by Harlan Ruud
Walking by, I notice the airline clerk who, earlier, had offered me a food voucher; he is carrying a small, red duffel bag. He sees me, smiles, and stops.
'It is a long wait for your plane,' he says.
Is that a question, I wonder, or an observation?
'I've had longer,' I reply, shrugging.
He looks at his watch, then turns his head and looks in the distance. He is silent for a moment, and then, turning toward me, he asks:
'Would you like to talk to me?'
'Would I like to talk to you?' I ask. 'Not particularly. No. Would you like to talk to me?'
'I would,' he replies. 'Yes.'
I shrug, apathetic.
'Would you like for me to sit down?' he asks.
'Hey, man,' I reply, 'you know – whatever.'
He sits in the seat next to mine and smiles. He wants to say something, I can tell, but does not know how to say it. He is nervous.
'You are going to Morocco,' he says. 'Is that correct?'
'It is.'
'Why are you going to Morocco?'
I look at him. He is an ugly man with blunt features and red hair, cut short. A crew-cut? His sideburns, thick and neatly groomed, stretch from his ears to the middle of his cheeks.
'I'm performing there,' I answer. 'In Rabat.'
'You are a musician?'
'A dancer.'
'A dancer,' he repeats. 'I see. But if you are performing in Rabat, why are you flying to Casablanca?'
He talks, I think, with the perfect English of a bad actor. I look at the nametag attached to his beige and blue sweater.
'Jürgen,' I say, 'are you a cop?'
'A cop?'
'A police officer.'
'Oh, no,' he laughs, 'I am just curious.'
'Well, don't be.'
'I am sorry,' he says.
He reaches forward and touches me lightly on the shoulder. His hands, I notice, are small and rough, with thick fingers and square, manicured nails; he is wearing a gold wedding band.
'Did I offend you?' he asks.
'No,' I reply, 'you didn't offend me.'
I look at my watch.
'Good,' he says. 'Good.'
He looks behind us, then leans toward me.
'Can I be honest with you?'
'Do what you have to do.'
He is silent, looking at me.
He moves even closer; his breath smells of cigarettes.
'Would you like to make some money?' he asks.
Leaning back, as if to focus properly on his face, I fold my arms and look at him.
'I have enough money,' I reply. 'Thank you.'
Expecting him to respond, I watch him; instead, he bites his lower lip, as if nervous, and continues looking at me. A drug smuggler? I wonder. Or perhaps a – what? I do not know.
'Listen,' I say, curious, 'just tell me what's on your mind. Okay?'
He shifts back, slightly, then again moves forward.
His eyes are pale green, with short, brown lashes. Beneath his left eye is a small, flat mole, colored black.
I say nothing.
'You American black boys,' he says, 'you are beautiful.'
Still, I am silent, looking at his gold wedding band.
'Please,' he says. 'I will pay you.'
I look up at the ceiling.
'Fifty American dollars,' he says.
I look at him; he smiles.
'I know a toilet that is not used; we will be safe there.'
A tall, silver-haired soldier walks by; his stride is low, straight, and he looks neither to the left nor to the right. In his hands, held against his chest, is a machine gun.
'One hundred dollars,' I say, turning to look at him.
'That is not possible,' he says, frowning.
I shrug.
'How about –' he begins to say.
'One hundred dollars,' I interrupt, not looking at him.
'Are you sure?' he asks.
I look at him but say nothing.
He looks down, as if thinking, then nods his head.
'All right,' he says, looking up. 'All right. One hundred dollars. I will give you one hundred dollars.'
I stand, grabbing my bag, and pass it to him.
'Carry it,' I say.
He takes the bag, and I follow him as he leads me through the terminal.
At the end of a long, narrow corridor, down an escalator, around a corner, and through a pair of swinging doors, is a hallway; at the end of the hallway is a door and, to its left, is another. On the door, at eye level, is a sign that reads: 'Nur für Angestellte.'
We enter the restroom and lock the door behind us. I watch in silence as the man sets down his bag, and mine, and looks at me.
He is bowlegged, short, and muscular; I am reminded of a bulldog. Behind him is a sink and mirror; in its reflection, over his shoulder, I see my face.
'I want to suck you first,' he says.
I look at him.
'Go ahead,' I say, not moving.
He walks toward me, kneels, and, wrapping his arms around my waist, begins to rub the side of his face against my crotch and stomach.
'Schöner Junge,' he murmurs.
I stand, looking at my reflection in the mirror.
'Beautiful black boy,' I hear him whisper, 'let me love you.'
I look down at him and say:
'Why?'
In my father's closet, hidden beneath a stack of neatly folded overalls, is a hardback book of poetry. On its red cover, in large, white letters, are the words, 'Seed by Toussaint Dove.'
Of the seventy-three pages, there are four that are missing; the thirty-first, the thirty-second, the thirty-fifth, and thirty-sixth. On the thirty-third page is poem: 'Hymn.' Its last four lines are:
And I beg of you, please,
You strange and vengeful God,
Judge me not for what I can never do
And forgive me for what I can.
Grasping the side of the sink with both hands, he rests his forehead against the mirror and says:
'Bitte. Bitte.'
I look at his face; his eyes are closed.
'Bitte,' he whispers. Größer, Neger – nigger. Bitte.'
I look down at his pale, freckled back.
''Schöner Junge,' he says, opening his eyes. 'Lieben Sie mich?'
Ignoring him, I spread his buttocks and place the head of my cock against his puckered, red asshole.
'Please,' he murmurs, closing his eyes and gently raising his hips.
I shove it in.
He opens his eyes.
I pull out my cock and , again, shove it in.
Arching his back, he rises and tries to pull away from me.
'Halt!' he yells.
I grab his hips, roughly pulling him back, and continue to fuck him with short, hard strokes. I stop, pulling my cock out, then shove it in again. Still, he struggles, and with my left hand, I reach up and grab him around the neck, pushing his face against the mirror.
'Silence,' I hear someone say. 'We must have silence.'
Startled, I look in the mirror, then behind me; no one is there.
I turn my head back and look again, over the man's shoulder at my reflection.
'Bitte,' he pleads. 'Halt. Halt. Stop.'
'Take a deep breath,' I reply, staring at my reflection. 'It won't hurt as much.'
I glance at the man's face; his eyes are closed and he is crying. Over and over, he repeats:
'Bitte.'
Soon, he becomes limp, silent.
'Good boy,' I whisper, as if to myself.
Letting go of his neck, I grab him by the hair, pulling him up and back, and smash his face into the mirror; the mirror cracks. He turns, a drop of blood running slowly down the center of his pale face, and looks at me. He asks:
'Why?'
I realize suddenly that I have forgotten my book in the waiting area. I let go of him, stepping back, and ejaculate onto the blue-and-white-tiled floor.
'Why not?' I reply.
I look at the date of publication and, setting the book in my lap, begin to add, then subtract. Again, I look at the date.
'Nineteen,' I whisper.
He was nineteen.
I put the book beneath the stack of overalls, then stand and quickly leave my father's bedroom.
'Nineteen.'
I go downstairs and walk into the kitchen. The curtain above the sink has been drawn and the room is dark, cool. Through the screen door I can see the dog, in the yard, chasing a butterfly.
I step out onto the verandah and walk slowly toward the barn. It is a bright, hot day and I am lazy. But he will soon be home, I think, and if my chores are not done, I will, in his words, be ass over teakettle. I hurry into the barn and begin raking the stalls.
Midway through the first of the four stalls, I stop, resting my elbow on the rake, and look up at the rough, wooden ceiling.
'Nineteen,' I say.
I lift the rake and, holding it high, brush the cobwebs from between two of the huge beams. I lower the rake and resume my work. I have never even seen him read, I think. Much less write.
'All those letters strung together,' he has said. 'For what?'
Again stopping, I hold the rake, staring at its smooth, wooden handle. How then, I wonder, is it possible that he once wrote, and published, an entire book of poetry? It confuses me.
'Still pissing around, I see,' I hear him say.
I turn, startled, and see that he is standing in the doorway of the barn. He is wearing overalls; over his left shoulder, he balances a gunnysack of oats.
'I didn't hear you drive up,' I say. 'You scared me.'
'I'm sure I did,' he replies.
He leans forward, letting the sack of oats slip off his shoulder into his outstretched arms. He turns, carrying the sack like a baby, and begins walking toward the house.
'Just get busy,' I hear him say. 'You have a lot to do today.'
The festival has been cancelled. Though I will not be paid, I am told, I will be reimbursed for my traveling expenses. Albeit customary, even regulatory, that an artist be paid for a cancelled performance, I do not protest. If anything, I am relieved that I will not be dancing.
Not wanting to remain in Rabat, I take the train to Tangier; I have been there before. It is a long ride, passing again through Casablanca, and I sleep most of the way. Upon arrival, I take a taxi to the Medina. At its entrance, I get out and walk the remaining distance to my hotel.
The Medina's streets are narrow, paved with brick, and bordered on either side by tall, crumbling buildings colored white, red, yellow, rust, gray. Mostly white. Built on a slope, the ancient, enclosed neighborhood rises and falls, its busy streets abruptly turning, ending, beginning.
I am approached along the way by countless men, young and old, attempting, sometimes physically, to sell me any number of goods and services; I refuse them all.
At the hotel, I ask for a room overlooking the courtyard. It is a small hotel, once grand, with marble floors and high, dark, wooden walls. Abderahim, the clerk, tells me that room overlooking the courtyard is not available. Instead, he offers me another, also on the second floor, that is, he says, just as comfortable. I do not believe him, but still I accept.
'Have you been here before, sir?' he asks, passing me the key to my room.
I look at his dark, bearded face.
'Well,' he demands, 'have you?'
I look down at the key in my hand, then gaze out the opened door onto the narrow street. Suddenly, I am tired.
'Yes,' I reply, looking at his face. 'I have.'
The room is small, with a gray, stone floor and pink walls. There is a sink, a desk, a closet, and a metal-framed bed. Next to the sink is a window. It reminds me of a hospital: cold and clean, without adornment.
I close the door and set my bag on the bed. I look out the window; below me is a narrow street, almost a path, really, that to my left runs into the Petit Socco, a small, brown-bricked square bordered by cigarette shops, open-air cafés, and crumbling hotels. I am reminded briefly of the dark, narrow hallways of my father's house.
It is early afternoon and square is quiet. I watch a young boy, wearing a brown djellaba and red jelly slippers, push a small, wooden wheelbarrow of fresh mint through the center of the square, then disappear into one of the narrow, shadowed side-streets.
I turn from the window, closing it, and walk to the bed. I put my bag on the floor and undress. I lie down, tired, and fall asleep until midnight.
'Maybe you're just rotten,' he says. 'Have you ever thought of that?'
I look at him; he looks at me.
'Have you?' he asks. 'Have you ever, even once, thought of that?'
I remain silent, watching him. He rests his huge, dark hands on the table between us. But for the index finger of his left hand, which ends in a stump at the knuckle, his hands remind me, have reminded me since boyhood, of a horse's foot and hoof; hump-knuckled, scarred, with thick, square fingernails that are cracked and blackened.
'Because maybe, just maybe,' he continues, 'that's the answer. It's not me. It's not what I did or didn't do. It's not your – not that you never knew your mother. It's not your grandfather. It's just you. Have you thought of that? Have you? That it was you, Ulysses, dead and rotting – rotten – right from the womb?'
Still, I say nothing. When he is dead and buried, I think, it will be his hands that I remember.
'Well,' he demands, 'have you?'
I look out the window above the sink, then turn my head, slowly, and again look at his hands. Both thumbs, as if broken, curve outward from the knuckle at nearly ninety-degree angles.
'Have you?'
'Yes,' I reply, looking up at his face, 'I have.'
I lie in bed, upon waking, and stare at the ceiling. Outside my door, down the hall, I can hear two Americans, a man and a woman, arguing.
'I don't care,' the man says. 'There was something creepy about it.'
'Creepy? Oh, please. He was just trying to make some money, for God's sake,' the woman replies.
In each of their voices, I notice a slight New England accent.
'I know he was,' the man says. 'But I didn't feel right about it.'
'You are so provincial, Jonathan. Really, you are.'
'Maybe so. But better that than some – some ugly American getting his shoes shined in the middle of the night by a seven-year-old kid.'
'A seven-year-old kid who needed the money; don't forget that. Okay? Your little guild trip probably cost that kid a meal.'
'Oh, please.'
'It's true. What's five dirham to you? Fifty cents? To him it's – it's a bottle of olive oil and a loaf of bread. If not more.'
'Well, he got it, didn't he? What'd you give him? Ten dirham?'
'That's not the point.'
'Well, what is the point, Maggie? Hug? Just tell me; I'm tired. I want to go to bed.'
'The point, Jonathan, is that you can't bring your American sensibilities to another country and expect everyone to follow suit. They have their way of doing things and we have ours.'
Silence.
'Refusing to respect the way they do things,' she soon continues, 'is no different than – than what the colonizers did. God. It's still a case of trying to shove your ideology down someone else's throat. Can't you see that?'
'No,' the man replies. 'I can't.'
'Well, it is. Trust me. That kid couldn't give a shit about your fucking morality. He just wanted to make some money so could eat.'
'Or buy some weed. I mean, what's a seven-year-old kid doing up at midnight, anyway?'
'Oh, okay,' the woman groans. 'So, that's what this is all about. I should've known. There you are trying to pretend it's a matter of ethics when, really, it's just because you were disgusted by him.'
'I didn't say that.'
'No, but that's what you meant. You thought he was a little hoodlum.'
'Don't tell me what I mean, Maggie. Okay. Just don't tell me what I do or don't mean. It pisses
me off.'
'I'm sure it does. What's a seven-year-old kid doing up at midnight, anyway? God. What do you think he was doing, you asshole? Buying crack?'
'You don't have to be so dramatic, Maggie. I didn't say he was going to –'
'I'm not being dramatic,' she interrupts. 'I'm being sarcastic. Okay? There's a difference.'
'Whatever.'
'Whatever?'
'Yes,' the man replies, sighing. 'Whatever.'
'You know,' the woman replies, 'why don't you just go fuck yourself?'
I am reminded briefly of the couple on the plane, arguing about Elvis, and I am thankful, suddenly, to be single.
'You don't have to swear,' I hear the man say.
'Not, but I want to,' the woman replies. 'Is that all right with you, asshole?'
I hear a door slam, and then silence.
I lie in bed for a moment, then sit up. I get dressed, not bothering to turn on the light, and put on my shoes. I open the window, leaning outside; it is warm and the sky is clear and dark.
A gray cat walks slowly down the middle of the street below me and into the silent, empty square. It stops, sits, and looks around. I watch it for a moment, then turn and shut the window.
Leaving my room, I lock the door, then put the key in my pocket. As I walk down the hallway, I see a young black woman in the distance, leaning over the rail and looking into the courtyard.
I walk through the narrow, poorly-lit hall and step down onto the balcony that surrounds the courtyard; on its opposite side is the stairway to the front desk.
As I near the woman, she turns and smiles at me. What a beautiful woman, I think. She is young, perhaps twenty-five, tall and slender, long-limbed, with dark skin and long hair, pulled back and tied in a twist. She wears a floor-length orange skirt, leather sandals, and, over her shoulders, a translucent purple scarf.
As I pass her, I nod my head and smile; she looks away.
'That must be jelly,' I hear her say, 'cause jam sure don't shake like that.'
I suddenly stop. 'Excuse me?' I reply.
She continues to rest, arms folded, against the railing; turning her head, she looks at me.
'You didn't just say that,' I ask, 'did you?'
She winks at me and says:
'Just playing with you, big boy; don't worry.'
I study her face, curious.
