A Riffians Tune (32 page)

I hadn't fully appreciated the challenge; it was more than I had bargained for, and I was overwhelmed. I stepped into one of the chic and luxurious cafés and immediately felt sick. It stank of stale beer and too much alcohol. Half a dozen men, talking loudly, were loitering around the bar. They were all focused on one waitress, and she looked very happy to flirt with all of them, and all at once.

I stepped outside and sat on the terrace facing the sea and palm trees where the air made me feel much better. The terrace was almost full, and everyone was clapping, calling the waiter, who was running to cope with very demanding clients. The waiter pounced on me. ‘
Qua-quearas
,
señor
?' he asked.

‘Espresso,' I replied. The coffee was too strong and bitter, despite the amount of sugar I poured into it. I couldn't drink it. Nevertheless, I kept sipping, watching and wondering.

At last I was in the right place with the right money, yet didn't know what to do next. At the very end of the terrace, a stocky, burly, middle-aged man was sitting, drinking a beer and smoking a cigar. In front of him, on his white table, were piled many tall stacks of bank notes of different kinds to advertise his business. Not far away, facing him, stood a gigantic bank. Travellers could either step into the bank or exchange currency with him. He was far busier than the bank across the road. Travellers were a shrewd kettle of fish; they wanted the most for their money. The best way to achieve that was to boycott the fat cats, the banks.

The trader was extremely relaxed, either counting his money or just watching people pass by. Whenever patrolling policemen passed by his table, he called them by name. They answered with a nod.

Half an hour later, a man joined him, and a swap followed. The stocky man left; a younger man took his seat, but the money remained on the table. The changeover puzzled me.

Just across the boulevard, two thin-looking men promenaded in front of
Banco de España
and whispered, ‘
Sarf! Sarf!
(Exchange! Exchange!)' The street was full of colliding passengers, but there were no obvious buyers or sellers. The clock's hands indicated three forty-five; I felt glued to the chair, and my head was simmering. Amina was expecting me, and I first had to take the bus to the border, then catch the coach to Nador, and from there to Moulay-Rachid. From there, it was two hours' walk for a strong man or solid donkey.

It was time for me to go home, and I had achieved nothing except to spend some of Mr Amakran's money and drag my Uncle Mimoun into debt. As I stood up to catch the bus, I decided to saunter up the boulevard in Awisha's direction – one boulevard, but different people, like black and white. It swelled with fatty women in black mourning clothes and many young people parading aimlessly on the street. As I stood peering through the window of one chic shop, I heard a whisper. ‘Girls waiting …' A few steps farther along, I heard, ‘Exchange! German marks, dollars, French francs!'
On this boulevard, you can buy and sell anything
, I thought to myself,
if you know how.

Relieved to hear the word ‘exchange', I made my first gaffe. I stopped and asked, ‘What's the rate for Deutschmarks today?'

‘Are you buying or selling?' asked the trader, a man in his thirties, whose eyes were dancing as he talked.

‘I am buying,' I said.

‘How much do you want?'

‘One hundred marks,' I replied.

The man's eyes changed immediately. They looked possessed. He invited me to come with him and discuss the rate. I realised I had stepped into dangerous territory and backed off slowly at first, then turned to run. ‘Much better rate! Much better rate!' the man shouted behind me. Hurriedly, I vanished into the thick crowd.

Arriving home late, I couldn't disguise the effect of the day on me, and Amina couldn't misread my face: dry, tired and wrinkled before my time. She wanted me to tell her how the day had passed, but all I wanted was a chunk of bread and to fall asleep.

‘You are hiding something,' she told me. But she herself was hiding something more serious.

Three days passed, and I seemed to have lost my courage, to have fallen into the old, boring form of life, taking care of the dogs and donkey. But Uncle Mimoun, my loan guarantor, was watching. Mr Amakran would snatch his land if the loan weren't paid in time and in full, and this would be a problem for Uncle Mimoun, not only of land, but also of honour.

‘Has Jusef given up after just one rough day? He must have already spent some of Mr Amakran's money. Wouldn't it be preferable to minimise our losses and hand back Mr Amakran's money?' he asked Mimount. It didn't feel good to hear that from her when she told me later.

On Saturday evening, while sitting outside, chewing local barley porridge under the moonlight, I told Amina, ‘I am leaving tomorrow at four in the morning …'

‘Are you crazy?' she said, before I even finished the full sentence.

‘I am going to Melilla to meet the
agarabo-na-Melilt
(the ship of Melilla.)'

Amina had never seen a ship. For her, it might have been as small as a frog or as high as a mountain. She had never been near the sea; just the words ‘ship' and ‘sea' filled her mind with wonder and gave her a thrill. She was unaware of the real peril. I would be carrying a quarter million Moroccan francs, travelling practically all day and night, changing coaches and crossing two merciless borders: Moroccan and Spanish. This had to be kept secret from all my other sisters and their husbands.

I was at the Melilla port two hours before the ship reached African soil. Still miles from land, the huge ship's deck was packed with people. Though still far away, some peered intensively to identify their friends. On the shore hundreds of people, young and old, some well-dressed and others like tramps, buzzed around, going nowhere. They had all come either to receive their relatives or to give a royal reception to the ship. For many, it was just a nice place to be and watch. The juggernaut manoeuvred into port.

Unfamiliar with the port and a novice in the currency trade, I moved closer to the gangplank and observed the passengers disembarking. Many appeared happy, but some, with puckered lips and shrivelled faces, appeared to wish the ship would make a U-turn instead of anchoring. They threw their scornful glances on everyone and in every direction. A few had come to be reunited with their families, or to get married, but others to resolve family disputes or divorce their unfaithful wives … it was with these people I had to do business: the rich.

A passenger carrying heavy suitcases, but unable to move and unwilling to trust the porter, burst into a tantrum of rage in front of me. A man quietened him by a few softly spoken words, ‘Do you know where you are now? … in Africa … wait, the worst is still to come,' he added with a smirk. The outraged man kept pulling his cases and grumbling to himself. He was expecting to be met with trumpets and saxophones, but there was nothing of the kind.

‘Exchange!' I whispered in his ear. He elbowed me in the ribs. I whispered again, ‘Exchange!' He ignored me. His anger carried him away. I had aimed for a target and missed.

No black market currency trader could afford to miss the arrival of the
agarabo-na-Melilt
, yet I did. The only man I recognised was the multi-millionaire standing by, alone, and travellers vied to shake his hand and go. I marvelled at this nonverbal protocol. I couldn't compete with the multi-millionaire or with those whose voices, like thunder, tore the sky. ‘
Sarf! Sarf!
' they shouted.

As I had failed either to buy or to sell, I was beginning to understand how tough the game was. From the shore, I moved to the taxi and bus station, which wasn't too far away, but it was like a bottleneck. Travellers heading to Morocco or other parts of Africa all started here, but few had the right currency for a taxi or a bus, let alone the right change. I shouted, ‘Exchange! Exchange!' Even here, I failed as I wasn't alone. I moved and stood at the front of the bank door.

‘Better than a bank! Better than a bank!' I shouted, trying to make my mark. A white man with grey hair and carrying two heavy bags stopped in front of me and, without much bargaining, sold me five hundred Deutschmarks. This was my first break, a coup.
The spot where I should stand is in front of the bank
, I told myself. The bank manager called the police to move me, but they didn't beat me as I had feared. Fifteen minutes later, I returned to the same spot. Standing there, I bought two hundred Dutch Guilders, but at a higher price than what official banks offered, and even higher than what my competitors proposed. The other traders were furious, and I created dangerous enemies.

Two particular veteran traders were angry to see me. They were outraged by the prices I offered, and the threats started. ‘You are breaking the rules,' one of them snarled, as he walked into me and pushed me hard.

‘What rules?' I asked.

He spun around and shouted over his shoulder, ‘You'll soon find out!' His friend was standing, watching and waiting, under a palm tree nearby. Despite the sickening feeling, I ignored the threat and continued trading until the last of the travellers disappeared with me in their midst.

I serpentined to Café Morina and sat on the terrace, facing the prestigious Banco de España. This was the only place I felt safe, a hectic spot with fat and lazy police patrolling and pedestrians strolling all day long. The rich trader was already there, glued to his chair, gazing at his mountain range of currencies. His jaws were split by a cigar; espresso and a bottle of beer sat on his table.

Returning to the same place in front of the bank, I sold a hundred Dutch guilders to a Moroccan woman travelling alone for the first time. She told me she was determined, but nervous, to cross the sea, as she didn't have all the papers required. For different reasons, I was equally nervous, constantly looking over my shoulder, fearing I might be hit with a potato stuffed with needles and razorblades. Potato crime was common among rival traders, and innocent people were often disfigured.

After the
agarabo-na-Melilt
left late in the afternoon, the port became deserted. It felt as if humans had left and spooks had taken over. The smell of the Mediterranean Sea, with all that was dumped into it, along with the smell of fish, nauseated me.

By the end of August, I had learned a few tricks, but had lived like a yo-yo going back and forth. I proudly repaid Mr Amakran what I had borrowed, and was trading with my own capital.

* * *

THE SIXTEENTH OF SEPTEMBER
has stuck forever in my memory like a monument. Trade was very slow and sluggish; the ship brought less happy travellers: extremely frugal, hard-bargaining and not law-abiding. Strolling the street, I witnessed with horror a rough, dangerous skirmish. While a taxi driver, out of his car, was talking to his friends, seven men jumped in and claimed his taxi. In the blink of an eye, they had filled the taxi's boot with heavy bags and suitcases, so it wouldn't close. Whatever luggage they couldn't fit in the boot, they threw on the roof. While the taxi driver shouted at them to get out, they shouted back at him to get in and drive. Refusing, he was pushed and sandwiched against his car. When the police arrived, though armed, the men were intentionally slow to empty the taxi. I was among the witnesses, but I wasn't able to give much of a description, as firstly, I didn't speak Spanish and secondly, it had happened too fast.

I went back to the café after watching the attempted taxi hijacking. The terrace was full except where the millionaire sat alone with one vacant seat beside him. He had never spoken to me or had even nodded his head, though sometimes there were just the two of us sitting on the outdoor terrace. ‘May I share the table with you?' I asked him.

‘Certainly,' he replied.

I grabbed the spare chair and sat beside him. Undisturbed, he opened his valise and spread out hundreds and hundreds of notes in foreign currencies. I moved my cup to the edge of the table to make room. He lit his cigar and ordered a double espresso. Before finishing his espresso, the rich man, whose name was Mr Timsamani, ordered a beer and anchovies.
This man is very rich, but not a Muslim. He is eating forbidden food and drinking alcohol
, I told myself. Unlike other traders, he didn't chase after the travellers. Upon the arrival of the ship, he stood fifty metres away like a majestic statue with distinctive clothing and a cigar or pipe, and people swarmed to him to pick up their currency, as the deals had already been done in Malaga.

‘Where did you come from, sir?' I asked him.

‘Local, local,' he answered. ‘
Akaali, Akaali
. My parents, grandparents and great-grandparents were all born within five miles from here. I am not racist,' he added. ‘We are all children of that grumpy old man, Adam, but different …'

‘Why do you think Adam was grumpy?' I asked him.

‘Wasn't it he who pushed his wife to the point she lost her mind?' he said.

I wondered what he was going to come out with next, as it seemed he had already had a few pints of beer somewhere else. While he was still talking, his colleague, Mr Mohand, joined him, pulled a chic packet of cigarettes out of his left jacket pocket and passed it to me to help myself.

‘Thank you,' I said. ‘I don't smoke. In fact, it gives me headache and nausea.'

‘You have escaped the street culture,' said Mr Mohand. ‘As a little boy of ten, I used to ask smoking pedestrians to give me a cigarette. When they refused, I followed them until they threw the butt on the ground. I would pick it up and waste nothing of it. As a group of boys, we used to collect the butts, meet every afternoon and feast on them.' Mr Timsamani took no interest in what his colleague was telling me.

Both of them left. I stayed in the café and tried to make sense of what I had heard. Before the bank opened, I was strolling the boulevard in front of it. A couple arrived, looking for a doctor.