She got worked up recalling these memories. As she tried to catch her breath she suddenly noticed her brother standing in front of the station. Was he spying on her? She looked at him suspiciously. Why was he wearing sports gear? He only wore those clothes when he went out jogging with friends. Why was he wearing the cap that he used to cover his face when he pretended to be sleeping? She squinted at him, examining his appearance as he crossed the street and walked toward her. As he approached, people waiting at the station turned to look at him. He was agitated and looked as if he were ready to pounce on her. She pulled back as he reached for her arm.
“What do you want from me?” she said in a loud voice, drawing the attention of those around her.
He stared at the onlookers who were now surrounding them, as if he were ready to take on each and every one of them.
“Where are you going?” he said through his clenched jaw.
“It’s none of your business where I’m going,” she said coldly.
She moved away, but he stayed close.
“You humiliated me in front of my friends—”
“You and your friends,” she interrupted, “do absolutely nothing except keep tabs on everyone else. All you do is stand around and gossip like women! Why don’t you look for jobs? If you don’t like the fact that I have a job, why don’t you go get one yourself! I’d love to stay home. I could use a break.”
She didn’t know where this courage and strength sprang from inside her. She noticed her brother’s irritation. He looked around, scared that some nosy passerby might have caught what she said.
“If I could find a job, I wouldn’t be standing here,” he said, trying to maintain his composure.
“Leave me alone, for our mother’s sake,” she said. “Or do you want her back in a hospital bed again?”
Ibrahim looked at his sister in disbelief, his anger intensifying. “You talk about your job like you’re some respectable employee.”
“I am a respectable employee,” she said firmly.
“Where do you work?”
“None of your business.”
“If your job is respectable then let me come along.”
She shook her head. “I’m not working tonight, but if you want to join me tomorrow, be my guest.”
“Where are you going now?” he asked.
“To a friend’s place.”
She backed away a few paces, but he closed in again. She was scared he was about to lash out, but instead a strange smile spread over his face.
“You were at Salwa’s Salon,” he said, leaning into her ear. “The bus you’re waiting for is headed downtown—what’s downtown except cafés, bars, and whorehouses? Do you think I don’t know what you do? Do you think I’m really asleep when you return drunk, smelling like cigarettes and beer? I’ve defended your reputation nearly every single day. I’ve been ready to fight anyone who has even thought about attacking you. You’ll never be able to understand how much I’ve suffered on your behalf. But yesterday, when they saw you get out of that car like that, you exposed it all. Your cover was blown.”
“What happened yesterday will never happen again, I promise you.”
He grabbed her arm so hard that she nearly screamed. He no longer cared what everyone around them thought.
“Come back to the house with me.”
She freed her arm from his clutch and looked at him. She could see sparks flying in his eyes.
“Get away from me!” she yelled. “Who are you? I don’t know you!”
Ibrahim froze in place, looking at her in disbelief. His heart raced and he could feel the blood rush into his face. He stood there mortified and could hear murmurs in support of Nezha. From the corner of his eye he saw a guy move forward as if he were about to intervene.
Nezha couldn’t understand exactly how she lost control, and how all this anger erupted. Her face went white, she started breathing heavily, and her limbs shook. Everyone watching assumed the situation was about to get worse. Then the bus pulled in slowly. Just before it stopped, Nezha caught a glimpse of Sufyan and Driss, who had been keeping an eye on the altercation from the other side of the street.
*
In the Ain Seba industrial area east of Casablanca there was a factory that specialized in manufacturing electrical cables for vehicles. The company was owned by a giant German corporation, which, like many corporations, preferred the lower labor costs and special tax deductions in Morocco, not to mention its proximity to Europe for easy export.
The factory had a typical assembly line where all of the workers, men and women alike, stood in their assigned place, adding their own little segment to the cable before it moved along the line to the next person. No one, no matter what, could leave their workstation or make a single mistake for fear of jamming the line and shutting down the machines, resulting in hours of repairs. In classic German style, the workers moved quickly, but with precision. Despite the physicality of the job, the workers were thankful that at least the machines were quiet—allowing them to chat with one another all day.
This week had been particularly grueling. The workers weren’t allowed to take any time off and worked extra hours for a rush order from a big contractor in Europe. As compensation, the company promised everyone an extra day’s holiday. Abdel-Jalil and Said, two of the employees, eagerly awaited the sound of the bell as they approached the last fifteen minutes of their shift. They were antsy. Not only were they in the first group to be given the following day off, but today was payday, and it included all of the overtime they had worked this month. Abdel-Jalil and Said had become close friends working together on the line. They were both overqualified for their positions—one had a university degree in physics, the other a degree in environmental science—but the lack of job opportunities in the country pushed them to employment that didn’t make use of their skills. That said, they were actually among the fortunate—at least they were able to get jobs in this factory.
They stood next to one another, their hands moving quickly. The monotony of the day had taken its toll. They looked haggard and ached to get off of their feet. They had discussed every topic imaginable and had nothing more to talk about except what they would do when they finished their shift—but the minutes were dragging.
“I’ve changed my mind,” said Said, without shifting his eyes from the workstation. “I’m not going to go with you to Fez. I’m not leaving my house. What I want, need, and dream of, is to relax and just sleep.”
Said was thirty, just like his friend. He had a large white mark around his right temple that drew stares and made him feel undesirable. As a result, he was cynical and antagonistic toward most people. Quite the opposite of Said, Abdel-Jalil was a likable guy. He was handsome, and always well dressed and clean-shaven.
“Why have you changed your mind so quickly?” Abdel-Jalil asked, disappointed.
Said didn’t answer his friend’s question.
“I’m tired too,” Abdel-Jalil added, sighing. “I don’t want to travel, but it’s the first of the month. I have to visit my family and give them some money.”
“Send them a money transfer like last month and apologize over the phone. Tell them we don’t have a break.”
“I promised them I’d visit. Also, I miss my mother and siblings.”
Said was the one who sighed this time, loudly, more like a groan, as he closed his eyes for a moment. He thought about the cold, family-less world he inhabited. His mother had divorced his father years ago and married another man. His one sister lived in Spain with her husband and children.
Abdel-Jalil sensed that his friend Said was deep in thought, which was his usual response when they had this conversation.
“What do you think about having dinner at our friend Baaroub’s restaurant?” he asked to lighten the mood. “Then I’ll head home to pack up some stuff, go get a ticket at the station, and come to your place and hang out until I need to leave.”
Said cheered up at this suggestion. The assembly line
came to a stop and the bell rang marking the end of their shift. The workers swarmed to the exits of the building like they were running from a fire. They all lined up in front of the cashier to get their wages.
Baaroub’s restaurant was one of the most popular local joints downtown. It served up traditional Moroccan dishes, like tagines and kebabs, with a modern flair. They were known for their harira soup and maaqouda, a simple dish of fried potatoes, spices, and eggs. The friends each placed an order of both dishes. They sat at their favorite table in the corner, eating and chatting away. At a neighboring table sat a young man and a pretty, elegant girl, who kept laughing as she ate. The way the couple was positioned, Said was facing her, and whenever they looked at one another Said was struck with envy.
“I’d love to meet a cheerful girl like her.”
Abdel-Jalil turned around to check her out. He thought she was ordinary and unattractive. Abdel-Jalil knew that watching this couple was eating away at Said. Most women found Said unsightly and he had given up on trying to find one to marry.
“Do you think you’re the only one who wants to get married?” Abdel-Jalil asked to distract him. “I want to get married too, but I can’t seem to find anyone either.”
Said put down his food, feeling even more drawn to the girl across from him. “If I met a girl who liked me,” he said, “it wouldn’t be complicated. I’d recite the opening verses of the Quran and marry her on the spot.”
Abdel-Jalil finished his harira and chomped down on the last big piece of maaqouda. “We’ve said the same thing a thousand times,” he said.
“The next time will be different,” Said replied energetically. “As soon as I find a girl who likes me I’m going to propose on the spot. I’ll tell her directly: ‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Said. I’m thirty years old. I live in a decent place downtown, even though it’s a bit small and old. I work at a factory that produces electrical cables and I make three thousand dirhams a month. I’m a serious and reasonable guy. Will you marry me?’ If she said yes, we’d get engaged that same day, without a moment’s hesitation. I wouldn’t ask her about her past, who she is, what she owns, whether she works or not.”
Abdel-Jalil smiled, hoping to add a bit of levity to this tedious conversation that Said never seemed to tire of discussing.
“It’s like you bought a watermelon and you have no idea whether it’s sweet inside until you open it,” Abdel-Jalil joked.
The girl at the other table laughed loudly, almost as if she were mocking their ridiculous conversation. Said took this gesture personally and sank down further in his chair, as if the girl’s laugh had intentionally wounded him. He looked up to shoot her a nasty look, but she was already absorbed in conversation with her male companion. She was listening to him intently, and he seemed to be telling her a fascinating story.
“Don’t pay attention to her,” Abdel-Jalil said, snapping Said out of it.
Said shuddered like someone pulled away from watching an intense movie.
“Let’s go,” Said said. “On to our misery.”
Abdel-Jalil paid the bill as Said got a final look at the two lovers, who seemed to be in another world altogether.
*
Nezha rushed onto the bus as soon as it stopped at the station. She squeezed her way through the crowd, which was crammed like a can of sardines. She told herself: “If I don’t turn around, I won’t see what’s behind me. Stay calm. Don’t be afraid.”
Every time the bus stopped and passengers got off Nezha would act as if she were moving toward the front door, to see if anyone would follow her if she got up. She wasn’t sure if her brother or one of his friends had boarded as well. She was frightened, and was ready to bolt from the bus at any moment. As they approached the intersection with the busiest downtown street, the signal turned red. The bus stopped in the middle of a line of cars. Nezha stood and shuffled to the front, getting so close to the bus driver that he was forced to look at her. When he looked up she leaned in toward his ear and whispered: “Maybe you could let me off here?”
“Why not, beautiful?”
He pressed the button to open the door and Nezha slipped out before the door had fully opened. She made her way through the cars and then darted into a side street teeming with pedestrians. She smiled victoriously and said to herself: “Nezha can do it all!” Then, catching herself being cocky, she apologized: “Forgive me, Lord.” She passed a number of buildings before branching off into an empty alleyway, constantly checking behind her. She walked under the pale light of the streetlamps, passing the back doors of cafés, hotels, and bars. It was a warm night, like those November nights that increasingly seemed to be an extension of the summer during these years of drought.
By the time Nezha approached the back door of La Falaise she was strutting and feeling a bit bolder. “Whatever happens, happens,” she said to herself as she climbed the narrow, unlit back stairs. She found herself in the dressing room. It was empty and smelled of a mixture of cheap perfume and sweat. The floor was littered with used tissues. Nezha stared at herself in the mirror. She picked up one of the lipsticks from the counter in front of her and started painting the deep red onto her lips. She paused, leaning in to look at her reflection and questioning her decision to come here.
She entered the bar and found it empty except for a few girls she vaguely knew, who were flirting with customers. She froze when she saw Farqash at the bar with Warda. She watched as he lit her cigarette and caressed her hand. He wrapped his arm around her waist, drew her close, and kissed her. Nezha walked over to the booth closest to them and sat down. She slammed down her pack of cigarettes.
“Warda, one beer over here!” she shouted, intent on disrupting their embrace.
Farqash turned toward her in disbelief. Warda froze, awaiting Farqash’s instructions. Without even looking at her he shook his head, telling Warda not to bring her a beer, and walked toward Nezha. He grabbed a chair and sat in front of her.
“You have my money?” he asked in a threatening tone.
“I know you’re aware of what happened last night.”
Farqash gnashed his big, yellowed teeth, grumbled, and slammed his fist on the table. “Listen, you whore, I don’t care about your life story. If you don’t put the money on this table, I’ll wipe you off the face of this planet.” As he spoke his nostrils flared like a bull’s, filled with rage toward her.
Nezha thought about how everything in her life had gone downhill the day Salwa introduced her to this animal. Salwa had presented him to Nezha as her protector, as someone who would look after her. At the time, Nezha had no idea how the nightlife operated. Farqash had masterminded their whole relationship. He claimed her as his favorite and made her feel like the princess of La Falaise. He helped her earn a lot of money, taught her how to smoke, drink, and flirt like a professional. But once he’d gained control over her he began punishing her for any little slipup, no matter how trivial. He would beat her with his belt and throw things at her. One time, when she refused to have anal sex with him, he hit her on the head with a bottle, resulting in a cut so deep that she still had the scar. Another time he raped her so aggressively that she was left bedridden for a week. From that day on, he instilled such fear in her that she would do anything he asked, without resistance or delay. She knew he would be brutal with her if she made him mad, but he was so moody that it became difficult to predict when he would have one of his outbursts.
One night, when he was drunk, he confided that he had killed a man. He opened a case underneath his bed and showed her a long shiny sword. She thought he was going to kill her on the spot. But he satisfied himself with beating her instead, and warned her that he was watching her. He said he knew about her attempts to flee and work at other clubs. He warned her that all the other club owners in Casablanca were his friends, and no matter what she did, she’d never be able to escape. He reminded her of some of the girls with disfigured faces who begged for cigarettes and pennies outside the clubs. He told her
they’d been just like her, but had disobeyed or tried to scam him. He reminded her of Farida, his most recent victim: she would put a hand over the top of her mouth to hide the nasty scar that made her smile from ear to ear like a menacing clown. After midnight Farida would be outside, begging for cigarettes or money to buy a bottle of cheap liquor from her old friends.
All the other girls in the bar constantly flattered Nezha and gave her fancy cigarettes and gifts, in hopes that if Farqash got mad at one of them, Nezha might intervene on her behalf. Her happiest days were when Farqash spoiled her, embraced her, and slapped her ass. She never thought that Warda’s presence would change things so quickly. Warda, that fat-assed Bedouin, was now sitting on the throne. She hated hearing the other women calling Warda’s name instead of hers. When Nezha first complained to Farqash that he wasn’t paying as much attention to her, he beat her brutally. To make his point, he took out his sword, placed the blade on her neck, and made it clear what would happen if she complained again. Farqash quickly changed all the rules, and started demanding that Nezha make a nightly payment to him, just like all the other girls. One night she picked a fight with Warda, who proved to be just as vicious as Farqash. She started thinking of leaving, but where would she go? As long as she was in demand at La Falaise, she wasn’t allowed to work anywhere else.
In the end, she gave in to her new reality. To cope, she started drinking more. She didn’t turn down a single request. She placed no boundaries on what she was willing to do with men. What does it matter what they do to me? she thought. Farqash would do the same or worse. Just when she thought that Farqash would stop making demands, he surprised her by insisting on a huge cut from her recent outings with Hamadi. He started threatening to kill her if wasn’t paid his fair share.
Bled Dry Page 7
