Two particular veteran traders were angry to see me. They were outraged by the prices I offered, and the threats started. ‘You are breaking the rules,’ one of them snarled, as he walked into me and pushed me hard.
‘What rules?’ I asked.
He spun around and shouted over his shoulder, ‘You’ll soon find out!’ His friend was standing, watching and waiting, under a palm tree nearby. Despite the sickening feeling, I ignored the threat and continued trading until the last of the travellers disappeared with me in their midst.
I serpentined to Café Morina and sat on the terrace, facing the prestigious Banco de España. This was the only place I felt safe, a hectic spot with fat and lazy police patrolling and pedestrians strolling all day long. The rich trader was already there, glued to his chair, gazing at his mountain range of currencies. His jaws were split by a cigar; espresso and a bottle of beer sat on his table.
Returning to the same place in front of the bank, I sold a hundred Dutch guilders to a Moroccan woman travelling alone for the first time. She told me she was determined, but nervous, to cross the sea, as she didn’t have all the papers required. For different reasons, I was equally nervous, constantly looking over my shoulder, fearing I might be hit with a potato stuffed with needles and razorblades. Potato crime was common among rival traders, and innocent people were often disfigured.
After the agarabo-na-Melilt left late in the afternoon, the port became deserted. It felt as if humans had left and spooks had taken over. The smell of the Mediterranean Sea, with all that was dumped into it, along with the smell of fish, nauseated me.
By the end of August, I had learned a few tricks, but had lived like a yo-yo going back and forth. I proudly repaid Mr Amakran what I had borrowed, and was trading with my own capital.
* * *
THE SIXTEENTH OF SEPTEMBER has stuck forever in my memory like a monument. Trade was very slow and sluggish; the ship brought less happy travellers: extremely frugal, hard-bargaining and not law-abiding. Strolling the street, I witnessed with horror a rough, dangerous skirmish. While a taxi driver, out of his car, was talking to his friends, seven men jumped in and claimed his taxi. In the blink of an eye, they had filled the taxi’s boot with heavy bags and suitcases, so it wouldn’t close. Whatever luggage they couldn’t fit in the boot, they threw on the roof. While the taxi driver shouted at them to get out, they shouted back at him to get in and drive. Refusing, he was pushed and sandwiched against his car. When the police arrived, though armed, the men were intentionally slow to empty the taxi. I was among the witnesses, but I wasn’t able to give much of a description, as firstly, I didn’t speak Spanish and secondly, it had happened too fast.
I went back to the café after watching the attempted taxi hijacking. The terrace was full except where the millionaire sat alone with one vacant seat beside him. He had never spoken to me or had even nodded his head, though sometimes there were just the two of us sitting on the outdoor terrace. ‘May I share the table with you?’ I asked him.
‘Certainly,’ he replied.
I grabbed the spare chair and sat beside him. Undisturbed, he opened his valise and spread out hundreds and hundreds of notes in foreign currencies. I moved my cup to the edge of the table to make room. He lit his cigar and ordered a double espresso. Before finishing his espresso, the rich man, whose name was Mr Timsamani, ordered a beer and anchovies. This man is very rich, but not a Muslim. He is eating forbidden food and drinking alcohol, I told myself. Unlike other traders, he didn’t chase after the travellers. Upon the arrival of the ship, he stood fifty metres away like a majestic statue with distinctive clothing and a cigar or pipe, and people swarmed to him to pick up their currency, as the deals had already been done in Malaga.
‘Where did you come from, sir?’ I asked him.
‘Local, local,’ he answered. ‘Akaali, Akaali. My parents, grandparents and great-grandparents were all born within five miles from here. I am not racist,’ he added. ‘We are all children of that grumpy old man, Adam, but different …’
‘Why do you think Adam was grumpy?’ I asked him.
‘Wasn’t it he who pushed his wife to the point she lost her mind?’ he said.
I wondered what he was going to come out with next, as it seemed he had already had a few pints of beer somewhere else. While he was still talking, his colleague, Mr Mohand, joined him, pulled a chic packet of cigarettes out of his left jacket pocket and passed it to me to help myself.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I don’t smoke. In fact, it gives me headache and nausea.’
‘You have escaped the street culture,’ said Mr Mohand. ‘As a little boy of ten, I used to ask smoking pedestrians to give me a cigarette. When they refused, I followed them until they threw the butt on the ground. I would pick it up and waste nothing of it. As a group of boys, we used to collect the butts, meet every afternoon and feast on them.’ Mr Timsamani took no interest in what his colleague was telling me.
Both of them left. I stayed in the café and tried to make sense of what I had heard. Before the bank opened, I was strolling the boulevard in front of it. A couple arrived, looking for a doctor.
‘Do you know if there is a doctor nearby?’ they asked me.
‘There are two on this street,’ I said. As the man seemed to be confused, I took him to the door of the surgery. ‘I can sell you pesetas, if you need them,’ I told him.
He didn’t look like it, but he carried a lot of cash. I sold him twenty thousand pesetas. The sale made my day, and I went home early.
The following morning, the seventeenth of September, I was first into the café. Mr Timsamani sat beside me and picked up the conversation that he had missed the day before.
‘Where do you come from?’ he asked.
‘From tribe Kebdana,’ I replied.
‘It’s a long way to commute,’ he commented with a grimace.
‘Yes, it is,’ I answered.
A sound, unpleasant and ominous, filled the air. Br.r.r.r.r.r. It was the hooting of the agarabo-na-Melilt, sailing through a very thick fog. We both prepared to leave, although we still had forty-five minutes to spare. ‘Do you expect many travellers today?’ I asked.
‘My colleague in Malaga has completed a transaction of thirty-seven million six hundred Moroccan. He bought German marks, guilders and francs. Eight people are expected to arrive this morning and pick up their money.’
My ears couldn’t contain what I had heard. ‘Do they trust you?’ I asked him, with surprise on my face.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Have they already handed their money to your colleague in Malaga?’
‘Yes, they have,’ he said with a smile. ‘No one loses one single cent,’ he added. ‘It is a trade regulated by honesty and trust. Capital punishment applies …’
Now I understand, I thought.
Before the ship arrived, in fact, before it had even left Malaga, the lucrative business had already been done. Only crumbs were left for traders like me. Mr Timsamani had a far-reaching hand. The sea is not his limit, I thought. The ship anchored, and Mr Timsamani stood far away from the crowd, but he knew his own, and they knew their man. It was a code I had now deciphered.
* * *
FOR THE NEXT EIGHT days, I stayed at home; I missed some important trading days. I had to arrange to give Amina as a wife to her cousin, Moha. Amina’s belly had sprouted fast and big, and loose, thick clothing failed to hide her pregnancy from peering eyes. Her problem had become mine.
I went to Moha’s father, my uncle, and told him, ‘Amina is expecting and Moha is the father.’ He either wasn’t interested or didn’t believe me. I told the same story to Uncle Mimoun, who looked shocked and surprised.
I went to Moha’s father again and told him, ‘A marriage must be arranged soon.’ I repeated the same story to Uncle Mimoun.
I threatened my uncle. ‘Unless we resolve this problem, I have some powerful friends in Melilla who will come and take care of Moha for me.’
First,
he shrugged me off, but as I was a currency trader, he reluctantly agreed. He probably thought I was in contact with some important people, most of them criminals. Facing the possibility that Moha might be ambushed as he disembarked in Melilla by some dodgy thugs, he agreed to a marriage in absentia, as Moha was expected soon.
The wedding was cooked in a rush. Uncle Mimoun arrived with six elders, and Moha’s father with the same number, around five o’clock. A form was completed verbally.
‘Jusef, do you give Amina, your sister, as a wife to Moha?’ asked the chief elder.
‘Yes, I do,’ I answered. With that question and answer, the legalities were completed. It’s a degrading ceremony, I felt. Amina and Moha became husband and wife, but neither Amina, nor I, nor Moha’s father knew where he was. All I knew about him was that he worked in Germany and sent money to his father. With four wives, his father needed his son’s support.
Three days later, at five-thirty, two flatbed lorries arrived full of women and children, and on the corner of one lorry was a shackled ram. On its own, it made just as much noise as all women and children put together. Amina was upset when she saw the lorries approaching the house without a flag. They had handed the flag to a young girl and the wind had taken it away, beyond reach, we were told.
‘A wedding with no flag,’ Amina moaned on her own wedding day.
I felt angry with Amina, but I couldn’t spoil her day. She was so upset by the missing flag, and yet she herself was marrying with a ragged flag.
I invited our sisters with their husbands and their children, but they were all indignant about not having been consulted about this betrothal before. It was, however, a rare occasion for sisters to meet, insult each other and see changes in each other and in the house, garden and prickly pear that fenced the house.
It was a busy wedding night. The ram was slaughtered by an expert, who enjoyed skinning it and asked me if he could keep the skin for a rug. The ram was big and fat enough to feed the elders, the guests, my sisters, their husbands and children. Bold, artistic women enjoyed themselves singing, while others played homemade drums. Amina liked all the fuss, but she sat in a corner the entire evening and was covered with a gauze tent so she could only watch the festivities. Children, like locusts, were lying asleep all over the house; they played to exhaustion and dropped anywhere.
By dawn, the guests, heavy and dishevelled, didn’t know what to do with themselves. At ten-thirty, two lorries arrived. They picked up the groom’s guests and Amina, as the bride, went with them.
By four o’clock, the house was hollow and empty, with just me and the two dogs rattling inside. Amina has resolved one problem, but she has started a lifelong marital problem, I predicted. The whole space: the house, courtyard, rear and front garden, and the field became mine, but I didn’t know what to do with it, or how to fill it. The house my father built had been the family’s holy grail. We had shared the holy shell, but had never drunk the same wine.
Early the next morning, leaving the bruise of the wedding behind, I was in Melilla before nine. I went to my favourite café, sat on the terrace and waited for the agarabo-na-Melilt to arrive. Coffee was exceptionally comforting, but the noise of the wedding night was still reverberating in my ears. I forced myself not to think beyond where I was at that moment.
The ship arrived, and hundreds of people rushed to receive it, as if welcoming a war hero or a glorious football team. Trade was brisk, and the traders aggressive. Subject to sneers and threats, I reverted to Café Morina, my hub. It was, however, never easy to find a free seat on the terrace. Waiters, unfriendly and grumpy, squashed people together at the too-small tables.
* * *
AS I BECAME A familiar face at the café, I always tipped the headwaiter. I loved sitting outside, watching the pedestrians waving and crashing into each other, but too much coffee and very little solid food often made me sick and weak.
Life in summer at midday in Melilla was consistently under the thumb of the sun, heat, sea, humidity, the massive consumption of fatty fish and a heavy diet enhanced with chickpeas and yellow peas. Pedestrian numbers fell after one o’clock. People headed home and sank into a long, deep siesta. The main street became quiet, and a sense of insecurity could be felt in one or another of its corners depending on who was there at the time. It could be an arms dealer, drug seller or a pimp.
I wasn’t immune to Melillan culture or the double sun reflected at close range from the sea. Midday was a particularly hard time for me. My metabolism dropped, my energy dwindled, my eyes got heavy and slow.
I frequently took refuge in Monastery Parroquia Castrense de Melilla. Not far from Café Morina, it stood half way along the boulevard. At my first visit, I was overwhelmed. The cathedral was gigantic, awesomely quiet and semi-dark, surrounded with decorated glass windows and full of golden statues. A bed of lit candles added to the sunlight filtering through the windows. An immense statue of the crucified Christ was dangling in the centre of the space above the altar. The Virgin Mary’s statue was, even for a non-believer, emotionally evocative, with a settled sadness visible on her face.
No one ever stopped me, asked me to pay or forced me to worship. As the days turned into weeks, I felt happy and comfortable inside this majestic edifice. Going back to Café Morina afterwards, I felt renewed in energy, mind and spirit, and ready to bargain.
Mr Marjosi, the headwaiter, always faced me, nodded and said, ‘Did you have a good rest?’
‘Not too bad.’
Mr Marjosi was a local man in his late forties, though he looked older; the sun had etched a map on his face. He was too tall to be average, Mediterranean, and looked very wiry. He always combed his shiny hair back to touch his collar. Polite and friendly, he was known to everyone. Spanish poured out of his mouth with ease. His energy, look and age commanded respect on the terrace, but he was not Mr Timsamani’s favourite waiter. They hardly spoke.
I never took to Mr Marjosi myself; he was too inquisitive. ‘Are your parents dead?’ he asked me once.
What a curious question, I thought.
At midday on the second of October, 1963, I went to the cathedral, the same pew as always. It was empty except for two short, fat Spanish women, dressed all in black, standing quietly and genuflecting before the statue of St Mary. This spot had become my solace, but almost became my grave.
Sitting back on the pew, with my eyes fixed on the crucified Christ and my hand busy shovelling Spanish white bread into my mouth, I began to doze. Before finishing my bread, my eyes closed, detaching me from everything around.
Three men awakened me when they entered the church. They are cleaners, I thought, certainly not worshippers. I gave them no heed. They passed me by in a hurry, making very little noise. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, a filthy black cloth was thrown over my head. There was no chance of moving, talking or yelling; my neck was held in a stranglehold and I struggled to draw breath. Both of my hands were grabbed and forced behind my back. Yanked to my feet, I felt a sudden pressure on my neck; a serrated knife was pushed hard against my throat. I felt the notches digging into my skin. Inside the darkness of the cloth, I kicked my legs with all my might against the attackers, hoping someone would see the scuffle.
‘Stand up!’ one shouted fiercely. I felt my pockets getting turned inside out. In a second, all the trade of the week was lost. No currency was spared.
A second voice shouted ferociously, ‘Don’t move until we tell you! Don’t dare leave!’
‘If you do, we’ll slit your throat!’ another voice finished.
In an eternity and the silence of a looming death, I heard them scurry through the side door. As it opened, a stream of sunlight snaked into the building. Two-thirds of the floor, pews and statues suddenly came to life in the sunshine. Through the gauzy fabric, I saw the last man in the cathedral streak out. It was the headwaiter, Mr Marjosi!
Without a backward glance, the next thing I knew, I found myself in the middle of the noisy boulevard, not far from Café
Morina. I’ve been robbed and nearly slaughtered, I murmured to myself, as the pain stung my neck where the notches had left their mark. Watching the people bustling down the busy street, I realised no one knew or cared much for my fate. No talisman would have saved me, I realised. I’m in a dangerous profession, and remembered Uncle Mimoun’s warning.
I plunged my hands into my pockets, and there was nothing left to grab but a few old crumbs. I didn’t know how they had gotten there. Half an hour ago the same pockets had been obese, packed full of foreign currencies. How am I going to get home now? I wondered, a rising panic filling my chest.
Headed toward the bus station, I hesitated to jump in. I don’t even have a fare for the bus! I thought despairingly. Sitting on a quiet bench in the corner of a small park, I felt like a tramp. I felt around my clothes, checked my usual hiding place between my socks and shoes. There, to my relief, was the hidden treasure I had been standing on; there, gleaming in the sunlight, was the little stash Mr Marjosi had not found. Five hundred pesetas were lying hidden between my socks and shoes, as though the inevitable had been expected. The notes often irritated my feet and, like a stone in a shoe, were a niggling source of discomfort throughout the day.
Looking as utterly miserable as I felt, I headed home and arrived earlier than usual in the full light of day, but there was no one there to hear my story; my parents dead, my sisters married. The house was empty. The two dogs that no one wanted spared no energy in showing their happiness; they jumped, danced and courted each other, their tails turning into the blur of a spinning wheel. However, they could not be immune to the sad mood I carried with me into the house. Their enthusiasm quickly turned into apprehensive expectation.
It’s good that I’ve paid Mr Amakran back in full. Uncle Mimoun would have been dragged in if I hadn’t. I was proud of myself, trading on my own capital. It’s all gone now. What a whopping error to carry all my capital on me. Now it’s all in the hands of Mr Marjosi, I mused bitterly. Can I start from scratch? The same thing might happen again! School resumes in two and a half weeks. I could miss the first week, but then Uncle Mimoun would ask what is holding me back; I don’t want him to know what happened. If he knew the robbery had taken place in the most famous cathedral in Melilla, he would only say it was the wrath of God for my being there.
A Riffians Tune Page 25