HEARTBREAK iN TANGiER
like Casablanca but in reverse
NOTE FROM THE WRiTER
This is written about my most recent love—a poet with a heart of gold. It is edited by her as well. I wrote it in a single trancelike session on the plane. It is a novella aka NOT a short story. Enjoy.
I sat in the middle seat. An elderly woman tattooed and tan sat next to me. The window seat remained empty as everyone filed on, eyelids heavy.
I tore at the plastic with my teeth, revealing the red underneath. Blood red. I spit the plastic into my hands and stuffed it into the pocket in front of me. I rummaged through the back pocket of my old notebook. Past the polaroids and film strips and movie tickets and receipts. I found the little shell and placed it in the pocket of the new notebook.
Clicked my pen and opened to the cover.
IN CASE OF LOSS PLEASE RETURN TO?
I had no home. I had a home, a good one, but it was with my ex. I left my ex in our home. Or my home was with my ex. My old home. I had let my ex have that home, what was left of it.
I booked a ticket to Europe where my parents had retired, and even with them, I didn’t find the same home I was expecting. So I booked another flight, this time to somewhere I was sure I had no expectation of feeling at home.
IN CASE OF LOSS PLEASE RETURN TO?
LEVi LOPEZ
I shrugged. What was meant for me would find its way to me. This notebook was never to leave my side, so how would I lose it? You only lose that which you do not keep by your side. And there is only so much you can keep by your side.
“I think that’s everyone.”
I turned to the woman next to me.
“The door is closed. I don’t think that,” she motioned to the window seat, “is booked.”
I opened my mouth to explain, but she seemed eager to have a seat in between us. So I nodded and shuffled over.
I kept the notebook open the whole plane ride, all 45 minutes of it.
All I wrote, right before we landed:
I miss pouring you wine. I miss you handing me the grocery list. I miss you...?
The question mark was traced over and over and over.
Delay after delay meant we landed just after sunrise. The immigration line snaked on and on. I leaned on every wall I could. The passport stamp then the taxi. I dozed off in the taxi. The blue taxi with the yellow stripe and the backseat perfect for sleeping. I only remember the palm trees out the window.
I climbed the long staircase to the medina, the walled ancient part of the city. In the grass by the entrance lay a drunken man snoring away. To the left was a pair of young men in construction vests, drinking coffee and eating pastries. My stomach grumbled.
The suitcase wheels clattered on the cobblestone. I kept rearranging my backpack straps, but there was no longer any comfortable position for them. My phone had no signal and the photo of the map I had didn’t account for all the tiny side streets. Everyone looked like they knew where they were going and it pissed me off. Even the people loitering looked like enemies after half an hour of wandering.
“Hey. Hey movie star.”
I had already had a few men come up to me calling me brother, or friend, or any other charming greeting, clearly trying to sell me something. After the first time replying led to an exhausting conversation, I learned to ignore them.
“Hey. Hey big shot.”
This voice sounded young and I didn’t even see it. I stopped and looked around. He was just beyond the corner, head to toe in fake Gucci. Messy curly hair and dirty hands, his white shoes were covered in dirt as well. But his smile, boy his smile was golden. He had a cardboard box with assorted candy in it. His stance was leaning away from me, as if I had caught him on the go to make an important delivery.
“5 dirham for a chocolate. Or you, because you’re Hollywood man, I charge you only 3.”
He held out a chocolate bar. I blinked.
“Oh, not a fan of chocolate, that’s ok. I have here gummy bears for same price, and if you are on a budget, a mint for 1 dirham.”
He flashed them both to me with a smile.
“No thank you. Maybe another time.”
“Okay well how about a donation? As you say, to a good cause.”
“What’s the cause?
“To the children of Tangier. Whatever you give me I will ensure it is spent wisely.”
He had one hand on his hip and the other around his box.
“How old are you?”
He stood up straight and lifted his chin.
“I am 10. I know I look a bit young, but my mother says I will catch up soon.”
“You’re a bright kid.”
“Thank you. Everyone calls me The Young Man.” He extended his little hand out.
“Levi.”
“Where are you looking for?”
I didn’t think The Young Man could spell trouble so I answered honestly.
“Rue Bouchachem, Apartment 3.”
“Ah, you’re in luck. I was headed that way anyways. Normally I’d charge for an escort but this time I’ll do it for free.”
I had nothing to lose and the delirium was catching up to me, so I fell in step with him.
“You’re lucky I found you. Someone else would have led you the wrong way or charged you. In a plot.”
“A plot?”
“Yes, a plot...a plan to get money from you.”
“A scam.”
“Yes yes, a scam!”
The medina was a narrow labyrinth , with clotheslines crossing everywhere overhead. The acoustics were disorienting—voices echoed around corners and it felt like everyone was closing in or far away, but never where they actually were. The Young Man would greet people often, almost everyone we passed. Two women talking in a doorway, an old man smoking out of the window, a group of young men headed to school. They all smiled and greeted him warmly, and he would salute them back, say a few words in Arabic and make them all laugh.
“To understand Tangier, you need only know about the Societists and the Generalists.” He ushered me through a key shaped passage as he spoke.
“Sociestists? Do you mean Socialists?”
“No. You Americans think you know everything. Listen to a local. The Societists. And the Generalists. See Tangier used to be a free place, one of the freest in the world. That’s because it had no real government. It was run by five countries at once which means it was run by no one. Long before me and you were born. Your people and from everywhere used to come here to do whatever they pleased. But then, there was clearness. One government, the Moroccan government. And they wanted to close the freeness. Control the freeness.”
“So which one is the government? The Generalists?”
“No. Everyone is against the government. The government is for itself. The two groups here disagree on what to do. The Societists think we should do what is best for society. All for one, one for all. The Generalists think we should do what is best for the general public. To, ehm, go with the flow.”
I cocked my head. The difference seemed...minute.
“I’m not understanding. What is an example of something they disagree on?”
“Oh, everything. They’re at each other’s necks all the time. It’s the way the government wants it. The Societists believe the Generalists don’t care about society, and the Generalists believe the Societists don’t care about the general public.”
“But those are basically the same thing?”
“Yes. Exactly. You come from America no? Do your politics make sense?”
I hummed in agreement.
“You are from Los Angeles?”
“No, New York.”
“Ah New York. New Yooooooork.” He broke out a deep (for him) baritone inflection for the long ‘York’.
“So fly back to LA? For your movies?”
“What? What makes you think I’m an actor?”
He stopped and turned to me, looked me up and down and slowly furrowed his brow. I restrained my laughter. He was so serious in everything he did. Even his humor was so present, full of intention.
“You walk like one. And look like one. And talk like one. I see tourists everyday, but movie stars, you are only the second one I’ve seen.”
“Who was the first?”
He waved his hand and continued walking.
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint but I’m no superhero.”
“Hah. Who said anything about superhero? That I knew. You are no superhero. You are not big. That is why you are a star. A normal hero. Someone that is like us, so we can see ourselves and cheer. You struggle and you win. You don’t have a straight line and still you win. You win big.”
“Well thank you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Sure. That one is free. Next compliment 10 dirham.”
We walked along in silence through a courtyard.
“New York. New York. I will call you New York. What a city right? I can only dream of going.”
“Why dream? I’m sure you can go.”
“Eh. I don’t think my father wants me to leave here. He wants me to work for him.”
“Oh yeah, what does your father do?”
He waved this question off as well, “not important, all I know is I never get to see him.”
We observed an argument in the courtyard. A man was refilling a plastic container of water from his own bottle. The man next to him was shouting at him and motioning to the running fountain beside him. The cats that were waiting for the water waited patiently, licking themselves as they laid next to the debate.
“See. Classic Societist that man.” The Young Man flicked his head at the man with the water bottle and beckoned me to continue.
We passed by a table of men playing a colorful board game.
The Young Man read my mind, “Parcheesi, fun game.”
He took a look back and leaned in to me cupping his hand around his mouth, “that game isn’t going to end well, it’s half Generalists, half Societists.”
“Ah here we are. Rue Bouchachem, number 3.”
I gave The Young Man a high five. “I wish I had cash to give you, but I still have to go exchange money.”
“Please, it is an insult. We are friends now.”
I heard a deafening garbled voice ringing through the medina.
“What is that?”
The Young Man’s eyes widened.
“I must go. It is the call to prayer. My mother will be upset if I am late.”
He saluted me, “I will come see you later. Get some rest.”
I shook my head and smiled, I couldn’t believe this character. The rest was a haze, as I only remember taking my clothes off and crawling under the sheets.
I awoke twice. Once in my dream.
I was dreaming that I was with my ex girlfriend, stroking her hair as she sat in front of me, nude. It smelled so good as it always did. I remember I felt unsettled that she would not turn around, even though her shoulders were bouncing up and down and I could hear her stifling sobs. She asked me to make love to her and it made me uncomfortable but I tried. She still did not turn around but at least she stopped crying. I didn’t enjoy it. I awoke in our old apartment and turned to tell her my dream. There was no one home.
I awoke again and had the sun streaming in full force on my face. It was green and yellow and blue as it came through the stained glass window.
I splashed water on my face, changed my clothes, ran my fingers through my hair. I grabbed my book and notebook and headed out the door. I didn’t know where, but I figured I would find the town square and make do from there.
Even in the narrow streets of the Medina, delivery drivers on electric bikes hauling trailers would zip by, forcing you to press yourself against the side of the building. I made it out to a wider street and was greeted by a gorgeous mint green Mercedes 2400. An older man, blue dress shirt, white hair slicked back and aviators on smiled to no one in particular as he drove past.
I walked towards the water and came out to a huge boulevard. There were seagulls a plenty. On the corner was a man hawking birds. He would pick up the birdcage and wave it in someone’s face. The bird would flutter around and make a fuss. The man was not selling any birds.
I walked towards the little public beach. The crosswalk had no lights, despite the cars roaring through the boulevard. I followed behind a surefooted elderly lady who didn’t even turn her head, simply walked straight.
The beach was full of men, a few shirtless. The only women that were there were in hijabs and were watching over their children. I could smell the aloe vera sunscreen from the family beside me, that was lathering it onto their children who were squirming and ready to run into the sand. I sat down on a bench and tried to read my book.
My book made no sense. Literally. The characters I had remembered being in the book were no longer there. I thumbed backwards and found mention of them...but then it was as if the author had forgotten they existed. The narrative was disjointed. I looked back at the cover. A classic? I would power through.
As I tried to read, the sweat slowly forming on my forehead, I caught semblances of conversations. There were tourists walking by speaking languages that also felt distant. There were snippets of familiarity—I was almost sure that it was Spanish, or French, or something recognizable... and then it would devolve into some unintelligible.
Words were failing me at this point. I tried to stare out at the ocean instead. Mmmmm. Good to know, that was still working.
The waves, the waves, the waves. The waves. The waves. The waves. Waves. Waves. Waves. Water. Water. Water. Words. Words.
Without thinking, I pulled out my notebook and clicked my pen.
Why are the other things that make people happy not enough for me? They make me happy too, but they are NOT enough.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was electric, it was alive.
It’s not just that I love her…I love that I chose to open myself to loving her. Loving someone felt so far away before her.
The relationship gave me many answers but I’m still calculating if it outweighed how many questions it opened.
I am not sad we broke up, I am sad it didn’t work.
The last night in the McDonalds, drunk and giggling. Why couldn’t it all be like that?
I wiped the tears that had streamed down my cheek and sniffled.
“Is it okay if I sit here?”
I looked up and saw The Military Man. He was wearing a faded uniform, and had on a little hat with sunglasses. He was tan, very tan and wrinkled.
“Go ahead.”
The Military Man was from the mountains. He did me a favor and did not say a word about my crying.
He explained he was a Military Man, from the mountains. He had three homes, all in Morocco. A big family he came from, and a big family he had of his own. He spoke at length about his family, his love for them. His friends, his love for them. He told me how little he cared for money, only that it could help him help his family, help his friends. I commiserated with him about this. He shook my hand and told me he could tell I was a good person, not like other Americans. I was enjoying my conversation, the Military Man explained how Moroccans from the mountains were nicer than those from the cities. He said this as he shooed away a beggar that threatened to interrupt our conversation. He took off his sunglasses to polish them and I saw how receded his eyes were, almost nothing but slits. He invited me to his house in the mountains, if not now, next time I come.
He asked for my number and put it in his phone. He told me about how delicious the fish was in the mountains, even though it was far from the sea. Then he asked me if we were friends. I said sure. Then he asked me for money. I said no. He said why? I said because we just met.
“And why would you need money?”
He said he was staying with his sister but she had left and her husband had kicked him out and he did not have time to grab his things. Once more he asked why I would not give him a little money. I said no I’m sorry. He said just a little money, the type I wouldn’t even notice was gone. I said no sorry. He said if I was in need of money and I was in the mountains with him, he would give me money. I said we were not in the mountains and I was not in need of money. We sat in silence for a bit. He said it was okay, we were still friends. He said this hiccup would not ruin our friendship. I agreed. I shook his hand and walked off.
I wandered again this time to a park in the middle of a busy marketplace. It had a colorful playground, and steps that led up to a cultural center. There was slanted grass and large trees, trees that looked far older than anyone alive. I jumped up on to the stone curb that separated this slanted section from the rest of the park.
I saw that there was a large nest of kittens, many colors, all of them toppling over one another trying to get to their exhausted mother. I wasn’t even sure if all the kittens were hers, but she nursed them all the same. A small grey one was off to the side, skinny, even by the standards of these street cats. She stretched and came over to me, The Little Cat. A young boy ran up to the curb and pointed, pointed at the cats. His mother followed in hot pursuit and slapped his hand, motioning at the cats and wagging her finger. She pantomimed fleas jumping off her skin. The boy did not understand and his mom dragged him away.
The Little Cat was frail, I could feel all her bones as I pet her. She made her home on my lap, circling and circling, bumping my hand for more pets, and finally nestling a comfortable position. She began to purr, purr with such intensity I wondered how it came from such a small creature.
I sat there for some time, and again I found myself slowly cracking my notebook open, so as not to wake The Little Cat, the Little Cat on my lap.
Oh a pen feels so good in the hand but only when there is paper for it to land.
The writing was not always profound but it did not need to be. The writing only mattered in that it came out. The only writing that was bad was the writing that did not come out. The non writing. Therefore all the writing was good, because it means it made it out.
The Little Cat stirred at points, letting out little squeaks. She sneezed and wheezed when she awoke. I could tell she was not long for this world. I could see it in her fur and her eyes. She was dirty, she was dying. But she was the most lovely thing in Tangier and I felt at home here with her.
It was the first time I felt at home in ages. Is that all it takes to make a home? Two beings taking care of one another?
I resolved to go get some food and I tried my best to get The Little Cat off. She dug her nails in my jeans. She scrambled to get onto my shoulder and left claw marks in my shirt. She opened her mouth wide and let out the loudest sound she could and asked me to not leave. She circled and circled again and pretended to sleep. Then she really fell asleep again. She was in denial. I aimed my tears away from falling on her fur, but one did make it on her. She let out a sigh. I grabbed my book and continued being held hostage.
The book was making sense again. The characters were back. There disappearances unexplained, the holes in the plot not neatly sewn up, but the story moved along again, it had a motion that made sense. I was lost in it once again. Around me, I even heard English, full blooded English sentences being spoken, clearly. I no longer felt as bad as I had felt all day. But after some time, I was really hungry.
I grabbed the Little Cat softly, and kissed her on the head. I turned to place her on the grass and she outstretched her paws to hold on to me. I dropped her gently on the grass and got up before I never left. I knew I would be back.
“They are so easily amused.”
The Young Man was leaning against a post, eating a popsicle and staring at the young children running around.
“Says the one eating ice cream.”
“And so what? Ice cream is for any age.”
“So is playing.”
“Yes, yes of course. But we do not need a ground to play on, a ground just for play. We can play anywhere.”
He finished the rest of the popsicle.
“My favorite way to play is to imagine I am a spider monkey.”
He tossed the popsicle stick over his shoulders and rubbed his dirty hands on his pants.
“Look.” He assumed a crouched stance and a smile broke out on his face. He began to scratch his armpits and make monkey noises.
I laughed, as he was quite committed.
“Look look.” He jumped up on the railing and balanced precariously, continuing the monkey noises. He jumped and spun in the air. He ran up to me and snatched my book from my hand.
I ran after him, laughing all the while. He scrambled up a tree and monkey noised me from the branches. He hung from the branch with one arm, holding the book in his other.
“Very good, very good. You may have been a monkey in another life.”
“I am a monkey in this life.”
He swung down and thumbed through my book.
“This is a big book. What is it about?”
“It’s about a family. Three brothers, well four. And they have a mean dad that doesn’t take care of them and one of them kills their dad and they all have to figure out which brother it was. And all the brothers are very different but also very much the same. Well that’s what happens in it, but it’s moreso about religion and family and guilt and sin.”
“Mmmm. Seems interesting. But why so big? He couldn’t say it all in less words?”
“I mean those are big topics. You could write 1000 books and still not say everything you needed to say about them.”
“Ah. This is why I prefer cinema.”
He motioned to the CINEMA ALCAZAR that stood in the corner of the square.
“Do you know a good place to eat around here?”
“Yes, there are many. You want to try something traditional?”
“Yea absolutely.”
“You have dirham?”
Fuck, that’s right.
The Young Man dragged me along to a very specific currency exchange desk. We passed three others on the way but he swore this one would give me the best rate.
We walked in and he greeted the old spectacled man at the desk. He pointed to me and made some sort of joke I believe and the old man laughed. The Young Man put his palm out and I gave him my Euros. The old man handed him colorful bills. I eyed the exchange rates, and sure enough, it seems that The Young Man had gotten me a fairer than fair deal.
We walked around the corner to a white building, with a blue sign hat read LE SALON DE BLEU.
The Young Man led me through a kitchen entrance, shoving an errant cigarette pack on top of a bucket in his pocket as he greeted the various workers. The benefits of being low to the ground—it was easy to be slick.
He took me upstairs up a tiny steel staircase that wound and wound, until we were at the rooftop. The view was stunning, one could see the medina sprawled before us, stone, multi level, with passageways to and fro, ending in the waterfront. If you squinted, you could even make out Spain in the distance, across the ocean. I saw a soccer field not far from us, full of young boys hooting and hollering. I turned to ask The Young Man about this field, but I studied his gaze and saw that he avoided looking there. I spared him the question.
The Young Man ordered for me, I trusted The Young Man. Plus it was nice to not be in charge for once. I noticed the menu mentioned this spot was frequented by “THE STARS OF HOLLYWOOD, THE HIGH FLYING JET SET.” They listed several names, and had a cluster of black and white pictures of 50s -esque men and women. The names I did not recognize. I did not trust the menu, but I trusted The Young Man.
I looked out at the street snaking below us and saw a group of hijab clad young women laughing and bumping into one another. One of them placed her handbag over her head, resting the strap atop her head. The laughter escalated. I smiled.
The rooftop had communal seating, and two beautiful older women sat next to The Young Man. They were sirens, these women, speaking French and giggling as they spoke at The Young Man. The Young Man placated them, played his part in making them laugh with a funny face or two, but I could tell The Young Man was like a circus animal, simply doing tricks because the audience demanded it. He was cool, he was collected, but he was really desiring to speak to me, not these sirens. He never said a word to them.
The beauty of being a Young Man was one could choose to be Young in times when it suited you, and a Man in times when it suited you better.
One of the women reached across and tapped my shoulder. She said something in French with a smile and I responded in English. She raised her eyebrow.
“Oh, American? Handsome American.”
I let out a polite chuckle.
“Is it okay if you switch with your brother? My friend and I wish to smoke and we don’t want to blow in his face.”
I nodded in the affirmative, too lazy to correct them. The Young Man stood up and I stood up and we switched, but I stayed on the bench connected to him. The Woman tapped my shoulder again and laughed.
“You can sit here, more space. You’ll be more comfortable.”
I scooched over, not wanting to offend them. The Young Man made a silly face at me and I stifled my laughter. The women looked over and the Young Man went stoic.
The Young Man sensed I was ravenous and so kept the conversation to a minimum until after the first two courses were served and I was satiated. He hummed a tune to himself, a tune I could vaguely identify.
He kept humming it, until he eventually broke out into an aching crescendo. His voice was beautiful, the Young Man had talent.
“What song is that?”
“Why? Why?” It dawned on me on the second why.
I joined in and finished the line with him, “tell them that it’s HUMAN NATURE.” The women giggled and snapped with one hand, as they had their cigarettes in the other.
“So tell me, why are you here? In Tangier? Business? Pleasantries?”
“Well. I was supposed to be here with my girlfriend. But we broke up before the trip and I decided to come anyway since the money was spent.”
The women acted once again as the chorus, overhearing and rubbing my arm with a feigned frowny face. The Young Man meanwhile was staring straight ahead eating a piece of bread smeared with baba ganoush.
“You booked the trip a long time ago?”
“Uh sort of, like two months ago.”
“So this break up was sudden then?”
“Yea sort of. I mean it was in the making. It wasn’t out of the blue. But it just kind of erupted and then it all just snapped.”
“Bah. So complicated. I don’t think I am ever going to get married. Too much time-wasting. And money and going back and forth. I want to take care of myself first and my family.”
“I don’t know if you’re old enough to make that decision—but you’re not wrong that it is a lot of work. Even when you really love someone. Sometimes even more because you love them so much.”
He waved me off with a dismissive fork.
“You should focus on your work. What is it you do for work?”
“Right now? Nothing. I mean, I’m writing a novel. So a writer, I guess.”
“Nothing? Or a writer? It seems to me you should say what you are like it is a fact because it is.”
“A writer, then.”
“You must be a very good one. I don’t think writers make a lot of money usually.”
“Well that’s the thing. Doing writing full time is a new thing. I used to run my company, but things went south.”
“Ah. Your breakup makes more sense now. Either way, you made the right choice. This is the best path for you. Why be a scion, a captain of enterprise, when the most important thing is to be an artist. An artist or a soldier. Everything else is below.”
I took out my notebook and clicked my pen.
Why be a scion when you can be an artist or a soldier? (or both…WARRiOR POET) The most important duties in the world.
“What are you writing down?”
“What you just said, that’s very good.”
“You writers are so strange. You steal from the world and then talk to yourselves like little caged birds. You take scraps of words and scenes and make them into your own collage, like a bird putting together a message with crumbs of bread. See us singers, us musicians, at least we share it out loud.”
“A singer? You want to be a singer? You can definitely be a singer.”
“I am a singer. See, you should learn from me. I have no hesitation when I say that. I am a singer.”
He was right, I could learn from him. He sucked the bone clean of all its meat and tossed it on the tray.
“It is so funny when you think of a good book. It has so much life, it is like another world, a real living world. You come to be familiar with these characters and their problems. Then you get to the end and you look at the cover again and you realize the writer was just talking to himself the whole time, playing pretend.”
“Well that’s the fun part of writing. You kind of get to be an actor as well, at least the way I write. I inhabit, I get inside of the characters I write and just let them speak as if they were real.”
“Hmmm, this is interesting. Tell me more.”
I waited to finish chewing my own chicken, and took a big swig of the Moroccan tea.
“Amazing by the way,” I tapped the glass. The Young Man’s eyes widened and he nodded passionately. There were moments when he was so Young.
“Have you ever heard of Fernando Pessoa?”
“No I have not.”
“So he was this Portuguese writer that made up all these alter egos.”
“Altar ego?”
“Uh different personalities, different versions of yourself. He wrote all these books and stories using different names, I’m talking dozens and dozens of fake names. It’s like he made up all these other writers with their own distinct backgrounds and writing styles and wrote through them. He created a fake universe of creators creating in their own way.”
“Mmmmm yes, very interesting. Very twisted in the head. But interesting.” He spun his finger around in a loop by the side of his head.
We had dessert as the sun began to set. Downstairs we approached the payment desk and The Young Man began to haggle with the mustached waiter. He motioned again with an open palm, telling me to hand him 100 dirham. I had to give it to him. We both ate like kings and here we were only paying 10 dollars.
“I must head home now, my mother will be waiting for me. I will see you tomorrow, New York. Ah. Wait, how long are you here?”
“Six days.”
That night I walked home, buying a bottle of wine on the way and drank it and laid on the bed. I opened the window and looked down into the quiet side street. I saw a little girl in her blue pajamas rollerblading around, her singing echoing. She nearly knocked over several people coming home with groceries but no one minded. That made me happy. I began to laugh to myself.
Then I turned Michael on in my headphones. I listened to Human Nature and I cried. I cried and I cried, heavy cries that could not be held back. I heard him. I heard him, childlike in his curiosity but with a deep ache. Asking the question but deep down knowing he yearns for an answer that will not come. Stuck in the beauty and pain of wondering.
Looking out across the nighttime
The city winks a sleepless eye
Hear her voice shake my window
Sweet seducing sighs
Get me out into the nighttime
Four walls won’t hold me tonight
If this town is just an apple
Then let me take a bite
If they say why? (Why?) Why? (Why?)
Tell ‘em that it’s human nature
Why? (Why?) Why? (Why?) Does he do me that way?
If they say, why? (Why?) Why? (Why?)
Tell ‘em that it’s human nature
Why? (Why?) Why? (Why?) Does he do me that way?
I cried so much I began to laugh again. Then I opened my notebook and clicked my pen.
The days are long. This is both good and bad, but mostly good.
I will be, only expression, no explanation
Wine drunk and nothing to do. Do nothing!
And the six days followed a similar pattern. On my own I did not desire to explore, as much as to find a stable routine. I added cigarettes to my routine the following day.
I would rise at eight o’ clock with a terrible headache, down a massive bottle of water and go to the bathroom. Then I would go back to bed and wake up at noon feeling better. I would spend the first two hours of the day on the terrace of my vacation home, doing yoga in my sweatpants and nothing else, then reading and writing. I’d eat fruits and bread by the handful.
At 2 o’ clock I would step out and invariably run into The Young Man running his scheme for the day. I’d ask him why he wasn’t at school and he would wave this off. He was in a wheelchair the second day.
“For sympathy you see.” I was impressed that he found a child sized wheelchair, although it was in rough condition. He would grow impatient with how slow it moved and would often use his feet. This defeated the purpose of his gimmick but I didn’t tell him as such. He wandered off to set up shop in an area frequented by tourists and I went my own way.
To pay The Little Cat a visit, bringing her and her siblings a can of food. I had to pull myself away from The Little Cat, otherwise she would gladly sleep on me all day. I’d head over to the main roundabout and sit on a bench there.
There was A Man In An Orange Vest, who sold whatever he was selling to everyone but me. Eventually he came over to me and offered it to me (a calling card) halfheartedly. Then There Was A Man With A Black Briefcase who spent all his time trying to sell to me (a small packet of napkins) and then only after he failed to wear me down, went to sell to everyone else. When I explained this scene to The Young Man he noted that the Orange Vest man was a classic Generalist, and the Black Briefcase Man a classic Societist. I nodded along.
Around four o’ clock, I would head for a meal at a nice Syrian cafe I found. It was very small, only four people could fit in there at once but it was mostly empty at that time. The Young Man would normally find me here and tag along, asking me questions about New York. On the third day he relayed to me how he planned to be an actor.
“After I make it big with the singing, of course. First the singing.”
“Why don’t you sing for money? Instead of your other schemes?”
This upset The Young Man greatly.
“Singing is a gift from God. I will not soil my gift for handouts on the street. I do not care for the money that comes from singing, only that people hear it and feel something.”
He made me swear to never suggest the commerciality of his singing talent. He then suggested I sing.
“I’m not really good at that.” We were standing outside, me covering my eyes with my hand as I put my sunglasses on.
The Young Man did a quick jig and bellow. His voice was beautiful, his performance full of restraint in the right way. Natural but controlled.
“You don’t need to be good. Like your writing, do you worry about it being good first? No, you first think about making people feel something and the rest follows.”
That night when I went home I found an instrumental online and recorded a little voice memo experimenting with melodies. It was nice. It made me feel something listening back to it.
The Young Man and I would normally catch the 5pm showing at the CiNEMA ALCAZAR. There were only two movies playing, some obscure French movies titled “Who Do I Belong To?” and “Thank You For Banking With Us.”
We watched them over and over, and the Young Man was delighted, absolutely delighted, as he ate ice cream and chips and laughed at all the wrong parts and cried at the right ones. It was only ever us two in the cinema. The movies made little sense but they were well acted and they were well shot and they seemed like the people who made them cared so they were good.
There was a much bigger theater with more movies where the main roundabout was but The Young Man explained it was run by Generalists. I interpreted that this meant he was a Societist.
“No.” He refused to elaborate.
“CiNEMA ALCAZAR is also run by Generalists, but they are not so forward with it. They respect the art.” I asked if all the cinemas were run by Generalists. He stopped to think.
“There is an open air cinema and a monthly cinema night on the beach. They are much more expensive. Those are run by Societists.”
He taught me over and over what was Generalist, and what was Societist.
The blue and yellow taxi, small but cheap. Generalist. The tan and red taxi, large and actually cheaper but because you had to wait for it to fill up and the fee was shared. Societist.
The soccer team was called Tangier FC. More championships in their history but a recent run of poor form. Generalist. The soccer team called Royal Tangier. The current champions but with little history. Societist.
The fruit stands that charged more for tropical fruits than for fruits. Generalist. The fruit stands that charged more for temperate fruits. Societists.
The bathrooms that were free to enter, but toilet paper cost one dirham. Generalist. The bathrooms that were two dirham to enter, but toilet paper was free. Societist.
It was starting to make sense to me, the way that my book was now feeling like it had been written precisely for me. I finished the book on the third day and the Young Man remarked that he was exhausted to see me starting one just as large on the fourth.
“And what is this one about? What did this writer have not enough space to say?”
“This one is the classic of classics. After like the Bible and the Quran. It’s about a man trying to go through hell, then purgatory, and finally to heaven. And he can’t skip ahead, he has to see all the suffering and rationalize it and then eventually redeem himself through love.”
The Young Man listened intently.
“This one, this one sounds very good.” He grabbed the book and fanned through the pages. I offered to give him the book if I finished it in time before I left but he waved me away.
He was happiest as a spider monkey, which came out at the most random of times, often in dangerous situations. We’d be walking along a balcony that rose up alongside a building and he’d hop on the railing and begin his act. One time he stole my notebook and dangled it over the edge. I laughed but was somewhat nervous. It had left my side.
“Give it back you little son of a bitch.”
The Young Man dropped the monkey act. He hopped down and handed me my book.
“Don’t say that about my mother.” I apologized and he walked off in a huff. He rejoined me later as I was leaving the liquor store, buying my daily bottle.
“Is this liquor store Generalist?” The owner looked like one, as far as I was learning to tell.
“This kind of store? This is the government my friend. Any Moroccan that goes in there is on a list. Plus that place makes too much money. Of course the government is going to have their hand in that.”
Damn. The Young Man was good.
I would stare out the window at night, letting the cigarette ashes fall to the street and think of her. I’d fill up my notebook all throughout the day. The Young Man (if he was present) would ask me what I had written. I would show it to him and he would tell me my handwriting was terrible and to read it to him.
I had to sever my closest attachments to refill myself and remind myself that my fulfillment matters first and foremost.
I haven’t been kneeling when I pray but I am again. Eyes open though. Eyes on it.
The tension between, Go Get It and God Will Make It Happen.
“This writing, it seems good for you but also like it is very tiring for you.” The Young Man was observant. Observant and incisive.
I kept having the same dream over and over. It played the same every time. I could now describe how it felt more acutely. It felt like my dick was an old worn out pacifier and her pussy was quicksand. I explained this dream to The Young Man, without the sex part, only implying a cuddling or hugging.
“Mmmmm yes. This is a standard dream.”
“Standard for who?”
“Standard for Bernard.”
“Bernard who?”
“He was a famous Moroccan. I believe actually French born but then he moved to Morocco. This was before our time you understand. I believe that famous Frood or however you call him stole many of his ideas. Anyways, he wrote a long book interpreting dreams. For you to awake in your dreams over and over, it means you are simply catching up to a new reality, a new timeline you are in.”
“Bernard what?” This explanation intrigued me and I wanted to go to the source. The Young Man waved me off. I rarely saw the Young Man after sunset, when he would head to the final prayer of the day.
On the evening of the fourth day I started drinking a little early and made it to a spot on the grass I had never been before. Shades off, smoke in hand, laying in the sun, with my grandma paying a visit. She was fond of butterflies and always told us she would come back as one. So whenever I saw a butterfly, I knew she was coming to spend time with me. The Young Man appeared over me like a shadow. He had on a fake cast.
“Ah, you are drunk already.”
I smiled and nodded.
“I bet you want to talk to women, no?” I realized this was his first time seeing me drunk.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well I have never been drunk. My father would hit me if he saw me drinking. But it seems that when men are drunk this is what they want. To talk to women.”
“Maybe. I don’t know if I do. I mean sure, why not?” I really didn’t know, and the more I thought about it, I actually didn’t.
“Well, that would be difficult. Moroccan girls are not very open to talking to strangers you know. Or even their own men. Maybe you have better luck with the tourist girls, but they are so afraid of Moroccan men I think it makes them afraid of all men while they are here. So you must instead deal with me. The Young Man.” He helped me up and we walked to the roundabout to people watch. I was practicing my understanding of Generalist and Societists but still couldn’t get my identification quite right. The Young Man would laugh as my guesses would be off.
At noon on the fifth day (I got out earlier to enjoy the final full day), I asked the Young Man to take me to a trinket shop to buy gifts for my parents.
“They haven’t heard from me in two weeks.”
“You’ve only been here five days.”
I waved him off. He laughed and flicked my leg.
I picked out two identical chunky mugs for them. I saw a black and white mosaic box in the window and inquired as to the price. The Young Man raised his eyebrow. The Young Man was on to me. He helped me negotiate and then when we walked outside, he asked what the box was for.
“It’s a very small box you know.”
“I know, that’s why I like it. It’s for her.”
By this point he knew who her was without further explanation.
“I don’t understand you. You tell me you are better off without her. But yet you still think about her, you buy her gifts, you write about her. You still love her?”
“I mean of course I still love her, I still care about her. My love for her doesn’t end with my possession of her. She is still a beautiful soul whether we are attached or not.”
The Young Man contemplated this seriously as well, walking with his hands behind his back.
“I feel this way about God. That he does not have to be mine and only mine and I still love him intensely.”
I nodded along. This was a good way to think about love.
“The box is small. But it is hers, all hers. Anything she puts in it will be kept safe. Because it is the box I give her. And there is not much you can keep safe so the box must be small. But the box will keep whatever is inside of it safe, that is for sure.”
The Young Man looked me in the eye and nodded in approval.
We parted ways as he had his midday prayer to attend. I hit the bottle even earlier, and found myself eating an ice cream by the steps to my home.
“Mmmm this is fucking amazing.” I murmured to myself. My beard was surely covered in ice cream and this only made things better.
Suddenly I heard a commotion. I could hear The Young Man’s voice ringing out in anger, then in despair. A gruffer sounding voice taunted him.
I stood up to peer around the corner into the bigger square but the action was happening beyond my line of sight. I walked closer and came upon the Young Man running my way. He looked awfully young, crying his eyes out. I sat with him until he calmed down.
“It is Circo. He stole the money I made today. Said I owed him for protection. I was going to give that money to my parents, to help them.”
“Circo?”
“Yes, Circo. He is a bully. He thinks because he is half Italian he is better than everyone. He intimidates all the men here and steals and is evil.”
“I mean anyone that would steal from a...” I trailed off as I remembered the Young Man didn’t like to be referred to as a kid.
“Anyone that steals is evil.”
“Oh that is not the worst of it.”
The Young Man quivered.
“He kills. He kills animals, New York.”
“What?”
“Yes. He likes to put pins in food he leaves out for the cats and the dogs. I’ve seen him kick them or beat them. He is sick.”
My stomach flipped as I thought of The Little Cat. I didn’t know if Circo’s territory extended there but the possibility made me sick.
“Well, listen. Do you want me to give you cash? How much did he take?”
The Young Man stood up and punched me with his little fists on the shoulder.
“Owww, owww. What the hell are you doing?”
He ran off crying. The Young Man was gone.
I spent the rest of the day drinking heavier and heavier. Smoking and smoking. This Circo fellow, I think I knew what he looked like. He had been one of the first ones to accost me with a fake friendliness on my first day. Whenever I passed him by he was smoking hash and had dark eyes, empty eyes, and was surrounded by a crowd of lackeys. They had on tracksuits and flip flops, and sold cigarette packs.
I kept drinking but I knew I was delaying the inevitable. I had the windows open but the heat was unbearable because the heat was in my head. It felt good to be angry however. Being sad was exhausting. It was self pitying. But anger, anger was unfamiliar to me and it felt powerful.
As the sun began to set, I smoked my final cigarette and flicked the butt down to the street. I went to find Circo.
Circo was where he always was. The good for nothing animal killer. The evil bully. No one liked him, those who were with him were simply afraid of him. He knew this and it made him worse inside and he brought it all out, and made it everyone else’s problem how much he hated himself.
“Hello friend. You need hashish?” He greeted me with open arms.
I pushed him, and his posse looked on in shock.
“Hey brother, what is your problem? Did I do something to offend you?”
“Not me. My friend, the Young Man. So yes, me.”
Circo laughed once he understood. He took a puff of his cigarette and put it out underneath his flip flop. He was not tall and he was skinny, skinnier than me, but his face was nasty, with a big scar, and most importantly his eyes had nothing but darkness in them. He had many men with him. And nothing to live for.
“The Young Man? You mean the reject? His own parents don’t even love him. He’s a dirty little beggar, and a gay one that sings like a girl.”
“Go fuck yourself you pussy.” I felt amazing.
“Why do you care so much about him?”
“Oh it’s not just him. I know about how you’re a sick fuck and you like to torture the animals around here.” I was spitting and slurring my words.
Circo had no reply for this, only a smile and then a spit towards my feet.
I threw the first punch. I got him good, a couple of times. But I was no match for the flurry, the onslaught of his gang. I imagine the fact that I was an American citizen saved them from really giving it to me, and no doubt some onlookers that stepped in.
I remembered very little, only that I came to in an unfamiliar (but nice) bathroom, where my head was pounding and I was throwing up in the toilet. I felt in pain all over and so swollen. I wiped my mouth and washed my face and hands. I looked in the mirror. Holy shit. I was unrecognizable. My clothes were caked in blood, some my own, some surely others. I had gauze on part of my face. I felt incredible inside, despite my external discomfort.
I limped outside and was greeted by a young woman in a hijab sitting on a chair. She was reading a book, a French translation of the one I had just read.
“Oh you need to lie down, you cannot be moving around.” She put her book down and made me lie down on the couch. She brought me and ice pack and water.
“Who are you?” She laughed.
“I am The Young Lady.”
“Generalist or Societist?” She had a puzzled look on her face as I briefly lost consciousness.
“Your friend The Young Man brought you here. You were in very bad shape. He knows I am studying to be a doctor so he thought I could help. I’ve done my best to clean you up, but you probably should go to a hospital tomorrow.”
I felt around. Seemed like no broken bones at least.
“You are lucky they didn’t stab you.”
It hurt to talk so I stayed quiet and stared ahead.
She returned to her chair and picked up her book.
“Thank you.” I croaked out.
“Oh, it was nothing, nothing really. Believe me, you should be thanking your friend. He apparently simulated a police siren and that sent your attackers running.”
The Young Man was magic. The Young Man was genius. The Young Man was too Young to be this Man.
She fidgeted with her pages, not turning them.
“I’m sure he will be back soon. He said he had to resolve something and he would be back.”
I nodded and winced at the pain.
“Yes, it’s best if you stay as still as possible.”
I floated in and out of sleep.
“I’m sorry if I am uncomfortable. I just am not normally alone with a man who isn’t my family. If my parents were home it would be okay, but this feels all strange to me. Not that you are strange. I mean you are a stranger. But yes this is not normal for me. I am sure you are nice though. The Young Man had many good things to say about you. He sees you as a brother.”
“That’s a good book you’re reading.”
“Oh, this? Yes. It gets a little confusing in the middle but it picks up again.”
Ah. Okay. Not just me. Never just you.
“Yes.”
“The Young Man tells me you are a writer. And from New York. That is like from a movie.”
“Definitely a writer, not a fighter.” I tried to let out a chuckle but it became more of a cough. She humored me and smiled.
“What about you? You like being a doctor?”
“Me? Yes, yes I love the idea of it. I mean not just the idea, I love it. It is hard though.”
“Very.”
“But I don’t know. It seems like there’s not a lot of freedom in it. Not the way being a writer seems like.”
“Freedom?”
“As in, space to think freely. To explore. I am not even sure what it is I am looking for but it seems like there is something to find, something that medicine won’t let me.”
“Well, you have the rest of your life to do that. You don’t need to be a writer or an artist full time to do that.”
“I suppose. But you read these books, and you watch movies, and listen to music, and you listen to people like the Young Man or even the way you talk and you sense that at least the artists are closer than the rest of us. No matter how much they suffer.”
I had no notes on that.
“Say, how long have you known the Young Man?”
“Mmmm, since he was dropped off. He was always social, very social, even when he was smaller. Like 2 years I think.”
“What do you mean dropped off? For boarding school? Speaking of, how come he doesn’t go to school. He always does this when I ask him anything serious. Did the same when I asked him where he lives, what his parents do.”
I pantomimed his wave and she laughed. She pantomimed his eyebrow raise and I laughed. The Young Man was an icon.
“Boarding school? I mean, there are a few women at the mosque who have tried to get him signed up for the free school by the park, and even one family that offered to take him in, but The Young Man resists any attempt to fit into the system, to play by rules.”
“Take him in?”
“Yes. The Young Man is an orphan.”
“A what? He’s always talking about his family.”
“Oh yes, he knew his family until he was 8. He was raised by them. But apparently something happened and they could not afford to raise him anymore. So they dropped him off here with his uncle. Except his uncle’s wife was a horrible lady, and his uncle died in a car accident and the aunt moved away and so the Young Man was on his own within a couple of months.”
My head was spinning. This hurt more than the fight.
“There’s no way. He talks about them so realistically, like they’re who he hangs out with everyday.”
“Yes. It is sad. It is his way to cope. He never wants for anything. He is always crafty as I’m sure you know, in getting what he needs and if ever truly needed something, everyone is quick to provide it for him. He sleeps in a little nook by the mosque that is well insulated. Again, people have offered to take him in but he is too proud.”
The pieces started coming together.
“Tell me, is it also a lie that he reads?”
“Yes, of course. He frequents the library and he will ask the librarian to tell him summaries of stories, but no he does not read. He sings though, amazingly you know. He is smart, just not very learned.”
I felt around and realized my notebook was not in my back jean pocket.
“Wait, my notebook? Did someone find it?” The Young Woman shook her head with wide eyes.
The Young Man walked in. He had a bruise of his own on his head.
“You are very lucky my brother. Very lucky and very stupid. Come here.” He ran up to me and squeezed me hard. I did not mind that it hurt a great deal. The tears welled up in my eyes. I felt his own fall on my head.
He pulled out my notebook from his own pocket and smiled.
I held it close to my heart when he handed it to me and gave him a big kiss on the forehead.
“That’s a lovely burgundy,” said the Young Woman.
I clicked the pen and wrote.
No grand mysteries no more, no confusion over feelings. The emotions flow, no more looking for signs or reasons, for only enjoying the dreams, the ideas of things. At peace, be, be be! Chase pleasure and fulfillment (and live with the duality of that), knowing you are all the love and energy you need—but the beauty (and the pain) comes in sharing, in connecting.
The next day I woke up feeling everything. Inside and out. But I felt I had gone wrong in my own way, which was preferable than going right in someone else’s.
I could walk and do everything just fine, gingerly and with pain, but nothing felt critical. I packed my bag and headed for the door. I knew The Young Man would be out there.
He was looking sharp as ever in a little zoot suit. Riddled with holes but he made it sharp.
We sat there wordlessly for some time.
“How come you kept pretending you knew how to read?” I would not call him out on his other lie, but I had to call him out on something.
“Well you were so big into it, it would make me silly if I didn’t read.”
“I don’t care if you don’t read. You’re so freaking smart without it. I would want you to learn because you would enjoy it though. I swear. It’s better than a movie. To me at least.”
“Why is that?”
“Because it is more intimate. Writing is done by someone all by themselves. It is the closest thing we have to a human in art form. It is so private, so raw.”
“You writers. So serious about yourselves.”
“You’re damn right I’m a writer.” The Young Man gave me a high five.
“I wish you could come visit New York.”
“Bah. I will not visit. They will beg me to come and only then will I. Once I’m older of course and my father cannot stop me from going. My mother will come with me though, she always wanted to visit.”
I pulled The Young Man in close to me, resting his head on my side. He felt so Young.
“But you, New York, I will see you on the red carpet soon.”
“Red carpet? I told you I’m a writer.”
“And so? It is about time we have a writer star. Again, like we used to. This would be good for the world. Not just the singers and the actors and the models and the businessmen in the spotlight. But someone who knows how to think by themselves and for themselves. A writer. You can be that. You are that.” The Young Man poked me in the chest.
I felt the tears streaming down.
“And I will learn to read for you, only you, do not worry. Your first book will be my first read. I will be waiting here, understanding you through your books. And once you have your big breakup, you and your starlet part ways, you fly back here to Tangier and I will build you back up again. No more fights this time though.”
I wiped my tears and squeezed him again. He squeezed me back strong, like a Man. He nestled his head into my chest, like a Man. He cried too, like a Man. We were both Young Men.
“Say, you never answered me. Are you a Generalist or a Societist?”
He raised his eyebrow and put his hand under his chin in an exaggerated thinkers pose. Then he rose suddenly.
“Oh, please. I am The Young Man. I have no label. I only follow myself. And God.”
I began to tickle him. We said goodbye when I got in the taxi, right after he negotiated the price down for me.
He had asked me if I wanted to go say goodbye to The Little Cat but I couldn’t do that, no way. He pledged to take care of the Little Cat and all the Little Cats, and to stay away from Circo. To outsmart him. These promises were the only thing holding me together. I put my bag in the taxi, then turned around. He was Young again, and hardened. He simply reached his hand out to shake mine.
“Safe travels, brother.” I was Young, very Young and I could barely get a word out.
I saw him standing there, at attention as we drove off.
The tears subsided on the drive over, my head pressed against the glass.
I made it to the runway before they restarted. I opened my notebook to write something down. The pen clicked but the words didn’t come out. That didn’t devastate me, not like it had in the past. The words always came out, in their own time.
The seashell fell out of the pocket.
Someone stepped on it before I managed to grab it. Half of it was in tiny pieces, halfway to dust. It blew away. The other half was still intact. It was tinier than ever. It could fit perfectly in the little box. But I put it back in the notebook. It could fall out again, in its own time. Something else would go in the little box.
And the notebook would always be full, always by my side.
