Aug 19, 2005
Deep Stuff
I returned to the villa coming up on 8. I didn’t park out in the street, that white gravel bone of roadway that connects half finished projects with other half finished projects, and all of them tied with the bow of infrastructural despair. Did you ever notice that there are windows only on one side of a building here? Keep the light at bay. Keep it dark where I can see you.
I got out of the car and there was devilina in the moon light. Slinking like shylock toward BethleMAN. What destruction now, I asked. Her tail wagged like a snake in no hurry. That's the sign. She was tight to the ground. Still, I chatted on our way along the narrow walk back to VillaOcilla, as I call it. Pathovillalogical. And sure enough we get to the garden and, on the eve of a full moon, I could see clearly what she’d done, taken the poinsettia out, for the second time in two days. The same plant out of the same pot. And one other as well. The same one as before. The same two as the day before. The red Poinsettia, as in blood and love and sentimental journey.
It was message alright, from outer dog space. But what does it mean? I said to her and meanwhile she’d turned into an ocelot creeping along. You wanted democracy, you got it. You got us thrown out of the other place ‘cause you didn’t like that. Now, what’s wrong with this. I can’t spend every minute of every day minding your mental store.
I went to her, she rolled over, and bit me as I tried to get her Raskolnikov ass back to the spot. Show her the damage for zillionth time. You bitch-critter, I said and tried to kick her as she ran off into the dark. This is the SIXTH day in a row. It’s a little cold war going on here. And after each day I try some new psychology. True love, tough shit, basketcase enabler, just walk and talk, I’d give her a martini if I had one, but it’s never enough. You understand, I'm doing everything by the canine juvi book.
This was especially weird because I’d taken her on a mammoth walk at 7 a.m. We got back at 10 and both of us passed out like two drunks on the bed. I couldn’t feel my legs; she was twitching like an epileptic. Now, at the other end of the day, this. And by the way, should I count up all ‘a’tta boys’ I gave her. And at the other end of the day, at 7 p.m., I’d been willing to take her downtown to the cyber cafe, let her wait in the car, while I did my business. Ten minutes tops. But she wasn’t around so she missed out on a mission.
What the fuck do you want? I shouted at the dark. “Money? You want money?”
I told her I’d take her out to Moroccan Route 66 and let her off and seek her destiny among sheep herders. 'That’s your blood. Go back to your Berber amazon queen and smear the blood of your enemies on your breasts and eat their children. Your neurotic fuckette. And then tell me your excuse. Tell me you’re a victim. Tell me you live in emotional Falluja. I’ll still kill you. Because now it’s archetypal. You’re fiddling with deep stuff.
I got out of the car and there was devilina in the moon light. Slinking like shylock toward BethleMAN. What destruction now, I asked. Her tail wagged like a snake in no hurry. That's the sign. She was tight to the ground. Still, I chatted on our way along the narrow walk back to VillaOcilla, as I call it. Pathovillalogical. And sure enough we get to the garden and, on the eve of a full moon, I could see clearly what she’d done, taken the poinsettia out, for the second time in two days. The same plant out of the same pot. And one other as well. The same one as before. The same two as the day before. The red Poinsettia, as in blood and love and sentimental journey.
It was message alright, from outer dog space. But what does it mean? I said to her and meanwhile she’d turned into an ocelot creeping along. You wanted democracy, you got it. You got us thrown out of the other place ‘cause you didn’t like that. Now, what’s wrong with this. I can’t spend every minute of every day minding your mental store.
I went to her, she rolled over, and bit me as I tried to get her Raskolnikov ass back to the spot. Show her the damage for zillionth time. You bitch-critter, I said and tried to kick her as she ran off into the dark. This is the SIXTH day in a row. It’s a little cold war going on here. And after each day I try some new psychology. True love, tough shit, basketcase enabler, just walk and talk, I’d give her a martini if I had one, but it’s never enough. You understand, I'm doing everything by the canine juvi book.
This was especially weird because I’d taken her on a mammoth walk at 7 a.m. We got back at 10 and both of us passed out like two drunks on the bed. I couldn’t feel my legs; she was twitching like an epileptic. Now, at the other end of the day, this. And by the way, should I count up all ‘a’tta boys’ I gave her. And at the other end of the day, at 7 p.m., I’d been willing to take her downtown to the cyber cafe, let her wait in the car, while I did my business. Ten minutes tops. But she wasn’t around so she missed out on a mission.
What the fuck do you want? I shouted at the dark. “Money? You want money?”
I told her I’d take her out to Moroccan Route 66 and let her off and seek her destiny among sheep herders. 'That’s your blood. Go back to your Berber amazon queen and smear the blood of your enemies on your breasts and eat their children. Your neurotic fuckette. And then tell me your excuse. Tell me you’re a victim. Tell me you live in emotional Falluja. I’ll still kill you. Because now it’s archetypal. You’re fiddling with deep stuff.
Aug 18, 2005
Trash to the left o'me, trash to the right o'me
On the way back, along the narrow old road that winds through the forest between Ifrane and Azrou, a man on a motorbike passed us. A few minutes later we rounded a bend and there he was picking up trash dumped along the side of the road. There was a lot of it, plastic water bottles, yogurt cartons, child’s drawings, and two empty wooden fruit trays buzzing with yellow jackets.
Je vous aide, I said and started picking up debris. He’d gotten most of it into a big black plastic bag. “Fais attention,” he said when I tried to pick up the fruit trays. He had no fear of the yellow jackets and slipped the trays in his bag.
When the bag was full he walked across the road and up into the forest. About 20 yards in he threw the bag behind a bush, brushed his hands, and came back.
I guess we couldn’t leave it by the side of the road, I said, and maybe a truck would pick it up.... That’s what we need, a truck, he said.
We looked down at the few bits of trash we’d missed. He bent down and picked up a child’s drawing. I know who these people are, he said, and pointed down into the valley where torrents of kids come to a nearby camp in the summer.
He shook his head in disgust and we walked up the road, he walking his bike. He wore a red baseball cap and a bemused expression. In his late forties, short and stocky. For about a quarter mile he stopped from time to time, picked up trash and threw it off the steep drop on one side of the road. He explained he was the head forest ranger in this part of the Middle Atlas.
I don’t know why people do this, he said, throwing some plastic bottles as far as he could. It’s a mystery to me. It’s these French people. They come here and throw all their stuff in the forest.
We collected some more. I had a small plastic bag filled with stuff. Finally, he jumped on his scooter and slowly disappeared in a noisy, black cloud of smoke.
The dog and I walked on.
Eventually, we came to where the forest has been cleared and the land flattens out. There was the ranger again. We reached him and this time he was putting a collection of garbage behind a bolder, pushing some other rocks into place so you couldn’t see anything from the sides. He was still shaking his head. But finally he stopped and came up close to me and said, “they just want to eat these people, they don’t want to work.”
I nodded. Goodbye, he said, threw his leg over his scooter and coasted a few yards to another trash side.
Je vous aide, I said and started picking up debris. He’d gotten most of it into a big black plastic bag. “Fais attention,” he said when I tried to pick up the fruit trays. He had no fear of the yellow jackets and slipped the trays in his bag.
When the bag was full he walked across the road and up into the forest. About 20 yards in he threw the bag behind a bush, brushed his hands, and came back.
I guess we couldn’t leave it by the side of the road, I said, and maybe a truck would pick it up.... That’s what we need, a truck, he said.
We looked down at the few bits of trash we’d missed. He bent down and picked up a child’s drawing. I know who these people are, he said, and pointed down into the valley where torrents of kids come to a nearby camp in the summer.
He shook his head in disgust and we walked up the road, he walking his bike. He wore a red baseball cap and a bemused expression. In his late forties, short and stocky. For about a quarter mile he stopped from time to time, picked up trash and threw it off the steep drop on one side of the road. He explained he was the head forest ranger in this part of the Middle Atlas.
I don’t know why people do this, he said, throwing some plastic bottles as far as he could. It’s a mystery to me. It’s these French people. They come here and throw all their stuff in the forest.
We collected some more. I had a small plastic bag filled with stuff. Finally, he jumped on his scooter and slowly disappeared in a noisy, black cloud of smoke.
The dog and I walked on.
Eventually, we came to where the forest has been cleared and the land flattens out. There was the ranger again. We reached him and this time he was putting a collection of garbage behind a bolder, pushing some other rocks into place so you couldn’t see anything from the sides. He was still shaking his head. But finally he stopped and came up close to me and said, “they just want to eat these people, they don’t want to work.”
I nodded. Goodbye, he said, threw his leg over his scooter and coasted a few yards to another trash side.
Aug 17, 2005
Footprints along the baseline
Behind the restaurant overlooking the town’s artificial lake, there are two clay tennis courts. These belong to the Ifrane Tennis Club. The club is open from May until October. It costs 300 D to join and you need two photographs of yourself and a birth certificate.
All this week there’s been a tournament. The first player to win 9 games wins the match. There were perhaps 20 players. A friend drew me into it. My first round opponent defaulted. In the second round I was matched with a boy in his late teens or early 20s who had only been playing for six months and should have won, and even went ahead 7 games to 4 at one point, I nearly double faulted the match away, but eventually I prevailed. In the third round I didn’t win a game and again double faulted the match away.
They have a strange practice at the club. They brush the courts and carefully sweep the lines and then they water the court. There are several ways to care for clay courts, but the customary way is to soak them in the morning and at night and then you brush the courts before every match. Or, as they do on baseball diamonds, you might lightly sprinkle the base paths after they’ve been swept, although I always thought you wet the ground first, then sweep it. In any case, here they do the brushing and then they heavily water the courts so that every match begins in mud and the court scared with hose marks and mounds. And of course all the lines are hidden.
My last opponent, Driss, has been attending college in America, in Virginia. He described himself as Moroccan American and when we talked about this odd practice of wetting the courts, he said, well this is the Moroccan way. It’s always been done this way. The logic is unimportant. The important thing is to do things the way they’ve always been done. So this is one reason things don’t change much here. But for them, there’s great security in doing it the old way, great security in how it’s always been.
All this week there’s been a tournament. The first player to win 9 games wins the match. There were perhaps 20 players. A friend drew me into it. My first round opponent defaulted. In the second round I was matched with a boy in his late teens or early 20s who had only been playing for six months and should have won, and even went ahead 7 games to 4 at one point, I nearly double faulted the match away, but eventually I prevailed. In the third round I didn’t win a game and again double faulted the match away.
They have a strange practice at the club. They brush the courts and carefully sweep the lines and then they water the court. There are several ways to care for clay courts, but the customary way is to soak them in the morning and at night and then you brush the courts before every match. Or, as they do on baseball diamonds, you might lightly sprinkle the base paths after they’ve been swept, although I always thought you wet the ground first, then sweep it. In any case, here they do the brushing and then they heavily water the courts so that every match begins in mud and the court scared with hose marks and mounds. And of course all the lines are hidden.
My last opponent, Driss, has been attending college in America, in Virginia. He described himself as Moroccan American and when we talked about this odd practice of wetting the courts, he said, well this is the Moroccan way. It’s always been done this way. The logic is unimportant. The important thing is to do things the way they’ve always been done. So this is one reason things don’t change much here. But for them, there’s great security in doing it the old way, great security in how it’s always been.
Aug 12, 2005
Aug 2, 2005
Don't Ask
At 1:30 a.m. she was still gone. Way past curfew. Way past caring. I said, fine you want to get laid this time of night then that's your business but I'm not worrying if you're half dead on the side of the road. Good night.
The next morning, around 5 a.m. I heard that poof of a bark. A mindless involuntary response. And then again and this was more than a poof. I'd left the door open to the apartment in case, as well as the two doors to the building, and all the windows. Of course, that's the whole problem. Leave them open the width of a pencil and she's gone. I also put out some food.
I get up, go outside and there she is, latched to her leash, under a tree. I approach and she slithers toward me like Shylock looking for a bob. I was glad to see the bitch; I let her go.
"It wasn't my fault," she began. "I met this boy and he...."
"Skip it," I said. "I don't want to know."
She wagged her tail, not having to tell me a long cock 'n bull story about her 'boyfriend.'
"It's weird out there at night," she said, wanting to tell me and not tell me, but hoping I would have at least some questions.
I don't want to know, I told her, and we left it at that.
The next morning, around 5 a.m. I heard that poof of a bark. A mindless involuntary response. And then again and this was more than a poof. I'd left the door open to the apartment in case, as well as the two doors to the building, and all the windows. Of course, that's the whole problem. Leave them open the width of a pencil and she's gone. I also put out some food.
I get up, go outside and there she is, latched to her leash, under a tree. I approach and she slithers toward me like Shylock looking for a bob. I was glad to see the bitch; I let her go.
"It wasn't my fault," she began. "I met this boy and he...."
"Skip it," I said. "I don't want to know."
She wagged her tail, not having to tell me a long cock 'n bull story about her 'boyfriend.'
"It's weird out there at night," she said, wanting to tell me and not tell me, but hoping I would have at least some questions.
I don't want to know, I told her, and we left it at that.
Jul 22, 2005
Thumb
They stand along the road, a few yards west of the marche, under the trees. They're hitching, all men, some soldiers, some farmers, most out of work. The soldiers are usually on their way to El Hajeb, to visit with the prostitutes. Especially on pay day. That's the big day in El Hajib, the trucks lumber down the mountain roads and the police are always there to stop them and get money from the customers. The illegality is always unclear, always made up. In this way, the prostitutes feed everyone, except themselves. They get a pittance. Their owners, and they are often owners, collect fortunes and then build houses in the quartier de voleurs, which I told you about.
The other day I picked up a crazy looking man. He was not a soldier; he was not going to El Hajib. He was on his way to Meknes. He had a local paper. We exchanged a few words and then he went on a ramble of his own. He read all the want ads. He said he would like to go south, but when I asked why, he shook his head. He didn't know why. He carried on a conversation with himself. "I am on my way," he said in a mumble. "I'm traveling now. We're almost there. I was in airplane mechanics. At Royal Air Maroc. I hate planes, don't you? And I'll tell you this they have a real problem with parts. If they need something, perhaps for a flap, they don't get it from Boeing, they get it on a black market for those kind of parts. The parts come from Europe, or sometimes Asia. If you knew what you were flying, you would never fly. I hate altitude. Even here. What is it, a mile up? I don't like thin air. I want to get into something else. Maybe truck maintenance, but it's hard to find a job these days. Do you have any money you could spare? No, okay. That's okay. I'm just asking. You never know. But when I get to Meknes, maybe.... Where are you going after that? Oh, just there..... To fix your car. I understand. Yes, well maybe I will get to Layounne. They say it's dangerous but there's always a need for people in dangerous places. Would you like to hear the want ads again?"
Jul 21, 2005
The Ideal Moroccan
The ideal Moroccan man is tall and slender. His face is full of success and steadfastness. He has perfect teeth, perfectly white. At a lover’s distance, you might notice the scent of tobacco and perhaps frankincense from his breast pocket. He's a man you can believe. He takes great care in his appearance. His instinct is to be dapper but he confines himself to understatement. He insists that one of his daughters always prepare his travel kit, with his razor, foam and aftershave, his tooth brush and hair brush, his favorite clippers and file. And from time to time this same daughter, the one who has never deserted him, will pluck out the gray hair in his eyebrows and the stray hair between his eyes. She might also give him a facial message so that he always looks calm and untroubled, no matter if just a few hours ago there has been a disaster, if for example, he has accidentally hit someone driving home. Of course, he stopped and tried to help the person, but it was too late, and by the time the ambulance arrived, an old man on a bicycle had died.
This is one of those terrible ironies because the ideal Moroccan might be a prosecutor. And well respected. When you see his picture, you'd think he was the king, then when you see the way people greet him, the way they bow and scrape. They will kiss his hand if they can get it. He would prefer they didn't, and often hides his hand, because he is a humble man, from an enormous family further to the south. His father had 17 wives, and those were just the ones that bore children. But what makes him the ideal is that he is both traditional and modern. He knows the latest intracasies of the law, and while he doesn't use the internet himself, he makes sure the court house is well wired. At the same time, if he found out his daughters weren't virgins, he would kill them. Or, he would send them to military school, the college in Rabat for wayward girls, where one day they could become secretaries or staff in some barracks or far flung government agency. But not to worry, they obey him to the hilt. Of course, there have been problems along the way, discrepancies, things he cannot talk about. But that was before. Everyone had to survive then.
His house is immaculate. Each object has its place and he insists that everything and everyone in his house have their place, their role and arc. His wife is very beautiful. Maybe not the beauty she was once, but still distinguished in her own way. Once a week she goes to a medium who assures her that next week will bring something new and exciting and that her husband is faithful to her, no matter what she suspects. If she has not always been a kind mother, if she does not call her daughters on their birthday, it is because she has had a hard life. Her mother in turn was a monster, cold as Atlas Mountain winter, and also, let's not forget, she was married before, and beaten. The ideal Moroccan man saved her, even though she is illiterate. Because of her beauty he took her for his wife and had three children and still now, at 55, she is striking, interesting, always beautifully dressed. You would want to sit down and talk to her, through an interpreter, because she does not even speak French.
The ideal Moroccan man has a perfect sense of humor. He also knows just how to make fun of people; he can capture the essence of people in an instant. In middle age, he is proud and prosperous. He likes to hunt wild boar. Perhaps, he is a prosecutor or a government official. He is an expert when it comes to crime. He knows criminals better than they know themselves.
His children are loyal and praised by their teachers. His friends revere him. They honor him constantly. He enjoys the respect, and he is used to it. He expects respect, but in a good-natured way. “No one is kinder that this man,” you will hear people say about him. "No one is better in his profession."
"Isn't he calm?" people remark. "Have you ever seen anyone more calm that this man?" Yet, lately, he has been having horrific dreams. He can barely stand going to bed. As difficult as his days, with the problem of the prostitutes in the hotels and the corruption in the nightclubs, his nights are filled with crimes and horror. He wakes up like a man who has just been to work for 24 straight hours.
Isn't he calm and yet underneath he is on fire. Did you know he has premonitions? When his mother died he knew beforehand. Once he called one of his friends to say that he'd dreamt a pay increase was coming and sure enough it was. Another time, his wife had a car accident, not major, but he called her moments afterward wanting to know if she was okay? She is never okay anymore, but he cannot change that. And then there was the time his favorite daughter was contemplating running away to France. He dreamed that she was trying to escape the country and as soon as he woke up he told her of his dream and she was so stunned that she told him everything. Not everything but enough so that he knew how right he had been.
And if he has his secrets, his other lives, no matter. If he has learned to accept the unacceptable, it couldn’t be helped. If you understood anything about this country you would let it go. Yes, because here is the great truth: in Morocco you learn from an early age to look for people’s weaknesses. And by extension to show none of your own. How else can you survive? You must never forget, an eye for an eye. Memory as instinct. Moroccans can be very cruel to each other. No more cruel than say Americans, but it is the rifle to the handgun. Here, the injury is inflicted from a distance. You may not even know who fired the shot. It may take years before the bullet reaches you. And you may wonder, what did I do to deserve this?
Look into those dark eyes and they may say to you, I can hurt you. But why would you want to do that? You say. For fun, they might reply, laughing. And it is nothing. Just a joke. A test. Of course, you can't be sure. You have to trust in a place where there is no trust. Still, don’t pass judgment, no more than you would in an old volcano.
This is one of those terrible ironies because the ideal Moroccan might be a prosecutor. And well respected. When you see his picture, you'd think he was the king, then when you see the way people greet him, the way they bow and scrape. They will kiss his hand if they can get it. He would prefer they didn't, and often hides his hand, because he is a humble man, from an enormous family further to the south. His father had 17 wives, and those were just the ones that bore children. But what makes him the ideal is that he is both traditional and modern. He knows the latest intracasies of the law, and while he doesn't use the internet himself, he makes sure the court house is well wired. At the same time, if he found out his daughters weren't virgins, he would kill them. Or, he would send them to military school, the college in Rabat for wayward girls, where one day they could become secretaries or staff in some barracks or far flung government agency. But not to worry, they obey him to the hilt. Of course, there have been problems along the way, discrepancies, things he cannot talk about. But that was before. Everyone had to survive then.
His house is immaculate. Each object has its place and he insists that everything and everyone in his house have their place, their role and arc. His wife is very beautiful. Maybe not the beauty she was once, but still distinguished in her own way. Once a week she goes to a medium who assures her that next week will bring something new and exciting and that her husband is faithful to her, no matter what she suspects. If she has not always been a kind mother, if she does not call her daughters on their birthday, it is because she has had a hard life. Her mother in turn was a monster, cold as Atlas Mountain winter, and also, let's not forget, she was married before, and beaten. The ideal Moroccan man saved her, even though she is illiterate. Because of her beauty he took her for his wife and had three children and still now, at 55, she is striking, interesting, always beautifully dressed. You would want to sit down and talk to her, through an interpreter, because she does not even speak French.
The ideal Moroccan man has a perfect sense of humor. He also knows just how to make fun of people; he can capture the essence of people in an instant. In middle age, he is proud and prosperous. He likes to hunt wild boar. Perhaps, he is a prosecutor or a government official. He is an expert when it comes to crime. He knows criminals better than they know themselves.
His children are loyal and praised by their teachers. His friends revere him. They honor him constantly. He enjoys the respect, and he is used to it. He expects respect, but in a good-natured way. “No one is kinder that this man,” you will hear people say about him. "No one is better in his profession."
"Isn't he calm?" people remark. "Have you ever seen anyone more calm that this man?" Yet, lately, he has been having horrific dreams. He can barely stand going to bed. As difficult as his days, with the problem of the prostitutes in the hotels and the corruption in the nightclubs, his nights are filled with crimes and horror. He wakes up like a man who has just been to work for 24 straight hours.
Isn't he calm and yet underneath he is on fire. Did you know he has premonitions? When his mother died he knew beforehand. Once he called one of his friends to say that he'd dreamt a pay increase was coming and sure enough it was. Another time, his wife had a car accident, not major, but he called her moments afterward wanting to know if she was okay? She is never okay anymore, but he cannot change that. And then there was the time his favorite daughter was contemplating running away to France. He dreamed that she was trying to escape the country and as soon as he woke up he told her of his dream and she was so stunned that she told him everything. Not everything but enough so that he knew how right he had been.
And if he has his secrets, his other lives, no matter. If he has learned to accept the unacceptable, it couldn’t be helped. If you understood anything about this country you would let it go. Yes, because here is the great truth: in Morocco you learn from an early age to look for people’s weaknesses. And by extension to show none of your own. How else can you survive? You must never forget, an eye for an eye. Memory as instinct. Moroccans can be very cruel to each other. No more cruel than say Americans, but it is the rifle to the handgun. Here, the injury is inflicted from a distance. You may not even know who fired the shot. It may take years before the bullet reaches you. And you may wonder, what did I do to deserve this?
Look into those dark eyes and they may say to you, I can hurt you. But why would you want to do that? You say. For fun, they might reply, laughing. And it is nothing. Just a joke. A test. Of course, you can't be sure. You have to trust in a place where there is no trust. Still, don’t pass judgment, no more than you would in an old volcano.
Jul 20, 2005
Shall I or not?
Would you rather hear the story of the girl who grew up in Beni Mellal, and at 4 continually dug up the earth around her house looking for the dead and, not finding any, concluded that the dead disappeared, but then only to wake up one morning next to her dead grandmother?
Or about how Mohammed V took money under the carpet. Literally. This, when the royal family was destitute between the wars...
Or about how one of the professors was detained for several hours by police last Thursday after customs officials in Meknes found in a box sent from France an old cartoon, from the late 1980s, depicting Hassan II in an unflattering way?
Or about the woman from Indiana and her sexual appetite for 10 men from Sicily, one right after another, one evening 30 years ago? Or about her record collection of songs with titles like "incurrably romantic," "Romantically Helpless", and "Cold, cold heart."
Or about how children are taught to fear sex from an early age and more than that, how little girls are taught to believe, not by design of course, that you will never be happy with the man you marry.
Or about how when we walk in the forest, the dog and I, she becomes like a child when the barbary apes appear.... I tell her that could be you.
Or about how the other Friday I caught her outside the faculty club eating cous cous out of a torn plastic bag. 'What do you expect," she said, "It's a holy day." I killed her on the spot.
Or about how yesterday afternoon, on the road out of Meknes, the wind picked up and blew crazy and the sky to the east turned storm color, the color of my father's eyes just before he died. That color and yellow sand blowing in great torrents.
Or about the Hopper moment, with the psychologist sitting at her table with a drink, alone in the afternoon, with the windows wide open so anybody could see her, say hello, start something up, because she's got the lonlies, bad.
Or about how the university has issued, at the last moment, so it's too late to find another job, 11-month contracts for the coming year, to save a month?
Or about how my mother believed I was trying to poison her, to keep her here, out of love, courtly love she told someone, but of course obsessive love... how she thought I was going to kill the dog first, then her?
Or about how the Royal family, according to rumor, is in the drug trade, takes money from wealthy farmers in the Rif and launders it abroad? It's no lie, the blanchissment. The new boulangerie in Azrou is, I'm told on good authority, drug money.
Or about what the dog says as it's running by the car at 20 miles and hour?
Or about how woman no. 3 was freed by the notion, given her by a ghost of my motherm, that you must stay with your nature, that your inclinations, no matter how bizzare, no matter how fickle or silly, will save you? I had to laugh at that. It was a splendid justification of self-deception. The best I ever heard.
Or about how the police in Ceuta terrify the old women crossing the border, Spanish and Moroccan police alike, searching these women loaded down with contraband, which is good for both sides - the Spanish get more tax money; the Moroccans get 'product' to keep the blackmarket alive. Because a lot of other markets are dead. But what is a policeman to do? If he can't search someone, arrest someone, intimidate and examine, what good is he? Will his wife even believe he goes to his job every day? If he doesn't have stories of policing what can he tell his son?
Or about the paths we take through the forest every morning. Every day we try to get more lost, but the more we try the more we end up where we started. We're going blindfolded tomorrow.
Jul 16, 2005
Good afternoon, 'mam. I'm Sgt. Friday, this is my partner, Frank Smith, we'd like to ask you a few questions
Woman comes to the door. After 9 p.m. It's what's her name. She's got that look. And she gets right into it. It's the dog again. But wait a minute, what's your name? I ask. She won't answer; she just goes right on. I ask again, to nothing and so I keep asking and she keeps going. Finally, I say, I can't have a conversation with someone who won't tell me their name. She finally tells me. I can't remember it as soon as I hear it. Three names. Zs in the middle. She's the head of Housing. She's representing the community. She's got a problem with Lucy.
I said, did you get my letter? "Four pages," she says. "I read every one." "That's good," I say. "Well, what did you think?" She doesn't want to have a conversation. She wants to tell me that enough is enough. And here, it's Saturday, I've just gotten back from taking Lucy on a long walk and having tea with Gh who's told me wicked stories about monarchial mischief and the drug trade, and because it's after 9 p.m. I let the damn dog jump in and out of the window while I make dinner. There's no one outside. Yes, but then it turns out while my back was turned Lucy jumped in Cheri's window — Cheri is the resident psychologist and counselor, and boy has she got a list — Lucy jumped in her apartment and ate a bowel of spaghetti that had been left on the floor.
"You see what I mean?" said Z. I said, Look Cheri's cat jumped in our apartment and scared us half to death, Lucy particularly. And it was true. All of a sudden there's this large grey piece of dust floating by my desk, Lucy sees it and jumps straight, just like she was a cat, herself.
"What country are you from?" I asked. The next day I found out my bio-rhythms were all on the bottom line, and the prognosis is for things to get worse. She didn't answer; I kept asking. Finally, I said, "you from the Soviet Union." I thought she was. No, she said, I'm from Morocco. I got the wrong red flag, I said. I was seeing red. Do you have any family in the Red Army?
She doesn't want to talk to me, she wants to tell me about the poop. I said, 'let's talk poop.' It's not funny, she said. I said, did you not see me picking up poop the other night? Yes, you did. Admit, you saw me picking up Lucy poop the other night. She had to admit it.
Yes, she said, you did, but people have seen poop around.
Well, let's compare poops, I said. Let's line 'em all up and see who's whos. 'Cause you never know, it could be from that other dog.... And there is another dog. Little, but Lucy and that dog go to the same bar down next to the old fish market street. I seen 'em.
"I know that other dog," said Z. "But you're missing the point."
I'm telling you this quick but this was 45 minutes. Meanwhile, her son is throwing rocks at the window. I should go get him, she says, but the truth is she likes this argument. She's pregnant, frustrated and she wants to stand head to head and go at it. Every chance to leave, she stays. After a while, I'm thinking, because I've insulted her in every way I can think of, are you coming on to me...
I get her back to poops. No one has seen Lucy do it but it's the idea. And here's the worst of it, people are afraid. There are 20 people afraid. Last time she said there were 4. I said what's the inflation here. People are afraid to tell you, she said. I said, this country is still les annees noires. Is fear all you can do? Are there any other tricks you can do? Anything at all. Jump rope. Make a dime disappear. No, she said, people are really afraid. I said, are you afraid?
No.
Okay, is your son afraid? No, he loves Lucy, and he's no bigger than Lucy.
So, if you don't have fear, why don't you convey that to your commrades and maybe we can all get together, talk poop, talk fear, talk dog. And by the way when are we going to have internet service.
That set her off.
And you know my son has been a target here. Let's talk about. She goes gooey. I know, she said, and I know who did it.
Great, I say, let's worry about that and poop and blather.
No, she won't go that far. You have to keep the dog on the leash at all times. What does that mean? I ask. Because we get up every day at 6:15 a.m. and first thing I let her out, not for a poop, which I've kind of trained her to hold 'til she gets out of the residence, but just to pee and see. Then I have my sneaks on and we're off. But you're saying every moment and she goes off on how that's the law in communities around the world.
Have you ever lived in the U.S?
She won't answer. I press. She finally says she has a brother that once lived in Utah. I've looked into the laws all over America. You did? How, I ask. On the internet, she says. But there's no internet service, I say. She nods. Yes, that's true we don't have that.
I say, listen those laws were created after severe problems. Too many. We just have one hear.
One is too much, she says.
I say you got that right.
We're still standing out there and her child must be half way to Fez by now, if he's a walker.
What do you want me to do? I ask finally.
I never want to see or hear about that dog bieng off leash.
I said you're nuts. It's impossible. She'll get out. She's steal away. Why don't we sit down and address the fear issue.
I'm not afriad she said, looking at me with these wild eyes.
I said, did you get my letter? "Four pages," she says. "I read every one." "That's good," I say. "Well, what did you think?" She doesn't want to have a conversation. She wants to tell me that enough is enough. And here, it's Saturday, I've just gotten back from taking Lucy on a long walk and having tea with Gh who's told me wicked stories about monarchial mischief and the drug trade, and because it's after 9 p.m. I let the damn dog jump in and out of the window while I make dinner. There's no one outside. Yes, but then it turns out while my back was turned Lucy jumped in Cheri's window — Cheri is the resident psychologist and counselor, and boy has she got a list — Lucy jumped in her apartment and ate a bowel of spaghetti that had been left on the floor.
"You see what I mean?" said Z. I said, Look Cheri's cat jumped in our apartment and scared us half to death, Lucy particularly. And it was true. All of a sudden there's this large grey piece of dust floating by my desk, Lucy sees it and jumps straight, just like she was a cat, herself.
"What country are you from?" I asked. The next day I found out my bio-rhythms were all on the bottom line, and the prognosis is for things to get worse. She didn't answer; I kept asking. Finally, I said, "you from the Soviet Union." I thought she was. No, she said, I'm from Morocco. I got the wrong red flag, I said. I was seeing red. Do you have any family in the Red Army?
She doesn't want to talk to me, she wants to tell me about the poop. I said, 'let's talk poop.' It's not funny, she said. I said, did you not see me picking up poop the other night? Yes, you did. Admit, you saw me picking up Lucy poop the other night. She had to admit it.
Yes, she said, you did, but people have seen poop around.
Well, let's compare poops, I said. Let's line 'em all up and see who's whos. 'Cause you never know, it could be from that other dog.... And there is another dog. Little, but Lucy and that dog go to the same bar down next to the old fish market street. I seen 'em.
"I know that other dog," said Z. "But you're missing the point."
I'm telling you this quick but this was 45 minutes. Meanwhile, her son is throwing rocks at the window. I should go get him, she says, but the truth is she likes this argument. She's pregnant, frustrated and she wants to stand head to head and go at it. Every chance to leave, she stays. After a while, I'm thinking, because I've insulted her in every way I can think of, are you coming on to me...
I get her back to poops. No one has seen Lucy do it but it's the idea. And here's the worst of it, people are afraid. There are 20 people afraid. Last time she said there were 4. I said what's the inflation here. People are afraid to tell you, she said. I said, this country is still les annees noires. Is fear all you can do? Are there any other tricks you can do? Anything at all. Jump rope. Make a dime disappear. No, she said, people are really afraid. I said, are you afraid?
No.
Okay, is your son afraid? No, he loves Lucy, and he's no bigger than Lucy.
So, if you don't have fear, why don't you convey that to your commrades and maybe we can all get together, talk poop, talk fear, talk dog. And by the way when are we going to have internet service.
That set her off.
And you know my son has been a target here. Let's talk about. She goes gooey. I know, she said, and I know who did it.
Great, I say, let's worry about that and poop and blather.
No, she won't go that far. You have to keep the dog on the leash at all times. What does that mean? I ask. Because we get up every day at 6:15 a.m. and first thing I let her out, not for a poop, which I've kind of trained her to hold 'til she gets out of the residence, but just to pee and see. Then I have my sneaks on and we're off. But you're saying every moment and she goes off on how that's the law in communities around the world.
Have you ever lived in the U.S?
She won't answer. I press. She finally says she has a brother that once lived in Utah. I've looked into the laws all over America. You did? How, I ask. On the internet, she says. But there's no internet service, I say. She nods. Yes, that's true we don't have that.
I say, listen those laws were created after severe problems. Too many. We just have one hear.
One is too much, she says.
I say you got that right.
We're still standing out there and her child must be half way to Fez by now, if he's a walker.
What do you want me to do? I ask finally.
I never want to see or hear about that dog bieng off leash.
I said you're nuts. It's impossible. She'll get out. She's steal away. Why don't we sit down and address the fear issue.
I'm not afriad she said, looking at me with these wild eyes.
Jul 15, 2005
Quentin... Thanks for the kind words. But I'm afraid I'll always be seen as the villain. Forever, Lucy
I can't tell for a moment what that sound is. Is it a fly or the call of the muezzin? The faintest, most plaintive plea. Wings or voice, I can't tell. I'm standing on a mound scanning for the dog. For the fifth day in a row we have become separated. She does this to spite me, even after all the efforts I've made to please her. I will kill her as soon as I find her. I will take her head to Meknes put it on the battlements of Moulay Ismail's castle, to go along with the ghosts of 10,000 other heads.
How can this happen? I walk 30 yards, turn around and she's gone. I'm thinking maybe I have to keep her on a barbed wire leash, drag her after the car like marrieds cans. I cannot turn my back; this is the new truth. Not for a moment. So what, you think. But this problem is growing. Every day there's something. A break out, a complaint. The Islamic women the other night, standing under the court lights, and this one, I think she's the one that's leading the effort to get rid of the dog but I couldn't see very well, and just at the moment she looks at me, the dog jacknifes and shits. And she's looking up like anyone would sitting on the can, particularly being viewed. This is a long one and so here's the dog trying to get it out and the woman is beside herself trying to get the sight of the dog out — of her mind where it will be forever hanging. She's appalled that the dog is so closeby and doing this. She quickly looks and me and points behind her, as though to say, 'that's where it's buried.'
I pretend like I'm on my cell phone. I turn away.
And every day there's another distrubance . On Wednesday, Soueda finished doing the laundary and mopping the floors but left open the kitchen window, which is baracaded by plants. Just open 10 inches. The dog drips through. All the world is permeable to her.
And now at 6:45 a.m., toward the end of the walk, she does this. It's the third time this morning. The territory is no longer frightening. She's discovered discarded food and other delicacies in the refuse lying here and there. But how does she disappear so fast? You walk a few yards, look over shoud shoulder. Poof.
We're on the road above the cemetary. I see the old toothless woman, I'd seen a few minutes earlier. The dog had frightened her. She goes through entrance to the cemetary. I walk behind her and up a mound. The dog's not below, toward the town. She didn't get ahead of me. I don't think she's back a long the road we're on. Just 100 yards in that direction she'd gone off but the workmen on the roof saw her on a parallel road. And then something spooked her. A dog or perhaps a man with a stone. The workmen pointed and I turned around just in time to see her in that whippet stride, a black blur, among rocks and ramparts. I ran ahead. She rounded a corner and we collided. I said, listen, I've had it. Now just stay with me until we get home. I am in no mood. It's too early; I'm sick as a dog, you'll forgive the expression.
We walk on and 30 yards later she's gone again. I'm in a Rumi reverie and she disappears, and no poetry, no success, nothing is compensation. I want to kill her. This business of losing dogs on walks is old wood, an old letter from childhood.
So I scout from the mound and there's nothing. I don't want to go back and face the guards again. How is it that every day now this man loses his dog? they want to know. They look at me with that benevolent smile. They shake their heads. And, of course, this is something to jot down. Someone at the university will know about this by the end of the day. There'll be a slip of paper, a minute notation, lost among stack of other notations.
I double back. I walk up one street, down another. I'm trying to think this through. I end up on a street parallel to the one I'd been on. Suddenly, I notice a black shape on that other street. Running in the direction we were going. I yell. The shape stops. It's her. Not a positive ID but I'm sure it is. The shape is running again. I call again. The shape stops. I start running toward it. About a quarter mile away. The shape takes off. My first thought is that to kill her I've got to cut her off. I run hard toward the residence, across an abandonned plot, over the yellow flowers and the tiny blue flowers, I can't remember names, I get on the straight road to the residence. I'm running, but not well, I don't have juice. I'm out. I walk but I'm close enough now that I can see all the approaches to the residence. I don't see her. I slow down.
I arrive at the residence. I've gotten there first. The guards are seated in their plastic chairs, legs crossed like women in an impressionist painting. Two guards and a soldier. They look at me, say nothing. The one guard and I don't do well. He has his white holster, which is always unlatched. He hates the dog. He hates me. He looks like a man in a spaghetti western. Eli Wallach, squinting.
I often waved to the guards, because it seemed appropriate, but as I've come to appreciate their real role here, which is not about security - they're off from 4 a.m. to 6 a.m. - it's intelligence gathering, I've become less affable. I resent their duplicity. I resent their resentment. And particularly this one. When we duel, like the other day, when we passed each other, along the walk that runs along the back of the residence, I look at him directly and unlike before, when I would offer salam alecum, I wait for him to go first. I know he doesn't like that.
I feel the weight of the university lately. Not to mention the imbroglio over the electricity. In April they insisted we were all paid up. Two weeks ago they say, we owe another $100 for December. They shake their heads. "A miscalculation." And now $60 for June. How can it be? There's no air conditioning. It's light until 8:30 p.m. I don't run anything. It's 100 degrees on a lot of days. Nothing moves. I don't cook anything. I don't light anything. Lucy and I live in dim light. Just enough to read. How can we pay the same rate as in February when we were burning everything. If there was a lighbulb we turned it on. The appearance of heat was important.... So now I'm asking them for kilowatts and rates for each month, not just the amounts due. In the interests of transparency. You want an American-styled university, then be it. But they won't show me kilowatts or rates. They're stalling.
My friend, S., smiles when I tell him this. "Of course," he says. "They're cheating you because they need more money to pay for the new heating system." He encourages me to battle them. But it's dangerous, there is a danger here.
So I come in the gate. No dog. No word from the guards.
I get to the building. She's sitting next to the door, like 'Oh King, where hast thou been?' She's panting. She's been moving.
I kill her.
Later, inside, I notice she smells bad. Not like she rolled in something, like she became something. In afterlife, I chase her into the bathroom. I give her a bath. She's out of emotion. I tell her, You're not going back to another life. You're going back down to a be bug. Meanwhile, she's looking confused, the water, the soap, the man who just killed her is now giving her a bath... Can you beat that, Pa? These Americans are weird, aren't they though?
Jul 13, 2005
Invitation to a play
Three actors, all undergraduates. Two girls, a boy. And one other actress drawn in at the last moment to do a little routine before the play started. As for the play itself, we put together a series of emotional plots, then improvised dialogue, practiced the improvisation and went live last night. Some of the plots were chosen by the actors, out of personal experience. Some we made up. Six scenes: Woman trying to talk to her father about an affair she was having with a married man; two women, one thin, one fat, exchange their bodies; a policeman interviews a veiled woman he suspects of being a terrorist; a woman who has just been raped talks with a friend; a woman confronts her mother; a young man discovers his fiance is not a virgin.
You could hear a pin drop, said a friend who watched it. Which is unusual because Moroccan audiences are notoriously edgy and not easily held. This lasted an hour. It seemed to work. What was significant was the degree to which the actors can improvise; the degree to which they don't need dialogue, merely emotional points to touch.
In the fall, we'll try for something more ambitious.
Jun 25, 2005
Knowing
Recently, I asked one of my students, “but how do you know the government is corrupt? As a journalist I would like to know where this notion comes from, where’s the proof? After all, newspaper accounts of corruption are few and often anecdotal. There aren’t ‘paper trails’, trials, or publicized admissions of guilt.”
The student smiled first as although to say, ‘it is so obvious, so pervasive that proof is unnecessary.’ But then the student added, “When people come to our house my mother makes a cake but if I ask her for a piece she will deny there is a cake. I may have peeked around the door and seen her make it and put it up in the cupboard. Yet she will deny there is a cake. It’s the same with corruption.”
The student smiled first as although to say, ‘it is so obvious, so pervasive that proof is unnecessary.’ But then the student added, “When people come to our house my mother makes a cake but if I ask her for a piece she will deny there is a cake. I may have peeked around the door and seen her make it and put it up in the cupboard. Yet she will deny there is a cake. It’s the same with corruption.”
Jun 21, 2005
In the Mind of Atlas
Mother and middle aged son sitting at a table next to a window looking out on a residential compound in the Atlas Mountains. The air is usually clear but not today, the color of ambivalence, even with the wind. It’s mid afternoon. The sound of sprinklers, a baby crying, a hammer knocking somewhere in the building, the chitter chatter of maids talking in high-pitched voices. The sound of someone running a rubber squeegee on the tile floors in the hallway. A dog barking. The annoying whine of building doors opening and slowly closing. And then we come to the two of them. Dressed from another era: He in his school boy blazer; she in her shawl... There are signs of other people in this apartment, school bag, lap top, something cooking, books and papers.
He: Did I tell you that 80 percent of Moroccans have a bad 12th disk?
She: No.
He: It’s from slouching in their chairs all through school. It often takes surgery to correct it....
She: Where’s the dog?
He: I don’t know. and you know what, I don’t care.
She: I know you don’t. I KNOW YOU DON’T.
He: She’s around.
She: Could you go find out where she is.
He: Let her go.
She: Would you go out and find out where she is, please.
He: She doesn’t want to talk to just now. She’s having a private moment.
She: Never mind. I’ll do it myself.
He: Why do you have find her now? She’s in the other room.
She: (calling the dog. Dog doesn’t come.) No, she’s not. See. When I call her she comes.
He: She’s passed out in the other room, I’m telling you. I took her for a long walk this morning.
She: (Sternly) She is NOT.
He: Well, if she’s gone out the window again and the guards find her wandering around the ocmplex, they’ll tell Mrs. Abusaid, and that’s it. But you know what? I’m tried of worrying about it. These people have nothing to worry about but the dog. That's the despair. If they spent as much time worry about keeping internet service as they do this dog, this university could almost call itself a university.
She: Where’s my dog?
He: If she’s gone, we’ll be thrown out. It’s too late. Whatever’s happened, happened. Have some more tea.
She: I want to find her.
He: Oh my God, sit down. Why are you so crazy today?
She: (Turning him, looking at him utter contempt) Because I want to.... (she trundles toward the door).
He: You want to, but you don't have to.
She: I HAVE TO.
He: leave the dog alone. (picks up a magazine)
She: (Wandering around in circles) The dog in his lonliness and affliction....
He: What?
She: (shaking her head)
He: It’s a bitch, not a male.
She: A bitch is for sure. The suffering of all bitches.
He: Want some tea.
She: I want to find my dog. (calling desperately)
Later. Early evening.
She: (Eating ice cream, her face nearly touching the bowl) Deeevine,
He: (He seems indifferent to the ice cream but watches her closely)
She: Don’t you think?
He: I do.
She: I adore it.
He: It’s good.
She: That’s all you can say?
He: What were we talking about?
She: To die for. Really, it’s the best I’ve had. Ever. Honestly.
He: (No reply)
She: Who was that woman at the party last night?
He: Which woman?
She: She was so attractive?
He: (shakes his head)
She: C’mon, you know.
He: I don’t.
She: Yes, you do.
He: I don’t.
She: Are you an idiot?
He: What did she look like?
She: I was talking to her.
He: On the sofa. Yes, alright.
She: She was darling. Wasn’t she? So attractive.
He: She’s from Tangier.
She: I know THAT.
He: That’s all I know.
She: But what’s her NAME?
He: I don’t think I ever knew it.
She: Sherri, Mary....
He: (shrugs his shoulders)
She: Lisa. That’s it.
He: Lisa. You’re right.
She: If I were a man, that’s the woman I would want.
He: But you are a man.
She: (looking steely eyed; cross leg swinging) Something you could to aspire to....
He: I couldn’t resist... Want more ice cream?
She: (nodding enthusiastically) And what about another glass of wine? Or is the bar closed?
He: We never close. But we might have to cut you off. Have you got somebody to drive you home?
She: (wistfully) Home?
He: Where you live ‘mam.
She: (suddenly serious) My home is with Natacha.
He: Of course. Soeur N.
She: Make fun if you like.
He: (shakes his head)
She: My home is not here.
He: Well, it could be.
She (Her expression is “definitely not.” He pours her another glass)
She: Don’t you drink anymore?
He: (reluctantly pours himself a glass.) On occasion.
She: Not intellectual enough, I suppose?
Later. Still in the kitchen.
She: Tell me more.
He: Tell you what... Despair, that’s all I can tell you. The ‘culture of despair’. That's what the academics call it.
She: Yes, I see that.
He: But there’s more to it, of course. It’s not just that.
She: I have the sense of so much possibility.
He: Yes.
She: WELL THEN.
He: They’re like a patient who’s been abused for 40 years; they’ve been in therapy for five years; you’ve still a way to go. You’re still remembering it all.
She: And they do remember it.
He: Body memories.
She: But you can do so much.
He: What.
She: Hope. Thaaat's what they need.
He: sanity's what they need.
She: To have sanity, you need hope. How can I tell you that so you understand?
He: (He turns away).
She: They’re such an attractive people.
He: (laughing cynically)
She: Not like Americans.
He: Why do you always disparage America?
She: You know very well. Are you getting homesick? Is that why you sound like that?
He: Not at all. No. In fact, there are times when....
She: when...
He: When I feel as though, as far away from the centers of power I’ve known, I’m at the center of the world.
She: Well then, FOLLOW IT....
He: But at the same time I think I may never leave here. That something has happened, I’ve gone off track, I went into a dream and I’ll never get home.....
She: There’s some purpose you haven’t found. You have to keep searching.
He: It’s not about purpose; it’s about destiny. I’ve lost my way. I trapped myself. I didn’t plan well enough.
She: What does your wife think?
He: She doesn’t have these neuroses.
She: You should stay here.
He: Why?
She: You belong.
Later.
He: You want to call her again?
She: Yes.
He: It’s been 10 minutes since we tried. Give it a rest...
She: I can tell time.
He: Then watch the second hand.
She: Okay put me off for as long as you can.
He: Well I just think it’s crazy.
She: Well it’s not crazy.
He: My God, what’s the rush?
She: I want to talk....
He: We’re not leaving for two days.
She: I WANT TO TALK TO Claude. Do you hear me?
He: We’ve tried several times. Let’s give it a rest. She’s on the phone. It’s okay.
She: It’s not okay.
He: Anyway, remember her husband is ill.
She: It couldn’t have happened to a nicer man.
He: What kind of thing is that to say?
She: It’s a true thing to say.
The next afternoon. The weather has turned. Lightening and thunder. The sound of flapping sheets on the clothes line, strange sounds from within the building. A baby crying.
He: That baby never stops.
She: So tomorrow night we’ll be in the...
He; Ibis.
She: Ibis (pause) In what city?
He: Casablanca.
She: Right.
He: Okay?
She: And then what happens the next day?
He: You’ll be going to London.
She: I’ll be going to London and you’ll be with me.
He: No. You’ll be free as a bird.
She: (about to say something, then checks herself)
He: You’ll be going one way and I’ll be going another...
She: That’s right. You’ll be going home. Here.
He: I’ll be dropping you off
She: Where will you be dropping me off?
He: At the airport.
She: In...
He: Casablanca
She: But in what country?
He: In this country.
She: Morocco. And you’re not coming with me....
He: No, you’ll be on that flight alone. But they’ll be stewardesses... And maybe, the co-pilot will give you a pair of wings, like they did when I was a child.
She: Oh when you were a child. Let’s talk about that.
He: It happened.
She: The thing is to get me there.
He: That’s what I’m trying to do.
She: But I don’t feel the plan. I don’t have a sense that you’re doing...
He: You don’t feel what?
She: The plan...
He: The plan? I’ve told you the plan. We’ve been over the plan. How many times do you want to go over it?
She: Until it’s clear.
He: It’ll be alright.
She: Will it?
He: I told you. Not like Nice.
She: Don’t...
He: Don’t what?
She: That didn’t happen. Just forget that.
He: Why do you think I’m doing all this? I know the experience you had there. That’s why we’re going through this hour after hour after hour. My God if I spent as much time creating as I have as your travel agent....
She: Oh you’re so patient. I so appreciate it.
He: Well, I don’t know what else I can do.
She: Don’t worry.
He: Well I keep thinking of that dream you and then it came true and I....
She: No, please don’t say another word about THAT. Please.
He: I’m just saying...
She: That’s all behind me now. So why do you want to talk about that? That’s finished. I’ve gone through that. Okay? You don’t have to worry about it.
He: Well, I do actually.
She: Well don’t. There’s no need. But from Casabianca to Gatwick....
He: First Heathrow.
She: And then Gatwick.
He: Exactly.
She: Where I will take a cab?
He: Where you will take a bus. It’s all arranged. NationalExpress shuttle.
She: I’ll have assistance.
He: I’ve arranged it.
She: When I’ve had assistance it hasn’t been too tough.... They’re so good, so good at assistance. And the people are so kind, so helpful, but you have to know what to ask for... (knocking an empty glass on the table, a sign for more) And that’s tomorrow morning... or is it the next morning? I don’t know if it’s Monday morning. Is today Friday or Saturday?
He: Sunday.
She: Then tomorrow, we leave. But my plane doesn’t leave until Tuesday.
He: Correct.
She: And I’m leaving on Tuesday from...
He: (let’s her rummage through memory for the city)
She: I...
He: Casablanca.
She: You put me on the plane and say goodbye and then we get to a place called Gatwick... I think.... But first we’re staying at the ibis. And then on Tuesday you propose you we get up at 8 a.m. or thereabouts and go to the airport.
He: First, we might stop by the travel agency and pick up your ticket.
She: Okay, I’ve got a lock on it.
Later. Evening. Still around the kitchen table. Two glasses of wine; hers empty.
She: More.
He: (He pours.) Well tell me then, what did happen in Nice.
She: (shaking her head)
He: Why don’t you tell me?
She: (shaking her head)
He: Just tell me what happened.
She: I had a dream.
He: You had a dream.
She: It was a foreshadowing dream. And I knew that even as I was in the dream. But I...
He: You what.
She: ...in an airport and I was lost. I didn’t know what city I was in and someone was supposed to me but they couldn’t find me.
He: I see.
She: And then I was walking through the terminal but I couldn’t find the way out. There were those long corridors in every direction. I had no bags but people kept trying to get me to baggage claim. ‘I don’t have any bags.’ I kept saying, ‘I have no bags. Why do you want me to go to someplace I don’t need to go. I HAVE MY BAG. DO YOU HEAR ME?
He: No skycap even in your dream.
She: Nothing. No one would help me. No one knew me. And I had to ask people, what airport is this? And they kept saying, ‘Madame, c’est Nice. Vous etes a Nice.’
(pause. She is distracted by the thought.)
He: And then.
She: And then that’s EXACTLY what happened.
He: You landed in Nice.
She: Natacha put me on the plane in Calgary and that flight lasted a day or two. We were in that plane at least a day and a half. Seemed much longer, I know that. I was sitting next to these two Canadians. He was smelled very foul. Pony tail, you know that type. His wife. Very nice. But they didn’t bathe and I wanted to say, ‘you really should consider a shower once in a while. If only for the people around you. You know, it’s good manners. But they were nice people and I just sat there. And I don’t know how long we were on but eventually we landed and ... (weeping) and I got off the plane and I asked someone, ‘where am I?’ And they said, ‘oh, you’re fine just back on the plane.’ And I said, ‘but where am ? I’m supposed to be in Nice.’ And then that was when I got, ‘Mais, Madame vous etes a Nice.’ And I said, ‘but there’s no one here to meet me.’ And then we were on the plane for another whole day. Literally, a whole other day. Again. It was so endless. And then I was sitting in seat, it was across from the lou. And the door opened, by accident, someone pushed it and it opened and I looked and there was this woman, sitting on the toilet her legs spread-eagled, you could see everything, I mean it was all just right there. I looked, I mean as you would look. You don’t have a choice you just happened to look and here’s someone spread-eagled in front of you. I looked and she smiled as though well this is just the way I ride on airplanes. Well, it just went on and on. I told the stewardess.... What did I tell her? Well after that I thought you know the best thing to do now is just sit here and not say a word, not move, just stay absolutely still.
Later....
She: But does Natasha know I’m coming. I want to follow whatever she’s arranged to the letter. Do you understand? To the letter.
He: But she hasn’t arranged anything.
She: Oh yes she has.
He: What? What has she arranged? You mean three weeks ago when you were going back to Nice but no one was willing to meet you or let you stay at their house? That was beautifully arranged.
She: that was not her fault. Nothing to do with her.
He: Whose then? I only go by what she says in the email. And the message was she would never let that happen to you again, what happened in Nice....
She: Well she’s having me travel with Soeur Sarah.
He: Another live wire.
She: What?
He: That’s arranged.
She: But from Heathrow. Right?
He: NationalExpress shuttle. They’re waiting for you. It’s all set. And all paid for.
She: Always the money.
He: 8 or 10 pounds. I’m just telling you I arranged it.
She: You always have to mention how much things cost; I know you can’t wait to unload me.
He: Pianissimo from the string section please?
She: I’m going to pay you back from next month’s check. If you can stand to wait that long.
He: I can’t understandastan....
She: I’m glad you’re amused. But it’s not funny.
He: Where were we?
She: I know this is difficult to go through but I need to know where I’m going.
He: I’ve been working for days on this trip. If I spend this much time on anything else in my life I would be wildly rich.
She: Oh I know. How I know.
He: So where were we?
She: In Casabianca.
He: Yes, Ms. Jagger, where can we take you?
She: Home.
He: After Heathrow you’ll take the shuttle to Gatwick and then you’ll get to the hotel.
She: But where then?
He: Where-wolf? There, castle... Do you remember that line? Marty, what was his name, the wall-eyed comic?
She: The hotel.
He: At Gatwick.
She: Gatwick.
He: Le Meridien.
She: If you’re going to say it at all you should say it properly. L-E, new word, M- e-r-i.... you need that iiii sound, d-i-e-n.... Got it? Le Meridien.
He: Le Meridien.
She: iiiiii., I-dien.....
He: (in a mock French accent) Yes, le meriiiidien......
She: Yes, but not much better.
He: Le Meridien.
She: Yes, that’s better.
He: Now where am I staying.
She: We just said.
He: Gatwick.
She:` Le Meridien.
He: There you go.
Later...
She: (taking her itinerary away from him) I’ll screw around with this. I’ve been screwing around for a long time now.
He: I know you have.
She: (looks at him with slitty eyes.)
He: You handle it.
She: It’s not like you’re a mental deficient, are you? This is not a trip for mental deficients...
He: We’re not talking about mental deficiency anymore, are we?
She: The thing is to get me there...
The next day.
He: We’re leaving.
She: I’ve been packed since dawn. It’s now 2:30.
He: You didn’t have to. I told you.
She: (mimicking) I told you.
He: well, I did. There’s no need for this.
She: Are we leaving now?
He: (looking at clothes in a wardrobe.)
He: why are you leaving all this.
she: (seething) Because I CHOOSE to.
He: I’m glad that you choose to. But why not take it?
She: I’ve just told you. I choose to.
He: Okay, you choose to. But what do you want me to do with it?
She: why don’t you just eat it?
He: No, I’m serious. Do you want me to send it to you?
She: That would be nice. You could but I don’t care about it. I’m leaving it.
He: (picking up a piece of cloth) what’s this?
She: The Muhammad family gave it to me.
He: Why don’t you want it?
She: Not in MYYYY suitcase. Do you understand?
He: I understand but why?
She: It’s a liability. If I’m searched,
He: Why is it a liability?
She: I don’t want to give them any reason. They look for things like this.
He: alright. Enough. I don’t care. Leave it here.
She: thank you.
Later. Half way to Casablanca.
She: When are we going to get there?
He: Two more hours, three. If we get there during rush hour.
She: Well don’t get there during rush hour.
He: We may not have a choice.
She: (Black speak, like Minnie in Gone With the Wind. You couldn’t tell the difference, high pitched voice and all ). Well I don’t what I’m a gonna do. I’m just gonna daaaaaa.... But I need me a drink. I need alcohol. And a lot of it. I need mimosa, otherwise I’m gonna just die. I can’t stand it no longa.
He: Shut yo’ black ass.
She: What you talkin’. You can’t have my black ass.
He: Nobody want yo’ black ass. You just a dumb white bitch.
(0n and on they went until they worried they might not be able to break out and speak normally.)
Later, lost in the streets of centreville.
She: Go round. Go. Why do you wait?
He: So we don’t have an accident.
She: You gotta have balls.
He: I have balls.
She: Go. Go ahead.
He: Now, I know why my wife hates me.
She: Why are you waiting? Go. Go.
He: Traffic, mother. This is heavy traffic.
She: We’ll never...
He: Just hold on.
She: I don’t understand why you don’t move. MOVE.
Later, in the Ibis bar, her mind out on a limb. Huddled in a wicker chair, watching TV, waiting for her son to return from checking in. He arrives. She doesn’t look up.
She: You don’t ever come back.
he: I think about never coming back, but I always do.
She: The waiter never came.
he: Well, we’ll get him. We’ll get you a drink. Don’t worry.
She: I needed that about an hour ago. Now it’s too late.
He: It’s never too late. Hold on.
Later, after a weak handed screwdriver.
She: what time is it?
He: 8.
She: It should be 50...
He: 50 what? What are you talking about?
She: All this jazz...
He: All what jazz?
She: All this jazz. Jazz. So we’re not going to Casablanca until tomorrow...
He: Right. We’ll be there in the morning.
She: Where are we now?
He: In Casabianca.
She: And I’m leaving tomorrow....
At dinner, out in the hotel garden. Under a frail moon. Fish. A half bottle of red wine. Bad service, and a sense of ‘last supper.’ The waiter finally brings some peach melba.
He: Anyway, there you are.
She: You sound unhappy.
He: I'm tired.
She: I want to tell you something. Appropo of nothing.
He: What do you want to tell me.
She: I think in the world it's better to 'avoid' than to 'resist'.
He: avoid what.
She: whatever it is.
He: Okay.
She: What I mean is that in life there are all these sins, cheating and stealing and lying. And I think if you resist these things they come back to you, they keep hammering at you, and you cannot escape. But sometimes, if you're clever, you can avoid the situation. Sometimes... (long silence) And so the cheating, you may have to cheat finally. You may be not be able to avoid it but I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. You know, you are human after all. You have to go through this process. YOU HAVE TO GO THROUGH THIS PROCESS. The maitre was always very clear on that, you have to go through the process of living. You cannot resist that.
He: Alright.
She: And so we are all in this ship and everyone is the same and you just have to go toward the human-ness. Toward the danger. You have to exhaust evil, take it on and exhaust it. Otherwise, if you try to run away it will catch you. Shouldn't you get the bill.
Later. Darkened room. The television going. The king, dour faced, greeting the ambassador of Mauritania.
She: Before I arrive from Heathrow, where will I be?
He: You mean when you arrive in Gatwick?
She: Yes.
He: You’ll be in Heathrow
She: But why am I in Heathrow?
He: That’s where you’re leaving from...
She: I might recite it all night long....
He: But don’t wake me up while you’re reciting.
The next morning. Dawn. Just waking up.... The sound of traffic and a long train whistle, the faint call of a muezzin.
She: Is he tinted?
He: Who?
She: Muhammed.
He: Muhammed, the chauffeur. Yes he’s ‘tinted’.
She: The man in the dream.
He: I don’t know.
She: Why do you keep saying that?
He: Because I don’t know, that’s why I keep saying that. You ask me who people are, I don’t know who you’re referrring to....
She: You said you knew. I thought you did.
He: I don’t.
She: There was a man in my dream.
She: I couldn’t get in your dream. It was locked.
She: I thought he might be one of these people you’re always talking about.
He: I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.
She: It’s not that complicated.
He: No doubt.
She: Well then do it.
At breakfast.
She: I want to tell you something.
He: Tell me.
She: This is something that will last you all your life.
He: Okay.
She: I never want you to forget it. I want you to carry this with you. You may not understand but you will.
He: Okay.
She: And just remember...
He: Okay. What is it?
She: Pay attention to Mohammed.
He: Your friend. Mohammed, the taxi driver.
She: (nodding) I want you to do whatever you can for him.
He: This is what you wanted to tell me?
She: Listen, this is extremly important. You may not realize that now, but you will. You will. You will, you will, you will. That's all I can tell you.
He: He wants you to help get to Canada.
She: I want to. That's what I'm tellling you.
He: But then he didn't pet the dog properly and you told me that was the deal killer.
She: I don't know what you're talking about.
He: That's what you said.
She: I said that?
He: Yes, don't you remember.
She: I don't remember and you probably misunderstood me, which you often do. But I can only tell you that this is something extremely important and I want you to listen to what I'm saying to you.
He: I'm listening.
At the airport. She, sitting in her wheelchair, as though lost in thought. A short redcap stands behind her, holding on to the chair. He’s trying to work out a crimp in his neck. The son arrives with an arm full of chips and water, cookies.
He: There wasn’t any vodka, but I got you these things.
She: Just something to drink.
He: Here.
She: (she takes a very long, masculine drink of water.) Oh, that’s better.
She is wheeled to the partition behind which is the gate. A guard looks at her ticket and passport. The son talks to the guard.
He: I'd like to go with her. Just to make sure...
Guard: You cannot go past this point.
He: I just want to see that...
Guard: You will need a pass. Upstairs.
He: There's no time. I just want accompany her to the...
Guard: You cannot.
He: (turning to his mother) Savages. All just savages.
She: Well that's a good start to my trip.
He: (leaning over to kiss her) I love you. I'm sorry...
she: Oh sure, sure, none of that. Stop. You love me too; I love you too. Goodbye.
Jun 19, 2005
Tremorsght
A few months later, in October, the boy would cheat on a test, in class, and be brought before the disciplinary committee. He would be given a week of detention and other punishments. In his defense, he would say this was the first time he had cheated. One of the teachers would contradict him. He would modify his statement: "it's the first time I've cheated this year," he would say. "And maybe once last year." The teacher who caught him cheating would say to the other teachers, after the boy was out of the room, "I can tell a psychopath. When I was working in prison (Canada) I met a lot of these types, all killers and rapists, and the only I was ever afraid of was the one who hung the little kids that lived next door. This one is like that."
This is the same boy who recently has been involved in a series of incidents. He beat up some smaller children. He had a tantrum on the soccer field. He intimidates class mates. One night near Fez, driving his car with three friends who were drunk, he ran over and killed a man on a bicycle, a father of five. No one saw any remorse after that.
He's big and powerful.
Today, on the last day of school, the boy got up close to Barbara, in a threatening way, and told her to shut up and leave him alone. She told me and I went to him. I will regret this, but at the time my anger got out of its box. He was being reprimanded by the head of school. I interrupted and drew him out of the office to a private part of the school house. He had a friend with him. 'You're a piece of shit," I said, getting in close. "You have no right to say that," he said. "You're a piece of shit," I repeated getting in still closer, in a whisper.
This is the same boy who recently has been involved in a series of incidents. He beat up some smaller children. He had a tantrum on the soccer field. He intimidates class mates. One night near Fez, driving his car with three friends who were drunk, he ran over and killed a man on a bicycle, a father of five. No one saw any remorse after that.
He's big and powerful.
Today, on the last day of school, the boy got up close to Barbara, in a threatening way, and told her to shut up and leave him alone. She told me and I went to him. I will regret this, but at the time my anger got out of its box. He was being reprimanded by the head of school. I interrupted and drew him out of the office to a private part of the school house. He had a friend with him. 'You're a piece of shit," I said, getting in close. "You have no right to say that," he said. "You're a piece of shit," I repeated getting in still closer, in a whisper.
Dog
If Batman were a dog, that's what she looks like. Black and tan, slick black coat, runs like whippet, high on the back end, low in front, if she were a stealth fighter, you would say shows no footprint. And sometimes, when she's been running - I run her beside the car, or on a bike, when she's been out there - the veins around her mouth enlarge. Her expression takes on a hideous smile. I tell her, you've got to watch it. If you keep on like this, we'll be out of here. And you might have to go back to where you came from. Whereever that is. She listens but then, what was that? One ear down, the other up, perpeptually. Something out in the wild. What is it? I ask her. She looks at me quickly, then back to whatever it is. Be careful, she's saying. This is not a hospitable place.
May 22, 2005
Couple On a Train
They were sitting in second class, against the window. I recognized her right away and would have found some place else to sit but the train was full so I entered the compartment. He was looking out at the station. He looked several years older than her. He wore a long black raincoat and a white shirt, black shoes and white socks. He didn't look Moroccan but later I saw that he was.
She noticed me right away but merely smiled. She wore her pink veil and I will always remember it because when she was trying out for the role of the mother in the play I'd written about the harragas, I tried unsuccessfully to persuade her to take it off. She wouldn't. I explained the scene again and again to her. She was to be undoing herself as her husband, a ghost, stood just behind her. I merely wanted to suggest sensuality. I told her we'd cut the light if she even began to undo it. Just the suggestion, I kept saying. Just the suggestion of sensuality. But she wouldn't do it. Once, I played the role of the ghost to show the actor the part and I got very close to her, close enough to catch her scent and almost touch her veil.
We all pleaded with her and the rest of the cast was much tougher on her than I was. Why do you let her try out for this, they would ask me. She wants to join the troupe, I said, how can I deny her? Oh, they said, but don't you see how hypocrtical this is: if she were a true Muslim she wouldn't try out for the drama club in the first place. We began to call her Diva.
For a while she kept coming, even after it was clear we would have to abandon the play for the semester. She claimed she'd been a drama star in high school. With us she was always a little over the top. She spoke in a loud, commanding voice, she moved clumsily around the stage. She reminded me of a Russian baboushka, thick and mother-looking. She was right for the part. But then she stopped coming and I didn't see her for several months.
Sitting on the train she reminded me of when I had first seen her. She has a beautiful face, and a charming smile. Now here she seemed even more beautiful and confident. It occurred to me that she was in love; I began to see it quite clearly as the trip unfolded.
I assumed they were going somewhere together, but he got off in Rabat. She moved to the window and waved. He stood stock still on the platform looking at her, his right hand spread out on his heart, in the Moroccan way. I couldn't see her, but you knew their eyes were locked to each other. The train began to move and she pressed closer and closer to the glass to see him disappear and stayed like that for several moments, long after he was out of sight.
She noticed me right away but merely smiled. She wore her pink veil and I will always remember it because when she was trying out for the role of the mother in the play I'd written about the harragas, I tried unsuccessfully to persuade her to take it off. She wouldn't. I explained the scene again and again to her. She was to be undoing herself as her husband, a ghost, stood just behind her. I merely wanted to suggest sensuality. I told her we'd cut the light if she even began to undo it. Just the suggestion, I kept saying. Just the suggestion of sensuality. But she wouldn't do it. Once, I played the role of the ghost to show the actor the part and I got very close to her, close enough to catch her scent and almost touch her veil.
We all pleaded with her and the rest of the cast was much tougher on her than I was. Why do you let her try out for this, they would ask me. She wants to join the troupe, I said, how can I deny her? Oh, they said, but don't you see how hypocrtical this is: if she were a true Muslim she wouldn't try out for the drama club in the first place. We began to call her Diva.
For a while she kept coming, even after it was clear we would have to abandon the play for the semester. She claimed she'd been a drama star in high school. With us she was always a little over the top. She spoke in a loud, commanding voice, she moved clumsily around the stage. She reminded me of a Russian baboushka, thick and mother-looking. She was right for the part. But then she stopped coming and I didn't see her for several months.
Sitting on the train she reminded me of when I had first seen her. She has a beautiful face, and a charming smile. Now here she seemed even more beautiful and confident. It occurred to me that she was in love; I began to see it quite clearly as the trip unfolded.
I assumed they were going somewhere together, but he got off in Rabat. She moved to the window and waved. He stood stock still on the platform looking at her, his right hand spread out on his heart, in the Moroccan way. I couldn't see her, but you knew their eyes were locked to each other. The train began to move and she pressed closer and closer to the glass to see him disappear and stayed like that for several moments, long after he was out of sight.
Dreams of Sinking Ships
It all begins on a hot afternoon,
The president's come to town,
What a blue spangled day it is,
choppers hover, all eyes up,
But a world at right angles,
I'm afraid I'll fall out the window.
And now in some back brow, low
town in Canada, on Saturday night
in spring, perhaps, men at an
indoor country fair, along narrow
wood hallways, creaking and freshly
varnished, hawking a good time
old industrial machines and
mechanical butterflies circling above the floor.
From there to a shore, a storm,
and a sinking ship. It's just a model,
It'll be put back together, but right
now floating in brine, you can see
it was just glue, balsa wood, pretty
flimsy for such a reputation.... We,
I walk out, down the beach
in smog's light at night.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
