“No, not exactly. But my father died a month ago, and I've been keeping kosher since then. I don't even drink the nesej wine," said Fortu.
"Ah, that's why you came back. When the father dies, we want to understand, you remember the Hebrew professor we had, Mr. Levi? Remember?”
"Of course, I see him sometimes at the Tefilá in Madrid."
"I think he married a goyá."
"They got married and divorced. But I think he has a son.”
"Yeah? Well, I didn't know that he was divorced, I remember him because you once yelled at him and said he shouldn't hit kids with a stick, remember that? You were seven or something like that, but you stood up to the teacher. Yelled at him.”
"No, I don't remember all that." I don't remember that.
"The whole class was so proud of you, I don't know why, but I thought about it this week. You're a doctor, right?”
"Let's go to a table, sit down, since it is almost two.”
“No, wait, let me take you to a really great restaurant, a fish place, has really good fish, they bring it from Morocco, fresh fish. Much better than what you eat in Spain.”
"Yes, I'm a family doctor. And what do you do, Jose?” I couldn't help but be startled to hear the name I spoke, because among my own friends I had found a Yosef. Could it be my brother? Maybe my father got the birth date wrong. It couldn't be. Could it? Jose has two Jewish parents, Jose....Yosef...
"Computers, business, I have two computer shops in Barcelona, but like I said I came to work with my father, it is a bit difficult to convince old people to use computers, but I don't think we have any other option...”
"I'm so happy to see you, you were always the best in math class. I remember you always got first prize. It was something ridiculous, three books for the first prize, two for the second, and one for the third. I was always second or third.”
"You remember the books? Robinson Crusoe, with pictures, with a red and white cover. Or pink.”
"It was pretty ridiculous, but we were so proud of winning those prizes, and getting that book that nobody read, it was all to show to our parents. They would tell me, why didn't you get first, like your brother Isaque? As if being the second out of thirty students wasn't enough. That was my mother. I'm going back to Madrid tomorrow, I haven't been to Ceuta in years so I decided to sleep here tonight. It is such a modern city now. I remember all those trips with Mamá and the American car with a chauffeur. What car was that? A Ford, or a Chevrolet, I don't remember, we would come here and it was different from Tangier, this was another country. We had to show our passports in customs, the chauffeur took the passports from my mother and talked to the border police, gave them a bakshish and we passed, while the others, the Arabs, watched us. And now what are we? Middle-class Europeans, but those days we were the rich, the envy of all...”
"Yes, well, many feel that way. We weren't that rich though, and I can't really complain about my life now.”
"So, business is good?"
"It was much better a year ago, although the computers are still selling, but from 1997 to 1999 it was madness, we couldn't keep them in stock. Everything sold out the same day.”
"I'm glad to hear that."
"And you, how's being a doctor?"
"It's a living, a good living, but it isn't a business. I'm not complaining, they've offered me other positions where I could make more, but what interests me is my patients. I like meeting the whole family and seeing how problems pass on from generation to generation. The offered me an administrative post, to work in the Ministry of Health, for all the family doctors in Madrid. It was a very good salary, but in the end I didn't accept the job. I don't regret it, you have to feel good about a job like that. I'm not going to go dealing with paperwork all day.”
"I see you have principles, it is important to feel good about what you do...another beer or shall we leave this place?”
"I’ve had enough beer, let's go. I'm buying.”
"No, no way! I'm paying.”
"No, no, I was already here eating and drinking before you came."
"Fine, but at the restaurant it is on me," said Jose.
Everything is close by in Ceuta. You can cover the whole city in half an hour. The restaurant was on the first corner, El Lenguado, that's what it was called. Maritime-themed tables, sky-blue tablecloths, and high wooden chairs made the restaurant seem expensive. The cutlery was of silver, and on every plate was a napkin.
“They have the best sole here in the world, I would say," said Jose.
"I love sole, let's get that."
The bread and olive oil came quickly, as well as olives and an olive pâte. The bread was fresh, it seemed homemade. For the first dish we ordered a salad and manchego cheese, and after that we ordered the sole.
"Would the gentlemen care for some wine?"
"No, mineral water. Sparkling, please. Both of us."
"Do you remember Simita, a girl that studied with us? What was her last name?”
“Bensadon?
“Yes, could be, maybe. They told me she died in a car accident. She was living in the United States, in Miami. Remember how in love we all were with her? All the men in the class...”
"Not me," I said.
"Really, you weren't? She was the prettiest girl in the class, you’re just saying that now. You were also in love with her."
"The prettiest, but now she is dead, in an accident. What a shame. Tell me, are you married?”
"Yes, and I have a daughter. Yes, married...well, not completely. We don't live together anymore. Maybe...”
And before I went on I realized that no, that wasn't what I wanted. I didn't want to get divorced. I could talk to her again, maybe we could go back, try again, although it would only be for our daughter, for the past. What do I know? The past doesn't make sense anymore, five years of your life don't make sense, and yet the past is also so important, it is a reason to stay together.
“And you, are you married?”
“Second wife. Two kids from the first. The first was Jewish, the second isn't. What does that matter?”
“I'm not sure if it matters or not. Maybe it does, if it isn't great love that matters, it is more difficult to live with a woman from another religion, who thinks differently.”
"Coño, don't start to talk to me about the mind...But yes, we all want to marry a woman from Tétouan or Tangier, my cousin got one from Tétouan the second time around, I'm envious of him. Suddenly it becomes very important that someone understand you so that you don't have to explain yourself all the time. Someone that understands that deep sadness...”
At that moment I realized that Jose wouldn't understand. He was interested in business and money, and our conversation couldn't go farther than that. I was looking for answers, not stories of profit and loss. Even our marriages seemed like a business transaction. After lunch, and the delicious sole, I gave him my Madrid number and told him I would call if I passed through Barcelona. Sure, I'd like to have some tapas another time, but today I prefer to go to the sea and think. In the afternoon I was tired of the city already, and thought about leaving that same night and not waiting till the next day. But on the way to the hotel, I ran into Sarah, who I knew
from Madrid.
"What are you doing here?"
"What are YOU doing here, Fortu?"
The plan abruptly changed. It seemed like that day all of Tétouan was in Ceuta.
Everyone was coming and going, doing business.
"Well, I'm coming back from Tétouan."
"Everyone is coming back from Tétouan." She smiled with a childlike smile that hadn't changed from the day I met her at summer camp, when I was 15.
"Let's go get a drink."
"I'm visiting, family. And also taking care of some family things. How long has it been since we last saw each other? Ten years, and we live three streets from each other in Madrid.”
"But not beer, I've had enough beer
today. Let's go have a coffee at La Campana."
"Sure, fine, I'm staying at La Residencia.”
"Me too, but that's not surprising. That's the only hotel that is more or less normal here."
"So many years. Do you remember? You were in love with me and wrote me love letters, very beautiful letters. But I was in another world.”
"Now you are also in another world. We were never in the same world."
We arrive at the café, it is one of the city's most beautiful, and full of pasteles de nata. We both order coffee.
“It is a little odd, two meetings from the past in the same day. Maybe it shouldn't be so strange, that always happens in this city.”
“I always run into people I know. I meet more Madrileños here than in Madrid.”
“Well, everything is smaller here, if someone you know is here and you are too, you'll most likely run into each other.”
“You know I got divorced.”
“Yes, I heard something from Gracia, she told me. Everyone is getting divorced these days. It isn't anything strange anymore. Now it is more normal than being married. I'm still married, but separated.”
“It was just impossible, I could have handled the affairs, but he was just never at home. In two years I saw him at home for 15 minutes, sometimes he came to sleep at 3 in the morning and left at 7, there was no longer any relationship.”
“I think that if we had talked we could have solved anything, it is just that the day came when we couldn't talk about anything. Everything you say is misunderstood, everything falls apart.”
“Maybe it doesn't fall apart, you know, maybe it is actually better. I feel much better since I got divorced. Maybe it is better for us to find a new life, after a relationship is over.”
“Could be, who knows. But I don't want to get divorced. Tétouanis aren't built for divorce.”
“No one is. Maybe we are built to marry, and that's why we make such a mess.”
“What I do know is that I want to go back to her, but what I want is the past. I want my memories, I want to go back to ten years ago.”
"That's not possible."
And suddenly I felt a tremendous desire to eat a pastry, which lots of cream and sugar, something I hadn't done in years. I needed sugar.
“Just a second, I'm going to order a pastry. Do you want one too?”
“No, I don't eat pastries."
I ordered the biggest pastry they had.
“This is a blast from the past. Do you remember? When you ate three pastries a day? It has been so long since I ate a pastry in a pastelería. Probably about ten years.”
"You need sugar."
"What a coincidence, finding you here, after so many years of not seeing each other!”
“Yes. But I have to go, I'm meeting a cousin.”
"What a shame."
“Maybe we'll see each other at the hotel.”
Sarah woke something up in me, but as always, it disappeared. It seemed like the years hadn't passed, and we were the same. I needed warmth, affection, something. At that moment, she made me feel it. It was so long since I had felt the hands of a woman. And suddenly I saw a woman in front of me, dressed in black, who was trying to explain in French and a little Spanish what she wanted to the waitress.
“I speak French, if you'd like me to translate," I said after considering for awhile if I should speak to her or not. It was like continuing the chat with Sarah. I translated what she wanted, a sandwich with cheese but no ham.
"What is your name?"
"Fátima."
"Are you from Tétouan?"
"I was born in Tangier but I live in Paris. I'm here to visit my mother, she's sick. They say she's not doing so well, she's in a coma. I think it's serious.”
"Interesting. I was born in Tétouan, and live in Madrid. My name is Eli." I have no idea why I didn't tell her my real name.
I looked at her eyes for a long time, they seemed familiar, as if she was family. But that would be impossible. Fátima is a Muslim name, there are no Jews with that name.
“You must be Jewish.”
“Yes, and you, Muslim?”
“It is difficult for me to talk to Jews since they started killing Palestinian children," she said, but her body language said the opposite.
"It's been hard for me since I was born." I smiled in order to avoid starting a political conversation.
"I don't know what is happening to me, my boyfriend of three years, Marcel, is Jewish, my best friend at university, Jewish, and also named Marcelle, the director of my hospital, Jewish, the doctors I work with, Jewish, and it's not like Paris doesn't have any Muslims, but that's who I spend all my time with. I try to escape them, maybe that's why I find them. I'm sorry...”
"You don't have to apologize," I said while tears began to fall from her eyes.
"It has been a difficult few days, my mother, and many other things...letters...how can I explain. You're a stranger! I could tell you everything, though, I'm desperate.”
"Did you leave your boyfriend? I left my wife. It isn't easy.”
"No, not exactly. I told him I needed to think. It's true, I needed to think. Sometimes you have to think.”
“And somehow, in a short amount of time I cannot calculate now, my hand was holding hers and we were kissing.”
"I have to go to Morocco today, to see my mother." But we were already in the street, heading to the hotel.
The receptionist said, "Hello, Mr. Benzimra."
"What did he say?" asked Fátima.
"He was just greeting me."
"Ok, fine, it doesn't matter. I hope he doesn't think I'm a prostitute."
"I think you are allowed to come into my room in the middle of the day, and I don't care what anyone thinks."
We went into the room and started kissing without saying another word. We took off our clothes and fell into bed. I don't know how long the sex lasted, but it was over quickly, surely less than five minutes. We both came together and felt and deep and complete satisfaction, something that has never happened to me. It was as if we had known each other for centuries. As if we knew every part of each other's bodies.
"That was incredible. Give me your telephone number. "
I was so tired, and after finished I almost passed out. It was more than just sleeping. I must have been in that state fifteen or twenty minutes before opening my eyes, and saw that she had left a note. "Very romantic," I thought.
"Eli, it was so wonderful, that it is best we don't see each other again." That's what she wrote, and in Spanish.
These French women, now I would only think about her, I would look for her in all of Paris, I would go live in Paris, that's what I was thinking. How could it be? I was married ten years, more than ten years, and nothing like that had ever happened. I fell asleep and when I woke up it was six in the morning. I thought maybe she was right, better that this remain a wonderful and inexplicable memory.
I woke up very early, and at six my suitcases were ready. I paid the bill and went to look for a taxi to the port. Suddenly I headed back to the reception desk. I asked if anyone had left me a message. I thought maybe Fátima had changed her mind and left me her telephone number. And if she had, what would I do? Could I really fall in love with her? A Jew and a Muslim? Could we ever have a relationship? Maybe it would be possible with a Christian, but not with an Arab.
I couldn't find any taxis at that hour. I decided to just walk to the port. It was a twenty-minute walk, the whole city was just a few minutes walking. In the street I saw the cafés starting to open their doors. The doors opened like tired people who could scarcely open their eyes, before the men threw themselves on their coffees and croissants, espressos and cappuccinos. I found one that was already open and got a coffee. They told me I still had 10 more minutes walking to get to the port that a fast boat would be leaving at seven.
“You'll get there before eight, and I'll still be here in Africa.”
&
nbsp; “Maybe I'll take the slow boat. I'm not in a rush, and I want to experience the journey.”
"Ok fine, there are people that like to live on the water, others that like to walk on the water. I prefer to be on land."
When I arrived they told me there were only fast boats until ten o'clock, so I got on the seven o'clock one. The sea was very calm. I thought about traveling to Sevilla to see an old school friend, Pedro Enriquez. An architect and a poet. I calculated that we would arrive in Sevilla before midday, that I could stay until nightfall and take the last Talgo, to get to Madrid before twelve.
I got on the bus at Algeciras port headed to Sevilla. On the seat opposite me was a French book. It was a Philip Roth book that I had read in Spanish. I opened it and read the dedication.
To Zohra.
Love is freedom.
Love is tenderness.
Marcel.
ISAQUE
Two days later we traveled to Tangier. We flew together to Paris, then I continued on to New York. She would go home. I would go somewhere under the sun. I have lived in Madrid, Paris, Jerusalem, London, and now...I don't know where home is anymore. I don't recognize the streets around me.
For years in Jerusalem they would ask me for a street next to my house and I didn't know where it was. I knew where the Yehuda, Naftali, and Dan streets were, but two streets over and I forgot all the names, the same in Madrid, Balmes, la Castellana, La Gran Via, some of the main streets. I know how to get to my house. The other streets remained unknown names or were at least difficult for me to place. What are street names, anyway? I heard there’s an island where the streets don't have names, I should go live there. Paris, Faubourg Saint-Honoré, Avenue de Ternes, Pereire, I lived there a few months, Capucines, Opera, Champs Elysées, London, Regent, Park Crescent, Hendon, Oxford, Teixera, Orense, Príncipe de Vergara, as if I had been a tourist the whole time. In New York it is easy to remember the numbers, street numbers make more sense, Bowery, Canal. As if in all those places I had only been in a hotel on the main street, and then never gone back. Manhattan, the center of the world, I was at the center of the world. Always a tourist, everywhere, tomorrow if you put me in Casablanca it would be the same, in Sevilla or Tel Aviv, I only see people, coming and going, running, they're expelled from their countries, they conquer countries, they make war, they die and get rich, they lose their fortunes, or get even richer, or don't even have enough to buy bread, or they eat too much, but none of them know what they are doing here, with the exception of the mystic, who wants to go to another world, at least knows that he or she wants to go to another world.
Gates to Tangier Page 8
