Seed

by Harlan Ruud

  'I'm not worried,' I reply.

  'Then what are you?' she asks.

  Is she drunk? I wonder.

  'Just curious,' I reply.

  'Aren't we all?' she says.

  She lowers her head, turning, and looks down into the courtyard.

  'That sounded corny,' she remarks. 'Didn't it? Aren't we all? I hate when people say that; like they're some – some kind of world-weary genius. It's so pretentious.'

  I shrug, looking at the back of her long, slender neck.

  She turns her head, gazing up at me as if suddenly suspicious, and asks:

  'So, where are you going?'

  I continue to look at her, and ask:

  'Why?'

  'Calm down; I'm just asking. The front door is locked, you know?'

  'Already?'

  I look down at the courtyard and think: It's not even a courtyard, just a marble fountain, really, surrounded by a short, wrought-iron gate.

  'The guy who works at his front desk,' the woman asks, 'what's his name?'

  'Abderahim,' I reply. 'Why?'

  'He'll open the front door for you.'

  I smile.

  'I know,' I say. 'I've been here before.'

  'So you also know that he gets pissed off about it.'

  I nod my head.

  'But he gets pissed off about everything,' I say.

  She steps away from the balcony and, folding her arms, turns toward me.

  'What's your name?' she asks.

  'Ulysses,' I reply.

  'Well, Ulysses, I'm Maggie.'

  'As in Margaret?'

  'As in Magdelena.'

  'Hey, was that you out here a few minutes ago?' I ask, 'arguing with your boyfriend?'

  'You heard that?' she responds. 'Sorry.'

  'That's okay. It was interesting. Kind of.'

  'To you, maybe. To me, it was boring. And he's not my boyfriend.'

  'Actually,' I say, 'you sounded more like a married couple.'

  'What an awful thing to say,' she replies, frowning.

  Slowly, she smiles.

  'Unfortunately, though,' she sighs, 'you're probably right.'

  'You know,' I reply, 'when I was listening to you two talk, I was sure I could hear a New England accent. But now I don't.'

  'Well, he's from Boston, so I'm sure you did. But not me; I'm a Brooklyn girl.'

  'Brooklyn? I don't hear that either.'

  'Thank God.'

  Suddenly, she frowns again.

  'What's wrong?' I ask.

  'I told myself not to say that anymore.'

  'Say what?'

  'Thank God. I hate when people say that. I mean, who thanks God for anything, anymore. It's such an exaggeration. Well, except with Muslims, maybe. And Rastafarians.'

  'Okay,' I reply, watching her. 'Aren't we all? And Thank God. What else aren't you supposed to say?'

  She looks at me and bites her lip.

  'You must think I'm crazy.'

  'Not yet.'

  'Well,' she says, 'stick around.'

  'Maybe I will.'

  She is silent for a moment, watching me, then asks:

  'Are you flirting with me?'

  'No. Would you like me to?'

  'Not particularly,' she says.

  'Good,' I reply. 'So now we know.'

  She smiles, folding her slender arms around her chest.

  'So,' she says, 'you still haven't told me where you were going. Are going?'

  'I don't know,' I answer. 'Just for a walk.'

  She puts her hands on her hips.

  'You want some company, sailor?'

  'Well, I don't know. You seem a little –'

  'Don't say it,' she warns.

  There is silence as we stand staring at one another; we smile.

  'Well, what about your friend?' I ask.

  'Jonathan?' she says. 'Oh, please. He's probably in bed jacking off to Coming of Age in Samoa.'

  I look at her.

  'Oh, my God, I'm awful,' she says. 'Isn't that awful?'

  She looks at me, mock terror on her face, then winks and takes my arm.

  'C'mon,' she says. 'Let's go.'

  He walks into my room and throws a large brown envelope on the bed.

  'What is this?' he asks.

  I look up at his face, then at the envelope. I stretch across the bed and pick up the envelope. It is addressed to him, opened; inside is a passport and a white piece of paper, folded in half.

  'Oh,' I say, looking at him, 'I applied for a passport. Remember? You said it was –'

  'Look at it,' he says.

  'I did,' I reply.

  'Take it out,' he demands. 'And open it and look at it.'

  I do as he says, resting the envelope in my lap. Opening the passport, I look at the picture, then at the name, then at my father.

  'How did that happen?' I ask.

  'You tell me,' he replies.

  Again, I look at the passport; though there is a black-and-white photograph of myself, my father's name, birth date, and particulars, are contained within.

  I look up at him.

  'I have no idea,' I say. 'I filled out all the information and –'

  'And put down my name, instead of yours,' he interrupts. 'Along with height and weight and date of birth.'

  'I didn't, Dad. I swear.'

  'Then how did it get in there? I never filled out the application; you did.'

  'I – I don't know. I must have – I don't know.'

  He looks at me, frowning, then shakes his head.

  'Well,' he says, 'it's not like you were going anywhere, anyway.'

  He steps forward, grabbing the passport from my hand, and rips it in half. Throwing the pieces in my lap, he turns toward the door, then stops.

  'I don't know how you did it,' he says, looking at me, 'but if you ever pull a stunt like that again, you'll be sorry. Do you understand me?'

  I nod my head.

  'You may be seventeen,' he continues, 'but I can still get you where it hurts, boy. Trust me.'

  I watch as he turns, leaving the room.

  'But I didn't do it,' I whisper, looking at the torn passport in my lap.

  'As much as I love this city,' she says, 'it also frightens me.'

  We are walking through the quiet, shadowed streets of the Medina. We are walking simply to walk, with neither direction nor destination in mind.

  'The people,' I ask, 'they frighten you?'

  'Oh, no, not at all,' she replies. 'The city itself. I always feel as if it's closing in on me. You know? It's the same in New York, but there it's because of all the people. And how huge everything is. But here, its – it's like being in an old house. You know?'

  'A very old house,' I say, 'with very narrow hallways.'

  'And no windows.'

  It is what it is, I think: an old, two-story farmhouse in which the owner has recently died.

  She is silent for a moment, then asks.

  'So, why do I love it here, I wonder?'

  I turn my head as we walk and look at her.

  'I don't know,' I say. 'Why do you love it here?'

  She folds her arms, as if to caress herself.

  'Because I'm crazy,' she replies, smiling. 'I mean, no one ever stays here anymore; they just pass through on their way to Marrakech or Fes or 0r Essaouira.'

  'Maybe that's why you love it,' I say. 'Because no one else does.'

  'Maybe,' she says, sighing. 'But I'd hate to think that's why. I mean, it is a beautiful city, too. Right. Well, some of it, anyway.'

  We walk up a flight of crumbling stone steps, then turn, walking down a short, narrow street and around a corner. Up another flight of steps, we enter a small square, at its center a brick well and water pump, and again down a short, narrow street that ends abruptly at the Medina's huge wall.

  We then turn and continue the way we came.

  'You're not tired,' she asks, 'are you?'

  'Not at all,' I reply. 'Why?'

  'Do you want to leave
the Medina? Maybe get a drink somewhere?'

  'Sure,' I say. 'The El Minzah has a bar; have you been there?'

  'Fuck the El Minzah,' she replies. 'All those bloody Spanish businessman and old fairies. Let's go somewhere else.'

  'Well,' I say, 'lead on.'

  As we walk, she takes a small, red-sequined purse from beneath her scarf and retrieves a joint and a brass lighter; once lit, she takes a few puffs, then hands the joint to me.

  'Want some?' she asks.

  Her fingers, I notice, are long and slender, with perfect, oval-shaped fingernails, painted dark red.

  'What is it?' I ask.

  'Crack,' she replies. 'What the hell does it look like?'

  'Hey, I don't smoke anything unless.—'

  'I'm just playing with you,' she interrupts. 'It's weed, just plain old weed.'

  I take the joint and, when finished, hand it back to her.

  'You smoke like a girl,' she says, taking a puff.

  'And you smoke like a boy,' I reply.

  She smiles, trying not to cough, and again passes me the joint.

  Two men wearing djellabas, hoods pulled over their heads, pass by; they are silent, moving quickly, the hems of their long, dark robes brushing the ground as they walk. How odd, I think, that the djellabas are so long; traditionally, they are ankle-length.

  'Whenever I see someone in one of those robes with the hood pulled up,' she says, 'I always imagine them to have cat's eyes. Especially at night, when you can't see their faces.'

  I smile, handing her the joint; it is nearly finished.

  'Jonathan bought one,' she says. 'I told him he looks like an idiot wearing it, but he refuses to listen to me. You look like a druid, I told him. Or like Yoda, from Return of the Jedi.'

  I am tempted briefly to ask of her relationship with Jonathan, but I do not. If she wants to tell me, I reason, she will.

  'Here,' she says. 'There's a little left.'

  She passes me the joint; taking a few, quick puffs, I drop the roach on the ground. We continue walking.

  Stepping through the Medina's entrance into the Grand Socco, I glance at Maggie; arms folded beneath her bosom, she walks slowly, elegantly, her head held high. Like a queen, I think, surveying her domain.

  She has, I now notice, draped the large, purple scarf over her hair and across her shoulders. She looks at me and smiles, then stares ahead into the wide, open space of the Grand Socco.

  We move slowly, silently, along the periphery of the darkened square; in its center, on one of several benches, sits a young, bearded man who watches us as we walk. He is smoking a cigarette. Far behind him, on the Grand Socco's opposite side, I see two small cars, side by side, with flashing headlights.

  Is it a signal? I wonder.

  Suddenly, I hear Maggie laughing; I look at her.

  'Why are you blinking like that?' she asks, her arms still folded.

  'Was I blinking?' I ask.

  'Yes, you were blinking?'

  'Am I still doing it?' I ask, looking at her.

  'No,' she says, laughing softly, 'you're not still doing it.'

  'Damn,' I say. 'Are you sure that was just weed we smoked?'

  She smiles slyly and says:

  'As far as I know.'

  'Well, I hope so,' I say.

  She moves closer to me, slipping her arm through mine, and says:

  'Just relax.'

  I stand on the verandah, looking through the screen door at my father and grandfather; they are seated across from each other at the kitchen table. Either they do not see me or they are simply ignoring me.

  My grandfather is leaning forward, one arm stretched across the table as if reaching for something, the other at his side. My father sits, his arms folded, and stares at the table.

  'It belongs to me,' my grandfather says. 'It's mine.'

  He is angry.

  'I know that,' my father replies. 'Just relax. It's not –'

  'Don't you tell me to relax,' my grandfather demands. 'I am relaxed.'

  They look at one another, silent.

  'I'm here,' my father says, calmly. 'And Ulysses is here, and we – hell, Dad, Ulysses is only eleven and he does just as much around here as you do. Even more.'

  'As well he should,' my grandfather says. 'No reason that little nigger shouldn't.'

  I put my hands in my pockets.

  'I'm not saying he shouldn't,' my father replies. 'I'm just saying that if this farm is going to be mine, anyway, and – and if me and my boy are –'

  'I ain't in my grave yet, mister,' my grandfather interrupts, inching forward in his seat. 'And until I am, this farm is mine, with my rules.'

  My father slowly shakes his head.

  'You go on,' my grandfather says. 'Make any face you want. But you're still going to have to wait 'til I'm dead and buried before you start making up any rules around here. You understand?'

  My father looks at him, saying nothing.

  'Then it'll be your boy's turn,' my grandfather continues, 'to complain about what you will or won't let him do. That's just how it goes, Toussaint. If you don't like it, leave.'

  'And then what would you do?' my father asks, laughing softly. 'You can barely walk down those stairs in the morning, let alone do the chores by yourself.'

  'Maybe so, but I can just as well hire someone who will. You're not the only dumb ox around; don't think you are.'

  'Oh, Lord!' my father exclaims. 'Who in the hell could you find to come all the way out here to work like a horse for pennies a day?'

  'Don't you worry about that. There's a lot of men out there who'd be thankful to work an honest day's work and – and have a roof over their head and a belly full of food.'

  'This isn't the slave days, old man. No one wants to work sixteen hours a day for food and shelter and then be told what they can and can't do, especially if one of the things they can't do is get a woman every now and again.'

  'You want to get laid,' my grandfather scoffs, sitting back in his chair, 'you go right ahead. But you ain't bringing any whore around here. You find someplace else.'

  I listen to the two of them argue, looking down at my bare, dusty brown feet.

  'I wasn't bringing a whore,' my father replies, sternly. 'I was bringing a lady I –'

  'A lady? Then what do you need to bring her out here for?'

  'What do you think? Dinner – conversing.'

  'You can have dinner in town. And you can converse and – and get laid there, too.'

  'Hell, Dad, it's not like I was planning on having sex with her here on the kitchen table. I invited her for dinner. That's all.'

  'I don't care,' my grandfather replies. 'Look what happened with the last woman you brought out here. You knocked her up, married her, and soon as Ulysses was born she went and run off on the two of you.'

  I look up.

  'And so what if she did?' my father coldly says. 'That's my business, not yours.'

  'It's my farm,' my grandfather says. 'It's my business.'

  They become silent, staring at one another. I am about to turn and leave when my father finally speaks. He says:

  'Your business? Like when I was a boy and you'd bring a different woman home every weekend? '

  My grandfather tilts back his head slightly, and smiles.

  'You're full of shit, Toussaint,' he says. 'Right full up to your chink eyes with shit.'

  What, I wonder, is a chink?

  'Don't tell me you forgot about all those women,' my father continues. 'You don't remember them, Dad? Huh? One yellow gal after the other; you'd take them upstairs and I'd –'

  My grandfather stands, knocking the chair backwards onto the floor.

  'That's a lie,' he says. He is no longer smiling.

  'What about Ruby?' my father says, ignoring him. 'Do you remember her, perhaps? Fat and yellow, with straw-blonde hair? Do you remember her, Dad? What about when she snuck into my room while you were sleeping and –'

  Startling me, my grandfather leans over the t
able and smacks my father across the mouth. I step backward, nearly stumbling, but quickly gain my balance and take a single step forward, watching.

  My father sits for a moment, as if stunned, then raises his left hand and wipes the trickle of blood from his bottom lip; he begins to speak but, for some reason, does not.

  'You're a damned liar,' my grandfather says, calmly. 'You always were.'

  He turns and begins walking toward the screen door. I quickly step away and run down the steps and out into the yard. Behind me, I hear the screen door open, then swing shut. I do not look back.

  It is early afternoon; I am sitting at one of the sidewalk cafés that surround the Petit Socco, drinking a cup of peppermint tea.

  It is raining softly and, though the square is nearly empty of pedestrians or vendors, the café is bustling and noisy, crowded. The air is thick with smoke; above the din is the sound of a soccer game on the television in the corner. It rests high on the wall, atop a shelf near the ceiling.

  I sit quietly, listening to the mostly incomprehensible conversations of the men around me and looking at the dark, dusty, yellow walls and water-stained ceiling.

  In the corner, below the black-and-white television set, a bearded man wearing a black djellaba sits alone, smoking a wooden pipe and staring angrily at me.

  I nod my head; he looks away. I take drink of the hot, sweet tea. What I should do, I think, is stand, walk to his table, pull out my cock, and piss on him.

  'Or fuck him,' I whisper, setting the cup on the table.

  'Hey, you freak,' I hear a woman say.

  I look up; it is Maggie. She is alone, wearing an outfit similar to the previous night's: long skirt, sandals, a scarf over her hair and around her shoulders. She smiles, sitting down.

  'Did you just wake up?' she asks, looking through the crowd of men and waving at the middle-aged man behind the counter.

  The man nods his head and waves, as if to dismiss her.

  'Asshole,' she says, looking at me. 'I come in here every day and he acts like the only time he's ever seen me is down by the docks giving head to the sailors. God. I wear this fucking scarf out of respect; you'd think I could get a little in return!'

  'You want me to go get you something?' I ask, looking at the man.

  'Oh, no, that's okay. He'll be over here any minute now,' she says, rolling her eyes. 'He just wants me to know what a dirty, diseased whore I am. It's the same thing every day.'

  'Then why do you come back?'