Driss’s grocery store on my street, the first Danone fruit yogurts, hashish bread, Driss always so friendly. Before he had the grocery I think he worked with my grandfather and always remembered him. Driss’s candies.
Tangier Clinic, possible appendicitis. The nurse asks me why I wear my socks to bed “like the Moors do.” The doctor was French, the previous night the Spanish doctor pressured my father to have me operated on immediately, but my father preferred to wait and saved me from an operation. They discharge me that day, I return home. Simple indigestion.
Pulpetas. We children always wanted to eat pulpetas and more pulpetas. I haven’t seen that word since then and I don’t think it exists in Spanish. The Moroccans’ word for pulpeta is “kefta,” it’s a sort of round kabob of ground meat. My first hamburger.
My brother Ari. How can I write about my brother Ari? He died when he was eight, the baby of the family. Ari Ari, my brother Ari. How can I write about my brother Ari?
Fátima. Fátima with no last name. The fátima, who would walk us to school by the hand, practically another mother. So much caring and love. Fátima who moved to Belgium after her marriage and returned a few years later, a proper lady, with her box of chocolates. Where are you, Fátima? I couldn’t even eat the chocolate when I unexpectedly found you there after school, I wasn’t sure what to say. “Do you remember Fátima?” my mother asked.
Words and expressions:
Chubaikia
Abu y compañía
Charbalila
Madrasa
Sabahh Eljeir
A bueno Vaada
Wajshearse, wajsheo
Halqueado
Hak
Wo por los moros se haga
No quede nada de ellos
Tapun Dyimakk
Snoga
Rapeh
The fátima who would limp after my brother and me when we had messed up everything she had tidied up, we would throw more pillows at her and she couldn’t catch us. I think she quit, maybe we hoped it would bring back our fátima from Belgium.
Jumping from the top of the wardrobe onto the beds. The word saltimbanqui (acrobat).
The street vendor who used to sell empty ice cream cones.
The horses at the Hípica. The tennis courts at Restinga. The ping-pong tables at Kabila. Bicycles.
La Luneta, the Jewish Quarter, the Muslim Quarter, the expansion district. Generalísimo Street which became Mohamed V Street. Primo Plaza.
Tutti-frutti at La Glacial.
A four-song vinyl record by Michel Polnareff, with broken edges, you could only play the two inner songs. In one of them, Polnareff sings:
Pourquoi, pourquoi ces canons
Pour faire la guerre mon enfant
Why, oh why those cannons
To make war, my child
The first time I hear of a singer called Juan Manuel Serrat, who wants to sing at Eurovision in Catalan. That keeps him out of the competition. The first records by the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, “Gwendolyne” by Julio Iglesias.
Nights of asthma, days of allergic reactions on my arms. Restricted diet, no bananas. Vaccines. Traveling to see doctors: Tangier and Barcelona.
My brother Levi, mi hermano Levi; my grandfather Levi, mi abuelo Levi; my cousin Levi, mi primo Levi, lots of primo Levis, surrounded by Levis on all sides, with Levi as their first name not their last, all named for their grandfather, a caste of people given privilege by their name.
My aunts, my uncles or my parents were always searching for a missing Levi, Levis always tended to vanish suddenly. Mid-conversation as we were walking, my brother once wandered off and left me talking to myself as I went along, until I noticed he was gone.
A nighttime trip to Wazan to pray at the grave of the blessed Rabbi Elnekawa, I think that was his name, for my brother to get better. I don’t remember the name of the tree they say never burns. Women.
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[1] Translator’s note: The word for “blocks” also means “apples.”
Brown Scarf Blues Page 9
