by Harlan Ruud
'Abderahim,' she answers, looking confused. 'He said you told him you were going to Essaouira.'
'No, I didn't,' I reply, standing and looking down at her. 'I told him I was going to Marrakech.'
I move away from the bed, next to the sink.
'In Marrakech,' I continue, 'I decided at the train station to take the bus here, to Essaouira. There's no way he could've known that.'
She looks at me and frowns.
'Ulysses,' she says, 'how would I know you'd be here if Abderahim didn't tell me? What's wrong with you?'
'What's wrong with me?' I reply. 'What's wrong with you?'
She is silent for a moment, leaning forward, her hands on the bed. She watches me suspiciously, then says calmly:
'You're scaring me, brother.'
I slowly shake my head in frustration.
'You disappear,' I say, 'playing some kind of crazy prank with Abderahim and then come here trying to –'
'Are you serious?' she asks, interrupting me. 'You can't be serious.'
We look at each other.
'Well,' I say. 'Something happened. I don't know what it was or whose idea but – but something happened.'
She is again silent, searching my face as if for a clue.
'Sweetie,' she says, 'for three days you were sick.'
Her voice is slow, monotonous.
'You couldn't even walk,' she continues. 'Whenever I could get away from Jonathan, I'd come to your room and sit, feed you, talk to you, whatever. I even bathed you. You don't remember that?'
I say nothing.
'Then on Thursday,' she continues, 'I came to see you, and you were gone – like that. I tried to ask Abderahim what had happened, but – you know him – all he would say is that you were going to Essaouira. So here I am. Ulysses, you don't – what is wrong with you?'
She stares at me, pensive.
I put my hand on the edge of the sink and close my eyes.
'Ulysses?'
'I did not tell Abderahim I was coming here,' I say softly. 'Everything else you're saying is possibly true, but that isn't. And if you're lying about that, then you're lying about – about the rest, too.'
'Lying?' I hear her say. 'Why would I be lying?'
I open my eyes, watching her.
'You tell me,' I reply.
'My dear, confused boy,' she says.
She stands, walking around the edge of the bed toward me.
'You don't remember being sick?' she asks.
'I remember that.'
A foot away from me, she stops.
'You don't remember taking a shower in the wrong room?'
Watching her, I take my hand from the edge of the sink.
'I remember that, too,' I reply.
I become silent, my mind spinning, then continue:
'And I remember Abderahim telling me that there were no such – that you weren't even staying in the hotel; he had never seen you before.'
'If he said that,' she says, 'it was a joke. You know how irritable Abderahim is. But I didn't, I swear, have anything to do with it. Besides, how would I know any of this if I wasn't there?'
'Abderahim,' I reply. 'He could've told you. You could've planned to –'
'Ulysses,' she says, interrupting me, 'listen to what you're saying. Now imagine someone else is saying it.'
She steps forward, putting her hand on my shoulder, then comes even closer. She rises, kissing me on my neck. Looking up, she says:
'You were pretty delirious for those three days. Maybe you – maybe you got kind of confused. Do you think?'
I look at her mouth.
'I went to a party once in Houston,' she says, 'and woke up the next morning in New Orleans.'
'How did you find me here?' I ask, ignoring her comment. 'Here in this hotel?'
She steps back, looking at me, and replies:
'I asked.'
'Asked who?'
'Whoever. There's not exactly a lot of tall black American men walking around Essaouira, my brother. In case you haven't noticed.'
I think of YaYa.
'Ulysses?'
Though I am still convinced that Abderahim was unaware of my detour to Essaouira, I take a deep breath and shake my head in defeat.
How else, I wonder, could she have known?
'Fuck me,' I say softly.
'As you wish,' she replies.
I look out the opened window.
'That was a metaphor,' I say.
'It always is.'
'Where's Jonathan?' I ask, turning toward her.
'Tangier,' she replies, returning to the bed and sitting down. 'He wanted to come, but I told him I'd call when I found you. Now he hates you.'
'I'm sure he does,' I remark, shrugging.
She smiles.
'Well,' she says, 'he doesn't hate you, but he'd be content to never see you again. Or for me to never see you again. He seems to have forgotten that I've been irritated with him this entire trip, and he blames you for it. He wanted to know why I had to go look for you. He asked if I love you. Can you believe it? He's such a baby.'
I look at her.
'What we want,' I say, 'is someone to blame.'
She looks at me, confused for a moment, then says:
'Indeed.'
I look down at the floor, trying to make sense of the random thoughts and images shifting like a slideshow through my mind.
Again, I shake my head.
'Ulysses,' she says, 'come here and sit down.'
She pats the bed with her hand. I look first at her, then at the bed, then at the door.
'I don't want to think about this anymore,' I say, as if to myself.
'Then don't,' I hear her say.
I look at her and she smiles.
'I won't,' I say.
I walk to the end of the bed and bend over to put on my shoes. Standing straight again, I look at her and she returns my glance.
'You look beautiful in red,' I say.
'Well, you know,' she replies, 'same shit, different bucket.'
She takes a cigarette from her purse and lights it.
'So do you,' she says, slowly exhaling.
'So do I what?'
'Look beautiful in red.'
I glance down at my red shirt.
She takes a drag of her cigarette and smiles.
'I told you before, Ulysses,' she says, standing. 'I'm crazy, too. So don't worry about it. Just don't let it become a habit. Okay?'
She winks at me.
'Well,' I say, reaching for her hand, 'one of us is crazy; that's for certain. The question is: which one?'
In the farthest corner of the barn, behind two empty barrels, is a large cardboard box. Curious, I move the barrels aside and crouch next to it. Opening it, I find six dead pups wrapped in a wet, brown towel; their heads have been crushed.
Quickly replacing the towel and closing the box, I slide the barrels to their original position and stand, turning toward the barn door. I am crying.
'What are you doing?' my father asks.
I look up. He is standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright afternoon sunlight behind him.
'Nothing,' I reply. In an instant, I stop crying.
'Why are you crying?' he asks, remaining completely still. I cannot see his face.
'I'm not,' I reply, looking down at the barn's dirt floor.
'You're thirteen,' he says. 'You're too old to be crying.'
'I wasn't crying,' I reply, still looking down.
'Yes,' he says, 'you were.'
I say nothing.
'We couldn't keep them,' he says. 'I had to kill them.'
'Why?' I ask, looking up at him.
'It doesn't matter why,' he replies. 'Now go on; do your chores.'
He turns, disappearing around the corner.
I find the hoe, leave the barn, and walk to the garden. Wondering where the dog is – whether she too has been killed – I look up and, far off in the pasture, see my grandfather walking slowly along
the length of the barbed-wire fence.
What, I briefly wonder, is he doing?
As I slowly deepen the narrow, shallow ravine between the rows of corn, I stare down at the dry, loose dirt, lost in thought. From somewhere on the north side of the house, I hear the dog bark, and I am relieved.
I remember when my father, angry that I had forgotten to feed our previous dog, Pinky, took his rifle and shot her. Forcing me to watch, he shot her three times, then told me to bury her. Later that night, as I was getting ready for bed, he came into my room and apologized.
'When animals are domesticated,' he said, 'it is our responsibility to take care of them, to feed them. You have to learn that, Ulysses, and maybe now you have.'
I had wanted to say something, ask something, I wasn't sure exactly what.
'Yes, sir,' I replied.
I look out into the pasture again. My grandfather is still walking along the length of the fence. This time, however, he is walking in the opposite direction.
Is he searching for something? I wonder. If so, what?
My father has told me to deepen the ravines only slightly, to trap the rainwater without exposing the roots, but I slowly, purposefully, disobey him, digging deep into the bottom and side of each narrow ditch. He will give me a beating, I know, for disobeying him, but I do not, at the moment, care.
When I introduce Maggie to YaYa, I am struck momentarily by the suspicion that they know each other. As I watch them look at one another, then shake hands, I sense a mutual uneasiness or embarrassment. I am tempted to ask if they have met before, but I do not.
Around the corner from the hotel, we find a small, candle-lit restaurant specializing in Moroccan and French cuisine. Reminding me of a bordello or an opium den, its inner walls are draped with red velvet, and the large, softly-padded armchairs are upholstered with black and gold brocade.
The restaurant is busy, noisy, and we are seated at the last remaining table, a corner banquette meant for six.
'If Mata Hari takes our order,' YaYa remarks, sitting down, 'I will not be surprised.'
Maggie, who is sitting next to me, across from YaYa, runs her hands across the smooth, shiny black tabletop.
'Is this stone?' she asks. 'It feels like it.'
YaYa leans sideways and looks beneath the table.
'I can't tell,' he replies, sitting straight, 'but I think so, yeah.'
'Fuck you both,' I say.
They both look at me.
'We've barely sat down,' I say, 'and already you two are casing the joint.'
They laugh.
Though it is forbidden to sell liquor within the walls of the Medina, our waiter produces a short, handwritten wine list. We order a bottle of the cheapest, a second with our meal, and a third when we are finished eating.
The waiter, a small, slender man with a pencil-thin mustache and slicked-back hair, looks at us, frowning.
'As you wish,' he says, taking the empty bottle and walking away.
'I don't think Pierre likes us,' Maggie says, lighting a cigarette.
'His name isn't Pierre,' YaYa says.
'Well,' Maggie replies, 'he looks like a Pierre, don't you think? Like a naughty Muslim who's changed his name to Pierre.'
I look at YaYa who is looking at Maggie. He smiles, I am certain, with desire. Suddenly, briefly, I hate him.
Our waiter returns and, in perfect imitation of a French waiter named Pierre, abruptly yet punctiliously pours our wine. When he is gone, we raise our glasses and offer a toast.
'To writers and dancers,' I say, 'and –'
I look at Maggie.
'And ladies of leisure,' she says, smiling as she takes a drag of her cigarette.
'To writers and dancers and ladies of leisure,' I agree.
'To books not yet finished,' YaYa adds.
'And dances not yet danced,' I say.
'And leisures not – leisured?' Maggie giggles.
We drink our wine, talking, laughing. They laugh; I smile.
The other customers ignore us, as we ignore them, each party caught up in its own conversations and revelry. The restaurant becomes progressively louder and more raucous as the night progresses, filling with cigarette smoke, incense, and, from hidden speakers, a continual loop of ganoua music, Dalida remixes, and Arabic power ballads.
Twice, the candle on our table is replaced.
As we begin our fifth bottle of wine, we are approached by a short, plump woman with thick, wavy black hair parted on the side. Unusually, almost preternaturally, pretty, with a light smattering of almond-colored freckles across her nose and cheeks, she is, I immediately assess, the daughter of a black woman and a white man.
She is dressed in a tight, gold, short-sleeved sweater and skirt that accentuate her fleshy limbs and heavy belly, and I am reminded of my grandfather's words:
'Bones are for boys; meat is for men.'
The three of us look up at the woman. She smiles, her full, red lips parting to reveal perfect teeth.
What a beautiful smile, I think.
'Excuse me,' she says. 'I don't mean to bother you, but I was just over there with my friends –'
She turns her head, pointing across the crowded restaurant at a table of three frowning white women, each with matching blond haircuts that are short on the side and long on the top. They sit, stone-faced, and look at one another.
'Well,' she continues, looking back at us, 'I noticed you earlier and – well, I just wanted to come over and say hey. That's all. I'm from the States, too – California.'
Her voice is thin, girlish, in opposition to her womanly appearance.
Maggie leans back in her chair, looking at the three white women across the restaurant, then sits straight and looks up at our visitor.
'Would you care to join us?' she asks, taking a drag of her cigarette.
As she says this, she puts her other hand on my thigh and squeezes it.
'Sure,' the woman immediately replies, smiling. 'Let me just go check with my friends and – and see what they want to do. Okay?'
There is something familiar about her, something I can't quite fix.
'Of course,' Maggie says. 'Tell them to come over; we won't bite.'
'Unless you want us to,' YaYa adds.
The woman turns, looking at YaYa, and smiles.
'Well, then,' she replies, 'I'll definitely be back.'
She returns to her table.
'My God,' Maggie whispers, turning toward me. 'What a fat ass!'
'Tell me about it,' YaYa replies, grinning, staring at the woman as she walks away.
'You're a pig,' Maggie says. 'I knew it when I met you.'
''You know what they say,' he replies. 'Bones are for boys; meat is for men.'
I look at him.
'My grandfather used to say that,' I remark.
'So did my father,' he replies. 'Smart men, I –'
'Hey,' Maggie interrupts. 'I'm sorry. I should've asked you two before I invited them over. Is that alright? She seems kind of – kind of strange. And those friends, my God!'
'No problem,' YaYa answers. 'The stranger the better. Besides, I think we've been rebuffed.'
He nods his head in the direction of their table. Maggie and I turn, looking. The three white women are walking out the door, looking at us and whispering, their eyes narrowed as they disappear into the night.
Their friend returns to our table, shrugging, with a glass of white wine in her hand. Her fingers, I notice, are short, chubby, the long fingernails painted a bright red.
'They were tired,' she says, 'but I'm not.'
YaYa, obviously pleased, slides across the banquette and pats it with his hand.
'Have a seat,' he says, looking at me and winking.
I take a drink of wine, looking at the woman as she sits next to YaYa, setting her purse between them. Wiggling her ass on the seat, as if to get comfortable, she looks up at the three of us, eyebrows raised, and smiles.
'What's your name, honey?' Maggie asks, leaning
back in the chair and crossing her legs. With the hand that holds the cigarette, she reaches up and lightly strokes the back of her neck.
'Baby,' the woman replies.
Maggie looks at her. 'Baby?'
'Well, Gabriella,' she explains. 'But everyone calls me Baby. Like from Dirty Dancing.'
Maggie glances at me, then looks again at the woman.
'Well, Baby,' she says, 'I'm Maggie. This is Ulysses, and this is YaYa.'
'Hey, Baby,' I say.
'Pleased to meet you,' YaYa says, looking at her.
She looks at YaYa and smiles.
'Where you guys from?' she asks, taking a drink of her wine.
'Hollywood,' YaYa answers, looking at me. 'We're all from Hollywood.'
'That's right,' I say. 'Tinseltown.'
Maggie looks at me but says nothing.
'Really? I used to live there,' Baby says. 'Well, in Glendale, but I worked in Hollywood. And I don't want to talk about it.'
Maggie looks at me, then at Baby.
'Okay,' she says, as if confused.
'It's too painful,' Baby explains.
'Okay,' Maggie repeats, shrugging.
Baby takes another drink of her wine, finishing it. I pick up the bottle immediately and raise it toward her. She nods her head, smiling, and accepts.
'Please,' she says. 'Thank you.'
I fill her glass, then set the bottle on the table.
'Where do you live now?' YaYa asks.
'San Fran,' she replies. 'I've been there for, oh, three or four years. Have you been?'
'I have,' he replies. 'Sorry, but I didn't like it.'
'Me neither,' I say.
'I hated it,' Maggie adds. 'Well, I didn't hate it. That's an exaggeration. But I'd never go back, that's for sure.'
'That's okay,' Baby says, looking at each of us. 'I don't particularly like it, either.'
It is obvious, though, that she does like it.
As the four of us talk and drink, it becomes increasingly apparent that Baby is either drunk or shameless – or a shameless drunk. Whatever she is, she is definitely a verbal exhibitionist. Kind of.
Though warning us again and again that certain moments in her life are 'just too painful to discuss,' she proceeds to regale us relentlessly with the deeds and misdeeds of her nasty past.
'That reminds me of the time I was turning tricks in Montreal,' she says. 'Most of the other girls hated taking it up the –'
'You were a prostitute?' YaYa asks, interrupting her.
