky to be able to eat as much as you like. Others would give a lot to be in your place. I know, you're not really made for this job, but I don't give a damn. You were rebels, so now you're paying the price. At ease! Be prepared. Tomorrow our military maneuvers begin. I'm telling you, we expect three percent 'wastage'-lost lives. Don't be part of this three percent. A word to the wise should suffice." The commander loved this expression.

  Ali and I remained inseparable; sometimes Marcel would join us. The head of our section allowed us to gather in groups. We weren't plotting anything; we just needed to be together, eat together, throw up together, share our anguish and our hopes, and think about our eventual release.

  Ali received a letter from his father, brought to him by a lieutenant, the son of a distant cousin, passing through Tangier on his way to a mission at Ahermemou. Ali cried when he read it. He showed it to me:

  My dear Ali,

  Since you left, your mother has gotten sick. She no longer sleeps, she's obsessed with your absence, and she imagines the worst. The doctor has discovered respiratory problems and high blood pressure.

  I had to go to Rabat several times to find out what had happened to you. It took me six months to learn where you were, and why you were being held. None of the military officials seem to know anything about your case. It's a special matter under the personal control of a general, they told me.

  I have also seen the parents of your friend Mohammed, whom you call Mamed.They are worried, too. We are all living in agony, and the worst is that we know nothing. We hear you are allowed to write one letter a month, but we have received nothing.

  Your father embraces you, gives you his blessing, and prays to Allah and the Prophet to help you out of this tunnel. Allah is great and merciful.

  8

  A few days later, I came down with a strange fever. I felt hot, I shook, I sweated, and I became delirious. Ali spent nights at my bedside, wiping my forehead with a wet tissue. At the infirmary, they accused me of dissembling, in order to avoid the military maneuvers. So I left with the other soldiers, but after an hour on the march, I collapsed. Ali helped me up, and he managed to convince the lieutenant to send me back to the infirmary. Without Ali's help, I probably would have ended up in the ground.

  It was December, and freezing cold. Because the commander had found an insulting comment about him on one of the walls, he called us all together, told us to strip down to our underwear, and left us outside for an hour. Then he came back and screamed: "Whoever wrote that insulting crap, step forward. If you don't, you'll all stay here until you freeze to death!" I saw Marcel walk toward the commander, who stopped him. "No, it's not you. It's written in Arabic. I know you speak it, but you can't write it. Get back in line. No need for you to help a Muslim."

  An hour later, we were falling like flies. Ali was already on the ground. The commander came back. "Not bad. Courageous. You show solidarity. No traitors, no tattlers. You're dangerous. Now I can see why you're here. Well, I'll figure out another way to deal with this." We returned to our dormitories, mocking his threats. In the end, he did nothing. Perhaps the writing on the wall told the truth: "Commander Zamel, the queer commander." Rumor had it that he was one of the captain's lovers, or vice versa.

  Rumors. Nothing but rumors. We heard some of us would be released on January 3. There would be a list, determined by General Oufkir and maybe King Hassan himself. Unfounded rumors, but they kept our captive minds occupied. Marcel, the Jew, would be let out first, as there was no reason for him to have been there in the first place. The engineer who had refused to kiss the king's hand had apparently been pardoned by the king. So had the lawyer. Where did these rumors come from? It was the commander who started them. It was also rumored that the lieutenant who brought the letter to Ali had made an alarming report to the authorities on the commander's abuses.

  On January 3, no one was released. On January 8, Marcel was summoned by a doctor who had come from Rabat. The next day he was escorted back to his home.

  Our turn came on January 15. We were summoned for a medical inspection. The commander called us into his office and offered us coffee. It was nothing like the black, bitter liquid they served us in the mornings; it was real coffee. I inhaled its aroma several times before I drank it. He looked at us as if we were Indians setting foot in white civilization for the first time. "By now you are men, citizens who have seen and understood how things work in this country. I have to confess that as officers, we were not happy that the army was serving as a punishment force. The army is not a reeducation center, or a prison in disguise. The army is a family with values, of which the most important is dignity. We were ordered to destroy your dignity as citizens and opponents of the regime. I want you to understand this. I know who you are. I have respect for your convictions and even for your plight. This country needs justice. I'm sure we'll meet again one day, not for an exercise in repression, but to work together for the good of our people, who deserve to live in dignity and prosperity. We Moroccans have become used to living bowed down. It's time we stood up straight. Do you understand?"

  We were speechless. Was this man testing us, trying to find out what we would do when we left this place? He certainly wasn't required to make this kind of speech. He got up and we stuck out our hands to say good-bye. He opened his arms and embraced us. We left his office stifling a laugh. Had the guy gone crazy, or what? Or was he simply arranging a date with destiny?

  In fact, that was it. Three and a half years later, on July 10, 1971, he led a group of officers in an assassination attempt on King Hassan at Skhirate, where the sovereign was celebrating his birthday. Ali and I were at the beach with friends that day. When we heard the radio announcer proclaiming the end of the monarchy, we were scared. We knew only too well what those military officers who attacked the king's garden party were capable of. Morocco narrowly escaped a Fascist regime.

  After our release, it took us a day to get back to Tangier. Our two families got together and organized a celebration in our honor. Ali and I couldn't fathom what was happening to us. A few days later, our Spanish friend Ramon organized another party. Our hearts weren't in it.
Our minds were still back at the camp. It was impossible to erase the scars of that long and cruel period in a few days. Ramon felt bad. Our detention had lasted eighteen months and fourteen days. Ali and I were bound together for life. After that, our friendship was held up as a model. We needed to learn how to forget the trials of that period, to regain a taste for life. Spending time with Ramon would help distract us, clear our minds of this nightmare.

  9

  As long as you have not been tried and acquitted, you remain a suspect. My father wanted to understand what had happened. He wanted to do something, alert the international press, sue the army. He was angry, and my mother pleaded with him to calm down. "What?" he shouted. "My son has been arrested, tortured by the police, and sent to a disciplinary boot camp. We had no news from him, then one fine day he is let out as if nothing ever happened; he is followed by the police, our house is watched, our telephone is bugged, and you think we should accept these arbitrary practices of the state?"

  He did not stop. "I demand that they restore my son's honor, his innocence. He didn't kill anyone. I demand that his passport be returned so he can continue his studies in France. Things should be clear. Is he innocent or not? What is this 'royal pardon'? Either he was guilty of committing a crime for which he must answer, or he did nothing, in which case the judicial system should say so, and acquit him."

  My father was right, but in Morocco things aren't logical. I returned to my medical studies in Rabat. Ali abandoned the idea of film school. He decided to pursue a degree in history and geography at the College of Arts. Our different schedules meant we did not have much free time together in Tangier. We saw each other during vacations. Ramon came with us on our nightly outings. He made us laugh with all his jokes. He could have been a comedian.

  It was at Ali's house that I met Ghita, the woman who would become my wife. She was the daughter of a cousin of theirs by marriage who had come to spend a few days' vacation in Tangier. Her beauty intrigued me. She was silent, and rather observant. She had a way of looking at people and things that sometimes embarrassed me, as if she were mentally undressing them.

  Ali told me to be careful. Yet how could I not immediately fall in love with this woman? I stole glances at her, and told myself I would risk damnation for her, I would do anything… it was as if a veil had been placed over my eyes. I had become as good as blind.

  I needed my friend's opinion. I needed his blessing, his approval. I could deal with my parents, but it was important that Ali approve of my marriage. I knew that many friendships were destroyed by marriage. Wives were sometimes jealous of their husband's friends. I wanted to avoid this at all costs.

  I lit one of my bad cigarettes, a nervous tic, and asked Ali what he thought. He advised me to wait a little longer before committing myself, to go out with her, flirt, but not to be in such a hurry. "I find her very beautiful," he said. "That's precisely what worries me. A beautiful woman is often more preoccupied with her beauty than with her home. The most important thing is to see whether she really loves you as much as you love her. If things start out one-sided, it's hard to achieve a balance. Marriage is not about passion. It's about daily compromise. Of course, you know all that. We've talked about it endlessly. It's understandable that you're in love with Ghita. She is beautiful, intelligent, discreet-everything your previous conquests weren't. But marriage is serious. It's forever. No more affairs on the side, no more infidelity."

  Ghita and I sometimes went out with Ali, and she would bring her sister. We would go to the tea room at the Minzah Hotel, where we would eat pastries and laugh. I held her hand. The following summer, I married her. I hadn't finished the training for my medical specialization, but as a wedding present, I was given a passport. The city's governor brought it to me himself. Without thanking him, I asked, "What about my friend Ali?" It was Sunday, he replied. "Tell Ali to come and see me on Monday at six p.m. sharp."

  We left for our honeymoon in Spain. Ali flew to Paris for an internship with the French Federation of Film Clubs in Marly-le-Roi.

  10

  Before I opened my own medical office, I worked for the public health system. There I discovered another Morocco, one of misery, shame, and despair. Consultation was free, but we had no medicine. People who could afford it went to private clinics. Those who were even richer went to France. The rest died.

  The first year of my marriage brought happiness and pleasure. When Ghita became pregnant, I had a hard time telling Ali. He had married Soraya, a pretty girl who seemed calm and poised, but was apparently unable to have a child. Ali believed in telling the truth. A pregnancy isn't something you can hide, he said. If Soraya has problems, it's not Ghita's fault. Not only did he tell Soraya the news, but he held a little party for Ghita and me at his home.

  Ali suggested adopting a child. Soraya didn't like the idea. She was only twenty-eight, she said. They should wait, try again, and then, if necessary, consult specialists in France. I told Ali that adoption was difficult in Morocco, but like everything else, there were ways to make it happen. A few months later, my wife put Soraya in touch with an orphanage. The two women went to speak to someone there.

  They came back in tears. Soraya was shaken. They had seen babies of all ages, smiling, ready to go home with anyone willing to pick them up and hold them. Later, I learned that Ali and Soraya had adopted Nabil, a six-week-old boy.

  Ali helped me a great deal when it came to setting up my practice. I was uncomfortable about this. He made too much of it, which got on my nerves, but I tried not to let it show, thanking him, saying, "You really shouldn't have." He told me not to use these petit-bourgeois cliches. His in-laws offered to sell us an apartment. Ali and I had less time to talk than before, but our friendship still seemed to have the same strength. We had become inseparable, but sometimes I needed to be alone. Ali couldn't understand this. I couldn't ask him to leave me alone. I often had the impression that I had become his second family.

  Between Ali and me, money had never been a problem. Neither of us was rich, but we had plenty of money to live comfortably, nothing to complain about. My practice was doing well. I had borrowed some money from the bank to buy equipment. We led calm lives, no disturbances, no dis-sention between us. We had one rule, which was never to talk about our marital problems. We knew that couples meant conflict more than anything else, and that married life could slowly strangle the love that had spawned it. I tried hard to make my marriage a success, to compromise, and that surprised Ali. We did not need to discuss it; I could read his thoughts easily on his face. Ali had a face like an open book, which sometimes worried me. His face betrayed his strong emotions. Ali was the type who couldn't hide what was bothering him, what was hurting him. As soon as I saw him, I knew what he was about to say. Occasionally I would be wrong, but never about serious things. He had the ability to share my life, my world, and my imagination to an extent that fascinated and worried me at the same time. This superior form of intelligence was impressive. I envied it. But over time, his intuitiveness bothered me. We were two open books. We could see right through each other, and deep down I didn't want that.

  Ali taught at a teachers' training college while he continued to run the city's film club. He had become friends with two elderly women who owned the Librairie des Colonnes, the bookshop on the Boulevard Pasteur. They had a passion for film and literature. Ali loved to spend time with them, which he often told me about. The three of them had tea once a week, to discuss what they had been reading and their mutual passion for the films of Bergman, Fritz Lang, or Mi-zogushi. This was still in the days of movie houses and the big screen, before video ruined films by putting them on televisions.

  The day I was offered a job with the World Health Organization in Stockholm, I asked Ali where I could find Bergman films. Movies sometimes reveal more than any other guide to an unknown culture. Ali managed to arrange for me to see several films on Sunday mornings at the Roxy Theater. After the sixth one, I felt truly enlightened. I was going to live in
another world, strange and exciting, a society consumed by metaphysical anguish, but highly evolved. Ali gave me these film lessons with a delight and excitement that did not conceal his pride in teaching me something I did not know. I was annoyed, but I never showed it.

  11

  Arriving in Sweden from Morocco, the first thing you notice is the silence. It's a silent culture, without disruption or disorder. I looked for people with dark hair, and saw only blonds. The men and the women were much taller than Moroccans. Their silence, the whiteness of their skin, their clear eyes and distant look, their gestures, their routine politeness, and their respect for rules… I discovered a culture of individuals. How marvelous! In this society, everything had its place, and one person was as important as another. I fell under the spell, even though I suspected that beneath the surface there had to be problems. But I saw this country through my Moroccan eyes, the eyes of a doctor who had suffered a great deal from the lack of respect for the individual, and from the lack of rigor in a society built on a thousand little compromises. Here in Sweden, there were no secret deals.