There is a definite light to her that I have not seen before. At her parents' house she showed me pictures from when she was young, and although I had never seen them before, they are oddly familiar. Not because I knew her when we were children, or because I knew someone like her, but because there is a quality captured in those prints that she has not lost as an adult. It's as if she looks harder at the world than most. She pushes the boundaries in an effort to peer around the next corner.
The road twists before them like a red stain winding into the distance. Heat billows from a crack in the footboard leading to the engine. The little white Fiat hiccups as it idles. The couple moves in unison, each wiping dust from their side of the windshield simultaneously. They smile. A change has occurred. Some minor miracle brought on by marriage, as if in saying “I do” and having them kiss the minister has set the motor in motion that is to bring their lives into alignment. It is September 8th. They’ve been married for two days. The man in the trunk does not know this concretely, but he is an astute fellow, able to read life's uncertain rhythms. Sheep move across the road before them, doing little to avoid the shepherd’s stick, wielded with a lazy disdain. The boy doesn’t even look up as he passes just feet from the Fiat’s hood. They begin to roll again. The car shudders like an old woman trying to free herself from the clutch of her favorite chair. Casablanca will be forgotten. It holds no more memory for them than soot and traffic and signs they can’t read. Other than the Mosque of Hassan II, they’ve been told there isn’t much to see; it’s not like the movie, people say, just get out of there, drive south. So they do, picking up the Fiat and a bottle of water at the airport. Directions through town are scrawled on a map that is as illegible to them as the language, and as the last building fades they are quickly sucked into an encompassing desert that offers little but grass and wind and dust. They are not aware of eyes watching them from the trunk of the car. A bearded man peers at them from a crack in the seat, the slit between the shoulders of the fold-down cushions. He probably could have just asked them for a ride to Essaouira. In fact, that was his intent when he'd overheard their plans. He had been behind them in line at Hertz, but for some reason he freaked. At first he'd stepped out of line to wait in the lot for them, not wanting to create any discomfort at the counter. But as they approached the car with the attendant he blanked, jumping into the trunk of their waiting vehicle. By dint of luck or will of Allah, they threw their bags on the back seat where they could get at them rather than in the grimy trunk with the spare tire and the strange man. He couldn't shake the feeling that he knew this couple, someone from Bennington maybe. That could certainly be the root of these outrageous heart palpitations, causing him to hide like a gopher when approached rather than face them down, to say nothing of the attack it would give them should they stumble across a strange man of Islam hiding in the back of their motorcar. It made his palms sweaty just thinking about it; what a real fucking Hollywood movie-type scene that would be -- the terrorist and the newlyweds -- what else could they think? It's not as if they were looking for a lunch companion. Really, what would he say should they decide to pop the hatch? It's me, Adnan, remember, yes, yes, I know it's hard to believe now that I have this beard down to my tip of my penis, but I've found Allah, I'm a Muslim -- A Salaam Aleikum, brother. He could feel a flush come into his face. His behavior shamed him. This was no way for a respectable man of faith to act. What indeed was he doing! At the first possible instance he would make himself known, he decided. But not why they were driving. Not on these roads. He didn't want to cause an accident. He'd wait for now. And listen. Maybe they hadn't gone to Bennington after all.
These poor sheep, C. says pointing to the barren ground, what do they eat?
Poor sheep? Poor shepherd.
Oh God, she says as both of them grow silent for a moment, staring blankly at the vast expanse of dry grass poking uselessly up through the rocky terrain, a liberal’s empathy working guiltily on their conscience. They are spoiled in America. They know that. Far to the left, mountains slice into the sky looking more like gray strips of cardboard on a movie set than the beginning of the Atlas range.
I’m ravenous, C. blurts out, pushing her voice into the wind suddenly. Ouilidia is still a ways off. How far do you think we have to go, to get there I mean?
Maybe two, two and a half hours.
We’re not going to make it.
Huh?
I’m not. I have to eat something. Let’s lunch.
Several squat buildings zip past, the ocean. Liam jams on the breaks. The car careens.
The bearded man in the trunk yelps.
C. screams: OH MY GOD! and grabs for whatever she can to hold on.
They cross lanes and slip off the left shoal, skidding in the gravel. The car tilts, then rights itself. They are now facing north. C. is visibly out of breath. Liam swivels, a look of disbelief crossing his face. He thinks he's heard something. He shrugs it off, grabbing his backpack instead.
Sorry, Liam says, but that, and he’s pointing left across the road toward a row of purple bougainvillea winding up and over a rusty sign, if I’m not mistaken, is a restaurant.
Jesus!, C. says, hitting him playfully, not wanting to acknowledge the pleasant hum to her sex the adrenaline rush is causing. What a crazy fucking man I’ve married, she thinks but doesn’t verbalize. She says: Are you holding back on me? How can you tell it’s a restaurant? Seriously, do you know Arabic?
Educated guess. There’s a fish engraved on the sign.
And you saw that going 160 kilometers per hour.
I did.
And so you jammed on the breaks, as if a normal stop just there by that turn-about wasn’t good enough. She’s turned in the seat, pointing back in the direction they’d been going.
Although they can't see him in the dark of the trunk, all this twisting and turning is making Adnon nervous. He crouches lower. His vantage is now equal to that of C.'s uncovered thigh. His religion tells him he should be offended, but his cock is not controlled by Allah. For a time, he is mesmerized. Then all is darkness. Having retrieved his wallet, Liam tosses his pack into the back seat and gets out of the car. The other door opens. Their voices are more muffled now. A door slams. He can hear Liam speaking: If my baby’s hungry, I’m gonna feed her. The other door slams. The windows are cracked.
You know you’re crazy.
No, not crazy, just not used to the skinny little wheels on these things. I had no idea we were going to spin like that.
You mean we could have ended up in the ocean instead.
Off the cliff anyway. We might not have made the water. I…
They are some distance from the car now. Gently, gently, Adnon pops the back hatch and peers out. He watches the dust-bedraggle newlyweds cross the road. C. is leaning on her husband and limping.
Ooh, pins and needles, pins and needles, she says, making a funny face.
Foot asleep?
Ahm. She grips Liam's bicep.
Almost there, Mrs. O’Brien.
C. smiles. She hasn't changed her name, but likes the sound of it anyway. Carry me, she says, springing awkwardly into Liam's arms.
Liam laughs. He asks: Is this what I've signed myself up for, 60 odd years of carrying you across the thresholds of the world?
Do you mind?
Not at all.
----------------
THEY MOVE quickly, from Oulidia to Essaouira, heading south down the Moroccan coast, trying to sort through the filmy images of the sleepy fishing village they were leaving behind as they maneuver down the pasty forehead of the African continent.
At the click of the cup the overweight proprietor looks up, hrrumphs, and turns back to his paper, vowing not to serve the bearded man another cup unless he orders something; he's not about to lose money on tea. The man places his plastic glass down on the wooden countertop and readjusts his upper garment. His system reacts with jitters to caffeine, so he drinks mint tea instead.
The newlyweds have moved several times across the tiled square always holding hands, from the outdoor café with its potted palms and blue and white checkered tablecloths to any one of a dozen pottery shops with their extraordinary markup prices. Somebody's cur is licking harissa from the dusty cracks beneath their abandoned table. Two waiters stand in the doorway watching. At regular intervals the black mutt swivels violently, growling at the flies that swarm about its shoulder where a patch of fur is bloody and missing. Adnon clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth hoping to generate a little saliva. He'd forgotten this quality mint tea had in this area of the world, real mint tea, the drying effect. How had his father put it -- like sucking on the bones of your ancestors.
The shop in which he stands is little more than a newsstand, dark and small, but insufferably clean for its locale. It is no more than a meter and a half across, perhaps six times that deep, a dank fissure in a dessert landscape of buildings. Newspapers, some a day old, are draped over ladders that lean against one wall. Before them is a worn countertop painted black. It runs the narrow length of the room, stopping abruptly before a green curtain. Behind it an ill-concealed bed. On the other side of the counter, against the far wall, a series of Bunsen burners rests precariously on a tiny ledge of brick. A pile of dishes leans unsteadily out over a steel sink in much the same way the proprietor in the back of the room leans over his paper from time to time to keep an eye on the stranger who won't seem to leave his shop. There's been a terrible rash of petty thefts in the city lately. Nothing too bad, but the fat man has had some papers stolen before. He attributes this to the unrest in the Sudan and the relaxing of the immigration rules imposed by the government. Essaouira, after all, is a port city and port cities are known to attract weirdoes. Case in point the tea-drinking man in white and green robes at the end of his bar; he has the eyes of a cleric but the slouch of a trash collector. His head dips behind the counter as he peers around the far side. Just as he suspected, loafers. Only western Muslims wore Docksiders. His cousins in Boston wore Docksiders, very Ted Kennedy they said smiling like imbeciles. Fuck America, he thought. Tomorrow he'd send back the blue jeans they'd sent him. Suddenly he was dizzy.
The blood always rushed too quickly to his head, creating a gentle buzz, a numbing, like the tiniest puff of opium. Or so he imagined. He watched the stranger's antics. It looked as if Adnon were testing the sunshine, pressing on the lighter colored tiles with his toe as if they hadn't been taken out of the kiln but five minutes ago, as if they might crumble or dent at the touch of his shoe. Hhm, the proprietor hhmed, suddenly thinking of that video cassette his cousin had sent from stateside -- the lost youth, the lost boys, something lost. In any case, it was a very bad video cassette about vampires he remembered who were afraid of the sun. Of course he didn't think that this man was a vampire. He was not worried, but his mind did tumble on a bit watching these antics. Unconsciously, he reached for his pencil poking out from behind his ear. He licked the tip but did not write as a bought of sadness washed over him. It was quick to dissolve as is usually the case when atavistic longings surfaced. There was a time when, hungrily, he would transform the fantastical to paper, every thought in his head translated into scenes divided up into parts for Gene Harlow or Gregory Peck to bring to life. Strange to think that life had been easier then, when so many things seemed possible you could make your brain hurt trying to count them all. He is staring at nothing, nothing but the past when a click on the countertop pulls him back to the present. By the time he refocuses the stranger has gone, vanished into the very sunshine he had been testing.
-----------------
RELIGION FOR Adnon wasn't so much of a learning process as an unlearning process. Twenty-five years in the land of excess wasn't to be undone by the simple act of buying a prayer matt, or by changing his dress, or growing a beard, or a thousand nights of reading the Koran. He wanted to teach. That was why he was here. By coincidence, Adnon had taken a room in a hostel across the street from the Villa Maroc. There was much to criticize, much to be offended at – the owner's own daughter had run past his room not five minutes earlier without a thing covering her head, his son no doubt was one of the boys wearing shorts in the courtyard. He wouldn't have stayed but as he looked out of the one high window, having forced it open in a rough sort of manner, scraping mounds of pigeon shit off the ledge in the process, Adnon was struck by the wondrous site of a naked woman across the courtyard, her upper half framed in a window of the hotel. He thought at first -- he was too far away to be sure -- that it was the wife of the couple he'd ridden down the coast with. He took the room. But if that wasn't shameful enough, he spent nearly his last dollar on a pair of children's spyglasses and had begun staking out their room as if he weren't here to teach English at the Muslim grade school but were some special agent taking advantage of his profession. What next? Would he take up smoking? It was high time he gave serious thought to these matters. Ever since the conversion he'd been experiencing these weird lapses in judgment and now he couldn't remember rightly whether it was the sticky residue of his previous existence or some ill-acquired trait he'd have to shuck with increased prayer and vigilance.
Prayers finished, Adnon got up from the floor and rolled his matt. He peeped out the window. The day had turned gray. There was no sign of the woman. He felt along the base of the wall with his foot, a chalky substance made a print on the end of his big toe the shape and size of a distant headlight. He wiped it off and settled lightly into a waiting rocker. He was bored. The floorboard creaked, the creak distracting. He stopped rocking. He'd promised the director of the school a lesson plan before his arrival. At first he thought he'd teach sentence structure, have the students place a "v" over each verb, an "n" over each noun and so on but he quickly shifted to phonics -- start with the basics -- hadn't that been the mullah's suggestion when he'd approached him, shyly, that day outside the mosque about becoming Muslim, start with the basics, read the Koran, learn the five pillars. He'd come a long way from the rave-warehouses of Williamsburg.
Again he picked up the plastic red binoculars and focused on their room. Nothing. Only a lone daisy fluttering awkwardly in a bud vase on their sill.
----------------
THAT EVENING he dined by the quayside. The air was still with the promised rain that never came. A dull thud of wood on wood rose off the water as a dozen dinghies roped one to the next jostled in the dirty water. Most of the boats were blue or green, but there was also an orange boat, deep in coloring, which stood out from the rest. Food stalls provided enough light for the fisherman to continue mending or cleaning their nets. Gulls lined the turrets around the courtyard watching them, too lazy to fly. A single light bulb hung above each table. It wasn't clear where the electricity was drawing from, but the hum of a motor belied a nearby generator. The entire scene was angled in Carravagio-like shadow. But surrounded as they were by the ancient walls of this city, the yellow and red plastic cages that the bulbs sat in made it feel as if he'd been invited to a private party.
Smoke from the tableside grill obscured his view of the couple at the
next table. The proprietor stared at him until he nodded, then placed
another plate of shrimp on top of the husks of the first. His fingers
were covered in it. The night before he'd watched them make love and it
was with shame that he recalled how he'd relieved himself into a piece
of bathroom tissue. With a glass of morning tea, he'd watched them from
across the courtyard. The sheets were off, their chests were bare, their
hands clasped together atop the covers as if to continue to touch were
better than relieve the heat of the night. Perhaps this was the way they
always slept, traveling together through whatever dreams may come.
He pulled a finger full of legs off the largest shrimp and put them in
his mouth, sucking away the juice. There was something about charcoal
and seafood that made him insanely hungry. With the long nail of his index
finger, Adnon pulled back the armature and began to siphon the flesh from
its shell. About halfway through, he realized they were watching, or at
least the man was. He looked up quickly, to call them out, to catch them
at their spying game, but they appeared not to notice, to be looking past
him, not at him. He could not hear what they were saying over the buzz
of the generator.
Maybe he was wrong about this Liam fellow. Perhaps what passed for intelligence
was actually cleverness and a kind of intuitive cunning. He’d made
a lot of assumptions about people in the past, when he considered himself
the brightest of the bright, the Bennington-bright they’d called
themselves, a small group of insufferably rich kids who believed the American
cornucopia was theirs for the taking. But that was before Allah, before
a complicated almost illusive enlightenment that wasn’t at all like
the an inert carrot tied to stick leading to heaven but one that swung
wildly before him, twisting in gales created by the mayhem of century’s
end. What he'd learned in books wasn’t true anymore, less so now.
Living by the Koran alone wasn’t going to cut the sweets going forward.
The world had evolved and so must he. It was high time interpretations
of the holy books caught up.