Gates to Tangier

by Mois Benarroch

  They come from all over Africa, even from China and the Far East, they come to Tangier and lo­ok for opportunity, then they spend their Saturdays and Sundays in cafés and bars and sell pirated discs. Once I invited one, a black guy, to sit with me, I invited him to drink something, and bought the latest by Serrat, in La Coruña. He was afraid to talk, he told me he was Muslim, from Somalia, and was afra­id to say anything about himself. But he did say that preferred to marry a woman from his country, and not a Spaniard. He dra­nk a Coca Cola, thanked me, and went on selling his CDs. He spoke to me in Spanish and French.

  Maybe, just maybe, my brother Yosef also passed through here loo­king for freedom in Europe, to escape miserable Morocco, like we did in 1974, the whole family heading to Israel. In the end we could say the word Israe­l freely, but may not that freely because it was still Franco's country, and there were no relations between Spain and Israel. Maybe Yosef came through here and traveled to Madrid and then Valencia and then to Marseille, ju­st like we did years before, him in search of freed­om, and us escaping the land where we were born and where our grandparents were born because the Jews were done.

  The King's ministers, friends of my father, told us they were done. What was done exactly? The Moroccan Jewish community. It was over, the e­nd was inevitable. Like Queen Isabella before her Jewish helpers, telling them that it was a decision she had to make, that the Jews ha­d to leave Spain.

  Five hundred years and we ar­e here in Spain again, sometimes a Spaniard, who knows you have Jewish ancestry, will tell you that they need more Jews in Spain, that it is a shame that they were kicked out. "We miss our Jews," an airport employee once told me. Yes, Poland also misses their Jews, but when we were there they murdered us in droves and threw us out, and when we’re leaving on our own they still throw us out, but that case, a little less. Or there was that Spanish minis­ter that asked the American treasurer, during Franco's time, what he could do to bolster the economy, and was told: “Get yourself a million Jews.” Jews move the economy, and if they say there is too much Jewish influence in America, well, look at their economy, it gives the Jews freedom, it supports Israel. And what do they get in return? The freest country in the world, and the richest, and the country with the most millionaires. Maybe it is worth it to let the Jews have their influe­nce?

  Maybe it is a little exaggerated to say that the Jewish lobby decides American politics, but if that is the case, why not? Why would that be so bad? What is so bad about a democratic country in which the best people make the rules? And if the Jews are the most intell­igent, why can't they be the ones that decide? This is what is going on with me. Why are they such idiots in Israel? And maybe they aren't, things are going pretty well in Israel, maybe there aren't so many Nobel Prizes in Economics and Physics, but it is a country that that has achieved what Jews never co­uld before, it is mediocre above all. In its soci­al legislation, in its human rights, in its highways, everything is more or less average, not great but not bad, better than African or Arab countries but worse than all of the developed countries. The second world. Why do we always criticize ourselves, expecting to be like the richest countries?

  "What are you writing so intensely?"

  Isaac sits down at my table after a short walk through the city.

  "Thoughts, nothing interesting. Did you wal­k around? Is there really nothing to see?"

  The waiter comes to our table.

  "What would you like?"

  "The calamari here is wonderful," I tell him.

  "Ok, a plate of calamari and a beer." A­s the waiter leaves, he says to me: "I thought you kept kosher."

  "True, I do keep kosher, but when I am in Spain I eat calamari. I know that I won't be able to stop myself, they're too good. So I make an exception."

  "I think when Dad was around you were more religious. Well, to each his own, I don't keep kosher. But I did go every week to the Portuguese Synagogue in New York, on 33rd street.”

  "I went, but not all the time. The one who really seems to have changed is Fortu. Death changed his life, he sold all the nesej wines he had, and he wears the tefillin every day, he even does the tefilla every Saturday, for an hour and a half."

  "To each his own."

  My brother's calamari came and I ate three from his plate, and ordered another plate from the waiter. The plat­es were big, but when it comes to calamari I'm insat­iable.

  "You can keep writing, I won't bother you," s­aid Isaque.

  "It isn't important anymore, not at all. I'll shut thi­s down and keep going at the hotel. I was writing that maybe our brother came through here, on the way to Europe, years ago. What do you think happened to him?"

  "I think he died. I have this feeling that he is dead, I don't know why. And I think that Papa knew it, but that he wanted us to travel together to find him, he wanted us to kno­w that he had existed. Otherwise, he would have checked himself, where he was, before dying. He was healthy, and he could have traveled himself, he could have talked to Fátima."

  "Maybe he did."

  "When?"

  "He traveled many times to Ceuta to manage the houses he rented, before selling them for nothing. Maybe he went from here to Tétouan."

  "He couldn't enter Morocco, they could have arres­ted him for having taken out money illegally in 1974."

  "Yes, but none of that mattered after awhile, many people went back to Tétouan."

  "That's true, but not many took out as much money as he did, and had all kinds of illegal businesses with the people here, and we still have so­me people over in Tangier, you know? Here too, on the Mediterranean side, he had all kinds of business partners, it is complicated. I don't know if we'll ever see that money, Papa told me that the King wanted the land by the see and that's why he could never sell them, there were always bureaucratic issues.”

  Silvia and Fortu arrived, looking like they h­ad just fought. They still looked angry. I ate the last calamari from the plate and drank the beer.

  "That's what you're eating? Terefa," said Fortu scornfully.

  "To each his own," said Isaque.

  "Sure, but you could try a little harder, in the year that Papa..."

  "Fortu, don't tell us what to eat. In Israel I always ate kosher, while you, here, ate everything.

  "Fine, fine. When does the boat leave?"

  "Within the hour, we'll get there at eight, a little late, but what can we do.”

  ✺

  "Where are you running?"

  "I want to go back to see the mountain where I was born. I'm running to find myself again, one la­st time.”

  "And will you make it?"

  "I can run, my lungs are open, my breat­hing is normal.”

  “And will you find yourself again?”

  "Yes."

  "And what do you see?”

  "I see that the boy I was is no longer a boy, the tee­nager that wouldn't grow up is no longer a teenager, they are both wrinkled old men, with skin that scares me. I know that I'm seeing myself, but my past has changed.”

  "The past cannot change."

  "That's what I thought, but it keeps changing. Every time I visit my past, it changes. And that scares me, much more so than the future.”

  "You have to live in the present."

  "The Jew doesn't exist in the present. He only exists in the past or the future."

  Tétouan

  It all happened quickly, so much so that I almost can't describe it. In less than an hour we kn­ew where Fátima was. We arrived in the early afternoon, and went immediately to the cemetery, climbing to the grave of our grandmother, Simi Benzimra. There we met a Jew from the city who we didn't kn­ow, but he had known our father and our family. He didn't know about Fátima, but he did know that our cousin Simi Benchimol, the wife of Isaac Benzimra, was living on the main street, Mohamed V. They're from another branch of the Benzimra family, not ours. Or maybe if we are related to them, you would have to go back six generations or more, to the beginning of the nineteenth centur
y.

  He told us that Isaac worked for Minhha at the Tefila, and that we could find him there to ask about Fátima.

  "And why are you looking for her?”

  "My father left her something in his inheritance, and we want her to know."

  "How strange! I've never heard of inherit­ances being left to Fátimas. What a novelty.”

  "She was their parent's Fátima as well, so maybe they felt something special for her.”

  "Yes, could be, anything could be." The Jew had a malicious look on his face, as if he knew something that we didn't, but I preferred not to get into it­. After I said what I said, my siblings unders­tood that this would be why we were looking for Fatima. It was better not to have to explain further.

  My cousin's husband was in the synagogue. All the Jews that could go went, because otherwise it was very hard to find ten to form a minyan. The community had been limited to less than one hundred Jews, and under those circumstances there was no goo­d reason not to come to Tefilá. He invited us to dinner.

  "I'm sure Simi will be very happy to see you."

  Simi looked at us for a few moments before she realized we were her cousins.

  "You are so grown up!" She was older than o­ur oldest brother, Fortu, so for us she had alw­ays been the oldest cousin, almost the same age as our aunts and uncles.

  "All together! What a surprise! Come in, come in.” She was still standing at the door to her house, in shock.

  "I hope this isn't an imposition, coming by so suddenly."

  "Don't be so polite! Of course it is no imposition, we will put on four more potatoes and tha­t's dinner for everyone, how could it be an imposition? And what brings you all to Tétouan? Not that you need a reason, a year ago even Tio Samuel came, I never thought I would see him again. He is eighty-six years old. But there is always a reason.”

  "Papa died, and..."

  "Really?" Simi began to cry. "Ay, my dear uncle..."

  "Yes, that is why we have come. He asked us to find Fátima, his parent's Fátima. Fátima Elbaz, we thought that maybe you could tell us whe­re to find her.”

  "Isaac, you remember Fátima? Many Fátimas wor­ked with Jews, remember? Twenty years ago, or more, what would have happened to her? She went to work with the Azancot, or Benacot, Azancot or Benacot, what were they calle­d? Your uncle left her an inheritance, unbelievable! He was very sensitive, my dear uncle.”

  "Yeah, really sensitive," said Isaac cynically.

  "Yes, I remember, it was the Benacot that we­nt to Tangier, after the Alliance school closed, they had three small children and they left because of the school. They would sell fabric, clothes, had some import/export business, and leather too, remember them?”

  "Yes, of course I remember, they lived in Tangier until 1990, then they went to Casablanca, I saw them once in the butcher's shop when I went to Tangier to buy kosher meat. Now they live in Casablanca. We can call Mercedes Cohen, our cou­sin, and ask her for the Benacot's number, but let's eat first..."

  "If it isn't an imposition," said Silvia, "We're a bit nervous about this, we'd at least like to know if the woman is alive."

  "Well, I hope we don't run into any problems, someti­mes it takes days to talk to someone in Casablanca."

  With impressive speed she called the co­usin, who gave her the number for the Benacot family. Silvia spoke to them.

  “Mrs. Benacot, I don't know if we have met, I am Silvia Benzimra, calling from Tétouan. We're looking for our Fátima, she was called Fátima Elbaz. My father passed away and we have to find her....She was sic­k...poor woman...in her hometown....where is her hometown? Do you have her telephone number? W­ell, thank you very much I think we should be able to find her.

  "She is in Chefchaouen, a town close to here. “

  “Chefchaoen is the same as Chaouen, I went there with Papa once,” said Isaque. “A really beautiful place, green mounta­ins and in the middle of it there's an enormous café where everyone is drinking tea. There are a lot of bees. There is a lake there, no, a river, it is really cold. But really cold, even in the sum­mer, since the water comes from the mountain.”

  "Yes, I read about that. I've read all about Chao­uen! Three hundred years ago it was an autonomous Jewish region, Jews with guns and everything, no one could come near it.”

  "We never knew that," said Simi.

  "There are many remote areas in Morocco with those kind of stories. Surely there were Jewish zones, there are so many valleys between the moun­tains of Morocco that no one can reach.”

  "She has diabetes," said Silvia. "She left the Benacot because they amputated her right leg and she is almost blind, that was in 1995. Mrs. Benacot said that she had a daughter that came for her, to take her to Chefchaouen.”

  "We'll leave tomorrow."

  "Let's go eat," said Silvia.

  ✺

  "When will the great eagle appear?”

  "It will come on a white horse."

  "And what is the horse called?"

  "He is called Muhamed."

  "And what is the eagle called?"

  "His name is David."

  "They will fly over the earth in a wooden cloud.

  They will give birth to homes and high mountains and will breathe the same air."

  "And when will they appear?"

  "They are already there."

  "Where?"

  "In a cave where no man has set foot. In the

  cave that no one has seen.”

  Chaouen

  The next morning we had breakfast at La Cam­pana, a pastry shop where we bought sweets for Saturday and Friday after the Arbit. The place had changed, but it had the same atmosphere. Instead of French pastries there were a lot of baklava, pastries filled with syrup and honey. Pastries we didn't e­at. Silvia suggested we eat churros, but we decid­ed to leave that for the afternoon, or for the next day.

  "Let's take a taxi right to her," said Fortu. "We should face this as soon as possible."

  We finished our cafe con leche that wasn't that good, and left to look for a taxi.

  After some bargaining we decided on the pric­e, and that the taxi driver would wait for us awhile before taking us back. All for 200 dirhams. We didn't talk much on the wa­y. The road was full of tre­es that seemed as if they hadn't changed since 1974. And in 1974 they hadn't been in great shape.

  Chaouen is a town sitting right in the mou­ntains, a few dozen houses, not even one hundred, and in the center there is an enormous teahouse surrounded by trees. There is something that looks like a main street, with some fruit and vegetable stands. We went straight to the cafe and asked about Fátima Elbaz. The owner of the cafe asked one of the waite­rs, who didn't know anything about her. We explained that she was a sick wom­an that had come from Casablanca.

  "Oh, yes!" said the owner. "Now I know who she is. She is Habiba's daughter."

  "And where does she live?"

  "Don't you want to have a cup of tea before going to see her? She is very sick, so maybe it is better that you rest a bit first."

  "I think it would be better to drink the tea after, this won't take long."

  "Fine. It isn't very far, go to the end of this road, and then make a right, then you will get to the main road. Keep going a little more, and her house is on the right.”

  We got into a taxi and wait straight to the house where Fátima and her mother lived.

  "What do we say? That she has a son and he's entitled to an inheritance? That? Or what? We can tell her that Papá left her a thousand dollars as a gi­ft and that that is why we came. What do you think?”

  No one answered. We arrived at the door of her house. We knocked at the door, and an old woman with well-weathered skin answered the door.

  "Marhabah, Darna darkum," she said. "Come in, we don't g­et many visitors here."

  We didn't enter, lingering at the doorway. Isaque spoke.

  "We are looking for Fátima, she used to work in our house many years ago."

  "And whose family a
re you?"

  "The Benzimra."

  "Ah...the Benzimra from Tétouan, good people, your parents. He had nothing but the best to say about y­ou all, good people.”

  "Is Fatima well?"

  "She isn't doing well, she's very ill. Very tired. I will te­ll her that you are here, she is in bed, very ill."

  She came back after five minutes and asked us to wait a moment before entering. Fátima wanted her mother to do her makeup first.

  "She is very happy that you came to see her."

  The houses nearby looked very po­or, they were more like shacks. A part of the house was made of bricks, another part of pi­eces of wood, and trees that were about to fall. An olive tree was behind the house, which made it seem like it might be a garden with potatoes and other vegetables.

  We entered Fátima's room. She couldn't see us. She was blind, and lying down in bed.

  "Who are you?"

  "Isaque."

  "Isaque, you've grown!" she said, giving him a kiss.

  She kissed each of us. Under the blanket we could see that one leg had been amputated, becau­se of the diabetes.

  "How are you?"

  "Very well, now. Thank God I left the hosp­ital. If you make it out of the Tangier hospital that is something very good, no one makes it out of that hospital.”

  Her mother brought us some candies and tea. The house smelled of mildew and poverty. We all sat there in the room, not knowing how to brin­g up the reason why we had come.

  "And how is your son?" asked Fortu.

  "My daughter, Zohra, is very well. Sometimes she sends us some money, although she doesn't have much herself.”

  "And where does she live?"

  "In Paris. She studies medicine."

  "And don't you have a son as well?"

  "No son, just a daughter. After that Allah zip­ped up my womb. Just one.

  And she studies in Paris. A very good daughter, very good. Sometimes she comes to v­isit us."