by Harlan Ruud
The room, just as Maggie said, is huge and bright, with two queen-sized beds, high, white walls, and French doors that open onto a small terrace overlooking the Petit Socco. Cursing Abderahim, I quickly enter the washroom and undress, setting my towel and shaving kit on the closed toilet lid.
Hoping to be finished and out of the room by the time Maggie and Jonathan return, I shower quickly, brushing my teeth and cleaning my nails beneath the rush of lukewarm water. As I am washing my hair, I hear a man say:
'Bonjour. Hello?'
Startled, I turn, pulling the transparent shower curtain back, and see Abderahim standing in the doorway, looking at me. His dark, bearded face is stiff, angry.
'Oh, hey, Abderahim,' I say. 'I thought it was, well, Miss – Maggie, the woman who's staying here, said it was okay. I'll just be a minute.'
I release the shower curtain, stepping back beneath the water, and rinse the shampoo from my hair. Looking up, I see that Abderahim is still standing in the doorway, watching me.
'Damn, brother,' I say, 'give me a little privacy.'
He steps forward and pulls back the shower curtain. Staring above my head, he says:
'Sir, this isn't your room.'
I look at him, shaking my head, and shut off the water. Pushing him aside, I step out of the shower and grab my towel.
'I'm going to tell you this one more time,' I say, drying myself. 'The woman who is staying in this room said I could use her shower. Okay? She and her friend went for a coffee; when they get back, you can ask them.'
'There is no woman in this room,' Abderahim replies, looking at me. 'There is no one in this room, sir. Except, of course, for you.'
Standing straight, I look at him, then around the room. There is, I suddenly realize, no indication, no evidence, that it has been used by anyone but myself.
Wrapping the towel around my waist, I walk quickly into the bedroom. There is no luggage, no trash, no old newspaper or folded map. The beds are perfectly made. I look out the opened French doors, then back at Abderahim; he is frowning, his arms folded, and slowly shaking his head.
'Oh, Lord,' I say, looking up at the ceiling and laughing softly. 'This must be the wrong room. I am so sorry, Abderahim.'
He looks at me, still silent.
'I don't know why,' I say, 'but I thought this was their room. My apologies.'
'Whose room?' he asks.
'Maggie and – and Jonathan,' I reply, returning to the bathroom. 'You know, the American black woman and her – her ami Jouife.'
'There are no such people in this hotel,' I hear him say.
Rolling the towel and my dirty trousers into a bundle, I grab my soap, shampoo, and shaving kit, and return to the bedroom.
'I know,' I reply, looking at him. 'They're having a coffee, but they'll be back soon; don't worry.'
He looks at me, his face empty of expression.
'There are no such people in this hotel,' he repeats. 'As of this morning, we have seven guests: you, a German couple, a Canadian couple, a gentleman from St. Vincent, and a lady from Australia. There are no –'
'I've seen you talking with them,' I interrupt. 'More than once. I've seen you.'
'No, sir,' he says. 'You haven't.'
'Yes,' I insist, 'I have. I'm not imagining it.'
'Perhaps you have seen me talking with other guests,' he says, calmly. 'And mistaken them for – for your friends.'
I look at him, searching his placid face.
'If you need to use a shower in the future, sir,' he continues, 'tell me, and I will give you –'
'Did Maggie put you up to this?' I ask, interrupting him. 'That crazy –'
'Please, sir,' he says, motioning with his hand toward the opened door. I look at the door, then back at him.
I turn, holding my belongings, then rush out of the room, down the hallway and, fumbling for my key, open the door. I throw my stuff on the bed, shut the door, and stand, breathing deeply. I close my eyes.
'That crazy bitch,' I whisper.
Unable to see either of the needles, I move my hand gently across the dark purple bedspread; finding one, I hold it between my thumb and forefinger.
Where, I wonder, is my father?
Looking up, I see that the bedroom door is securely shut and locked. Still, I am nervous.
Hunching over, I pinch the loose folds of my foreskin, then pull it outward, stretching it tightly until it begins, almost, to hurt. Taking the needle, I put its tip lightly against the underside of the taut, dark brown skin, then hold it there.
Inhaling, then slowly exhaling, I push the needle upwards, causing a slight, sharp rise in the foreskin. I close my eyes for a moment, then open them.
Inhaling again, then exhaling, I quickly push the needle through the skin. Surprisingly, there is no blood.
The inside of my thighs begin to tremble as I slowly push the needle. When it is halfway through, I stop. I sit, fascinated, looking at the needle's tip, and slowly let go of my foreskin.
With my right hand, I continue to hold the shaft of my cock as it quickly, steadily, becomes erect.
I look up at the door, listening, then again look down.
As my cock hardens, and the foreskin retracts, the needle begins to twist sideways, causing the skin to pinch and bleed slightly. I let go of my cock, clenching the bed on either side of me, then whisper:
'Ouch.'
My cock fully erect, the needle now rests tightly against the side of my shaft. As if malformed, the foreskin curves in a thick fold, rising from the middle of the shaft on one side, to just below the glans on the other.
Using my thumb and middle finger, I touch both ends of the needle and, like a dial, begin to gently turn it clockwise. There is a sudden, sharp pain, almost unbearable. I stop, then take a deep breath.
Again, I begin to turn the needle; again, just as suddenly, I stop.
Searching for the second needle, I slide my hand across the bed. Finding it, I take it and gently run its tip along the length of my shaft, stopping at the rounded curve of the head. Mesmerized, I stare at the exact point where the needle touches my flesh.
Can I do it? I wonder, gently pushing the needle.
I close my eyes, breathing deeply, and begin to push the needle into the swollen head of my cock. Abruptly, I stop.
I can't do it, I realize, opening my eyes.
Angry, I take the needle and, looking up at the bedroom door, push it deep into my left thigh. Stifling a scream, I double over and instantly, unexpectedly, ejaculate onto my belly.
By the next morning I am sick. I lie in bed atop the blanket, unable to move, and stare at the ceiling. My mind spins, wobbles; the room turns. Occasionally, I am able to sleep but not for long; I drift in and out from dream to reality to dream – which is which no longer matters.
I dream of Maggie; she returns, admitting her prank, and we make love while Jonathan watches, crying. I dream of Jonathan, alone; he tells me that Maggie has returned to America. I dream of my father and grandfather, unable to distinguish one from the other. I dream of dandelions.
I try to focus, to stay awake. I try to move, to rise, but I am unable to do so. Determined to remain lucid, I count to a hundred, in French. I fall asleep. I awake, reciting the alphabet, first in English, then in Greek. Again, I fall asleep. I awake, barely able to grab the water bottle on the nightstand and take a sip.
I imagine a dance; I am dancing. In the gymnasium of a small town's high school, I dance alone with neither music nor audience. I bend, then bow, turn, twist, jump; I soar. I fall to my knees, then rise, then fall, then rise. I jump. I call my name.
I open my eyes. Leaning over the side of the bed, I vomit. Remaining still, I close my eyes, then vomit again.
'That bitch has a Jew dick up her pussy one night,' I hear my grandfather say, 'and the next night she has yours; doesn't that frost you, boy? Doesn't that just get you?'
I look up; he is standing next to the window, leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest.
'They're friends,' I say. 'They're just – they're just friends.'
'Hell,' he replies, laughing, 'they ain't even real.'
Bending forward, he slaps his knees and laughs. Still laughing, he looks up and says:
'Son?'
He stops laughing.
I close my eyes, pulling myself, pushing myself, back up against the damp, flat pillow. For a moment, I am no longer sick; I feel fine, rested. I take a deep breath, as if at the end of a long race and, once again, the room begins to spin. Trapped at its center, I clench the blanket and wait for the spinning to stop.
'Murderer!' a woman screams, her voice rising as if from the bottom of a well, echoing, bounding, rebounding, reverberating again and again.
'Murderer.'
Then, in a whisper:
'I saw it, baby; I saw it all. You strangled him with your bare hands; then you took him and you buried him. You did it, baby; admit it. Just – just say it, nigger. Say it.'
'No,' I murmur.
'And you don't even care enough to think about it. It's just mud to you. Just much. Gone. Telling people like – just muck.'
'No,' I repeat.
There is a knock at the door. I watch as Abderahim enters, carrying a steaming bowl of what I presume to be soup. He sets it on the nightstand and looks at me. He is obviously disgusted. Or is he?
'Eat this,' he says softly. 'It will make you feel better.'
I look at him but say nothing.
'I'm going to the mosque,' he says. 'I'll come to see you when I get back.'
He touches the back of his hand to my forehead.
Still I am silent.
'Sleep, brother,' he says. 'Sleep.'
When he is gone, as if in obedience, I sleep.
'What we want,' he says, is someone to blame. Like we'd be different people if this person or that person hadn't done what they did. Like everything would be better if only it was different. Like movie stars aren't fucked up and rich people always love their kids. And like kids who are loved don't get – don't get abused.'
What, I wonder, is he talking about?
'It's all the same, though. Doesn't anybody realize that? Same shit, different bucket. Don't ever forget that, boy. Because one day you're going to look back, like all kids, and hate me. You're going to blame me. It was my dad, you'll say. It's all his fault.'
'What's your fault?' I ask.
He looks at me, then takes a drink of whiskey from his coffee cup.
'Nothing,' he replies, setting the cup on the table. 'Absolutely nothing.'
For three days, I am sick. Neither Maggie nor Jonathan return. When I question Abderahim about them, he refuses to be truthful. Angry at his deception and simply tired of Tangier, I tell him I will be leaving.
'As you wish,' he says. 'One day though, you will return. I know.'
I look at him but say nothing.
I take the train to Marrakech, passing again through Casablanca and Rabat. I intend to stay in Marrakech, but upon arrival, I decide to take the bus to Essaouira, a small fishing port also known as Windy City, Afrika. Marrakech, I realize, is too busy, noisy, filled with color: I want peace.
'If you want peace,' a voice says, 'you would go home.'
I turn suddenly and look behind me. A veiled woman, draped entirely in black, looks at me. Do not look at me, her eyes warn.
I turn away, looking at the clock above the ticket-teller's window. I have nearly two hours before the bus to Essaouira departs. In the meantime, I decide, I will sit and I will wait.
The bus station is hectic, filled with people, young and old, mostly old, and male: bearded men with brown, leathery skin and threadbare djellabas.
Though no longer sick, I am tired, sluggish; the heat flowing in through the opened doors is stifling. I undo the top three buttons of my short-sleeved shirt and gently fan the soft, cotton fabric against my belly.
A small, caramel-colored girl wearing faded, ill-fitting jeans and a pink Farrah Fawcett-Majors T-shirt stares at me. She is smiling, her huge, brown eyes wide with interest. I smile in return, and she raises her hand, curling her small, dirty fingers back and forth in a childish wave.
'Asalaam aleikum,' she says.
'Aleikum salaam,' I reply.
Putting her hands in her lap, she swings her bare feet back and forth and stares at me, still smiling. On either side of her are two elderly men, both bearded, sleeping, wearing white djellabas. Which, if either, of these men, I wonder is the little girl's companion?
Upon departure, my relief to finally be leaving soon dissipates. There are at least fifteen more passengers than there are seats to accommodate them. Three people crowd into seats designed for two, with seven more men sitting cross-legged in the narrow aisle.
Several rows behind me, a young man holds a rusted parrot's cage filled with three fat chickens that cluck continually.
There is no air-conditioning.
By the time we arrive in Essaouira, I am as angry as I am frustrated. When the bus driver suggests that I pay him for passing me by bag from beneath the dilapidated bus, I push him aside and grab the bag myself. It is gray with dust.
'Go fuck yourself,' I snap, holding the bag to my side as I walk away.
'You!' I hear him yell. 'You don't tell me to fuck myself!'
I continue walking, expecting at any moment a stone or bottle to hit me in the back of the head. It does not come.
I rent a room for one week at the Hotel Riviera. Typical of most low-budget Moroccan hotels, it is clean and sparsely-furnish, with stone-tiled floors and poorly-lit hallways.
The room itself has two single-sized beds, a low, square nightstand between them, and a sink. The cracked, bluish-white walls are bare. Though the forty-watt bulb high above the sink offers little light, there are two huge windows that open onto the hotel's lower roof and, on each side, to other rooms.
There is no closet. I unpack, neatly draping my clothes across one of the hard, narrow beds. It is early evening. Though I am not hungry, I decide to venture downstairs to the hotel's adjacent outdoor café – to eat a sandwich, perhaps.
As soon as I am seated at the café, I am approached by a young boy of seven or eight; holding a wooden box and a black rag, he offers me, in French, a shoeshine.
'Tomorrow,' I say. 'Damas. Oui?'
'Oui, monsieur,' he replies, turning to the man at the table next to mine, offering the same.
The evening is cool but humid, and the cafés tables are filled with Moroccan men of all ages; not a single female of any age is in sight.
The waiter, a tall, slender man in his early twenties, approaches and takes my order. He is pleasant, smiling, with the assured but humble manner typical of many Moroccan men his age.
Across from the café is a newsstand and telephone station. Next door is a tiny restaurant with a kitchen window and counter opened onto the street. Several teen boys loiter at its side, eating French fries from a greasy paper cone.
Further down the street, toward the edge of the huge plaza, known as the Place Prince Moulay Hassan, are several shops, selling, on either side, Moroccan art and rugs and the Thuja woodwork for which Essaouira is renowned.
My sandwich and espresso arrive. Thanking the waiter, I begin to eat, to drink. I am, I realize, hungrier than I thought, and I finish quickly and order another sandwich. While waiting, I sip the espresso and look at the people seated around me.
I think for a moment of Maggie but quickly push her from my mind; such thoughts frighten me.
I am approached by yet another boy offering to shine my shoes. As with the earlier boy, I tell him to look for me tomorrow. This one persists, however, in English, setting his wooden box on the ground and saying:
'You can't let people see those shoes.'
I look down at my shoes.
'Look at them,' he says, pulling a rag from his back pocket. 'Just look at them!'
I look around. The previous boy is not in sight, so I tell the boy to go ahead, but to do so quickly
.
When he is finished, I give him seven dirham; he thanks me, moving through the crowded tables in search of another customer.
'Maybe so,' I hear Jonathan say. '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,' Maggie replies. 'Don't forget that. Okay? Your little guilt trip probably cost that kid a meal.'
I close my eyes, absentmindedly scratching my forehead.
'Fuck it,' I whisper, slowly looking up.
I watch as a slim, middle-aged woman wearing a huge, floppy hat and a light blue djellaba approaches the waiter, asking, in English, for bones.
Bones?
She is an unattractive woman, pallid, with thin, sharp features and light brown hair pulled back in a long, thin ponytail.
The waiter, behaving as if he knows her, tells her to wait, then walks into the café. He returns several minutes later with a white plastic bag that is filled, I imagine, with bones.
But what kind? I wonder.
The woman thanks him, putting the plastic bag in the large straw purse she carries over her left shoulder. I watch with interest as she turns, head held high, and walks through the crowded tables past me. Who is she, I wonder, and what is she going to do with her bones?
'She's crazy?' I hear someone say.
I turn, looking at the man behind me. He smiles, holding up his large hand. On his middle finger, I notice, is a thick, silver ring.
'I was just wondering that,' I reply.
A black man, dark-skinned, he has thick, perfectly-groomed dreadlocks tied high above his head – like a fountain, I think – wrapped with a yellow, green, and black kerchief. He is wearing an orange, long-sleeved shirt, and around his thick neck is what I am certain is a snake-bone necklace.
'She lives here,' he says, 'just outside of town; she's been here since the seventies, apparently.'
His face is thick-featured, but angular, with eyes, I notice, like my father: huge but narrow, almost Asiatic, and sloping. His skin is hairless, flawless, except for a thin, purplish keloid running diagonally across his right cheekbone.
