L'armée du salut (English Version) - Salvation Army 9782757808191, 9782020859455

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The sa1ut army

ABDELLAH TAÏA THE

SALVATION ARMY ROMAN

Éditions du Seuil

ISBN 978-2-7578-0819-1 (ISBN 978-2-02-085945-5, 1re publication)

Éditions du Seuil, March 2006

For Mohamed, my father

I

She always slept with us, in our midst, between my little brother Mustapha and my sister Rabiaa. She would fall asleep very quickly, and her snoring would punctuate her sleep night after night in a natural, almost harmonious way. At first, this disturbed us, preventing us from entering into our dreams. Over time, his nocturnal music, not to say his noises, became a benevolent breath that accompanied our nights and even reassured us when the nightmares took hold of us, only letting us go once we were drained and exhausted. For a long time, our house in Hay Salam, Salé, was just a ground floor with three rooms, one for my father, another for my older brother Abdelkébir and the last one for us, the rest of t h e family: my six sisters, Mustapha, my mother and me. There were no beds in this room, just three benches that served as living-room sofas during the day. We lived in this room all the time, where there was also a gigantic, monstrous old wardrobe, on top of each other: we ate there, we sometimes made mint tea there, we revised lessons there, we received our neighbors there, we told each other stories that never ended, and of course we argued there, gently or violently, depending on the day, our state of mind and above all how my mother reacted. For many years, my childhood, my adolescence, most of my life took place in this room overlooking the street. Four walls that didn't really protect me from outside noise. A small roof under which to live, to record in our memory, in our skin, everything that made up our lives, to experience everything, to feel everything, and later to remember everything. The other two rooms, especially Abdelkébir's, were almost inaccessible to us. He was the eldest, almost the king of the family. Abdelkébir's

my father's living room for special occasions, the library where he carefully stored his beautifully bound Arabic books, and his love nest. It was here that my parents made love. It happened at least once a week. We knew about it. We knew everything at home. To tell my mother of his sexual desire, my father had developed his own techniques, his own strategies. One of them was simply to spend the evening with us, in our room. He was a great talker, he liked to comment on everything, but he suddenly became silent. He said nothing, not a word, not a sound came out of his mouth. He didn't even smoke. He curled up in a corner of the room, alone with the torments of his desire, in the early stages of the sexual act, already in orgasm, his arms around her body. His silence was eloquent, heavy, and nothing could break it. My mother understood quickly enough, and so did we. When she accepted his silent proposals, it was she who enlivened the evening with her stories from the boondocks and her bursts of laughter. Tired or angry, she'd keep quiet too. Her refusals were clear, so my father didn't insist. But once, vexed, he took his revenge on her, and on us for that matter (although we were completely neutral in their sexual affairs, or at least we tried to be), by cutting off the electricity throughout the house. He thus cruelly deprived us of the weekly evening of international variety shows, which we followed with great attention on TV. He put us in the same state of frustration as himself. No one protested. We understood him perfectly well. No pleasure for him: no pleasure for us. Before joining him in his living room, M'Barka would wait for us all to fall asleep. She would then leave us, reassured, to go and fulfill her marital duty and make her man happy. I tried several times to stay awake to witness this magical moment, the departure in the dark towards love. To no avail. In those days, I had no trouble sleeping; I'd just get into bed and the dark would fall on me.

It was a gift from my mother. It was a gift from my mother. During her nights of love, my mother's snoring was no longer there to accompany us, to lull us to sleep. To love us. The next morning, it was hard to wake up, something was missing, but M'Barka was already back with us, in her place, between Rabiaa and Mustapha. At night, my dreams were not sexual. On some days, however, my imagination ventured easily and excitedly into this torrid, slightly incestuous terrain. I was in bed with my parents. My father in my mother. My father's big, hard sex (it could only be big!) penetrating my mother's enormous vagina. I could hear their noises, their breath. At first, I couldn't see anything, everything was black, but in the end I was right there with them, looking closely at these two bodies I knew well and not so well at the same time, ready to give them a hand, excited, happy and panting with them. Mohamed would take M'Barka right away, sometimes without even undressing her. Their sexual union lasted a long, long time. They never spoke, and they gave themselves to each other with their eyes always closed. A perfect sexual harmony that came naturally. They'd been made for each other, and sex was obviously their preferred language, through which the image of the couple they formed was clearly expressed. Even after giving birth to nine children, their desire for each other was still mysteriously and joyfully intact. In my head, the reality of our family has a very strong sexual flavor, it's as if we'd all been partners for each other, we were constantly mixing, without any guilt. Sex, no matter who it's with, should never scare us. My mother, through her life, her pleasure and her tastes, taught me this lesson that I won't forget and that I sometimes naively try to apply.

My parents' lovemaking nights often ended in a ruckus. My parents argued after sex. Loudly. Violently. It was always the same old story. An old story that would never die. The screams of my mother, hysterical, possessed, out of her mind, woke us up in the middle of the night. "You're going to drive me crazy! I've sworn a hundred times, a thousand times. He was there for you, not me. He came to see you, not me. Don't you remember that? Don't you remember that? He wanted to ask you to come and help him farm his land. Oh, my God! Oh, my God! My God! My God! How long am I going to put up with all this, this suffering, these accusations, the same accusations over and over again? All my life? No, no, no... I'm fed up, fed up, fed up... There are limits to everything. I can't take it all, I can't swallow it all, I'm not as strong as you think I am. How many more years do you need to believe me? Why do you make me justify myself all the time? To go over and over the same things, the same story? I've never cheated on you, you know that, not with him, not with anyone else. You want me to swear? Yes ? I've already done it anyway, I wouldn't mind doing it again... Would you? Stay away from me... No... Leave me alone, I've given you what you wanted. My body belongs to you, but that's no reason to treat it so badly. Why are you picking on me like this, what have I done to you? After all, I'm the mother of your children, haven't you forgotten that? Think of God, of the Prophet! All that was a long, long time ago, in another life almost... I don't even remember when precisely, and it doesn't matter anyway... Don't come near me... Let me... No, not the belt, you're incapable of beating me, you know it, you're not that kind of man, let me run away from you... Let me out... Help! To me!" They had just gotten married. My father wasn't always at home. He looked for work elsewhere, in other villages. M'Barka stayed alone for days at a time in the douar of Oulad Brahim, not far from her brother-in-law's "farm". This

was not their first marriage. Mohamed had married three women before he met my mother. None of them had suited his sister Massaouda, who decided everything for him. M'Barka was already a widow with a one-year-old daughter when Mohamed went to his father to ask for her hand in marriage. They were both familiar with life and its pitfalls. They had already experienced love and its problems. On the surface, they weren't fooled by anything. Now they wanted a family for real and forever. One day, Mohamed came home early. It was souk day, a Wednesday. He had brought home a basket filled with fresh fruit and vegetables, red meat and mint. He was happy, proud. He was back with his wife. He had earned money. He felt like a man, M'Barka's man. Unfortunately for him, Saleh, my mother's cousin, was there in his own house. Worse still, he too had brought a basket full to bursting with victuals. Mohamed had never been able to stand Saleh, whom he found vulgar and mean. M'Barka and Saleh were sitting next to each other. Their knees were touching. They were drinking mint tea. They were laughing. They were almost playing, the way children play bride and groom. M'Barka moved slightly away from his cousin as Mohamed entered the house. Mohamed took notice. He immediately concluded that something had happened between them in his absence. Their intimacy disturbed him to the core, and he was immediately disgusted and sickened by it. But he had to face this unpleasant surprise, this terrible situation, the doubt, the jealousy that had instantly arisen in him when he'd caught them so close. In spite of everything, Saleh had to be welcomed; he was a relative. A family member whom Mohamed not only disliked, but would never have invited. Saleh indulged himself as if he were in his own kingdom, and this drove Mohamed mad. "Salam alikoum, my wife's cousin! — Wa alikoum salam, my cousin's husband! — You both look happy... The neighbors could almost hear you laughing... and suspect something...

especially since I'm not supposed to be here. — M'Barka and I have always been very close. We grew up together, played together, got into mischief together. — And what made you laugh so hard? Tell me so I can laugh with you too! — Oh, all kinds of things, anecdotes from the bled... our childhood games, memories... And, as you know, the stories from the douar are so funny. M'Barka and I have been through so much together, we could spend days and days recounting our shared memories. — Well... I can see that I'm too much, so I'll leave you to your funny stories, to your undisturbed complicity... I've got a headache, so I'm going to bed. Good-bye." Mohamed entered the bedroom, violently closed the windows and slammed the door. The message was clear. M'Barka took refuge in silence. Saleh immediately returned to his douar. He never returned to see his cousin in my father's house. I never knew Saleh. And yet he was very much a part of our lives. His first name, so beautiful and gentle, still echoes in the Hay Salam house, so often pronounced, shouted, insulted, cursed. Saleh was the source of an absolute misunderstanding, a wound forever open, a definitive evil. In my father's mind, it was a betrayal. The end of a certain idea of love and the beginning of an overflowing, violent and shameless sexuality. Since that cursed day, M'Barka has never stopped justifying himself, telling his side of the story, explaining, analyzing the smallest details, saying over and over again his "innocence" in the face of my father's accusations. Mohamed was discovering the world of jealousy, and would stay there for the rest of his life. "No, no, no... I didn't sleep with Saleh. I never did. Stop torturing me, smearing me like that in front of my children. What will the neighbors think of me now, the good and the bad? They'll say to themselves: "Who would have thought that of her?

I, a woman of dishonor? A woman who betrays, a whore? Never on your life, you hear, you all hear, never on your life! Don't you believe me? You want me to swear on my father's head? Do you? But why bother! I've already done it and that hasn't stopped you from coming back at me, using your murderous words, continuing to kill me slowly... So, maybe... maybe he wanted to... he wanted to fuck me, but not me, not me, you hear... You want me to repeat it... NOT ME... I never gave him the opportunity to make a pass at me, not him or anyone else for that matter... You're going to drive me crazy... and you're crazy, crazy, crazy... Calm down... let your blood cool... Please, don't let the devil separate us, take us away from each other. Think of our holy Sidi Moulay Brahim... Come here... Nothing ever happened... I swear on my father's head. I'd swear on the tomb of Sidi Moulay Brahim if you wanted me to." You could hear everything. M'Barka's loud voice filled the whole space and carried far and wide, and the smallest details of his story were revealed to everyone, near and far, friend and foe alike. At first, we didn't dare to intervene, to meddle in this story, so ancient, so intimate, so complicated. But when Mohamed used his belt to beat M'Barka, at that moment, alerted by my mother's panicked cries, we all ran to his aid. We'd meet on the patio, our eyes red with sleep, ashamed, frightened, on the verge of tears, to decide what to do. We all shared the same fear: that he would kill her in a fit of dementia. Every time, Abdelkébir tried to force the door open. It was always locked. My mother screamed as if she were about to give up the ghost, as if my father were about to stab her in the heart with the big knife he used to sacrifice the sheep during Aïd el-Kebir, thus realizing our worst fears. Every time, we were on the verge of tragedy. Going from drama to tragedy is so easy. Fortunately, the saints M'Barka kept invoking eventually intervened on our behalf and sent us some of their peace.

M'Barka knew how to scream, and she was right. It was what saved her every time. Hysteria is a disease I know well. The neighbors closest to our house also intervened from time to time. They would knock on our door and ask whoever opened it: "What's wrong with your mother? Is she still being abused by your father? How could I respond to this hypocrisy? How do I defend my mother's honor? And my father's? What could I say to people who played the role of savior, yet were quick to spread the most monstrous rumors about our family? No, my mother wasn't mistreated by my father. Their love story was like that, complex, violent, tortured. True love, the kind that lasts and transcends the years, is always lived this way, passionately, madly. Mohamed never beat M'Barka, he only pretended to, because he knew he couldn't do it. He'd raise his hand, but never go through with it. My mother, of course, exaggerated her screams to the max. She was a good actress and understood everything there was to know about acting. How to get her out? How do we get her out of this prison and out of this paradise, away from my father's furious jealousy, away from the angel turned devil? How do we get her back safe and sound and into our room, our home, our midst? Without consulting each other, we'd all start banging on the door, crying, begging Mohamed to spare him this time, just this time. We knocked hard. We'd shout too. And, always, we'd end up smashing down the door, which had become fragile over time, emptied of its interior. A gutless door, an empty frame. We'd find the two of them, ashamed as two children caught playing forbidden games, my father wearing only long underpants, and my mother almost naked in her transparent nightdress. Abdelkébir was about to free her. Mohamed said nothing, just let his eldest son do his thing. Abdelkébir wrapped his arms around M'Barka as if to cover her, and brought her back to our room.

We'd form a procession behind them and follow them home. A little later, without saying a word, we'd turn off the lights and pretend to be asleep. Silence again. Absolute silence, heavy, restless. Momentary. In the dark, a few minutes after this temporary denouement, the smoke from Mohamed's cigarettes crossed his room, the patio and reached us, carrying with it his dismay, his regrets, and sometimes his tears. Mohamed was finally talking to us! We thought he was very sexual, but in fact he was above all sentimental. Mohamed wasn't a bad father. He was a lover. And that justified everything in my eyes. At the time, I was convinced that M'Barka was telling the truth. Saleh was just his cousin, and nothing more. I couldn't imagine him cuckolding my father with him. Today, from a distance, I tell myself that anything is possible.

II

He was there before me. Long before me. He was born in the Beni Mellal countryside two years after my parents married. Their first child! A boy! Family life had begun auspiciously. A boy is, whatever happens, a positive sign, synonymous with good fortune, wealth and happiness. He was the first, the undisputed eldest. Mohamed and M'Barka didn't hesitate long about what name to give him: Abdelkébir. The servant of the Great! Deep down, they knew they'd have other children, other servants, soon enough, but this one would remain forever special to them, the symbol of their family, their future, their name for years and years to come. Thanks to Abdelkébir, my mother finally and definitively acquired a rightful place in the great Taïa family. My father decided to celebrate the birth. His days and nights would never be the same again. A new light was now shining on his world in a thrilling, exciting, happy way. A party, yes, a big party was in order. At the time, Mohamed was still living in his parents' house, with his sister Massaouda, who would never marry, and his older brother ElBouhali, who had been married for a long time. El-Bouhali had not yet declared war on him. Later he would deny my father outright, claiming that they didn't have the same father, that Mohamed, son of sin, had no right to the inheritance. El-Buhali would keep everything for himself. Mohamed would be left with nothing. For the time being, a certain unity reigned in the family home. They were all more or less young, and money was not their main obsession. Only pleasure (living, making love, having fun) was important to them.

eating) mattered to them. The pleasure of simply being there, able to be happy together. Pleasure as a principle, a guide. M'Barka invited her entire douar to the party. Only the family of her first husband, who had died in the war and taken custody of her daughter Amina following her remarriage, didn't turn up, but this didn't surprise her. M'Barka was determined to invite them in spite of everything. She had suffered too long from the wars between family clans. Overflowing with joy and optimism, she wanted to reconcile everyone at this party. She forgot the wrongs done to her, tried to forget the ability of others to practice evil easily and without remorse. Of course, she was kidding herself. One man's happiness does not necessarily make another man happy. Mohamed bought a sheep, a cow and a dozen roosters. He even wanted to buy a camel, but M'Barka prevented him - she was afraid of the evil eye. She knew what some of the women in the douar were capable of. She suspected that she would inevitably be cursed. She was used to the jealousy of others, even when you've got nothing, and she knew how to ward it off. Abdelkébir needed to be celebrated, to give a joyful meaning to his coming into the world, but at the same time, he needed to be protected. Like all Moroccan women, M'Barka had her fquih, the one she could count on in times of danger. His name was simply El-Hadj, an old man known for his piety, his contacts with the invisible world of the jinn and his power as a sorcerer. She went to see him. He quickly prepared for her the protective hjab she was to leave permanently around Abdelkébir's neck, especially during the birth feast. He also taught her some mysterious incantations and advised her to recite them regularly during the feast. All went well in the end. Happiness seemed easy, within reach, eternal. Evil no longer existed. Sidi Moulay Brahim protected them all, his baraka guiding them.

Later, Abdelkébir even enjoyed a rare privilege: as M'Barka had no milk left in her breasts, my uncle's wife, Fatéma, nursed him in her place for at least four months, thus becoming his second mother. Many years later, one day when the kids of an opposing clan had taken revenge on me for the beating my clan had inflicted on them, by banging my head against the wall, and incredibly red blood had run down the right side of my skull for a long time, Fatéma tenderly nursed me back to health by putting sweet red bell pepper on my wound. Finally, to calm me down and stop my tears, she took out her right breast and put it in my mouth. I never understood this mystery: Fatema always had milk in her breasts, even when she was old. For the rest of my life, I'll remember the very sweet taste of her milk, its consistency and its smell, which strangely reminded me of the flowers in Hay Salam's public garden. I can still see myself suckling like a baby, Fatema's strong milk invading my mouth, my palate, my throat, my stomach, my intestines. I loved it. I loved it: this connection and this liquid, this well-being and this love, this pleasure and this pain. I was eight years old when this double event happened. Long muted, delayed, the war between my father and his brother finally broke out. Mohamed and M'Barka, defeated, not knowing what to do in the face of so much injustice, abandoned everything and moved to the city, first to El-Jadida, then to Rabat and finally to Salé. Curiously, and I've never known why, my uncle's family also chose to leave the countryside some time later and move to the same town as us. Only a thirty-minute walk separated us from them. And so, despite the problems, resentments, hatreds and constant arguments, a semblance of a normal relationship was maintained between the two brothers and the two families. An Arab proverb says that blood will never become water. Does it really? I never liked my uncle. He's dry, yellow. He doesn't look like my father. He's still alive, yet every time I've had the chance to see him, he's given me the impression that he's going to give up the ghost at any moment. And more than once, I've wished for that.

death, this final justice, this sure appointment, this deserved vengeance. My father died eight years ago. El-Bouhali, on the other hand, is still alive. A living corpse. My uncle, and I'm obliged to think of him as such, betrayed everyone. Only a few months after Fatema's death, he remarried a girl from the village who was the same age as his youngest child. He repudiated her only five months later, marrying a second, then a third. Islam allows him to take four at the same time if he wishes. Normally, I wouldn't like Fatema either. I'd witnessed the many miseries and dirty tricks she regularly pulled on my mother. But I couldn't do it. And I still can't. I still have her milk inside me, I have the scar on my skull that she healed with gentleness and love. They remind me of her tender gaze on me and the special bond between her, Abdelkébir and me. For others, Fatema was a bulimic shrew and a ruthless witch. Fatéma, I called her Mama. Abdelkébir too.

It's my brother! Yes, my brother, my big brother! He's mine. I've got a big brother... a real big brother! And his name is Abdelkébir. He's big. He's more than my brother. We have the same father and mother. He's the first boy, I'm the second. Telling others this, repeating it over and over again in my head fills me with pride. It's childish, I know. Silly, even, to some people. But I don't care. That's the way it is in my head. When I think of him, I'm always the little one he has to protect from life's dangers, he's the big man I'd like to be one day. My brother has been there from the start. He's the second head of the family. He studied political science at university, he's read I don't know how many books, he's worked - for us, not for himself. He helped Mohamed and M'Barka build the house in Hay Salam. He gave me books, his books, music, his music. And above all, he took me to the movies: meeting the seventh art changed my life, my eyes, and that's thanks to him. I have an older brother. He has a moustache, a fine black moustache that makes him look important and handsome. I have a brother and when I was little, we sometimes watched TV together in his room, and he'd put me in bed with him so I wouldn't get cold. Under the same blanket, we'd spend hours glued together. Inside each other. I've forgotten the images that scrolled across the television screen. I still carry in my heart the delicious sensation of my little body in contact with his big, hard one. I knew her smell. I knew the skin on her face, her ears, her hands. I knew the little wrinkles around her eyes. I knew the way she breathed. I knew his silence.

Abdelkébir didn't speak. And when he did, it was like a prophet (a poet) announcing a new sacred verse. I remembered everything he said by heart, and in my heart. When she was away, I'd climb through the window into her locked room and sit there for hours, or just lie there, in a state of suspension, looking at what was inside. Books, books, books, and records. The little bed: ours. The large but low desk. The hi-fi system. Dirty clothes everywhere. I was bathed in Abdelkébir's strong smell, his man smell: I loved it, I wallowed in it, I mixed it with my own and inhaled deeply. Like a little dog, I needed my big brother to play with, sleep against and sometimes lick. Under his bookcase he hid underpants that had a peculiar smell and were stained white on the inside. It took me a while to understand. It was his sperm. I even knew my brother's sperm. I touched it, studied it, sniffed it. I almost ate it once. That sperm came from him. It was him. It seemed normal to have this kind of desire for anything to do with Abdelkébir. And in my mind, it's still normal. With my brother, I forbade myself nothing. Everything was natural. Everything about him suited me, touched me inside with strength and delicacy. At the end of each month, when he got his paycheck, my brother would buy us meat, lots of meat, and fruit we didn't usually eat: kiwi, mangoes and grapefruit. My mother made a special meal. The tagine with prunes for special days. With our bellies full, we were really happy for an evening. Then we'd pray. We prayed for him. Sincerely. I cry because I loved my brother so much. I cry because Abdelkébir gave me so much happiness. I cry to have a brother like him who was there for us, for me.

There was no bathroom in our house, just the toilet. Abdelkébir liked to wash his hair several times a week. I helped him every time: I slowly poured hot water over his head, bent over the kitchen sink. The reason I like the nape of my neck today is that I spent a long time observing my brother's fine, soft neck. I often wanted to lean over and kiss him tenderly. I wanted to reach out and caress it, tickle it gently and hear Abdelkébir's laughter. To put my fingers in her hair, to play, to pull, to draw, to scratch, to dream... I wanted so many things when I was with Abdelkébir. I couldn't control myself. And I couldn't resist. I'd blow-dry his hair and then, fascinated, watch him comb it frantically and forcefully. I was in awe of his exquisite blend of coquetry and virility. Everything, everything, everything about my brother appealed to me and inspired me. Le Pain nu by Mohamed Choukri, which introduced me to literature, was his book. Who else back home, if not Abdelkébir, could have bought such a book and, because it was forbidden at the time, removed its cover and hid it under his bookcase, among his semenstained underpants? I read and reread this novel of Mohamed Choukri's hard and terrible life in Tangier without tiring of it. My brother was my whole life when I was in Morocco. He helped me make sentences, write letters. I cried with his words, thinking of him. He bought me a plane ticket, a sugar doughnut one evening in the Rabat medina, a blue toothbrush, white swimming trunks and a green winter coat that I still wear today. One day he left. He got married. It took me a long time to get used to his absence. I never got used to it, in fact. I wasn't the only one in the family to feel this terrible pain. I imagined him doing things with his wife that disgusted and revolted me. It was a betrayal, not on his part, but on society's: a man, a real man, must marry. Admittedly, he delayed this step on

as long as possible, but this only increased the pain when he seriously committed himself to this other life. Another woman, a stranger, now had him all to herself. When I was depressed, it made me want to kill myself. Failing to kill the stranger, the enemy, I made a very serious, solemn promise to God: I would never marry. I would keep my promise. Abdelkébir changed, of course. In Morocco, women delight in turning men into slaves, into dogs; they decapitate them, trivialize them, kill them little by little. It's their main task. Abdelkébir became someone else. I no longer recognized him. He was no longer called Abdelkébir: his wife pronounced the name in an exaggeratedly sophisticated way, destroying it, stripping it of its charm, its power. Abdelkébir wasn't my brother anymore.

Summer. Late July. 1987. While waiting for the train to leave, Abdelkébir took my little brother Mustapha and me to a café that wasn't like the ones in Hay Salam (too noisy, exclusively for men). It was the very chic Lina's Café. People were having an unhurried breakfast, all dressed lightly and elegantly: the men, about to go to work, were proudly wearing short-sleeved shirts and canvas pants; the women, meanwhile, were happily showing off in floral dresses (they looked as if they were flying away from their offices, towards the sea, the beaches, towards mysterious rendezvous, towards a lover for sure). Abdelkébir ordered for us: three orange juices, two hot milks, one strong coffee, three chocolate rolls and two mille- feuilles. A morning feast! His voice was firmer than usual. He sounded like a man with a situation, and that made me happy. He played perfectly and I was proud of him. I don't know why he'd suddenly decided to take us on vacation. At the time, he was still a minor civil servant, and didn't earn much money. Our sisters were excluded from the trip, and they weren't jealous: the boys with each other, the girls with each other. There was a certain justice in that! The sisters were finally going to be free from us boys, from our gaze that supposedly protected them from the outside world and its dangers, and they were going to be able to do whatever they wanted without having to justify themselves or ask permission. I felt I had a mission, I was the guardian of their honor, I played the role of the man, the one they hoped I would become fortunately, this didn't last long, and soon enough, after that trip with Abdelkébir, I gave up trying to become that kind of man.

We were going on vacation for the first time in our lives, and together. There was never a second time. Tangier. We were going to spend a week in the former international city. Why Tangier? I didn't ask myself the question: we were going on vacation and it didn't matter where - Marrakech, Essaouira, Fez - the main thing was that for once, summer vacations didn't mean staying at home doing nothing, eternally at home going crazy. Now that Tangier occupies a special place in my heart, I wonder whether my love for the city was born during that first stay or much later, when I returned there in my twenties. In any case, everything I knew about Tangier on the threshold of that first trip - almost nothing - was soon to change. My vision and idea of the city would be forever altered. Tangier is forever associated in my heart and mind with my big brother. Thanks to him, another new world was opening up before me. I was both happy and scared. After a hearty breakfast, we returned to Rabat Ville station to catch our train. On the way, I bought a small notebook to draw in. What was it for? I didn't know. I don't remember. Maybe to imitate the children of the rich. On the train, on a whim, I decided to give this notebook another role, that of a diary. Truly intimate.

Tuesday We took the train this morning at 9 o'clock. At first it was almost empty. Then, as we stopped at the Salé and Kenitra stations, it quickly filled up. The compartment we were in had no door, and fortunately so, because after only an hour's journey it was already very hot, and the whole train had become like the hammam at Hay Salam on a Thursday evening, the eve of the holy day.

Mustapha, I'm being unfair, I know, I don't remember what he did, what he was like. I often forget everything about Mustapha, I rarely pay attention to him. He's 10 years old, still a child. And me... I'm in the turmoil and storms of adolescence. Throughout the trip, Abdelkébir read a large novel whose title I didn't understand, Le Christ recrucifié by Nikos Kazantzaki. Abdelkébir, as usual, hasn't spoken. There's no conversation possible with him. He's here. We're with him. In silence. We don't look at each other. From time to time, he'd just ask us, "Are you all right? Mustapha and I would answer in chorus, the same thing every time: "Fine, big brother." But for some time now, I've been getting into the habit of sneaking up on him. To study him from head to toe, to melt into him. I was traveling on his body sitting right in front of me. The whole way. He didn't realize anything. I was inside him and he was unaware of it. Abdelkébir is 30 years old. He's a man. M'Barka, more than anyone else in the family, worships him. For her, he comes before everyone else, and to prove it, she always reserves for him the best of what we have, of what she cooks. She loves him more than us. And I love him more than the others, all the others. He remained absorbed in his reading throughout the journey. I tried to read, to guess from his face the story of this novel with its enigmatic title. But nothing. Nothing showed. Is it a love story? A happy story? Sad? Tragic? A spy story? Not a clue. No clues as to what was going on in Abdelkébir's head. It irritated me. The impossibility of knowing what his mind was on made me furious. I wanted to ask him to tell me the story of his novel, but that was out of the question. With Abdelkébir, that kind of intimacy is inconceivable.

prevent us from speaking to each

other in this way , naturally, familiarly. With him, all speech is reduced to its strict minimum. But miracles do happen. "I'll pass you this novel when I've finished it... if you like," he said as he continued reading. Surprised, taken aback, I mumbled without thinking about what I was saying: "It's too big for me... lots of pages..." Silence again. A few minutes later, he was back at it again. "You don't have to read the whole thing. — I won't know the end then... — I'll tell you all about it. — Really? — Yes. — But there's another problem... Your novel is written in French, isn't it? — Yes, what's the problem? — I don't speak the language as well as you do. — It doesn't matter if you don't understand everything, the main thing is to keep going, to keep reading a little more and more... And one day, before you know it, you'll understand it all. — So when are you going to give me your novel? — In three or four days, maybe a little longer... I'm a slow reader." That's all there is to it. A real miracle. A conversation with Abdelkébir. Well, "conversation" is a bit of an exaggeration. A few sentences. And a promise. We arrived in Tangier at around 2pm. The station is right next to the port, and the beach is not far away.

Abdelkébir had booked a room with three beds in an old hotel overlooking the beach on the corniche. Hotel Tingis. It's a real palace in ruins. It's like a movie set no longer in use, lifeless but full of ghosts. This hotel scares me a bit, there are too many dark corners and it's almost empty. After putting our things in the room, which was vast, strangely designed and had a very high ceiling, we went out to buy some sandwiches, then immediately returned to the hotel. We didn't meet a soul on either way. This hotel really scares me. I don't dare tell Abdelkébir, I don't want him to think I'm a wimp, but at the same time I'd like him to reassure me by giving me a hug, or inviting me to join him in his little bed like we do in Hay Salam, if I told him. We ate our sandwiches (all tuna) in silence, then Abdelkébir imposed a siesta - like M'Barka: it's a sacrosanct habit for him. Without conviction, and without grumbling either, Mustapha and I tried to do as he did. We're completely dependent on him, so we have to obey him. I like obeying Abdelkébir. I couldn't fall asleep. Abdelkébir did, and very quickly. He snored for a long time. And as this prevented me from falling asleep, I observed him, I studied him; his body once again. I got the middle bed. I put myself on the right side, with my back to Mustapha. Abdelkébir offered himself to me. It was very hot. He was wearing only black briefs. He slept on his back and had no blanket on him. His body is white, white-white. He has a little hair on his chest, a lot on his legs and calves, very black, curly hair. He's not very strong; in fact, compared with other men from Hay Salam, he's a bit skinny. But there's no denying

man. Man: I don't know how else to describe him. I know I won't be the man he is, the man he'll be more and more as the years go by. He was fast asleep. His snoring, like M'Barka's, didn't bother me after all. His belly, almost flat, rose and fell at a steady pace. I went up and down with him, hypnotized. My brother's body lay before me all afternoon. I scrutinized it, studied it like a scientist with great attention from head to toe, stopping on every detail. The fine nose. The large eyes. The full eyebrows. The coarse hair I'd washed so many times. The full, sensual lips. The thin moustache. The cheeks not quite full. The neck... The huge Adam's apple. Slightly drooping shoulders. Chest not quite muscular. Black nipples. The navel... The black panties and what they hid. Strong legs. Prominent knees. Calves muscled by years of cycling. The tiny, lovely feet. I swam all afternoon in this body, unaware of the spectacle it was offering me. This body which is a part of me and which is, at the same time, another me. Later, at around 5pm, Abdelkébir took us to the beach, which was teeming with people. Around 8 p.m., we dined in a chic restaurant on the corniche. I don't remember what we ate (fish maybe). I was tired and just wanted to sleep. Abdelkébir understood this. He took us back to the hotel around 9:30 pm. He's changing. He's going out for a walk. I'm writing in my diary about this day, and I wonder where he's going, well-babbled, more elegant than usual, handsome, more handsome than usual. I'm suddenly not sleepy.

Wednesday I finally fell asleep pretty quickly yesterday, I think. I dreamt all night about Tangier, which I don't really know yet. I was walking alone through streets full of people, not just Moroccans, not really Moroccan streets. Tangier was in another life, frozen in a relatively recent past, but one in which I had no place. When I woke up, Mustapha was still asleep. Abdelkébir was not in his bed. I immediately thought he'd spent the night out. Out with whom? Where had he gone? Suddenly he entered the room, a towel around his waist. He'd just taken his morning shower, smelling even remotely of vanilla shower gel. He said "Good morning" to me with a gentle smile, perhaps forced, but which deep down conveyed a state of inner well-being and this intrigued me greatly. Without thinking, I answered with a question: "Did you spend the night here, with us?" He was surprised by my audacity. By way of reply, he sketched another smile, which expressed both amusement and embarrassment, and turned his back on me. He dropped the towel around his waist, revealing his buttocks to me almost proudly. A shock! My mother's buttocks, yes, I've seen them, even several times, a very long time ago, in another century, when, as a child, she took me with her to the women's hammam. I didn't really look at them, they just passed by and into my eyes without bothering me. I know her breasts well too. My father's buttocks, no. Mustapha's, no. My sisters', never. Abdelkébir's buttocks were in front of me, less than two metres away. I could even (I dreamed for a moment) reach out to touch them, feel them, see them better. They weren't big, far from it. Rather, they were slightly oval, fleshy without being too full. Above all, they had

character, accentuated by the few black hairs visible in the middle of the parting. I closed my eyes for a few seconds. I opened them again slowly. My heart was pounding. I didn't know if I was happy or scared, thrilled or about to have a heart attack. Abdelkébir was still standing in front of me, with his back to me. He'd put on a pair of black briefs (the same as yesterday?). He was terribly sexy. I was proud of him. I was jealous too. We spent the rest of the day at the beach, swimming and grilling in the sun. Abdelkébir was still reading Kazantzaki's novel. Mustapha and I were also reading the Arabic comics he'd bought us yesterday. For Mustapha, Tarzan. And for me, Rahan. I love Rahan, I adore him, more than Tintin, Superman, Spiderman, even more than Tarzan. What I write in this newspaper scares me. What if Abdelkébir reads it? We're still at the beach. It's now 5 p.m. Abdelkébir is now asleep, exhausted by the sun and his reading. Mustapha has made friends: they play soccer together a little further on. I'm lying on my stomach, looking at Abdelkébir, also lying on his stomach. His buttocks, wrapped in a black swimsuit, continue to call to me irresistibly, obsessing me and I don't know what to do with them. It's not that they're beautiful, it's just that they belong to Abdelkébir. It's crazy! I'm insane. I've got to stop staring at them. I can't think of anything else. What do I want? Am I going to write here everything that's on my mind? Everything Abdelkébir inspires in me? And his buttocks... His buttocks... My God! How awful! How wonderful! I'll try to sleep too.

Sleep Abdellah, sleep! That's an order.

It's 12:20 a.m. Summer night never ends because it never begins. After the beach, we returned to the hotel for a shower and a change of clothes. Abdelkébir then took us for a walk through the streets of Tangier. First the new town. We walked the length of Avenue Victor-Hugo, which was swarming with people. As on boulevard Mohamed V in Rabat, people were dressed up, especially the girls, as if they were on their way to a reception. The Tangérois look lost. I get the impression they're not Moroccan. In fact, most of them speak fairly good Spanish. We saw Spain from a sort of belvedere in the middle of Avenue Victor-Hugo. It was dark, very dark in the distance. On the other side of the Mediterranean we could clearly see twinkling lights and a rather proud semaphore that seemed to be issuing calls, invitations, and at the same time warning anyone trying to cross the strait that dangers would abound and dreams would soon turn to ashes, lives forever shattered. I found the spectacle cruel, sad and cynical. But I was the only one; the walkers seemed happy! Maybe their dreams were still intact, strong and bright. Having Europe right up your nose, all the time: I couldn't stand it for long, I'd lose my mind. I shared this feeling with Abdelkébir. As usual, he was amazed at my efforts to break the ice. He smiled shyly without looking at me. I immediately felt the ridicule enveloping me. I hadn't said anything interesting in expressing what I

Europe right across the street. It almost brought tears to my eyes, I was so ashamed. Five minutes later, Abdelkébir surprised me by asking, without looking at me: "Wouldn't you like to travel to Europe one day, then?" I replied, delighted to finally be able to talk to him: "What for? The main part of my life is here!" I was sincere. Mustapha also answered Abdelkébir's question: "When I grow up, I'm going to live in Spain. Spain's beautiful, isn't it?" Abdelkébir concluded: "Andalusia must be beautiful, that's for sure! The medina of Tangier, while similar to those of Rabat and Salé, has something unique about it. Danger is everywhere, all the time; it can appear at any moment and sweep you off your feet into a dizzying abyss. The traitors are all in Tangier. It's scary, of course. At times, it's also seductive. A shiver ran through my body as we toured this medina, also packed with people. Abdelkébir was worried about losing us in the crowd. He offered me his left hand, the hand of his heart, and gave his right to Mustapha. It was then that I experienced a very strong feeling: my body and my heart were forever linked to this big brother, suddenly so close, so present. With Abdelkébir, life, however quiet, however tranquil, sometimes becomes thrilling. Romantic. Unforgettable. With Abdelkébir I'll always abandon myself, even to infidels. I'm no longer me, I'm for him, his. I don't belong to myself.

Thursday

What was going through Abdelkébir's mind last night? He woke us up quite early and announced the program: "Today, we're going to Tetouan!" Where is Tetouan? I had no idea. Abdelkébir explained that it was only a two-hour drive from Tangier. Why leave Tangier? We're happy in Tangier. We've barely begun to get our bearings when we already have to go somewhere else. Admittedly, just for a day. But it's a day away from Tangier, away from this hotel that I'm beginning to like now. Away from the beach where we gladly offer our bodies to the sun. Away from a certain intimacy with Abdelkébir. I was sad. Abdelkébir didn't notice. He looked delighted, as if he was going to meet up with an old acquaintance, a friend, a love. Just as I thought I was getting closer to understanding the mystery of Abdelkébir, I suddenly realized the opposite. I had nothing in my hands, just the dark body of this walking, breathing brother in front of me. Eyes that barely looked at you. And I had to follow him without question. To obey him, period. I had my crisis, in silence of course. I have no memory of Tetouan. We got there in the late morning. We had a quick drink of mint tea in a café in the town center, then took another large cab to El-Madiaque, a sort of smuggling village where you can find anything, including goods from Spain. I finally understood what Abdelkébir was trying to achieve with this trip. He's always loved to bargain-hunt. And El-Madiaque is considered a paradise for bargain hunters. He could have told us this from the start, but being the dictator that he is, a bit like my mother, he decides on his own and only communicates at the very last minute.

I hate hunting. I made an effort, a semblance of an effort. Mustapha, on the other hand, followed Abdelkébir everywhere; he didn't need to force himself. They were both enthusiastic about objects that left me totally indifferent. They bought records, video cassettes, movie posters, posters of singers. A huge quantity of spare parts for I don't know what. Strong glue. Old earthenware plates and a nightdress for my mother. Lots of chocolate for the sisters. An old suede jacket for our father. And I had to choose too. Everything was cheap. I could take whatever I wanted. But what was it? Abdelkébir insisted. He insisted. Continue to be a killjoy? I didn't dare. So, to please him, I ended up buying a Best Of David Bowie: I know he loves him. And so do I, naturally. That's all we did today. That's all we did today. Hours in the car. Hours of shopping. And back to the hotel, completely exhausted. To Tangier. I almost didn't let go all day. I was jealous too. Of what? Of whom? I'm at least relieved to be back in Tangier and in this hotel room where Abdelkébir's strong smell has already permeated everything. Finally, I can breathe!

Friday Abdelkébir has disappeared. Mustapha and I woke up quite late this morning. Abdelkébir wasn't in bed. We thought he was taking a shower. Half an hour later, he still hadn't returned to the room. We decided to join him in the communal showers next to the stairs. He wasn't there.

Where could he be? At the café next to the hotel, having breakfast? Without us? At the beach already? Out jogging, as he sometimes does in Salé? At reception reading the papers? It was Mustapha who first noticed the white envelope on Abdelkébir's already-made bed. He opened it. Inside was some money, 100 dirhams, and a note written in Arabic that read: Hello, I forgot to buy something important yesterday in Tetouan. I'll have to go back. I'll be back tonight, maybe late. I'm sure you'll be able to take care of yourselves. Go to the beach. Or go to the Mauritanya cinema at the entrance to the medina. Here's 100 dirhams for you both, which I think will be more than enough to buy something to eat. Be careful when swimming, there are sometimes currents that could be dangerous... Swim only where you have a foothold, not elsewhere. I'll be back tonight... maybe very late. Don't wait for me to go to bed. Salam, Abdelkébir Mustapha was all excited that we were going to spend the day alone. I wasn't. What to do without Abdelkébir? What decisions should we make in his place? And how to make them? I couldn't see myself making them anyway. Playing the man again? No! I'm not cut out to lead others. Deciding for myself is already a problem, a daily nightmare. I don't like freedom.

I knew it: Abdelkébir's absence would obsess me, possess me all day. And that's what happened. I tried all day to imagine him in Tétouan, in El-Madiaque, walking, discussing prices, looking for that thing so

that had forced him to return to Tetouan a second time... I couldn't do it. I could see him, his body, which I now seem to know almost by heart, but not the rest. Not this city that separates and that I don't like. What if he was lying? What if he'd gone there to find a lover? A lover? I suddenly didn't trust him. These suspicions had created an incredible hatred for him. I felt bad, unhappy, alone, sad, defeated, with no taste for life. Something was wrong with me, something wasn't working the way it should. Was this normal? Finally, I admit it to myself, I don't know how else to describe it: I'm in love with Abdelkébir! I'm not going to dwell here on the nature of this love. It's beyond me. It haunts me. I'm in love, that's it. I feel abandoned. Unloved. Empty. Where is he now, Abdelkébir? What's he up to? Who is he with? What is he thinking about? At the beach, Mustapha met up with his friends and played soccer with them all afternoon. They invited me to join them. Afraid of making a fool of myself and being called a girl again, I declined and stayed on my own, offering my already black body to the sun. A man of a certain age (35? 40?) came up to me. He gently touched my shoulder and said, in French: "You have to watch out for the sun. It's dangerous. Do you have sunscreen?" He didn't give me time to answer and offered me his. I rubbed it all over my body and handed it back, thanking him. He immediately came back at me:

"The back. You forgot to put it on your back. Turn around, I'll help you... the back... it's hard to..." I did as he said. He put his left hand on my shoulder and with his right hand began to spread his sun cream on my back. It didn't last long, barely a minute. "What's your name? — Abdellah. — I'm Salim. — Are you Moroccan? — Yes ! — Then why do you speak French? — Because I live in Paris. I don't know Arabic. — You mean you don't know any Arabic words?! — I know maybe four or five... hardly... — And don't you miss speaking the language of your country, your first country? — No, frankly no! Where did you learn French? — My French is not good, I know, I still make a lot of mistakes. I learned it at school, like everyone else here. — What are you doing alone in Tangier? — On vacation. I'm accompanied by my little brother, who plays soccer there, and my big brother, who's gone to Tétouan for the day. — So you're alone? — Yes, if you like. — Would you like us to go somewhere together? — Where? — At the cinema, for example. — Hey a cinema called Mauritanya.

entrance

of

the medina which

— I know it very well. Shall we go and watch a film? — Yes, I'd love to, I love movies... But there's a problem... my little brother. — He can stay here and play soccer. We won't be very long, two hours at most. We'll take a small cab back to the beach. — All right, then. I'll let him know."

Saturday I feel bad, bad, bad. I'm a traitor. I betrayed Abdelkébir. At the cinema, with Salim. And the worst part was that I loved it, being surrounded by the strong arms of this 40-year-old man who smelled good and spoke into my ear in French while trying to find a way to my sex, my buttocks. I gave myself to him. He didn't make me suffer. Yes, I liked that. Mon Dieu! I don't feel well. I want to stay in bed all day. Abdelkébir came up to me this morning. He leaned over me, put his hand on my forehead. "Do you have a fever? Yes, it looks like it, but not much. You'd better stay in the room and rest. I'll go out and buy you some Doliprane and fruit. You need to drink lots of water too. I'll leave my Sidi Ali bottle by your bed." When he raised his head, I saw a hickey on a part of his neck that the T-shirt he was wearing would normally have hidden. A big red hickey. It was incontrovertible proof. He had done the irreparable. So had he. I knew it... I knew it... I was right.

He betrayed me too. From the beginning I it completely.

am a

a bit crazy.

Now

I

I feel bad... Alone. Far, far away from him who is so close. Something has broken between us. Will it last forever? I'll try to sleep, forget if I can. Forget what? Forget who? Is it possible, just a little, just a little forgetting?

Sunday What happened to me yesterday? Where did I spend the day? And the night? What did I do? Did I sleep? Did I sleep for twenty-four hours? I don't remember a thing. Abdelkébir was never far away. It was as if he'd slept with me, in the same bed as me, as in Salé. Was he watching over me? Today, I'm feeling strangely well and fit. I'm no longer ill. But was I really yesterday? I doubt everything. I'm haunted, possessed by unanswered questions. What happened in my head? In my body? It's the dark. My first love sickness. Sick of cheating, sick of betrayal, sick of losing my mind. It's like a novel. I'm in a romance novel the likes of which I've never read before. Abdelkébir, true to form, is silent. I know he didn't buy anything in Tetouan. He knows that I know. Does he know about me? I hope he does. I hope he suffers as I do. Did I see a hickey on his neck yesterday, a red mark, or was it in my dreams?

I'm not sure of anything anymore. Everything is mixed up. One thing's for sure: my betrayal. I've been punished. I've been punished. There is justice in this world. Biased justice. Abdelkébir was not punished. And fortunately so. Without him, we're nothing in Tangier. As soon as he's gone, we commit the worst kinds of stupidities. I certainly do. I'm disoriented. Disoriented. We have two days' vacation left. We return to Salé on Tuesday.

Monday Abdelkébir is in love. Yesterday, for about an hour, he spoke enthusiastically about Tetouan. He dreams of living there one day, even buying a house. The city's Spanish side appeals to him, its white color, its invigorating air, its special status in Moroccan history... everything... everything appeals to him... Abdelkébir speaking! Now that's a real miracle! When did he have time to fall in love? And who is he in love with? All you have to do is ask him: "Abdelkébir, my dear brother, are you in love?" But where do I draw the courage for such a confrontation? Where to go now that I'm beset by doubts, now that I'm furious, jealous for real? And what to do with Tangier? What to do with Tangier? We're in the Kasbah right now. We're drinking Lipton black tea. Abdelkébir, I don't recognize him anymore, says, shamelessly, that since he returned to Tétouan he's been in love with this tea, which I find insipid. He said it. He says it again. He assumes. He's

of madness. He's looking for every possible way to talk about Tetouan. He's inexhaustible. Talkative. He's a happy man. His face is radiant. His gaze is different, relaxed, not serious, laughing. From the kasbah, you have an extraordinary panoramic view of Tangier, the port, the Strait, the Mediterranean and the ocean. Openings. The horizon. The future. The happiness of life. The promise. Let's go, it's ours! Are we? Mustapha obviously doesn't notice anything. Everything is beyond him. He's still too young to grasp the complexity of what's happening before our eyes. He's somewhere else, and good for him. I can see the signs of happiness all over Abdelkébir's body. Of love. He's changed his eau de toilette. The one he wears now is fruity. I'm sure he associates it with someone. Hypocritical, I dare to ask him: "Th smell good, Abdelkébir. A new eau de toilette? Did you buy it in Tétouan?" I ask him. He looks at me, stunned. Then he looks away without answering - that is, he answers, but without saying a word. My heart breaks. Tangier is indifferent to my condition, to my misfortune. I don't know whether to love it or hate it, this city... Is Tangier the beginning of a great passion? A mutual hatred? We're still in the kasbah. The waiter has put on some music, a romantic song by Abdel Halim Hafez (all his songs are), Fatet Ganbenà, composed by the great Mohamed Abdelwahab. Abdelkébir seems to appreciate it. He, who usually only listens to the Doors, Jimi Hendrix, the Rolling Stones and David Bowie, is savoring this famous, marvelous Egyptian song... It tells the story of two friends who see a beautiful girl walk past them. The girl, after

turns around and smiles. The big question, and one that keeps us in suspense throughout the song, even though we know the ending, is: who did the girl smile at? Abdel Halim Hafez or his friend? Fatet Ganbenà is very long, lasting over an hour, but at no point is it boring. Abdelkébir may be listening to it for the first time. He clearly wants to see it through to the end. He orders tea again. Generous: he calls the waiter back and asks him to bring us cakes, and not just any cakes - gazelle horns, no less. In spite of ourselves, Mustapha and I are celebrating something. An event. Unless it's a catastrophe. Is Abdelkébir in love for the first time in his life? Did he make love for the first time in his life in Tetouan? Is celebrating the happiness of others without dangerous consequences for our health? And Abdel Halim Hafez, whom I love so much, should I now start hating him since, without any pity for my poor heart, he celebrates his love with Abdelkébir? His song Fatet Ganbenà is becoming my enemy. An enemy that can appear from anywhere, pursue me everywhere. Curse me. Cast a spell. Hurt me. Blind me. Paralyze me. Murder me. I'm writing in this diary what's going through my poor head. Abdelkébir hardly pays any attention to us. He's totally into the song, inhabited by the emotion it gives off, that it gives him. He's not with us. He's abandoned us with no remorse. Fatet Ganbenà is finishing. The very pretty girl has just told Abdel Halim Hafez that she smiled at him, the handsome dark-haired man. The audience interrupts the singer to express their delight. Abdel Halim Hafez triumphs. He and the audience are in osmosis. And in their midst: Abdelkébir, his eyes now red. It's celebration time. Sad people, like the singer's friend, like me, have no place among this ecstatic crowd.

How sad and cruel happiness can sometimes be! And that jealousy is sometimes legitimate and necessary! Abdel Halim Hafez takes up the last verse of his song, the audience goes wild, he repeats two, three, four times what she said to him: "It's you, handsome dark-haired man, that I was smiling at." The unimaginable: Abdelkébir is crying. He gets up and heads for the bathroom. I close my eyes. Which way is the black of the world?

Tuesday It's very simple. Abdelkébir is really in love. On the train back to Salé this morning, he revealed his first name: Salma. It's decided, he wants to marry her. He'll talk to my mother about it when we arrive early this afternoon. Yesterday evening, he took us with him to the jewelers' souk. We spent hours looking at rings of all kinds. Engagement rings, of course. Abdelkébir hesitated for a long time before making up his mind. Mustapha and I were fed up. Honestly, are boys interested in rings? We would have made an effort if Abdelkébir had explained to us why it was absolutely necessary to buy those damned rings in Tangier, and not elsewhere. But he was silent again, as usual. Yesterday I realized how selfish love can be. Salma. Needless to say, I don't like this name. I hate it. I hate it. I loathe it. I abhor it. How could anyone so quickly decide to ask a girl to marry them? Is Abdelkébir really that stupid? The first girl who opens her legs to him, he takes as his wife! Even I, at least seventeen years younger than him, wouldn' t do it. I thought he was more

intelligent than that, more open-minded, modern. I found him to be a traditionalist through and through. What a disappointment! I don't understand anything. What can I do? I want to take him by the shoulders, shake him violently, give him two loud slaps, and finally kiss him tenderly on both cheeks. I stay where I am. I don't move. I just look at him sadly. He always looks happy. I'm ashamed to admit it, to write it in this diary: I feel as if he's become a fool, a puppet, as if someone had cast a spell on him. He's making a serious mistake, closing all the doors to life in front of him to rush through the one opened by that bitch Salma. He needs someone to save him, to turn him away from this path, this trap. A Moroccan woman, when you're 30, is inevitably a trap. He needs to open his eyes. He doesn't need to thank this bitch for the little pleasure she gave him by offering him her life in exchange. His life is still to be made. He's got nothing yet, Abdelkébir. For the time being, he's just a lowly civil servant. Has he forgotten his dreams for sex? And our dreams for him? Our hopes for him? Our future forever linked to his? You have to fight for him, in his place. And I know how. I'm going to lie to my mother, to tell her that I saw Salma in Tétouan and that she's a real bitch, a witch, a dangerous Rif with whom none of us would get along. I'm going to convince her to do everything in her power to prevent this unhappy marriage. I know I won't need many arguments, she's on my side in advance, Abdelkébir's wedding isn't for today, nor tomorrow. She, my mother, and no one else, will choose the wife of this beloved brother when the question arises.

and that all conditions will be fulfilled, both by him and by the woman who will be his wife. I'm sad, relieved. Happy? I'm not going to cry. I'm not the same person I was a week ago. Abdelkébir is not lost. He'll be with us for a few more years. I'm convinced of that. In the meantime, I continue to travel with him on his own body. In the end, Tangier was everything I had never imagined. The city of my first love battle. And I know I'll win. Tangier, a city of trafficking. Abdelkébir is lucky. His body belongs to us.

III

On the other side, far away, so far away, alone, distraught, lost, I was already shouting "Help". I called Morocco, I called my mother in Morocco. I had just arrived in Geneva. I was still at the airport. I told my mother lies. I had no other choice. "Everything's fine, Mother, everything's fine. Yes, I arrived safely. Don't worry, it's not cold. It's not cold, not yet anyway... No, I wasn't scared on the plane this time. There were a lot of Moroccans around me, which reassured me a little, I think... Yes, my friend came to pick me up, he's with me, we're still at the airport. I'll be sleeping at his place tonight, and maybe for other nights too... Yes, he's a nice guy, a real nice guy... I promise I'll say hello for you... Will you pray for him too? Yes, yes, I'll tell him, he'll be pleased, I'm sure... Yes, yes, he's very nice, Mum, I told you, he doesn't eat people... and he cooks very well... He has three bedrooms, and lots of blankets, don't worry, I won't catch cold... He'll look after me as if he were my big brother, he's told me so many times. I've got to go now, M'Barka, he's waiting for me, we'll go back to his place... I'll call you later... How? What did you say? He's got a car... Pray for me..."

September 30th 1998. Late afternoon. No one was waiting for me at Geneva airport. After two long hours, I had to face the facts: Charles, my friend from

Jean wouldn't pick me up as he'd promised, he wasn't as late as I'd hoped. I phoned him several times. Each time I got the answering machine. "You've reached Charles. You can leave a message - even two if you like. I'll call you back as soon as possible. You're on!" The tone of his voice was invariably the same, warm, too warm even for a Swiss, welcoming. Charles had the voice of a guy you'd like to chat with about anything and everything. A helpful guy who would never let you down, no matter what. A really good guy. First message. "Hello Charles, it's Abdellah! I've arrived in Geneva... I'm at the airport. I've been looking for you for fifteen minutes. I can't see you. Are you hiding somewhere? Where? You'll turn up as if by magic, I'm sure... I had no trouble at customs... I'm waiting for you... You must surely be on your way here... I mean to the airport... You may be stuck in traffic... I'll be waiting for you. See you soon!" An hour later, second message. "Hello Charles. It's me again, Abdellah... Abdellah Taïa... the Moroccan, remember?! I'm still at the airport, which is completely empty now. I don't know where you are... and I don't know what to do... take the bus and go to your place? Maybe you're sick, bedridden... so sick you can't even answer the phone... What to do? What am I supposed to do? I don't know the code to get into your building. Well, I'll wait a little longer... I've got plenty of time to wait... Love you. See you soon... I hope!" One hour to go. Third and final message. "Good evening, Charles. You've obviously forgotten me. Yet I sent you a letter from Salé a month ago to confirm the date of my arrival in Geneva... Didn't you receive it? Maybe... I should have called to tell you exactly when I was arriving... You can't always trust the post office, especially the Moroccan one...

Guesswork. It's all I've been doing since I landed... I've been at the airport for almost three hours. I've got a big suitcase. I've got presents for you. I'm getting hungry. And I don't know where to go... Where to go? You know I can't go to Jean's, who isn't in Geneva anyway, but in Leysin in his chalet... I don't know what to do. I'll have to manage. I'd expected anything but this, to find myself abandoned... Abandoned? I've got to grow up, fast, very fast. Thank you anyway... It's silly, I know, I've been taught to always say thank you... Thank you then... Thank you for what? Adieu! as you say here in Switzerland... Adieu!" Three calls. Three messages. Three monologues. The next call is to M'Barka. She tells me that it's already dark in Salé and Mustapha hasn't come home yet. The television is still broken. She's alone in the empty house. We are alone. Welcome to Europe!

I took the train to the Cornavin station in the center of Geneva. The journey took barely a quarter of an hour. My head was black from the inside. I didn't know how to think, how to link ideas together, what decision to make. The only thing I knew was where to put my suitcase: in the station left-luggage office, which all stations normally have. Fortunately, I had some money with me, Swiss francs. Geneva, which I had loved so much with Jean, was revealing itself to me in a new light: a cold city, colder than usual. Yet it was beautiful, more beautiful than ever, more colorful, the leaves on the trees were red, yellow, green, black... Geneva was experiencing a magnificent autumn. And I had to find some warmth before night fell for good. There was no need to panic, to be afraid, to tremble, to cry, to feel sorry for myself. This was not the time, no, no... I had to be strong, STRONG. I weighed fifty-five kilos at the time. I don't know where in me I found the strength, I don't know where I drew it from. It was probably the strength of sadness, the strength of despair, when you have nothing, when you have no other choice. I let myself be guided by it. I followed her, and she told me that holding on was my only priority that night. I had received a grant from the Swiss Confederation. I came to Geneva to prepare a one-year DES in 18th-century French literature.

My father had just died. Early April 1996. I met Jean in Rabat, Morocco. At Mohamed-V University, where he had come to take part in a symposium on the theme of "Le beau mensonge" ("The beautiful lie"). On the last day, just before the innocent closing speech, I said to him, "I'd love to have a drink with you later on in town, chat with you some more... Did you have a good visit to Rabat?" He replied with a kindly "no" that invited more. Without thinking, I went back to him: "If you like, on Sunday, the day after tomorrow, I'd be happy to act as your guide in Rabat, and even in Salé if you like... I'm free all day." He agreed, but reserved his definitive answer for later. As he was about to leave the conference room, he came up to me and said a little shyly: "I'm not sure I'll be free on Sunday, tomorrow my colleagues and I are going to Fez, we'll be back in Rabat late at night or the next day..." I didn't let him finish his sentence. I didn't let him finish his sentence: "Here's my phone number, call me when you're back... even very late at night." He looked at me, a little stunned. I insisted: "Even very late, I assure you... At the moment, we have a lot of people at home, relatives from the countryside, and with my mother they stay up very late... Don't hesitate!" He took my advice. The next day, around midnight, the phone rang. It was him. He had just returned from Fez, which had delighted him. He was free for Sunday. We arranged to meet in front of his hotel at 10am. Something had been born between us, within us, and that sunny Sunday, in the streets and monuments of Rabat, on a felucca to cross the Bou Regerg river, while we

strolling through the narrow streets of Salé, only confirmed this. A real understanding. An intellectual complicity. A shared desire to laugh at the same things. A certain tenderness in the early days. Love? Perhaps. A strong attachment in any case, for the time being. Instinctively, without thinking, I was seducing him. I talked a lot. I was showing off my culture, my literary and cinematographic knowledge. I talked about my city, my two cities: Rabat, then Salé; Salé and Rabat; Rabat-Salé. I would briefly recount the history of these two cities. I was the perfect guide, and my intimate, precise knowledge of this area in all its minutiae took me by surprise. I felt like the king of Rabat-Salé. My palace was the Kasbah des Oudayas. And next to me, this Swiss man, yesterday almost a stranger, today a brother, a master, a lover perhaps, not yet a lover. On the beach in Salé, I told him about Pier Paolo Pasolini, who had spent several months of the last year of his life in Rabat. The writer-filmmaker had fallen in love with Salé at first sight, and even wanted to make a film there. He also wanted to convert to Islam. And often, it seems, he would come alone to watch the sunset on the same beach where Jean and I were. Several months later, Jean told me that he'd been very touched by my account of Pasolini, especially by what I didn't say but willingly let be heard. In time, Pasolini would become our witness, the priestimam who blessed our relationship. As we left the beach at Salé, Jean brought his head close to mine and stroked my shoulder with his right hand. I was astonished, and not so astonished in fact, by this mark of affection. I'd won something, someone. I was proud, but I didn't know exactly what. In the felucca taking us back to Rabat, we were silent. We'd said the essentials, and a little more. We were learning to be well

together in silence. On our way to meet up with his colleagues, professors like him at the University of Geneva, with whom we were going to dine in a middle-class district of Rabat, Agdal, I told him a piece of still recent news of great importance: the French department of Mohamed-V University had found me a scholarship to go to Geneva to complete my studies, but not immediately, in just two years' time. At first, for about ten seconds that seemed like an eternity, he said nothing. Then he surprised me by running his left hand through my hair. Finally, he murmured slowly and with great effort, "Mabrouke!" I didn't ask him who had taught him to say "congratulations" in Arabic. He was happy for me (for us?), and that was more than enough to fill me with joy, for a long time. He left me his contact details. At the end of dinner, in front of his colleagues, he kissed me three times, as in Switzerland, to say goodbye, adieu. He came back to visit me three times in Morocco. We visited three Moroccan cities together: Marrakech, Tangier and Ouarzazate. I went to see him in Switzerland twice. We wrote each other at least five letters a week.

Here I am in the streets of Geneva. Rue de Berne. Rue de Neuchâtel. Le Paquis. The lake. Magnificent Lake Geneva. France on the other side. I walked in circles. I bought a sandwich from a Lebanese shop, a chicken chawarma with a very garlicky white sauce, very strong, I still remember it. I didn't have enough money for a drink, so a glass of water was enough. What next? After: sleep. Where to sleep? In a hotel? Impossible, I had to keep the few Swiss francs I had to pay the deposit. On the street then? But where in the street? Next to the Cornavin station? In the station itself? I ran through all the possibilities in my head. Approaching someone and asking them to put me up for the night (I'd seen it done so many times in Morocco, why not here...)? It was already 9pm. The city was completely shrouded in darkness. The streets of Geneva were empty, worse than Rabat on a winter's evening. It was cold now. A crazy idea crossed my mind: go to a sauna and spend the night there. Saunas are hot. Shouldn't a sauna be open all night? Jean had taken me there the first time I'd visited him, in the summer of 1997. Where exactly was this sauna? I couldn't remember. Forget the sauna idea. The street: no other choice. I set off in search of a quiet corner, sheltered from the wind if possible. My steps led me back to the Cornavin train station. It was empty, silent, too silent, eerie. The stores in its underground gallery had long since closed (in Geneva, everything closes at 7 p.m.: life stops!). Luckily, the windows were still lit up. I spent a good while looking at them, comparing prices and, above all, converting them into dirhams. Then I wondered what the Genevans were doing at this time of night. I left the station through the main door and looked up at the windows of the houses and buildings. There was light inside these homes, but I had the impression that I'd never seen them before.

the Swiss were mute. I was looking for a human image, a sign, and I found myself faced with silence. Silence in Switzerland is deep, opaque, deaf, horrible. I had to speak, I had to hear someone speak. To say what, I didn't know. To speak for the sake of speaking. After all, the Genevans spoke French, I spoke French too. Why did you learn the language in Morocco over the years? Not to be reduced to this silence, anyway. Before, it seemed to me that French was the language with which one could communicate best, a language that allowed one to express one's ideas clearly and precisely, to nuance one's remarks, to polemicize, to defend oneself. It never occurred to me that French could also be the language of silence. To say nothing in French seemed to me completely inconceivable, incongruous. A scandal! I had to react, to defend the honor of the French language. Not far from the station was a cab rank. Without thinking, I rushed to the first one. I knocked on the window. The driver rolled down his window. Miracle, he was smiling. He didn't give me time to speak first. He was already speaking, before me, and in French. I was so happy to hear French words, pronounced with a Genevan accent, that I forgot to understand their meaning. I made him repeat what seemed to be a question. "I was asking if you're a Kuwaiti or a Qatari. — Neither. I'm... — Saudi then... surely... you have Saudi eyes. You are Saudi... aren't you? Say... I'm right... And you speak impeccable French for a Saudi. — No, I'm not Saudi... — I don't believe you, you really do look like a Saudi. — No, no, not at all... I'm... — Don't tell me, let me guess! You're from the United Arab Emirates? — No.

— From Bahrain? — No. — Before I make a fool of myself, I'll give my tongue to the cat. — I'm Moroccan. — I love Morocco! I love Moroccan women. Are you from Casablanca? — No, from Rabat. More precisely from Salé." To my surprise, he didn't change his attitude, nor did he become unpleasant. Of course, he'd realized that he wasn't going to get what he'd hoped for from me, since I didn't have the nationality he was looking for. He got out of his cab and invited me to sit next to him on the stillwarm hood of his car. Like me, he wanted to talk. Like me, he couldn't stand silence. He talked more than I did, for a long time. About the Moroccan sun. Of a woman, Seloua, whom he had loved in Tangier and for whom he had been ready to give up his life in Switzerland. "She had bewitched me. I was no longer me. A woman had never had such an effect on me. I even agreed to convert to Islam so we could get married in Morocco. I dreamed of living with her in Morocco, in Tangier between the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea. Peaceful together, in another time. But she wanted to come here, dreaming of the stores, the cleanliness, the color, voting for Switzerland and the ski resorts. She'd heard about Gstaad and wanted to go. I told her it was nothing, just a ski resort frequented by a few pseudo-stars that everyone had forgotten. I told him Morocco was more humane. Maybe it's misery for some, but despite everything there's something more human, more alive in this country than anywhere else. Humanity, without the progress of the West: that's how I saw Morocco... That was... fifteen years ago... Fifteen years already?! Fifteen years since I last saw her. Morocco must have changed a lot in that time. She met another man, a Swiss-German. She left me then. I know she lives here in

Zurich, Berne, maybe even Geneva... I don't want to see her again. I just want to remember her name... Seloua, Seloua... it's a sweet name, it's caressing... sweet. When I was with her, I always felt like I was tasting honey, her skin was sweet, her smell too... Maybe it's all Morocco that's sweet, too sweet. That's all I have left, her name and the taste of her skin. That's enough for me. "I'm happy to talk about this story, it took me at least five years to get over it. It was as if she'd cast a spell on me and forgotten to undo it before ditching me and going off with the other guy. I later learned how important witchcraft is to Moroccans. Moroccan women especially. I'm sorry to put you through all this... It's in spite of myself... I realize how my whole being is still shaken by what happened between her and me. I'm kind of broken... still broken... "She wrote me a long letter. She said she wanted money, for herself, for her family. The misery, the lowly life, she'd had enough, more than enough. She was beautiful, she knew, and that was her only trump card for finding a rich man, and Swiss-Germans, according to her, are all very rich. The one she found was, anyway. I can't blame her, she was honest. She knew what she wanted. She didn't dream the way I did... that's it... that's all. That's all there is to it. "Of course I wrote a reply to that break-up letter, a long letter. I never mailed it. "What was I telling him in that letter? I can't remember. Nothing special really. The same things as before. That I loved her passionately. That I would certainly go crazy without her. I did, for a while... I didn't send the letter. What was the point? It was already too late! Deep down, when I think about it objectively, I understand her attraction to luxury, her desire to go elsewhere, far away... And then I think she loved me, I could feel it when we were in bed. Maybe that's why

that drove me crazy: losing someone who loved me... loved me for real. She let me down because I didn't have any money. It's as simple as that. Love is rare enough. With her, I'm sure I was in love. For once in my life!" It took him a moment to come to his senses, to come back to me, to get out of his story. I had listened attentively, there was nothing else I could do for him. He asked me no more. "Have you just arrived in Geneva? — Yes. This afternoon. — You look like a student, now that I see you up close... Am I wrong? — I'm here to complete my studies in French literature. — Do you live around here? I know there's a student residence behind the station. — I'm nowhere at the moment. — Looking for a place to sleep? — Yes... but as I don't have any money... I have an appointment with the university people in just two days. — And where's your luggage? — I only have one suitcase. I put it in the locker. — I see. — I can move around better like this. — It's cold, isn't it? — I think I can handle the cold... easily. — I doubt very much if you'll manage it. Even for us Swiss it's not easy. — I'll have to see. It's not very cold yet anyway. It's only autumn. — You know, I don't want to offend you, but I think there's a Salvation Army not far from here. You could spend the night there in the warm... and for free... They accept everyone.

— What is the Salvation Army? — It's an association... a place where we help people who have no money, who don't know where to sleep... the poor... emigrants... political refugees... — Do you think they accept students too? — It doesn't matter what you do for a living. You'll explain your case... your story. — Is it that easy? — They understand people in distress. I know it's behind the station but I don't know where exactly. I'll ask the cab driver behind me. He didn't ask me to tell my story. He'd figured it out all by himself. I didn't need to talk, to spill my guts. I was grateful. All you had to do was follow the railway to a small church, then turn right, cross a square, and there it was, several houses, fairly simple shacks, the Salvation Army. "Life is unpredictable. Take care of yourself, and don't forget to bundle up - it's just getting cold here. Farewell! My name is Samuel."

I was no longer afraid. I had forgotten my life, my history. I had only one goal: to find the Salvation Army. To sleep. To forget, to forget myself. To stop thinking. As I crossed the darkened square, a noise startled me. A scream? No, a high-pitched, feminine laugh. Someone was tickling a woman I couldn't see. Then the phrase that stayed with me for hours: "Wait, wait, the condom first." I could then guess at everything, or rather imagine everything, and make a film. A love film in black and white, of course. At the Salvation Army reception desk, a man with a shaved head was reading a novel I knew very well: Benjamin Constant's Adolphe. He seemed completely absorbed, captivated by the book's complicated love story. I stood there speechless for a minute or two. As he was still unaware of my presence, I was obliged to disturb him, to pull him away from his reading, to bring him back to another reality. "Good evening sir," I said in a shy voice. He looked up, and then it was a shock: the man before me was Michel Foucault. He resembled the French philosopher in every way: the look, the shaved head and even the glasses. I was confused, moved. I was immediately seduced. "Good evening, young man! What can I do for you?" I didn't answer. He repeated his question twice, without getting angry. His voice was warm, a little rusty, manly. "Could you help me? — Of course, of course. Tell me, what's it all about? You look lost, tired. — I am... I want to sleep... — Is that all?

— Yes, that's all. That's plenty. One bed. — We have several beds available tonight, so you're in luck. I'll put you in a room by yourself. Aren't you afraid of sleeping alone? — Yes... I mean no... I think not. — Shall I put you with someone? — No, no, please. I don't want to talk. I just want to forget myself. Forget where I am. — I understand, I understand... But you'll have to fill in some forms tomorrow. Give me your passport... Don't worry, I won't steal it. Here's the key to room 31, on the second floor. Good night!" I thanked him as warmly as I could and went upstairs. I was taking off my clothes when suddenly someone knocked on the door. I put my shirt back on and opened the door. It was Michel Foucault. Again the shock, again the confusion. He whispered to me, smiling gently: "I imagine you're hungry. I brought you this cheese sandwich I made for myself just in case... I think you need it more than I do. And these two plum yogurts, the only ones left in the fridge. Eat them before you go to sleep. It's no good sleeping on an empty stomach." He understood everything. The tears, without warning, rolled down my cheeks. They were very hot. I lowered my head, as I didn't want Michel Foucault to notice, and whispered "thank you" three times. He wished me a good night again and reminded me of my wake-up time: 7am.

Marrakech. August 1996. It was hot. Too hot. I'd heard this town was a furnace in summer: it was true! But I didn't mind at all. I was with Jean. Everything was fine between us. After Rabat, our understanding proved to be real. Physical love was a big part of it, even if it wasn't the main thing, for me anyway. I couldn't resist him, I was delighted to have a man for myself, who was interested in me, who took me momentarily out of my working-class milieu, a Westerner, a cultured man, somehow a dream-man. Yes, everything was fine. I told him everything. My dreams. My secrets. My family. My reading. My gaps. My movies. I spoke at length about Paris, which had always fascinated me and where I dreamed of living one day. I shamelessly expressed my desire to be more and more of an intellectual, to be able to see the world as an intellectual, like him. He was always happy to listen to me, to discover more about me every day. Really, everything was fine. One evening, Jean and I were strolling through the quiet streets of the chic Hivernage district before returning to the hotel. Suddenly, we were stopped by two policemen who seemed very nice. They addressed me with great violence and contempt, in Arabic: "What are you doing with that man? Why are you bothering him? Don't you know it's forbidden in this country to bother tourists, you...?" I defended myself, unaware of the danger: "But I'm not bothering him. He's my friend." They replied, "Your friend? Your boyfriend? Where do you think you are? America? This is Morocco, you moron... you idiot... How much is he paying you? Show me your papers... and make it snappy... "

Jean didn't understand. He spoke to them in French, saying that I was his student in Rabat and that we were visiting Marrakech together. They ordered me to tell him that what they were doing was for his safety, to protect him, so that his stay would go well, that he would be satisfied with us Moroccans, that he would be happy, that he would come back to see us, to see our beautiful country where he would always find people to serve and pamper him. This was his home. In spite of myself, I acted as translator. My identity card saved me. "Luckily for you, you're from Salé. If you'd been a Marrakchi, you'd have been picked up on the spot... Go on, beat it, and don't let us see you around here again. You've been warned. Go on, beat it..." Jean and I resumed our journey in silence. In the distance, through the sounds we heard, we could make out the heart of Morocco, Jamaa al-Fna square, vibrant, ablaze, overflowing with joyful madness. But for whom? The two policemen, just as they were about to get into their service car, shouted from across the street, "Don't forget to get paid well... and wash your ass well afterwards, you dirty faggot!" Two young lovers watched in shock. They stopped. The boy stared at me strangely for a few seconds. The girl sought my gaze and laughed sweetly. Then the boy did the same. That night I didn't sleep. I cried my eyes out, but it didn't make me feel any better. I don't know if Jean understood what had really happened.

The next day, a rather brutal ringing and a voice, that of a boxer forever traumatized by his defeats, violently announced the end of the night at the Salvation Army. It was already 7 a.m. Back to reality. It was still dark. Michel Foucault had disappeared. A short, middle-aged woman was serving breakfast. She didn't say "Good morning" - perhaps that wasn't her custom. She was handing out small trays containing a large mug of hot black tea, two slices of toast, The Laughing Cow cheese, orange jam and a Mars chocolate bar. No one spoke in the huge room that served as our dining room. There were about fifteen of us, obviously of different nationalities. There were only three tables, so it was impossible to avoid each other, our eyes meeting at one point or another, and then lowering, not a smile, not a gesture of comfort. We were ashamed to be there, we all wanted to forget our passage through this place, to forget this night and our misfortunes, which we had no intention of sharing. We each had our own story, our own secrets, our own dramas, parents left behind, unfulfilled dreams, love affairs whether confessed or not, wounds still open, each of us carrying on our shoulders our destiny for the time being, and trying not to let the light inside us die out, the light that makes us live, walk, talk, move forward, despite the pitfalls, towards money, towards this idea of happiness that we could (that we thought we could) buy with Swiss francs. I was obviously the only Arab. The others all looked to be from Eastern Europe or Asia. No blacks.

Breakfast lasted barely fifteen minutes. We had to leave the center at 7:45. A quarter of an hour to fill your stomach. A quarter of an hour to prepare to leave this comforting, even warm, place, to consider the immediate future: where to go? Where to spend the day? He was at the door. Tall, strong, handsome, reassuring. The real man as I imagined him. Michel Foucault had reappeared. He would say to people on their way out: "Au revoir! Have a nice day!" Some replied "Merci!", others remained mute, probably because they didn't understand French. My heart was happy to see him again, a long-familiar face, a being made of words met first in books and then with a book of love in his hand, a man who was already smiling while it was still dark. A man who wasn't dead, even if reality said otherwise. I could only admire him. Love him. "Goodbye young man! Have a nice day! — Thank you very much. And to you. — Have you forgotten anything? — No, I don't think so. — Are you sure? — Yes... I think... I have everything... — Think of your mother... what you must never lose... — The passport! — Here it is! — Oh, thank you, thank you... How could I forget? Without it, I don't exist here. — Let's see, you do exist here... I'd be happy to testify on your behalf. — How? — What do you mean?

— Yes, how? — Do you know where you'll be sleeping tonight? — Probably back home, if you don't mind. — So, I'll tell you tonight, after supper, how I'd testify to your existence here. And now, off you go, I've got work to do. — Good luck then! — You too! And don't forget, dinner is served from 7 to 8:30 p.m. — Thank you for your time. See you tonight."

Tangier. January 1997. His name was Mohamed. And, like so many others, he dreamed of one day leaving Morocco for France, Spain, Germany, it didn't matter, of course, the United States would be the absolute dream... He knew what he had to do, he had established a real strategy, quite simple but effective in his opinion: seduce a Western woman, offer himself to her, show her what a Moroccan man is capable of, in other words, fuck her like a bitch, show her the stars in broad daylight, hole her non-stop, drive her crazy, crazy about him, and his dick above all. He wasn't ashamed to talk like that; it was his life's project, to make a success of his life. Today, in Morocco, sex was the only thing that worked, sex, sex, sex, from morning till night, and even all night long, sex everywhere, between everyone, even in the mosque. Sex," he said, "is this country's primary raw material, its treasure, its number-one tourist attraction. But Mohamed was out of luck. He only met whores, sluts, fake blondes, cheap old skins, sluts worse than Moroccan women. Until then, he'd believed that Moroccan women were the strongest in manipulating men and in all kinds of sexual dealings (and in witchcraft too, but that went without saying), but he was wrong, there were women elsewhere, in Europe, especially in France, next to whom Moroccan women would seem pure angels. No, no, he wasn't going to let himself be taken in, he'd just decided, from now on he was going to distrust these witches, whatever their nationality, these infamous creatures, these matrons without faith or law, this horror that was now woman in his eyes. While waiting to find the right one, the one who would be gentle, obedient, respectful, generous and hard-driving, he had been turning to men for some time, barely a month. They were easier to please, easier to make happy, and he was content to be there for them.

With them, playing with them, naked sometimes but not necessarily, he let them suck him, he penetrated them, he even considered letting himself be taken too, a cock in his ass, that didn't scare him, as long as this gift of his most intimate self would allow him to finally get the hell out of this shitty country. Yes, yes, of course, men were nicer, less complicated, more playful, more generous: they gave money without counting the cost, more than he expected. It was simple, really. The men were a complete surprise to him; he'd never been sexually interested in them before, but everything happened in its own time, didn't it? He was now on their side, he was becoming homosexual for them, but beware, with foreigners alone, he would never sleep with a Moroccan, never, passing for a zamel in Tangier inspired great horror in him. Besides, he wasn't a zamel, no, no, not at all, it was women who attracted him, who excited him, and it was thanks to them that he still hoped one day very soon to get out of this ungrateful country. That was the real truth. He wasn't lying. He was ready to swear on the Koran, if anyone wanted. Mohamed talked a lot. Unashamedly. Without embarrassment. He knew I was like him, from that country-bordel, yet he didn't censor himself, saying everything, with lucidity, courage, sometimes vulgarity. He was touching, with his beauty, his naiveté, his intensity and his contradictions. He was tall, white of skin, brown of hair, always smiling even when angry, and his eyes, the strongest thing about him and the most striking thing about him when you first saw him, were black, very black, immense. Mohamed was handsome, handsome, handsome. And that adjective isn't strong enough to convey just how extraordinary his beauty was. Jean had hit on him in the Delacroix gallery, at the entrance to Tangier's old town. Mohamed followed immediately.

I didn't know what to make of the situation. Jean, Mohamed and me. Was Jean in Morocco for that too: to make pretty little Moroccans? Wasn't he only coming to Morocco for me? A black cloud over my head: and the impossibility of putting it away, or turning it into words. Jean paid for everything, for both of us, Mohamed and me. Mohamed was divine, sublime, I couldn't compete. Mohamed appealed to me too. Jean invited him to dine with us. At the end of the meal, he slipped two two-hundred-dirham bills into one of his trouser pockets. Mohamed agreed to be bought. He had no problem with it. Clearly. What about me? Was Jean buying me too? I didn't ask him. I buried it deep inside. We might have had the same book culture, he and I, but we didn't yet have the same values or the same doubts. I had no experience of money. Thanks to his Swiss francs, Jean could have everything in my country. No, I wasn't angry with him. It was the Moroccan reality that I was discovering in a different way, with surprise, curiosity and horror, through his presence in this space that was foreign to him. Other than that, all was well. At the end of my two-week stay in Tangier, Jean invited me to come and stay with him in Switzerland the following summer. On his return, he would take care of all the formalities involved in obtaining a visa.

It was almost 8 o'clock in the morning. It was still dark. The people who, like me, had spent the night at the Salvation Army had disappeared. I couldn't help wondering about them. Where had they gone? To work? Looking for work? Wander? Flying? Going round in circles? Keeping to the walls, as unemployed young people do in Morocco? Prostitute themselves? Trafficking? Around the Cornavin train station, despite the darkness, there was already a great hustle and bustle: civil servants arriving in Geneva for work, schoolchildren taking the bus to college or lycée, cleaners at work, elegantly dressed and made-up women, old people... Everyone seemed to know exactly where to go, which direction to take, which bus line, which connection, where to get to. There was energy in the air, excitement for life, for this new day. It didn't last long, of course; calm always returns to Switzerland, silence, respect, respect for everything, for all the rules. A day in Geneva. Alone. What should I do? How to fill it? My body, rested on this autumn morning, regaining some of its natural taste for joy, wanted to be happy. It had decided, without me, to be happy. I followed it. I headed for the locker room to get some clean clothes from my big bag. I changed in the station toilets, brushed my teeth and put on some perfume to smell nice. Fresh to face the world and think about how to fill my day. The phone card I'd bought the day before at the airport still contained a few units. My mother! Call my mother? In Hay Salam, no one answered. M'Barka wasn't at home. Where could she be? It was only 8 a.m. in Morocco. Was she still asleep? Impossible, my mother had always been

very early in the morning. Where was she then? I needed her so much, her voice, even though I'd left her of my own free will. No one for me in Morocco? Already? I was about to leave the phone booth when I remembered that she had told me the day before that she would be going to my sister's in Rabat. Call him at Latéffa's, then? "Hello Latéffa, it's Abdellah. — My brother! My little brother! You left without me seeing you. — But I came to see you two days ago in the late afternoon. I knocked for a long time on your door. You weren't home, obviously. — I'd probably gone to pick up the kids from school, as you know they don't know the way home alone. — How are they? How's your husband El-Mahdi? — Everyone's fine, everyone's thinking of you and saying hello. Tell me how you're doing in this foreign land, where you still have neither hbibe nor friend... — I have a few friends, don't worry. — Thankfully. But nothing can replace family, can it? Nothing will replace the bond of blood... We miss you already, little brother, my mother says that the house is now really empty, she's really alone, Mustapha is always away and Abdelkébir is, as you know, busy with his wife. My mother will be arriving here, at my house, any minute now. She can't stay alone in Hay Salam anymore. — I miss you all, too. It's cold in here. — Did you bring the winter coat? — Yes. — Are your friends looking after you? — Yes, very good.

— Don't you cry. Sooner or later we all go. Today it's your turn. I know it's hard. I know it takes months, even years, to realize what this departure means for us and for others... Don't cry... Be a man... Don't cry. Are you eating well? You have to eat a lot, especially with the cold out there. — Latéffa! — Yes ? — I'm almost out of units. Give everyone a kiss for me. Take good care of our mother... Tell her I won't call her anymore..." Latéffa. The sweet one. Before Abdelkébir went to work, she was the one who helped my parents support us. She made carpets; she was good at it. Every Saturday, for several weeks, we were sure to have a good dinner: it was the day she got her pay, and she gave most of her money to M'Barka. Latéffa was the first to sacrifice herself for others. She left home to marry a mustachioed man she loved, El-Mahdi. Latéffa is the only one of my sisters who makes me cry. Her voice is so tender, so soft and so full of emotion that I can't help but cry along with her when she starts to cry. Latéffa always gives me the impression of being in contact with another world. She understands the essence of life, she understands love and suffering, and she has already forgiven everyone. Latéffa, I would have pleased my mother by marrying a woman like her... if I'd stayed in Morocco. I wouldn't have forced myself. Latéffa, I was lying to her on the phone that morning of September 31st in Geneva. One day I would tell her everything. My life. Me with an open heart. She'd understand - she knows how easy it is to judge others. She wouldn't do the same with me.

Latéffa, I'm sure she would accept me as I am. Latéffa: one day I would sacrifice myself for you. Do you remember that special day between us, when everyone was taking a nap, we were both in the kitchen, you locked the door and took me in your arms. You had something important to tell me. Love, of course. A love story. This was long before El-Mahdi. His name was Abdessalam and he worked as a foreman in the small factory where you wove carpets. You told me everything. I listened religiously. At the end you took me in your arms again and kissed me on the forehead, then on the lips. Later I helped you get to your appointments with him, telling M'Barka that we were going to your girlfriend Najma's house. You almost married him. He came to ask for your hand in marriage and our parents hesitated a lot before finally accepting. We were both so happy. But the happiness didn't last long. Abdessalam's mother-in-law did everything she could to get him to marry her own daughter. He never came home. You cried night and night, but during the day you acted as if nothing had happened, because you didn't want M'Barka to know you were in love with him. You cried at night, I heard you, I couldn't do anything to help you, so I cried with you. After hanging up, I left the phone booth and ran to the toilets at the Cornavin station. I started crying again. On the other side, in Rabat, I imagined Latéffa crying too, like me, for me. No one had died. Nothing had died between us. We were crying for what would later die within us, independently of us. Geneva was no longer Geneva. The world was no longer the world. I was suddenly someone else. I was weak. I was strong in my bond with Latéffa.

I was walking without knowing where I was going. I just kept moving, no matter where I ended up. When I somehow regained consciousness, I was amazed at where I was: the Parc des Bastions, beautiful and sad in its autumn clothes, and across the street the University of Geneva. I went to see the secretary of the French department, Denise. I needed the address of the bursary department, and I could only ask her. She greeted me coldly, making it clear that I was bothering her. Her shocking attitude did nothing for me. I got what I wanted. I thanked her three, four, maybe five times. Jean had obviously told her everything, I was no longer for her the little Moroccan discovering Europe, I had metamorphosed into a little demon, a heartbreaker, an upstart, a little whore after all. Even for her, I was someone else. Not who I thought I was. Everyone had their own image of me. The scholarship office was located on the other side of the Place de l'Université, at Uni-Dufour. At the reception desk, I was directed to the office of Mrs. Weinstein, who was in charge of my file. I knew she wouldn't be back from vacation until October 1er . I'd come to try my luck in case she was already back. And she was. Her office exuded order and cleanliness. I expected to be greeted by a cold Mrs. Weinstein, completely in tune with her office, but I found myself in front of a petite woman of about 40 with short, hennared dyed hair. She was smiling, frankly, warmly. "Mr. Taïa? Ah, the Confederation scholarship holder! But we don't have an appointment until tomorrow... am I right? — No, no, you're not mistaken... It's just that... — Anyway, since you're here, come on in! And welcome to Switzerland!

— ... — Please tell me! Tell me everything... I want to know everything. — I arrived late yesterday afternoon. — How was the flight? — Good. — Afraid of flying? — A little. — Me too. You know what I do to avoid fear of flying? — What do you do? — Do you want to know? Are you sure? — Yes, if you don't mind. — I drink alcohol. I'm always drunk when I fly!" This pseudo-confession was followed by the thunderous, exaggerated laughter of an unleashed, hysterical woman. A madwoman. Was she really Mrs. Weinstein? Had I come to the wrong office? "Are you Mrs. Weinstein? Janine Weinstein? — Yes, yes, that's me, and still drunk... Hahahaha... " She was indeed, I suddenly realized. She didn't just drink on planes, she obviously drank on land too, and first thing in the morning. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am. — Nice to meet you... me too... Call me Jo, like everyone else here." The phone rang. She answered, almost singing: "Hello! Hello!" I felt as if I were standing in front of the ridiculous and touching diva of Tintin's adventures, the Castafiore. If she had sung "Je ris... de me voir si belle... si belle... en ce miroir... en ce miroir...", I wouldn't have been surprised.

She didn't sing. She no longer laughed. Her conversation was serious. She was trying to be serious, and it was apparently taking a lot of effort. She had someone important on the phone. Ten minutes later, she was still clutching her phone. My presence in her office no longer made any sense. She was staring out of the window, her back to me, repeating from time to time "of course, of course", "that goes without saying". I realized that I had to get out. So I did. I waited at reception for another thirty minutes. When I didn't see her reappear, I asked the receptionist if she was still on the phone. "No, no, she's done, you can go into her office. And don't worry too much if you notice anything strange... She's a bit special." Just as I was about to knock again, the door opened with a bang. An erupting volcano. "I don't have time to see you now. Come back tomorrow, no, the day after tomorrow. I have to catch the next train to Berne. It's very urgent. Farewell!" I didn't even have time to reply. She quickly disappeared, running through the corridors like a madwoman in the middle of a crisis.

August 8, 1997. The day after my birthday. I was leaving Morocco for the first time in my life. Jean had said he would meet me at the airport. He wasn't there. He sent a friend instead. His name was Charles. Jean would join us as soon as he could, as his train was late. The first face in Europe: Charles! He was kind, gentle, a little smooth. He immediately put me a t ease. "I'm one of Jean's best friends, the best maybe... you'll have to ask him." He laughed heartily, and I, doing the well-behaved, with him. Then, ever the gentleman, he continued: "He's asked me to look after you until he arrives. Would you like something from the cafeteria?" Jean had taken a long time to reach us. Charles took the opportunity to ask me a thousand questions, first about me, then about the circumstances in which I had met Jean, who hadn't told him everything. I was delighted to answer, as long as I could, delighted to talk, to communicate. I wanted to please. I did everything I could to make it work. As the minutes passed, a feeling of happiness (or something resembling it) began to invade my body. I was in Europe! In Switzerland! And just the idea of being in a foreign land, a land other than Morocco, was enough to keep me in a happy state, happy as a child in a hammam with his mother, happy and amazed as a country boy arriving in the city for the first time in his life. "You look young. How old are you?" Charles didn't believe me when I told him I was 23. To him, I looked five years younger. He added: "That's going to be a problem with Jean... We'll see.

might think, seeing the two of you on the street for example, that you're..." He didn't have time to finish his sentence: Jean had finally arrived! There was something unreal about finding him somewhere other than Morocco. I didn't know what to say. I was speechless. Grateful. Happy. Confused. Surprised, too, to see him, to rediscover his physical appearance, somewhere other than Morocco. And this question - these questions: did he really love me? What did he really want from me? What was I going to give him? Jean had arrived very late, but he had arrived: my Swiss summer could begin. I spent two months with him in Geneva. August and September 1997. It took us a while to get used to living together, and a while for me to find a place for myself in his home. Jean wasn't easy to live with. He was manic and had incredible mood swings. He got very angry with me almost every day. It terrified me. I didn't talk back. I didn't cry. He had one thing in common with my mother: very strong dictatorial tendencies. As the days went by, I realized that he wasn't evil, that he too was the product of a certain upbringing and that it was too late to change, to change him. I wasn't at home, I had to adapt to him at all costs, at his pace. Sometimes I was afraid: Switzerland seemed like a strange country, too quiet. A soundproof country. I realized two other important things during this first trip to Europe. Firstly, how real was the fascination that Western culture held for me. And secondly, how this same West was something else to experience on a daily basis, a different reality from the one I'd imagined for years through films and books. I was from somewhere else: everything reminded me of that. Jean wanted to contribute to my culture, by taking me to museums and art galleries. He didn't need to force me,

I myself wanted, needed, to see and discover everything. It was with him that I first saw paintings by Picasso, Goya, Holbein, De Chirico... Things you never forget. Day after day, Jean left his mark on me, forever. He greatly influenced my artistic tastes and judgments. All I wanted was to learn. He was a university professor, and beside me too, every day. He was brilliant. He was fascinating in his ability to see beyond things. He needed to be loved and admired at the same time. I admired him deeply. I loved him too, in my own way. One day, in a restaurant, when he had gone to the toilet, an elegant, slightly arrogant man in his fifties came up to me and gave me his business card, on which he had written: "I pay well." What Charles had meant was this, the bitter truth was right in front of me, I couldn't ignore it. Charles knew that people would take me for the little guy Jean was treating himself to on vacation. That's what he wanted to tell me, that's what he was going to tell me when Jean met us at the airport. For many people, and the gentleman who'd just given me his card could only confirm it, I was just that in the end, a whore, a little whore. Circulating in this "new" world with Jean, I appeared to others as his sex thing. That's all I could be. After all, he was paying for it. And, like him, anyone could buy me. I didn't cry. Tears wouldn't make me feel any better. I didn't understand. But I was aware of this new reality of myself that was beyond me: an irremediable fracture. The plane that took me back to Morocco a few weeks later was packed with Moroccan women who wanted to be chic. They were luxury prostitutes. They had just finished the season in Switzerland, and were returning to Morocco in triumph, their pockets full, their freedom,

thanks to Swiss francs, finally acquired. There, as here, everything could be bought.

It was almost noon. Everyone eats at high noon in Switzerland. I did the same, biting slowly into the Mars bar I'd been given in the morning at the Salvation Army. Of course, it wasn't enough, but the idea that I'd have a real dinner at the end of the day helped me cope with the hunger. Mrs. Weinstein was always on my mind, and I realized that she had unknowingly done me a lot of good. I found her amusing, atypical, far, far removed from the image I had of the Swiss in general. That she was a bit crazy, a bit special, as the receptionist said, was perfectly fine with me. That she was probably hysterical didn't bother me either; in Morocco, almost all women are. Parc des Bastions, where I went again after seeing Mrs. Weinstein, was really beautiful in this autumn weather. It wasn't cold, and the sun shone brightly and softly over this part of Geneva. There were no clouds to change the light. Not a breath of wind. There was a soothing calm in this park, where people come to stroll, read, eat, sleep, admire the sculptures of the four reformers and flirt. Right in the middle was a small fountain. I was thirsty. I went towards it to drink, bent my head and noticed, at first, that it resembled the beautiful Wallace fountains in Paris. Then, in a second step, it turned out to be a Wallace fountain, but unlike the Parisian ones, which are green, it was painted black, and I wondered why this change of skin. I was happy, really happy, for a few minutes, to recognize it, to see one for real for the first time in my life. Looking at her, I realized that I was back in Europe, and for a long time, in my dream, not far from Paris. I was changing my life. I was going to become someone else I didn't know yet, I was going to laugh, cry, learn, love,

disappointing others, disappointing myself, making mistakes, moving forward in spite of everything, building something for myself, just for me and later for my family, singing, dancing, being alone, being with new people, panicking, screaming, making love, running, dying a little, falling, getting up again, sleeping, waking up, being very cold, waiting for the sun to come back, finally seeing snow. Above all, I was going to be able to see films in the cinema and not just read about them, as in Morocco. I was going to write for myself, for others, my life, my past, my future. The future in Europe, which began for me at the Salvation Army, suddenly seemed so rich next to that black Wallace fountain. The future far, far away, and so exciting. I was no longer afraid. I was in a dream with angels. The Salvation Army angels. I wasn't there.

When I came to, the park was empty. Lunchtime had already passed and people had gone back to work. Geneva was dozing off, longing for a nap. And so was I. It wasn't cold yet. The sun was still caressing the city with its soft light. I lay down on a bench. And closed my eyes. For the first time in my life I slept in the street. But not for long. When I woke up half an hour later, my body was lighter, relieved of I don't know what, confident, in a good mood. It wanted to have fun, to remain in a certain lightness. I decided to go windowshopping. Not far from the Cornavin train station was a huge shopping mall that fascinated me, La Placette. You could find everything there, absolutely everything. On the way, I passed a cinema announcing the forthcoming release of André Téchiné's film with Juliette Binoche, Alice et Martin, and the Payot bookshop where I'd been on several occasions with Jean the first time I'd visited him. One of the entrances to the Placette opened onto a pretty little square with a

In the middle, a Swiss fountain that I really liked - it looked like a model, it wasn't real. On the first floor, there's a huge bakery, the most fascinating I've ever seen. It's a warm place, perhaps the warmest in Geneva. You can see all the baker's work, all the operations, nothing is hidden, it's a show, a theater, a souk where bustle and noise are not forbidden. This bakery, with its hunger-inducing smells and its many white-clad bakers, immediately reconciles us with existence and destiny. Happiness, they say, sometimes begins with a good loaf of wellbaked bread. What more could you ask for? Jean had once bought me a blue sweater at the same Placette. And before going home, at the end of my first trip to Geneva, I bought Swiss chocolate for my family. My first camera came from there too, another gift from Jean. Details like these kept coming back to me as I entered the huge mall. Details that didn't hurt. On the second floor that afternoon, there weren't many people around. The shelves were well stocked. Clothes, furniture, books, CDs, perfumes... There was everything you needed to have the life you wanted, all you needed was a pocket full of Swiss francs. I wandered from aisle to aisle, fascinated despite myself by the opulence, curious about everything, reading the names of the items on display, the brands, naively dreaming of the day when I too would be able to buy everything I wanted. In my head, I imagined myself as a frenzied consumer. And happy to be so. I passed women dressed all in black, women from the Gulf wearing abbayas and sweet, strong perfumes. They seemed to know the place perfectly. They were right at home. They took their time, walking like cats, dragging huge, monstrous, fascinating behinds. I followed them for a while, without knowing why. I wanted to catch something

in them, but the black of their abbayas prevented any communication, any contact. I left them in the fabric department and headed out of the Placette. It was still daylight.

Once again I had to decide where to go. Just as I was asking myself this question, I realized that a man had been following me for some time. He must have been in his forties. He motioned for me to stop. When he reached me, he said in a cold voice, used to giving orders: "Follow me!" Where? Why did I follow him? Had he taken me for a whore too? He must have. I liked him physically, and that's why I left with him, in silence. I was curious too. Curious to be in the shoes of a prostitute. He led me in silence to a place I hadn't yet discovered, not far from the Placette, the pissotières. As I entered, I immediately realized that this place had what was lacking elsewhere, in the rest of Geneva: overflowing, poetic sexuality. A dozen men of all ages were lined up in front of the urinals, looking at each other's dicks with kindness. I was struck by this. I wasn't shocked; it was like meeting up with old friends. These men desired each other without violence, touching each other's sex with extreme tenderness and courtesy. In this underground, dirty place, they were living a clandestine yet public sexuality. They smiled at each other like children. They didn't speak. Their happy bodies did it for them. They masturbated with their right hands and touched their partners' buttocks with their left. These men weren't a couple, they were making love standing up together. My ever-authoritarian man of forty didn't let me enjoy this scene for long, as the humanity of the people in Switzerland finally revealed itself to me. He took me by the arm and led me into the bathroom. He closed the door behind him violently and immediately began to

knees. He slowly, gently, opened my fly, delicately took out my sex and put it in his mouth to arouse it. He sucked well, so well that I forgot to pull out to cum. He looked ecstatic: he swallowed my sperm, all of it, closing his eyes. Then he stood up, wiped his lips and chin with a handkerchief, and kissed me on the neck, both cheeks and lips. I was overcome by his strong, masculine scent. I closed my eyes for a couple of seconds to identify him and register him deep inside me, in my belly and heart. He plunged his right hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out an orange. An orange! He gave it to me, saying, this time in a voice filled with tenderness, exhausted with pleasure: "Thank you! I pass this way every day around 6 p.m., except weekends. See you tomorrow!" And off he went again. I stayed in the bathroom for a while to pull myself together, to realize what had just happened to me with this man, to enjoy again, afterwards, my pleasure by putting the orange under my nose to smell its exquisite scent. I was happy with this pleasure, relieved. He hadn't taken me for a prostitute after all. He'd liked me, wanted a taste of me, and it was as simple as that. Nothing more. A fair exchange of pleasure. How did he know that oranges were my favorite fruit?

Ouarzazate. I didn't really know Morocco. I knew Salé and Rabat. A bit of Tangier. Jean had given me the opportunity to get to know something else about this country, to broaden the notion of "Morocco", to meet other faces of this enchanting country, as the advertisements say. The last time we saw each other in Morocco. Ouarzazate. Early February 1998. We had forgotten our tensions in Switzerland. Our differences. Our quarrels. There was only the pleasure of being together. To be together. Determined to be happy together for a few days in the South. Spring was early and the almond trees were already in bloom, tall, skinny, majestic and scattered. I was seeing them for the first time in my life: and their beauty, even more striking in this ochre desert landscape, had moved me, touched me deeply. I kept telling Jean over and over again - every day, almost a dozen times a day. After a while, he'd get fed up with it, so he'd reprimand me, gently, seriously, and often I wouldn't reply, I'd let him say it, I'd only upset him halfheartedly, I knew deep down that he was only having fun, I was amusing him, and somehow that made this last trip to Morocco together light, truly enchanting. The kasbahs that could be seen and admired all over this region, kasbahs large and small, architectural masterpieces, clichés of southern Morocco, had also struck us, strongly, intensely. We visited them several times a day, silent, religious, loving everything about them and ourselves in them. Yes, lightness won us over, making us closer than ever to each other, we were for each other in this place far from everything, far from our landmarks. We were still laughing about the same things. And in the evening, in the hotel room, we

we'd fool around, comment on TV programs and then make love for a long time. The night before we left, we had watched the César awards on TV5. Cinema fascinated me, obsessed me: Jean knew it, and in this magnificent obsession he willingly followed me, listening to my dreams of films and stars, talking again and again about the one I loved most, Isabelle Adjani, her beauty, her talent, her origins, her films. He wasn't particularly fond of this actress, but as far as I was concerned, while I was talking about her with fervor, he was in the same passion as I was for her. In Ouarzazate, with spring already here to wrap and refresh us, Isabelle Adjani accompanied us. I was her agent, her admirer, her lover. For the first time, I had someone to talk to about her. Jean's attentive and amused listening matched the dream that inhabited my reality. Ouarzazate, for ten days, was our happy romance.

I knew where to end my day: Michel Foucault was waiting for me, with others, for supper at the Salvation Army. The evening was not far off. In the meantime, I took a look around the library of the University of Geneva. In the hall I came across Jean Starobinski, the great Swiss writer, critic and teacher. My admiration for him knew no bounds. He passed me silently, making no noise, no sound. The way he walked was unobtrusive, as was his whole body, so lively and youthful despite his age. I wanted to go up to him, touch him, talk to him, remind him that Jean had introduced me to him the first time I came to Geneva. I did none of these things. I remained petrified, embarrassed, shy and delighted by this coincidence. I watched him walk past me without recognizing me, cross the hall, stop in front of the electronic door, wait for it to open by itself, step through and disappear from my field of vision. It was a sign. A positive sign that I clung to with all my heart. Starobinski. A man of books. A generous man. A ferryman. Perhaps the last literary ferryman. The reading room was almost empty. A handful of people worked there in monastic silence. To me, these people symbolized the dream of every student, of every literary scholar: to be passionate about a subject of study and to find the ideal place to work on it, to delve into it again and again! And this library was undoubtedly a more than perfect place to quench one's thirst, one's passion for knowledge. I was just passing by, seeing these walls again, where I would in turn spend hours studying, familiarizing myself with the shelves, the atmosphere, the objects, the chairs and tables, the lamps, with

the faces of the librarians. And finally with the file room. It was empty. It seemed empty. I headed for the boxes "R" in search of books on Jean-Jacques Rousseau. I thought I was alone in this room. Suddenly, I was startled by the sound of a box being closed at the other end. I looked up. A man was standing far away, staring at me. I couldn't make out clearly what he looked like. I lowered my eyes, only to raise them again. No, it wasn't possible, it couldn't be. But it was. The man who kept staring at me was... Jean. Even recognizing him, I couldn't believe it. He'd changed. No, he hadn't become skinny, skeletal. He now wore a goatee, which was a little ridiculous and made him look older. He had aged, in just two months. He looked sad. He was in shock. So was I. I knew that I would inevitably see him again (how could it be otherwise, he taught in the same department where I had come to continue my studies), but not so soon, not by chance, not that day, especially not that day. He continued to stare at me in disbelief. My eyes filled with tears. I wanted to run to him, throw myself into his arms, find him, cry against him, cry for both of us, then he'd run his hand through my hair like he used to like to do. I was the one who had left him, who had chosen to live far away from him, and not that far away... Seeing him again that day, so close and so far away at the same time, I realized all the tenderness and attachment I still had, and would always have, in spite of myself, for him. He was small in stature, and that surprised me as if I'd never noticed him before. He was really sad, and that was normal. He was coming towards me.

I shouted, "Not now please, not now. It's too soon... or much too late. Not now." He stopped dead in his tracks. I turned my back and ran towards the exit.

I ran for a long time. The streets of Geneva were empty and dark again, as they had been the day before. People had finished their day's work, they were at home now, in their cages, in the warmth of home, in solitude, in front of their televisions. After supper I went to see him. He was at the reception reading the last pages of Adolphe. "Can I bother you for a moment?... — Tell me: what's it all about? — Perhaps that's a rather ridiculous remark. I think you look a lot like Michel Foucault... the philosopher. — Do you think so? Do you? — Yes, you've got everything he's got, even the glasses. — Is that a compliment? — For me, it is. Michel Foucault was a great writer, an admirable and courageous man. — So that's a compliment... — Yes. — But how do you know that I'm an admirable and courageous man? — I don't know... You look... you look like someone we can trust. — Flatterer! — It's the feeling you give me... a certain security, a protection against... — What are you afraid of? — Afraid? Of life... like everyone else.

— No, not everyone is afraid of life. — You think so? — Yes... The three Russians at your dinner table didn't seem at all afraid of life. They looked strong. — It may be misleading... it surely is... — But what are you afraid of? Being afraid of life is both precise and vague... — I'm afraid of the sea where I almost died one day... — What else? — I'm afraid I made the wrong choice... Maybe I'd be happier at home in Morocco... : Let my mother write my destiny for me, let her do everything as usual... as always. — And who's to say that your happiness lies in your mother's hands? — Simply her presence. Being with her, knowing she's there, not far away. It's reassuring, even if you don't think about it. — Withdrawal is hard at first, as we all know. Then you get used to it, you get used to it, you get used to everything. — I don't agree... — It's not important that you always agree with me. — ... — And now, since you're not saying anything, go to sleep, it's late... If someone asks me who you are, I can testify, say you exist, even prove it. I'm not Michel Foucault. But, like him, I love books. Go to sleep. Let me finish Adolphe. — Until tomorrow then... Good night! — Good night to you too! Ah! There's a surprise for you in the bedroom. You won't be alone."

The surprise was Tunisian. A kind, gentle-looking boy was lying on the window-side bed, reading a sports magazine. He was the first to speak. "Good evening! I'm Samir from Tunis. You must be the Moroccan boy. — Good evening! Good evening! You already know me? — It's all thanks to the man at the front desk. — My name is Abdellah. — Nice to meet you... He was right. — Reason about what? What did he tell you? — Oh, nothing, nothing... He just said we look alike, you and me. And I think he's right. You're like my little brother... When did you get here? — Yesterday. How about you? — This morning. And I feel like I already know exactly how Swiss society works. — How? — This afternoon, I was strolling through the streets of the city center waiting for the Salvation Army to open... I immediately noticed that everything here is very orderly, well thought-out, nothing is left to chance. Even when crossing the street, there's a button that lights up a little man. I've seen several people press it. So I wanted to imitate them, to start respecting the laws of this country right away. Here's the scene: for cars, it was a red light, and strangely enough, for pedestrians, the little man remained unlit. To turn it green, I pressed once. Nothing happened. A second time. Nothing. He was probably asleep, I thought. I couldn't make any sense of it, no one could move, neither pedestrians nor motorists. Annoyed, I pressed the button a third time, then a fourth... and a fifth... Still nothing, to my great despair. Suddenly, on the other side of the street, a fat woman shouted: "Hey, you! We only press once and wait. You're not in the boondocks here." I was ashamed. I

I lowered my head, imagining the people next to me laughing at my stupidity and ignorance. The fat woman, crossing the street when the little man finally deigned to give us permission to cross, shouted the same remark at me again, or almost. I let her, and realized that here, in this rich country, every citizen is a cop. Might as well get used to it from now on. I'm warning you. — Welcome to Switzerland. — Thank you!" Before retiring to bed and surrendering my warm, reassured body to sleep, I took the orange out of the inside pocket of my jacket, where I'd hidden it carefully. "Would you like to share this orange with me?"

I was the one who was late this time. A day late. France, just next door, was loudly celebrating the victory of its soccer team, which had just won the World Cup, and it was unbearable. An entire happy country! Collective joy is always a little forced, always unsatisfying, always tiring. I wanted to cry. For a week. Every night. Five months after Ouarzazate and its happiness, I was in Geneva for the second time in my life. As soon as I arrived, all hell broke loose again. Jean, me, hell and the summer that was just beginning. Lying next to Jean in his Geneva apartment, I wasn't sleeping. He, on the other hand, was already snoring. The tears wouldn't come. Wouldn't come. It was the end. It was written. I hadn't cried. I was dry, in the dryness, in a certain selfishness, me, me, me... The tears could have softened me, allowed me to make a gesture, a step, a hand reaching out to him, Jean, this sleeping Swiss man, suddenly a stranger, a foreigner, to wake him up, to take him in my arms. All the problems would be gone, the conflict would disappear, he and I connected again, bound, in a certain idea of love. Those tears weren't coming. I prayed for them to come. Then I prayed they wouldn't come. Jean: I was angry with him. I hated him. I didn't talk to him about anything, not about me, not about my dreams, not about my family, not about Paris, which he'd never really loved anyway. I was alone, abandoned, and yet he was right next door. I was afraid, too. Of him. Of everything with him.

At the very beginning, in Marrakech, he spoke to me of freedom, of my freedom with him. We would be friends, not slaves to each other, he told me. I was younger than him, and it was normal for me to enjoy life and its pleasures. At my age, he'd done the same: enjoy life. That's what he thought. We really were free. Freedom: it was just a word after all. I wasn't free. I was suddenly aware of this, in a brutal, traumatic way.

This second stay in Switzerland was short, short and very intense. A Douglas Sirk melodrama. I was going through a moment of rupture that was stronger than I could bear, and I was consciously making a radical decision, completely unaware of the consequences. I was like my mother: I didn't know how to argue. Betrayed, I became mute. Faced with Jean's silence, I was a non-existent abyss. A shadow of my former self. Already far away, elsewhere. I couldn't stay.

My older brother Abdelkébir had given me money to come back and see Jean in Geneva. I traveled three days by train: RabatTangier, Tangier-Algésiras, Algésiras-Madrid, Madrid-Hendaye, Hendaye-Paris, Paris-Geneva. I came to Jean happy. On the boat from Tangiers to Algeciras, I met Matthias the German and Rafael the Pole. They were my age, 23. They wanted to take a day trip to Tangier, but because Rafael needed a visa to enter Morocco, the Moroccan police turned them away. Matthias could have gone on his own, as Rafaël had suggested, but he preferred to stay with his friend and miss out on Tangier for himself.

It wasn't long before I realized: Matthias was madly in love with Rafaël. On the boat, we watched each other for a long time. Smiling at each other. Without speaking. Matthias seemed shy. He hardly spoke at all. Rafaël was outrageously handsome and sexy: he knew it and played it up. He had an incredibly large mouth that summed up everything he was in life: greedy, insatiable. That night, on the train to Madrid, we got to know each other. We talked in English while eating tuna fish sandwiches. We had a compartment to ourselves, just the three of us. We talked for a long time. Around midnight, when it was time to go to sleep, without having decided anything, we undressed and, naked, we started to make love, the three of us. We didn't sleep. The warm night kept us awake for love and its joys. We were happy. Young and happy. The land of Spain as the setting for our enthusiasm and sharing. Spain, the land of some of my ancestors, where I was setting foot for the first time in my life. Spain, still Arab somewhere, despite the centuries and the destruction. An hour before arriving in Madrid, where I was due to change trains, Rafaël suggested I stay with them a little longer, just one more day. A day and a night in Madrid! I didn't know the Spanish capital. I agreed. I changed my train ticket without any problem. I left a message on Jean's answering machine to let him know that I would be arriving in Geneva a day late and that I would explain why when I saw him. Rafaël had gone to look for a youth hostel not far from the city center.

Matthias and I waited for him for two hours at the station. Two hours to get to know each other better. Two hours to bond even more and forever. Two hours at the end of which Matthias broke down. Matthias was crying. I held her hand. I didn't know what to say. I knew why he was crying. He was in love with Rafaël, who wasn't in love with him. He wanted him all to himself. Rafaël wanted everyone: and everyone wanted Rafaël. Rafaël was an angel, a demon, a wonderful lover, a manipulator, eccentric, fragile, egocentric, cruel, innocent, perverse... Rafaël was above all very handsome. Matthias was ready to do anything for him. Even marry him. Rafael stayed with Matthias but didn't really love him, he just liked him. He needed Matthias for his papers. As an immigrant in Munich, he needed someone to help him obtain a residence permit and find work. He also needed a place to sleep. Matthias did everything for him, out of love for him. And this unrequited love, and this object of love so close to him on a daily basis, was both a joy and an immense suffering for the Munich man. Touched by this suffering, I took Matthias in my arms. He cried for a long time, like a child. I wiped his tears with a large white embroidered handkerchief that my mother had once given me, promising never to wash it. There was something strong, pure and sacred about her love for Rafaël. Does the one who loves have all the rights? Perhaps the answer is no. But love, when it is so lived-in and rare, deserves our prayers and our indulgence. I loved Madrid. I loved being in Matthias' love. I loved being surrounded by two warm naked bodies, four hands caressing me. I gave myself to them, in the afternoon, in the night, in the early morning. I remember no one but them with me in this city, guiding me, directing my steps, smiling at me. I was

in the secret of their relationship, of their hearts. I was them. I was for them. And the three of us, in this sensual, sexual love, were blood and sperm brothers, far from our borders.

As soon as I met up with Jean in Geneva, I told him all about my beautiful adventure, everything, I told him everything about this encounter on the road, my pleasure, my emotion, my comments on this love. My joy at having rediscovered with Matthias and Rafaël a certain sexuality I'd had during my childhood and early adolescence. Group sex. I must have been bursting with enthusiasm, too much no doubt, overjoyed at this beautiful thing in life that had just happened to me. Jean became someone else right after I told him about my trip. Jealousy? I was faced with another Jean. His flaws were exacerbated. He was now cantankerous. Possessive. Grumpy. Cheerful. Insulting miser. Silent. Insulting. He ignored me. I no longer existed for him and yet I depended on him more than ever. He paid for everything. He kept reminding me. I was suffocating. Jean only knew how to do one thing: curl up on himself, accentuate the expression of pain on his face and only very rarely open his mouth to say murderous words. After a few days, I stopped trying to understand him, his love, his way of loving, I only felt my own suffering. I was in a prison, more and more in a prison. Freedom in the West? What kind of freedom? One morning, I woke up early, long before Jean, and wrote him a long letter explaining how much living with him like this meant to me.

beyond my strength. I didn't understand anything. Love was certainly complicated, but I still didn't understand it, especially when it took on those dark colors and that dizzying silence. No, I couldn't stay. I had to leave, go somewhere else, breathe, find meaning in all this, and above all think about my future life. What we had experienced together in Morocco and Switzerland would remain strong and alive in me forever. He would forever be the first, the initiator, the master who must one day be overcome. The very idea of love? Jean's friend Charles lent me money to return to Morocco. I knew that two months later I would be returning to Geneva to finish my studies, leaving Morocco for good. Charles promised to meet me a t Geneva airport on September 30.

In Morocco, a month before this new departure, Marc, a friend of mine who was a teacher at the Lycée Français in Rabat and whom Jean knew a little, received a letter from Jean informing him of my departure. "Abdellah was nothing but a little whore, like so many in Morocco, an unscrupulous upstart, ill-bred, an asshole, an ingrate. A black being. A heartbreaker. A selfish wretch who didn't deserve any attention. A monster.

These were the words describing me that I had in mind as I boarded the plane for Geneva, for that other, cold world where a battle to be fought was just waiting for me to begin. I thought that coming to live in Europe would be the end of waiting and inner battles. I was wrong. For a long time to come, I'd be evolving in the

black. I'd soon have to make some radical and immediate decisions, choose sides, get further and further away from the people I loved, stop crying once and for all, deal with the anxieties and panic attacks. Forget about rest. Re-learn how to love. Give Jean a new role without letting him invade my life. Build myself in doubt. Move forward alone. Be happy alone. Faint frequently. Decided whether or not to drink wine or eat pork. Gradually revise my vision of Arab culture, Moroccan traditions and Islam. To lose myself completely in order to find myself better. Finally, on the morning of a cold, gray day, build an army for my salvation. It wouldn't happen overnight. At the start of the Great Battle, the faithful angels (Muslims?) would be there on my side. Then they would cowardly abandon me. In the meantime, I would have grown stronger, but leaner, and my dream of being an intellectual in Paris might have come true.

CONTENTS I II III CONTENTS