Street of Thieves. Mathias Enard

any attention, the rain can change a fate as easily as God himself, may Allah forgive me.

      LOOKING at them carefully, they weren’t all that alike, our two Spaniards; they came from Barcelona, their names were Judit and Elena, one was darker, the other rounder; both were students and were coming—a miracle—to spend a week in Morocco, on vacation, exactly as I had imagined, on their winter break, or spring break, I don’t remember anymore, but for me it was the Arab Spring arriving, let them send us nice students, that’s what all revolutions were for, girls you could picture wearing extraordinarily refined lingerie and who were inclined to show it, without annoying you with questions of family, religion, propriety, or good manners, rich girls who, if they took a liking to you, could allow you to cross the gleaming Straits with a single signature, introduce you to their parents absent-mindedly, this is my friend, and the father would rightly think you looked suspiciously dark-skinned but would nod his head as if to say well, my girl, you’re the one who decides, and we’d end up happy as God in Spain, home of black ham and the gateway to Europe.

      Bassam’s eyes said all this, all of it except for the pork, of course; he was looking at the girl in front of him like a passport with photos of naked girls instead of visas, so much so that Elena took her time arranging her T-shirt over her shoulders to hide her chest, a gesture that Bassam interpreted not as modesty but as provocation—she also pulled up her bra, annoyed by his looks, without realizing that her action called attention to these objects concealed from Bassam, that her slender hands on her own skin, grasping the strap, pushing aside the cloth to place her fingers on it, and then effecting a slight upward movement accentuated by the involuntary sound of elastic, was making sweat bead across Bassam’s forehead, who couldn’t tear his eyes away from her décolleté, those salt or rather pepper shakers blocked by the whiteness of the secret and yet so-visible cloth, and Bassam licked his index finger, unconsciously licked the tip of his index finger before crushing the crumbs of black forest cake scattered over his plate so they would stick better, without saying anything, devoted to his contemplation; Elena was trying to defuse this visual trap with language, she was gesticulating and articulating words to make the boy’s gaze rise twenty-five degrees and pass from her chest to her face, as is the custom with people who don’t know each other, but his desire, those breasts and that hand that got caught in the cloth inspired so much shame in Bassam that he was unable to look Elena in the eyes, since that would have been like looking his own thoughts, his being, and his whole education in the face, and all this kept him from both lifting his head and from truly enjoying, sneakily the way the Europeans do, the extraordinary spectacle, the excitation provoked by chastity when, despite herself, she contradicts herself, denies herself by unveiling, to the imagination of the one contemplating her, what she is trying to hide.

      Bassam was just more sincere than I, simpler perhaps; it’s a question of temperament, or of patience; I talked a lot with Judit; from time to time I even had a question for Elena; I was trying, I struggled, me too, to make out what she might be hiding under her blouse, discreetly, without insisting, I managed to keep my eyes meeting hers, but when she turned her head to address her friend or stare annoyedly at poor Bassam I indulged to my heart’s content, while still sadly acknowledging that the girl whom fate had placed opposite me was not the better endowed of the two, no matter, since from the start Judit seemed closer, more open, and more smiling.

      Very soon my three words of Spanish were not enough for conversation, so we switched to French; it was, I think, the first time I actually spoke with foreigners, and I had to search for my words. Fortunately Judit’s Catalan accent made it easier for me to understand. Bassam said nothing, or almost nothing; from time to time he would mutter something in an impenetrable idiom; when he found out that these two angels fallen from the sky were studying Arabic in Barcelona, he began speaking in classical Arabic, just like one of Sheikh Nureddin’s sermons, not counting the grammatical mistakes. He began asking Judit and Elena if they knew the Koran, if they had already read it in Arabic, and what they thought of Islam. He had to repeat each question two or three times, because he spoke quickly and articulated poorly, his eyes lowered.

      The night before we were taking part in a punitive expedition, with our cudgels, and tonight we were converting two foreign girls to the religion of the Prophet. Sheikh Nureddin would be proud of us.

      I found it hard to believe that they really were studying Arabic, that is, that they were interested in my country, my language, my culture; this was a second miracle, a strange miracle, which might make you wonder if it could be diabolic—how could two young women from Barcelona be so interested in this language that they wanted to learn it? Why? Judit said her Arabic was very bad, and that she was ashamed to speak it; Elena launched into it more easily, but her pronunciation was like Bassam’s in Spanish or French: incomprehensible. I was a little ashamed; around us the guys who were watching their fiancées drink milkshakes and inhale deeply, eyes closed over their straws, weren’t missing a scrap of our conversation. They were definitely thinking to themselves: look at those two idiots, they’ve unearthed a pair of tourists and they’re talking to them about the Prophet, what assholes.

      I suggested we go somewhere else. Bassam whispered something to me in Moroccan, very quickly, very softly.

      It was nine o’clock, Elena suggested we get something to eat; I thought about the few dirhams that remained in my pocket, they could get me a sandwich, but not much else. Elena suggested we go to a little restaurant she had spotted in the old city. I must have made a funny face, Judit no doubt understood my embarrassment, she said we could go to a café instead, claiming she wasn’t very hungry, the tea had cut her appetite. Her friend seemed a little annoyed, Judit said a few sentences in Catalan. Bassam whispered something in my ear, with a conspiratorial air, why not take them to the Propagation for an Arabic lesson? I had to keep from breaking out laughing; I could picture Sheikh Nureddin finding two female Infidels in his mosque and Bassam half naked, explaining the exploits of Hamza to Judit and Elena. Not today, not now, I said.

      For my part, I could invite them to smoke a joint on the ramparts, I still had a little kif left from the night before, not very romantic—and what’s more they might get scared, refuse, turn against us, especially Elena, who didn’t seem very adventurous.

      We stood in front of the bakery for a good five minutes.

      Let’s go to a café, I said.

      Judit answered great, where should we go? Where are you taking us?

      Bassam hovered round us, shifting from foot to foot.

      Never had I thought so quickly.

      And the idea came to me:

      To Mehdi’s. We’ll go to Mehdi’s.

      Bassam opened his eyes wide, clapped his hands, of course, to Mehdi’s, you’re the best. He was overflowing with cheerfulness.

      Judit smiled, a wide, dazzling smile, and I felt like a hero.

      MEHDI’S was the only place in Tangier where two nineteen-year-old North African darkies like us could appear with foreigners without shocking anyone or bankrupting themselves, one of the only mixed places, neither poor nor rich, neither European nor Arabic, in town. During the day, especially in summer, it was a cafeteria where college and high school students guzzled sodas under trellises and creeping vines, and at night, in winter or when it was raining, there was a small room that was welcoming enough, with benches and cushions, where young guys, Moroccans and foreigners, drank tea. As I remember it, the decor was a mélange of touristy orientalism and utilitarian modernity, a few black and white photos in aluminum frames between the Berber rugs and fake ancient musical instruments. The place had no name, just the battered plastic sign of a brand of carbonated drink, everyone knew it by the owner’s first name, Mehdi—a very tall guy, thin as a reed, not very pleasant, but discreet and not meddlesome—who spent most of his time sitting on his own terrace, a Parisian-type cap on his head, smoking Gitanes. Bassam and I had gone there like everyone else, and had even once or twice bought a Pepsi for Meryem there in the summer.

      It was a bit far, we had to climb up the hill west of the old city, but it had stopped raining; Judit and Elena were happy to walk a little. I walked beside Judit and Bassam just behind with the other; I heard him speaking in Arabic and as soon as Elena