During Ramadan, which fell in April that year, Mourad refused to let the fellahs work at night or set their own hours based on the heat and their fatigue levels. ‘Watering and harvesting have to take place in the daytime! I can’t change that and neither can God!’ he yelled at a peasant, who put his hand in front of his mouth and recited a prayer. He would let them take a nap in the afternoon, but afterwards he would insult them, harass them, accuse them of playing on their master’s generosity. One day he attacked a man he’d found in the garden, a few feet from the house. He grabbed the man’s hair and punched him repeatedly, accusing him of spying on the Belhaj family, of following young Selma, of trying to sneak a look at the Frenchwoman through the mosquito nets in the living room. Mourad spied on the maid, whom he accused of imaginary thefts. He interrogated Mathilde’s patients, whom he suspected of taking advantage of her.
One day Amine summoned Mourad to his office and, as he used to during the war, spoke to him in simple, martial terms, giving him orders without any explanation. ‘From now on, if a peasant from the region comes to ask for water, we will give him water. Nobody will be refused the right to use our well. If a sick person comes here to be healed, you will make sure that they are. Nobody will be beaten on my property and everyone will be allowed to rest.’
All day long Amine stayed on the farm, but in the evenings he felt compelled to flee his squawking children, his nagging wife, the angry glare of his sister who couldn’t stand living on this remote hill any longer, and he went to the village to play cards in smoke-filled cafés. He drank cheap alcohol in windowless bars with other men as drunk and ashamed as him. He would often bump into former army friends, silent soldiers who he knew would not try to engage him in conversation.
One evening Mourad followed him there. The next day Amine couldn’t remember how his foreman had convinced him to let him tag along. But that evening, Mourad got in the car and the two of them went together to a bar north of the main road. Together they sat and drank, but Amine ignored his friend. Let him get drunk, he thought. Let him get so drunk that he ends up unconscious in a ditch. In the sordid place where they’d washed up, an accordionist was playing and Amine felt like dancing. He wanted to be someone else, someone with no one else depending on him, someone with a carefree, easy life, a sinner’s life. A man grabbed him by the shoulder and they swayed from side to side. His companion started laughing hysterically. The laughter spread through the room, contaminating all the other customers like some sort of enchantment. Their mouths opened wide, exposing rotten teeth. Some clapped their hands or stamped their feet in time with the music. A tall, underfed man whistled and everyone turned towards him. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, and they all knew where they were going.
They walked around the edge of the medina to El Mers, the red-light district. Amine was so drunk he could barely walk or see where he was going. Strangers took it in turns to help him stay on his feet. One of the men relieved himself against a wall and suddenly all the others felt an urge to piss. Amine stared, wild-eyed, at the long stream of urine that ran from the town walls to the cobbled street. Mourad went over to him and tried to persuade him not to go any further along this wide street lined with brothels run by cantankerous madams. The street turned into a dark, narrow path, then came to a sort of dead end where criminals lay in wait for men rendered careless by the relief of fucking. Amine shoved him away, glaring at the hand that Mourad had placed on his shoulder, and they stopped outside a door. One of the men knocked. They heard a clicking noise, the shuffle of oriental slippers on the floor, bracelets jangling. The door opened and half-naked women rushed outside, swarming around the men like locusts around crops. Mourad didn’t see Amine disappear. He wanted to reject the brunette who took him by the hand, but instead he let her lead him into a tiny room containing nothing but a bed and a leaking bidet. The alcohol had slowed his reactions and he found it impossible to stay focused on his objective of saving Amine. Already the anger was rising inside him. The girl, who was very young, wore a turban on her head and her skin smelled of cloves. She pulled down Mourad’s trousers with a dexterity that horrified him. He saw her unfastening her slip. There were fresh scarifications on her legs, forming some kind of symbol, the meaning unknown to him. He wanted to poke his fingers into the prostitute’s eyes then, to punish her. The girl, perhaps recognising that look on his face, hesitated for a moment. She turned towards the door before – clearly in a stupor herself, whether from alcohol or hashish – shrugging and stretching out on the mattress. ‘Hurry up. It’s hot.’
Later, he wasn’t sure if it was this phrase or the sweat that ran between the girl’s breasts, if it was the creaking noises coming from other rooms or the vague feeling that he’d heard Amine’s voice. But suddenly, staring at this girl with her dilated pupils, images of the war in Indochina flashed into his head, images of those military whorehouses that the Native Affairs Bureau organised for the soldiers. Into his mind came the sounds of that place, the humidity of the air, the dishevelled landscape, which he’d once tried to describe to Amine, who couldn’t grasp the nightmarish darkness of that jungle. Mourad ran his hands down his bare arms and felt a chill. He had the impression that a swarm of mosquitoes had filled the room, that his belly and the back of his neck were once again covered by those itchy red blotches that had kept him awake for nights on end. Behind him he heard the yelling of French officers and he thought that he’d seen them, the guts of those white men, that he’d seen Christians dying from diarrhoea, driven crazy by the pointless wars. No, it wasn’t killing that was the hardest part. And as he thought this, the click of the trigger echoed in his head and he slapped his own temples as if to empty his mind of these dark ideas.
While the madam kept yelling that they had to hurry up because there were other customers waiting, the prostitute wearily got to her feet. Naked, she walked towards Mourad. ‘Are you sick?’ she asked, and when the man started sobbing and banging his head against the stone wall, she called out for help. They were all thrown out and the madam spat in the face of the delirious aide-de-camp. The prostitutes made gestures and yelled insults at him. ‘A curse on you. A curse on all of you!’ Mourad and Amine wandered aimlessly. It was just the two of them now – all the others had fled – and Amine couldn’t remember where he’d left the car. He stopped by the side of the street and lit a cigarette, but as soon as he took a puff he felt like he was going to vomit.
The next day he told the labourers that the foreman was ill, and he couldn’t help feeling sad when he saw the relief and joy on their faces. When Mathilde offered to look after Mourad, give him some medicine, her husband replied coldly that he only needed rest. ‘I think we should find him a wife,’ Amine added. ‘It’s not good to be so alone.’
VIII
Mehki had spent twenty years working as a photographer on Avenue de la République. Whenever he had time – which was pretty often – he would walk along the Avenue, camera hanging from a strap over his shoulder, and offer to take pictures of the people he saw. In his early years he’d struggled with the competition, particularly from one young Armenian man who knew everyone from the shoeshine boy to the bar manager, and took all the customers for himself. In the end Mehki realised that he couldn’t rely on chance to find models. That it wasn’t enough to keep asking or to lower his prices or talk up his talents. No, what he needed to do was spot the people who wanted a souvenir of that precise moment in their lives. The ones who thought they looked beautiful, who were afraid of growing old or who kept looking at their children getting taller and repeating, ‘Time goes by so fast!’ There was no point wasting his charm on old people or businessmen or harassed housewives. Children were always the best bet. He pulled faces at them, explained how the camera worked, and the parents could never resist the temptation to immortalise their toddler’s angelic face on a rectangle of thick, glossy paper. Mehki had never taken a photograph of his own family. His mother thought his camera was the devil’s work, that it would steal the soul of anyone
vain enough to pose for it. At the start of his career he’d worked as a photographer for the local authorities and many grooms had refused to let their brides be photographed. Certain high-ranking Moroccans had even written threatening letters to the Resident-General, explaining that they were fiercely opposed to the idea that the women of their town should reveal their faces to strangers. The French had given in, and after that there were numerous leaders and pashas who merely gave brief descriptions of their wives to be appended to their identity papers.
But young lovers were his favourite prey. And on this particular spring day Mehki happened upon the most beautiful couple he’d ever seen. The air was sweet and full of promises. A creamy light flooded the centre of town, caressing the buildings’ white facades, bringing out the vivid reds of geraniums and hibiscus flowers. He spotted the couple amid the crowd and ran towards them, finger on the button of his camera, and he was sincere when he said: ‘You’re so beautiful that I could take your picture for free!’ He said this in Arabic and the young man, who was European, raised his hands to show that he hadn’t understood. From his pocket he took a banknote and handed it to Mehki. Young lovers are generous, Mehki thought. They want to impress their girlfriends. That generosity never lasts long, but in the meantime it’s good for Mehki!
Such were the photographer’s thoughts and he was so happy and enthusiastic that he didn’t notice how nervous the young woman was, the way she kept looking around as if she were a fugitive. She started when the young man, who was wearing an American-style jacket, stroked her shoulder. They were so beautiful together, so terribly beautiful, that Mehki was dazzled. Not for a second did he think they were badly matched. He wasn’t perceptive enough to understand that these two lovers were not supposed to be together.
What was she doing on the Avenue that Tuesday afternoon, this child from a good family, an honourable family that made her wear straight skirts and plain jackets? She was nothing like those floozies who paraded up and down the Avenue, who fled the vigilant eyes of fathers and brothers, who got pregnant after copulating in the back seat of a car. This girl had a freshness to her that took his breath away, and while he was setting up his camera Mehki thought that there would be something wonderful about being the one person on earth to freeze this instant for eternity. He felt swept up by a sort of grace. The moment was so fleeting, and that face had not yet been soiled by vice, or a man’s hand, or the harshness of life. That is what he would capture on film: the naivety of a young woman and the spark of desire for adventure that he could already detect in her gaze. The man, too, was very handsome and the people walking past all turned to stare at his long, lean, muscular body, his solid neck bronzed by the sun. He smiled, and Mehki was a good judge of a person’s smile. His teeth and lips were immaculate, not yet stained by too many cigarettes or bad coffee. Thankfully most of his models kept their mouths closed when they posed for him, but this young man was so transported by joy and felt so lucky that he couldn’t stop laughing and talking.
The girl refused to pose. She wanted to leave and she whispered something into the man’s ear, something that Mehki couldn’t hear. But her boyfriend insisted, he held her by the wrist, turned her around and said: ‘Come on, it’ll only take a second. It’ll be a nice souvenir.’ Mehki couldn’t have put it better himself. A few seconds for a memory that will last a lifetime – that was his slogan. She stood there so stiffly, her face so blank, that Mehki approached her and, in Arabic, asked her name. ‘Okay then, Selma, smile and look at me.’
When he’d taken the photograph Mehki handed them a ticket and the young man put it in his jacket pocket. ‘Come back tomorrow. If you don’t see me on the Avenue, I’ll leave your photo in the studio, just over there on the corner.’ And Mehki watched as they walked away, melting into the crowd that moved along the pavement.
The next day the young man did not come back. Mehki waited for him for days; he even changed his routine in the hope of bumping into him. It was an excellent photograph, perhaps the best portrait he’d ever taken. He’d managed to capture the light of that May afternoon, and he’d framed it so that palm trees and the cinema sign were visible in the background. The two lovers were looking into each other’s eyes. The shy, waif-like girl had turned to face the handsome young man, whose mouth was half-open as he smiled.
One evening Mehki went into Lucien’s studio. Lucien developed his films and had let him buy a new camera on credit. They did their business, settled up, and at the end of their conversation Mehki took the photograph from his little leather knapsack. ‘It’s a shame they never came to get it,’ he said.
Lucien, who put all his energy into hiding his desire for men, bent over the photograph and exclaimed: ‘What a handsome boy! Yes, it’s a shame they didn’t come back.’ Mehki shrugged and, as he reached out to take the photograph back, Lucien said: ‘It’s a very beautiful photograph, Mehki, really very beautiful. You’re improving, you know? Listen, how about this? I’ll put the photo in my window: it’ll bring in customers, which is good for me, and it’ll show everyone that you’re the best photographer of young lovers in all of Meknes, which is good for you. What do you think?’
Mehki hesitated. Of course he was flattered, and it was true that this photograph could bring him quite a few new customers. But he also had a strange desire to keep the image all to himself, to make this young couple his imaginary friends, his anonymous companions. He was a little fearful of throwing them to the wolves on the Avenue. But Lucien was very persuasive, and in the end Mehki agreed. That evening, just before closing up the shop, Lucien hung the photograph in his window, so everyone in Meknes could admire the pilot Alain Crozières and his young girlfriend, Selma Belhaj. Less than a week later Amine walked past the window and saw it.
Later, Selma and Mathilde would believe that fate was against them. That even chance was on the side of men, the side of power, the side of injustice. Because in that spring of 1955 Amine rarely went into the new town. The rising number of killings and kidnappings, and the increasingly violent response of the French military to the nationalists’ actions, had created an oppressive atmosphere in the town and Amine preferred to stay away. But that day, he broke with his usual habits and went to Dragan Palosi’s office because the doctor had decided to order some young fruit trees from Europe. ‘Come to my office. We can talk business and then I’ll go with you to the bank to negotiate the credit you need.’ And that was what happened. Amine sat, steeped in shame, in the waiting room filled with women, at least half of whom were pregnant. He talked for nearly half an hour with the doctor, who showed him a glossy catalogue displaying varieties of peach, plum and apricot trees, and after that they walked side by side to the bank, where they were greeted by a man with scaly skin. According to Dragan this man was married to an Algerian woman and lived just outside the town, near one of those orchards rented by city dwellers so they could picnic there on Sundays. The banker asked about Amine’s agricultural plans with an enthusiasm and precision that surprised him. At the end of the interview they shook hands on the deal and Amine left the bank with a feeling of great satisfaction.
He was happy, and that was why he walked slowly along the Avenue. He deserved to stroll for a while, he thought, to look at women, to stand so close to them that he could smell their scent. He didn’t want to go home yet and that was why, hands in pockets, eyes dwelling on the shop windows, he kept walking, forgetting the news, forgetting his brother, forgetting Mathilde’s criticism of his latest investments. He gazed at the window of a lingerie shop, at the pointed bras and satin knickers. He admired a display of chocolates and candied cherries in a patisserie window. And then, in the window of a photography studio, he saw the picture. For a few seconds he couldn’t believe it. He laughed nervously and thought: How strange, that girl looks just like Selma! She must be an Italian or a Spaniard, he thought – a European girl, in any case – and she’s very pretty. But then his throat tightened. He felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach and his whole bod
y stiffened with anger. He moved closer to the window, less to observe the details of the picture than to block it from the view of passing pedestrians. He had the impression that his sister was standing naked in public and that his own body was the only thing that could preserve her modesty. It took all his self-restraint not to smash the window with his forehead, grab the photograph and run away.
He went into the shop and found Lucien playing patience behind the wooden counter.
‘Can I help you?’ the shop owner asked. He looked anxiously at Amine. What could this frowning, sullen-looking Arab possibly want? Just his luck: the studio was empty and now one of those nationalists – perhaps even a terrorist – had come in to attack him just because he was alone, defenceless and French. Amine took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead.
‘I would like to see the photograph in the window. The one with the young girl.’
‘This one?’ Lucien walked slowly to the shelves, picked up the photograph and placed it on the counter.
Amine stared at it for a long time, in silence. At last he asked: ‘How much?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘How much for the photograph? I would like to buy it.’
‘Oh, it’s not for sale. That couple paid for the photograph and the man was supposed to come in and claim it. They haven’t dropped by yet. But we mustn’t give up hope,’ Lucien added sourly, before starting to laugh.
Amine glared at him.
‘Tell me how much you want for this photo and I’ll pay it.’
‘But I just told you—’
‘Listen to me. That girl,’ he said, pointing, ‘that girl is my sister and I have no intention of leaving her for one minute longer in the window of your shop. Tell me how much I owe you and I’ll be on my way.’
The Country of Others Page 21
