A Riffians Tune (33 page)

‘Do you know if there is a doctor nearby?' they asked me.

‘There are two on this street,' I said. As the man seemed to be confused, I took him to the door of the surgery. ‘I can sell you pesetas, if you need them,' I told him.

He didn't look like it, but he carried a lot of cash. I sold him twenty thousand pesetas. The sale made my day, and I went home early.

The following morning, the seventeenth of September, I was first into the café. Mr Timsamani sat beside me and picked up the conversation that he had missed the day before.

‘Where do you come from?' he asked.

‘From tribe Kebdana,' I replied.

‘It's a long way to commute,' he commented with a grimace.

‘Yes, it is,' I answered.

A sound, unpleasant and ominous, filled the air. Br.r.r.r.r.r. It was the hooting of the
agarabo-na-Melilt
, sailing through a very thick fog. We both prepared to leave, although we still had forty-five minutes to spare. ‘Do you expect many travellers today?' I asked.

‘My colleague in Malaga has completed a transaction of thirty-seven million six hundred Moroccan. He bought German marks, guilders and francs. Eight people are expected to arrive this morning and pick up their money.'

My ears couldn't contain what I had heard. ‘Do they trust you?' I asked him, with surprise on my face.

‘Yes,' he said.

‘Have they already handed their money to your colleague in Malaga?'

‘Yes, they have,' he said with a smile. ‘No one loses one single cent,' he added. ‘It is a trade regulated by honesty and trust. Capital punishment applies …'

Now I understand
, I thought.

Before the ship arrived, in fact, before it had even left Malaga, the lucrative business had already been done. Only crumbs were left for traders like me. Mr Timsamani had a far-reaching hand.
The sea is not his limit
, I thought. The ship anchored, and Mr Timsamani stood far away from the crowd, but he knew his own, and they knew their man. It was a code I had now deciphered.

* * *

FOR THE NEXT EIGHT
days, I stayed at home; I missed some important trading days. I had to arrange to give Amina as a wife to her cousin, Moha. Amina's belly had sprouted fast and big, and loose, thick clothing failed to hide her pregnancy from peering eyes. Her problem had become mine.

I went to Moha's father, my uncle, and told him, ‘Amina is expecting and Moha is the father.' He either wasn't interested or didn't believe me. I told the same story to Uncle Mimoun, who looked shocked and surprised.

I went to Moha's father again and told him, ‘A marriage must be arranged soon.' I repeated the same story to Uncle Mimoun.

I threatened my uncle. ‘Unless we resolve this problem, I have some powerful friends in Melilla who will come and take care of Moha for me.'

First, he shrugged me off, but as I was a currency trader, he reluctantly agreed. He probably thought I was in contact with some important people, most of them criminals. Facing the possibility that Moha might be ambushed as he disembarked in Melilla by some dodgy thugs, he agreed to a marriage
in absentia
, as Moha was expected soon.

The wedding was cooked in a rush. Uncle Mimoun arrived with six elders, and Moha's father with the same number, around five o'clock. A form was completed verbally.

‘Jusef, do you give Amina, your sister, as a wife to Moha?' asked the chief elder.

‘Yes, I do,' I answered. With that question and answer, the legalities were completed.
It's a degrading ceremony
, I felt. Amina and Moha became husband and wife, but neither Amina, nor I, nor Moha's father knew where he was. All I knew about him was that he worked in Germany and sent money to his father. With four wives, his father needed his son's support.

Three days later, at five-thirty, two flatbed lorries arrived full of women and children, and on the corner of one lorry was a shackled ram. On its own, it made just as much noise as all women and children put together. Amina was upset when she saw the lorries approaching the house without a flag. They had handed the flag to a young girl and the wind had taken it away, beyond reach, we were told.

‘A wedding with no flag,' Amina moaned on her own wedding day.

I felt angry with Amina, but I couldn't spoil her day. She was so upset by the missing flag, and yet she herself was marrying with a ragged flag.

I invited our sisters with their husbands and their children, but they were all indignant about not having been consulted about this betrothal before. It was, however, a rare occasion for sisters to meet, insult each other and see changes in each other and in the house, garden and prickly pear that fenced the house.

It was a busy wedding night. The ram was slaughtered by an expert, who enjoyed skinning it and asked me if he could keep the skin for a rug. The ram was big and fat enough to feed the elders, the guests, my sisters, their husbands and children. Bold, artistic women enjoyed themselves singing, while others played homemade drums. Amina liked all the fuss, but she sat in a corner the entire evening and was covered with a gauze tent so she could only watch the festivities. Children, like locusts, were lying asleep all over the house; they played to exhaustion and dropped anywhere.

By dawn, the guests, heavy and dishevelled, didn't know what to do with themselves. At ten-thirty, two lorries arrived. They picked up the groom's guests and Amina, as the bride, went with them.

By four o'clock, the house was hollow and empty, with just me and the two dogs rattling inside.
Amina has resolved one problem, but she has started a lifelong marital problem
, I predicted. The whole space: the house, courtyard, rear and front garden, and the field became mine, but I didn't know what to do with it, or how to fill it. The house my father built had been the family's holy grail. We had shared the holy shell, but had never drunk the same wine.

Early the next morning, leaving the bruise of the wedding behind, I was in Melilla before nine. I went to my favourite café, sat on the terrace and waited for the
agarabo-na-Melilt
to arrive. Coffee was exceptionally comforting, but the noise of the wedding night was still reverberating in my ears. I forced myself not to think beyond where I was at that moment.

The ship arrived, and hundreds of people rushed to receive it, as if welcoming a war hero or a glorious football team. Trade was brisk, and the traders aggressive. Subject to sneers and threats, I reverted to Café Morina, my hub. It was, however, never easy to find a free seat on the terrace. Waiters, unfriendly and grumpy, squashed people together at the too-small tables.

* * *

AS I BECAME A
familiar face at the café, I always tipped the headwaiter. I loved sitting outside, watching the pedestrians waving and crashing into each other, but too much coffee and very little solid food often made me sick and weak.

Life in summer at midday in Melilla was consistently under the thumb of the sun, heat, sea, humidity, the massive consumption of fatty fish and a heavy diet enhanced with chickpeas and yellow peas. Pedestrian numbers fell after one o'clock. People headed home and sank into a long, deep siesta. The main street became quiet, and a sense of insecurity could be felt in one or another of its corners depending on who was there at the time. It could be an arms dealer, drug seller or a pimp.

I wasn't immune to Melillan culture or the double sun reflected at close range from the sea. Midday was a particularly hard time for me. My metabolism dropped, my energy dwindled, my eyes got heavy and slow.

I frequently took refuge in Monastery
Parroquia Castrense de Melilla
. Not far from Café Morina, it stood half way along the boulevard. At my first visit, I was overwhelmed. The cathedral was gigantic, awesomely quiet and semi-dark, surrounded with decorated glass windows and full of golden statues. A bed of lit candles added to the sunlight filtering through the windows. An immense statue of the crucified Christ was dangling in the centre of the space above the altar. The Virgin Mary's statue was, even for a non-believer, emotionally evocative, with a settled sadness visible on her face.

No one ever stopped me, asked me to pay or forced me to worship. As the days turned into weeks, I felt happy and comfortable inside this majestic edifice. Going back to Café Morina afterwards, I felt renewed in energy, mind and spirit, and ready to bargain.

Mr Marjosi, the headwaiter, always faced me, nodded and said, ‘Did you have a good rest?'

‘Not too bad.'

Mr Marjosi was a local man in his late forties, though he looked older; the sun had etched a map on his face. He was too tall to be average, Mediterranean, and looked very wiry. He always combed his shiny hair back to touch his collar. Polite and friendly, he was known to everyone. Spanish poured out of his mouth with ease. His energy, look and age commanded respect on the terrace, but he was not Mr Timsamani's favourite waiter. They hardly spoke.

I never took to Mr Marjosi myself; he was too inquisitive. ‘Are your parents dead?' he asked me once.

What a curious question
, I thought.

At midday on the second of October, 1963, I went to the cathedral, the same pew as always. It was empty except for two short, fat Spanish women, dressed all in black, standing quietly and genuflecting before the statue of St Mary. This spot had become my solace, but almost became my grave.

Sitting back on the pew, with my eyes fixed on the crucified Christ and my hand busy shovelling Spanish white bread into my mouth, I began to doze. Before finishing my bread, my eyes closed, detaching me from everything around.

Three men awakened me when they entered the church.
They are cleaners
, I thought,
certainly not worshippers
. I gave them no heed. They passed me by in a hurry, making very little noise. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, a filthy black cloth was thrown over my head. There was no chance of moving, talking or yelling; my neck was held in a stranglehold and I struggled to draw breath. Both of my hands were grabbed and forced behind my back. Yanked to my feet, I felt a sudden pressure on my neck; a serrated knife was pushed hard against my throat. I felt the notches digging into my skin. Inside the darkness of the cloth, I kicked my legs with all my might against the attackers, hoping someone would see the scuffle.

‘Stand up!' one shouted fiercely. I felt my pockets getting turned inside out. In a second, all the trade of the week was lost. No currency was spared.

A second voice shouted ferociously, ‘Don't move until we tell you! Don't dare leave!'

‘If you do, we'll slit your throat!' another voice finished.

In an eternity and the silence of a looming death, I heard them scurry through the side door. As it opened, a stream of sunlight snaked into the building. Two-thirds of the floor, pews and statues suddenly came to life in the sunshine. Through the gauzy fabric, I saw the last man in the cathedral streak out. It was the headwaiter, Mr Marjosi!

Without a backward glance, the next thing I knew, I found myself in the middle of the noisy boulevard, not far from Café Morina.
I've been robbed and nearly slaughtered
, I murmured to myself, as the pain stung my neck where the notches had left their mark. Watching the people bustling down the busy street, I realised no one knew or cared much for my fate.
No talisman would have saved me
, I realised.
I'm in a dangerous profession
, and remembered Uncle Mimoun's warning
.

I plunged my hands into my pockets, and there was nothing left to grab but a few old crumbs. I didn't know how they had gotten there. Half an hour ago the same pockets had been obese, packed full of foreign currencies.
How am I going to get home now?
I wondered, a rising panic filling my chest.

Headed toward the bus station, I hesitated to jump in.
I don't even have a fare for the bus!
I thought despairingly. Sitting on a quiet bench in the corner of a small park, I felt like a tramp. I felt around my clothes, checked my usual hiding place between my socks and shoes. There, to my relief, was the hidden
treasure I had been standing on; there, gleaming in the sunlight, was the little stash Mr Marjosi had not found. Five hundred pesetas were lying hidden between my socks and shoes, as though the inevitable had been expected. The notes often irritated my feet and, like a stone in a shoe, were a niggling source of discomfort throughout the day.

Looking as utterly miserable as I felt, I headed home and arrived earlier than usual in the full light of day, but there was no one there to hear my story; my parents dead, my sisters married. The house was empty. The two dogs that no one wanted spared no energy in showing their happiness; they jumped, danced and courted each other, their tails turning into the blur of a spinning wheel. However, they could not be immune to the sad mood I carried with me into the house. Their enthusiasm quickly turned into apprehensive expectation.

It's good that I've paid Mr Amakran back in full. Uncle Mimoun would have been dragged in if I hadn't. I was proud of myself, trading on my own capital. It's all gone now. What a whopping error to carry all my capital on me. Now it's all in the hands of Mr Marjosi
, I mused bitterly.
Can I start from scratch? The same thing might happen again! School resumes in two and a half weeks. I could miss the first week, but then Uncle Mimoun would ask what is holding me back; I don't want him to know what happened. If he knew the robbery had taken place in the most famous cathedral in Melilla, he would only say it was the wrath of God for my being there
.

A stash of money was needed for school, and I had lost most of what I had made. I felt I'd been raped. There was no difference between my ass and my neck. A spirit of vengeance took over. I planned to kill Mr Marjosi.

The night dragged on and on and I didn't blink an eye. I felt tormented, hot and sweaty.
Should I ask Rabbia to lend me some money?
I wondered.