A Saturday morning in Casablanca. Nagib and Hamid sit in a café, bored and about to have a pointless argument about an article from Le Matin du Sahara, when their friend Dadine offers to tell them a story instead — the story of Bennani’s bodyguard. A bodyguard, they ask in amazement. A bodyguard, here in Casablanca? As Dadine tells it, this Bennani fellow was one of those rich teens from the Lycée Lyautey, and he turned up to a celebration the less fortunate students had organized with a bodyguard in tow.

This was in the old days, Dadine continues, when high school students could still host a dance party in Casablanca without worrying about who might notice their beer, or who might blow themselves up in a crowded street. In the old days, when even the children of the poor could attend an institution like the Lycée Lyautey. “Happy days!” Nagib and Hamid say. “Joyous age!” Yes, Dadine notes wryly, this was in “an age when three people out of two were in the police, where snitches abounded, where you could be denounced by your own shadow — the bitch.”

“Bennani’s bodyguard” is pure Fouad Laroui. Told mostly in dialogue, with the reader in the position of an eavesdropper, it gives us characters who are caught between rosy nostalgia and dark humor. Laroui’s prose moves fluidly between languages, between high and low culture, between affecting personal commentary and sharp cultural observations. This constant code-switching is no doubt a testament to a life lived between cultures, and made all the richer for it.

Laroui was born in the border town of Oujda, in eastern Morocco, in 1958. After completing his high school baccalauréat in Casablanca, he trained at the prestigious École des Ponts et Chaussées in Paris, then returned home to Morocco, where he worked for the Office Chérifien des Phosphates in the small town of Khouribga. But in 1990, he moved to the Netherlands and taught himself Dutch, reportedly by reading the newspaper and watching television. He is currently a professor of French literature at the University of Amsterdam and writes frequently, often in a contrarian tone, on subjects ranging from economics to immigration.

Laroui’s first novel, Les Dents du topographe, was published in 1996 to wide critical acclaim and helped make his reputation, both in his native Morocco and in France. The narrator of Les Dents is a high school student who is arrested as a subversive because he started something called PAP (Parti Anti-Publicité or Anti-Publicity Party), mostly in an effort to rid his town of posters. He is questioned and later released, but he decides to leave Morocco for Europe, where he finishes his studies, then returns, years later, as a college graduate. His old friends, meanwhile, have not fared so well, ending up dead, in jail, or under the power of religious fanaticism.

The political agitator turned disillusioned graduate is a familiar character in post-independence Moroccan fiction (and nowhere is this character more brilliantly realized than in Driss Chraibi’s The Simple Past), but in the case of Fouad Laroui, the story is told with an eye on the absurd, and laced with caustic humor. Les Dents du topographe was followed by some twenty other novels, story collections, and collections of poetry, including, most notably, Méfiez vous des parachutistes (1999), Le Maboul (2001), La Fin tragique de Philomène Tralala (2003), and Tu n’as rien compris à Hassan II.

Ten years ago, after lively discussions with Fouad Laroui on religion and secularism in Amsterdam, I tried to interest American editors in his De l’islamisme. Une réfutation personnelle du totalitarisme religieux (On Islamism: A Personal Refutation of Religious Fundamentalism). But all this was to no avail. So you can imagine my delight that Deep Vellum is finally introducing the American public to this original, independent, and multitalented writer.

The Curious Case of Dassoukine’s Trousers is a comic book, occasionally even a farce. The title character, for example, is a government official who lands in Belgium with the intent of buying 20 million pounds of wheat (or is it 200 million pounds?) for Morocco, but his trousers — the only pair he has brought on his short trip — are stolen. Now he must show up to his minister’s meeting in golf pants purchased at the Oxfam store around the corner. The European delegates greet him with shock and, depending on their country of origin, think of him as a thief, a freeloader, a hoaxer, or a “Moro.” But beneath the humor is Laroui’s constant concern with power and displacement. His prose is delightfully energetic, filled with double entendres, and he is not afraid to experiment with syntactic structures, as he does in the story “Dislocation.”

In its exploration of culture, identity, and religious dogma, Dassoukine consistently make us laugh while it makes us think. Laroui turns his appraising gaze on the foibles and foolishness of his characters — with irreverence, but never without tenderness.

“Belgium really is the birthplace of Surrealism,” sighs Dassoukine, staring into the distance.

I don’t respond because this phrase seems like a prologue — and in the face of a prologue, what can you do but await what follows, resigned. My commensal examines his mug of beer suspiciously, even though we are, after all, in the country that saw the birth of this pretty blonde, sometimes brunette, child — in an abbey, I’m told. The server eyes us. In this superb spot situated on the Grand Place of Brussels, opposite the Maison du Cygne, we form a trio hanging on this thesis: “Belgium really is the birthplace of Surrealism.” This incipit is still floating in the air when Dassoukine decides to elaborate.

“What just happened to me, in any case, exceeds all bounds.”

I restrain myself from adding: “And when boundaries are crossed…”

He begins:

“So, I set out yesterday from Morocco on a very delicate mission. You know the grain harvest is off to a bad start in our country — it has rained, but not a lot. We are in desperate need of flour, but where to find it? Ukraine is in flames, the Russians cling tightly to their crops, it’s a long way to Australia. There’s only one solution: Europe. The government sends me to buy flour from Brussels. They’ve entrusted this mission to me. The country’s future is at risk. At the airport, in Rabat, they’re all on the tarmac, the ministers standing straight as yews, to bid me bon voyage as if their fate depended on little old me. Well, little…I’m taller than all of them by a head. The prime minister shakes my hand while the airplane engines roar and my eyes blur:

“‘Get the best price, my boy, the best price! The budget of the state depends on your negotiating skills.’

“He nearly pulled my ear, as if to say, ‘the homeland is counting on you, grenadier.’ I board the plane and set sail for the haystacks. On the Place Jourdan in Brussels I get a room in the hotel where high-flying diplomats normally stay. Check-in, shower, quick glance at the TV — the world still exists. I’ll spare you the details. I go down to have a drink at the bar. Surprise! While I’ve come to the land of Tintin to buy wheat, suddenly I find myself on the first floor at a soirée whose theme is — adjusting our glasses and leaning in to look at the placard—‘the promotion of Alsatian wine and cuisine.’ Curious. I had thought the gastronomy on the borders of the Rhine could stand up for itself — didn’t the Maginot Line used to be there? But anyway…I mingle among the guests. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves and no one seems to notice this tall freeloading foreigner who tomorrow will be buying twenty million pounds of wheat. No one…except for two gentlemen.”

“Two gentlemen?”

“Yes, one plus one.”

“You pronounce the ‘t’ when you say it?”

Dassoukine looks at me, dumbstruck.

“I’m telling you about the fiasco of the century and the only thing you’re worried about is whether you say ‘two gentlemen’ or ‘two gennelmen’?”

“Apologies.”

“So, two gen-TUHL-men. The first one is a waiter who asks me politely if I might lend him a hand, he has to change a tablecloth, I don’t know why. Possessing, like all servers from Brussels, only two arms, he hands me his tray, full of petits fours, for the time it takes him to carry out the operation he’s determined to accomplish. It’s then that another guy (the second one I mentioned), a tall string bean, clumsy but perfectly well-bred, hits me with his elbow, while I balance the tray on my open palm, as if I had never done anything else in my life — me, the grandson of a kaid and the son of a prime minister.”

“No one’s denying that.”

“Except for the second guy, who, after apologizing for having (nearly) knocked over my tray — why am I saying ‘my’ tray, it’s mad how we adapt to degradation — babbling in multilingual apologies — I detect some Hungarian in his English accent and some Latvian in his fumbled French; so, after babbling a number of apologies as if he had surprised Sissi naked in a back alley, what does he do?”

“What does he do?”

“Well, he picks up a mini-toast from my tray and thanks me while bowing slightly.”

“Indeed a polite man, then, albeit Hungarian.”

“That’s not the problem, idiot! He thanked me as if I were a waiter.”

“There are no dishonorable jobs.”

“In the absolute sense, no. Perhaps. But come on, I’m in Brussels to buy two hundred million pounds of wheat!”

“Inflation.”

“Around ten o’clock, after savoring the dishes prepared by some of the best chefs — might as well — and after wearing out my tongue appreciating wines that I didn’t even know existed, I decide to go back to my room. Brussels is going through a heat wave: it’s still 102 degrees outside. Unable to sleep in such heat, I read the Mémoires of the Belgian king. And because I’m not crazy about air conditioning, I turn it off, like the peasant I am, opting to open the big window instead. My room is on the second floor…”

“Do I need every detail?”

“…but here the floors are high, so it was really the third floor. Just after midnight, I turn out the lights and contemplate wheat and wheat farms. That’s me: professional down to the muslin. Not long after, half asleep, I hear the window bang and the curtains move, like in those horror movies that that can’t even scare a cat. I say to myself that the long-awaited storm has finally arrived—Levez-vous vite, orages désirés… — and that the atmosphere will cool down. I nestle into my bed and dream of haystacks. A few minutes later, I’m woken up again, this time by the sounds of metal. Clang! Clang! What’s going on now? I open my eyes and, stupefied, I see a hand hanging from the window railing! I sit up bellowing (What is that racket?) and jump out of bed. The hand disappears. This is bad. Should I lean out the window and risk finding myself face to face with Dracula or Peter Lorre? I’m brave — you know me — but I have my limits. So I call reception. The operator picks up right away — we are, after all, in a nice hotel — I inform him in two words of the incident, he asks me if it’s room service that I’m trying to reach, I add some details, he tells me that, yes, they have fries, I tell him about the wandering hand, he replies mayonnaise, I start over, enunciating my words; after a stunned silence, the man gets a hold of himself and tells me he’ll call the police right away.

“After replacing the receiver, I go to look out the window anyway, armed with the Financial Times rolled up into a bat, in case the salmon color should frighten away the zombies. I see nothing, no one in this serene, Belgian night. My room looks out onto the Etterbeek, there are some bushes, but I search far and wide; the cat burglar has disappeared. Roughly speaking, there’s a good thirty feet between my bedroom window and the ground. The wall is made of brick, there’s no gutter, nothing for a person to hang on to. There’s a little ledge under my window, but it’s narrow. And even then you still have to get there, and somehow stay there.”

“Thorough report.”

“The police arrive rapidly and get to work. There are four of them, debonair but industrious. They survey the surroundings of the hotel with flashlights, they smoke out some cats, drive out three spiders, cry out in bruxellois, but they don’t find anything human. They leave, taking down my statement. According to them, it must have been like in a circus act: three or four men climb on one another’s shoulders, the one on top reaches the window, enters the room, and grabs any objects of value. Then they disappear into the neighboring thickets — beautiful thickets, by the way, I recommend them, look up the Parc Léopold. I think to myself that I dodged a bullet, given that my laptop was on the shelf right by the window. All the secrets of the Kingdom — ours, not Belgium’s — will remain secret. I go back to sleep, pretty perplexed.”

“And the metal noises?”

“Forgotten! I had more important things to do than wonder about the whisper of the world. The next morning: toilet, shower, shave, after-shave — the ritual of a minister on a mission. I start to get dressed and then, stupor and shudders, as a local author once said: no more trousers! Nada, niente! I had left them folded, flat on the suitcase, close to the window. And at that hour, they were conspicuously absent! In a flash, I understand everything: the thief had taken my trousers, in which I had left a pile of change. And it was these coins, falling out of the pockets, that had woken me up!”

“Voilà, mystery solved.”

“One hell of a lucky break, I said to myself in petto. Normally, I empty the pockets of my trousers before folding them at night. But that night, for whatever reason, I hadn’t. The noise woke me up and the thief left without my computer, which holds the plans for the nuclear missiles stashed under the Place Jemaa el Fna in Marrakech. However, I had also left some bills in the pockets, and so I’m out 320 euros. Bah, money isn’t everything…The problem — or should I say the tragedy?…the catastrophe? — is that I don’t have any other trousers. For the two-day trip, I had brought only the saroual I was wearing. Why complicate things? Two shirts, yes, but only one pair of pants: I’m not Patino the Tin King, or an English lord. So, nix pairs of trousers and Europe awaits me at nine o’clock sharp. I go down to the reception in my pajamas. The manager is there, impeccably dressed. He is already up-to-date on my misadventure. Alas, he tells me, all the stores are still closed at this morning hour. Brow furrowed, he thinks through a few different possibilities. He could go to his house and bring me one of his pairs of trousers, or he could ask the employees, but these suggestions, born of Belgian goodwill, come crashing down when faced with this irrefutable reality: I am taller than all these Samaritans. I would look like a half-drowned Nixon! Standing in the hotel lobby, we look at each other, sheepish, and the seconds pass.

“‘I hardly dare suggest it to you…’ he says to me while adjusting his glasses with an extremely distinguished air.

“‘Go on, go on! Anything would be better than being stark naked or wearing a barrel around my waist!’

“‘Two minutes from here, at the corner of rue de l’Étang, there’s an Oxfam Solidarité shop that sells used clothing.’

“‘But it’ll be closed!’

“‘My aunt is the manager, call her, she’ll open the shop. She lives right around the corner.’”

Dassoukine swallows a mouthful of coffee and assumes a tragic air.

“He who has never crossed the Place Jourdan in his pajamas, hair disheveled, searching for an act of charity even though he is the grandson of a kaid, has no concept of the absurd. I rush into the shop where an old woman is waiting for me with an angelic smile.

“‘My God, you’re a giant,’ she chirps, panicked.

“‘At your service, madame.’

“‘The only thing we have in your size is this.’

“She unhooks a rag and hands it to me. Prepare the funeral arrangements! They’re golf trousers, the work of a mad tailor, the trappings of a clown. Oh they have lived, possibly several lives, and hard ones at that. The original colors are now faded but it’s obvious they must have clashed violently in the old days. You can see beneath the fabric, beneath the canvas, I should say, a yellow, a yucky brown, an evanescent green, a burnt amber, red diamonds layered on top…but we mustn’t entirely write off the wreckage, because there is one undeniable advantage: they are exactly my size. I throw five euros on the counter, I forget my pajamas and rush toward the assembly hall: it’s right around the corner, at the end of rue Froissart. The orderly raises an eyebrow when he notices my trousers but my papers are in order and he grants me entry while deploring in a low voice the end of European civilization. I enter the hall, where my interruption causes a sensation. The members of the committee, who are already there, on a sort of platform, gawk at me with bulging eyes, looking only below the belt, as if I had been reduced to two legs.”

“We are but ants in the grand scheme of things.”

“I sit down on a chair opposite these messieurs-dames of Europe and I prepare to present my plea. I fix my gaze on the eyes of the committee…and then I nearly fall out of my chair. For who is presiding over the committee? I’ll give you three guesses.”

“Uhh…”

“The Hungarian!”

“Attila the Hun?”

“No, moron! The Hungarian from the day before, civilized to the core, the grandson of the Archduke and the Bourbons. He looks at me, knitting his brow (‘I know that face…’), then his mouth gapes open (‘No, not him, not the waiter from yesterday!’), and then I have before me the personification of Hungarian stupefaction and commiseration (‘It’s really him!’), and then he leans toward his colleagues, distraught, and starts speaking to them in a low voice. He forgets to turn off his microphone; the interpreter, imperturbable, thus continues to translate — it is his job after all — and so I intrude on this discussion centered on me, and in particular on my trousers. Monsieur Hongre recounts the reception from the night before and tells them I was the waiter and that, with great dexterity, I walked around with a tray filled with petits fours and incidentally almost poured them onto him; but, he adds with a sense of fairness through which I recognize the true son of a grande tente family (even if they are Habsburgs), that I deserve credit for serving them with great professionalism. The Archduke’s report flabbergasts his peers. Then Europe, as always, divides itself. The Slovak reckons I was making off with the leftovers from the buffet because I didn’t have any money, but the Englishman retorts that I came here on a plane and not a flying carpet, and therefore I must have some means, I couldn’t be completely ‘skint.’ The Italian taps his chin, suspecting some combinazione, but what? The Spaniard grumbles something about the ‘Moros’ who never learn. Was I perhaps staging a hoax, for whatever obscure reason? The Frenchman, Cartesian to his eyebrows, expresses his doubts: being very familiar with Morocco, he can’t imagine a minister of His Majesty arriving dirt poor (much like the wheat) in Brussels; what if he was a doppelgänger?

“‘Doppelgänger?’ interrupts the German. Ach so…But which one? Yesterday’s Kellner or this guy, here, on the stand?’

“The committee, as one single man, straightens up and examines me with a suspicious air. Am I really myself? Or a clown imposter? Or a lackey with a big head?

“The Englishman clears his throat and then squeals in my direction:

“‘Exckiousez-moi…This is highly unusual but…Pievons-nous vouâr vos…papiers d’identity?’

“It’s an international incident. I straighten up, tall in my multicolored breeches, and I play out a great scene of Third World indignation in the face of Western arrogance. What is this, huh? I must be dreaming! Would you demand to see the papers of an American or Russian minister? Or even Albanian? Shall I, while we’re at it, produce my anthropometric measurements? My criminal record? My vaccinations for dengue fever and cholera? The Hungarian, miming gestures of appeasement, motions for me to sit back down, and snubs perfidious Albion, now muttering threats.

“I go back to my discourse on wheat, ‘which we formerly exported to the Roman Empire,’ but no one is listening to me, no one cares about the Rome of antiquity. Then the Hungarian makes an imperial gesture and adjourns the session. These messieurs-dames are going to make a decision. They ask me to wait in an adjoining room, where they serve me coffee and chocolate — go on, have a bite, it’s Belgian. Half an hour later, an usher comes to fetch me: the committee has come to a decision.”

“Well?”

“Well, I got the flour for nothing. They remembered, quite pertinently, that there was an emergency stock for desperate cases, like for Somalia, Chad, and other countries where the ministers dress in rags. Pounds of grain for free! Tonight they’re throwing me an extravagant reception at the Rabat airport. ‘The man who saved his country a hundred thousand euros!’ It’s really my trousers they should be honoring.”

He looks outside, pensively. The façades of the Grand Place glisten. Dassoukine sighs.

“The most beautiful place in the world, they say. And they’re right. But I remember only the Place Jourdan, where I found myself dressed as a clown and a servant in order to better serve my country. Who will ever believe that?”

What would it be like, he asked himself, a world where everything was foreign?

In a café in P*, capital of F*, a young Moroccan approaches me quite civilly (“Are you really What’s-his-name, the gazetteer?”) and vehemently assures me that I must hear his story — he seems to have only one, like most people.

My first instinct is to flee.

But let’s analyze the situation. October. Saturday. Beginning of the evening. The sky low and heavy outside weighs like a lid / and discourages strolls. So, may as well stay in the warmth, in this bar, opposite the church S* G* of P*, to hear what the young man has to say. Light years away from Café de l’Univers (so far, all that…), leagues from other locales, X (that’s his name) recounts:

“A few months ago, in order to obtain my passport to come study in France, I had to give to the appropriate authorities, in Rabat, an official copy of my birth certificate, which I had received myself from the moqaddem of the area for a shiny new ten-dirham bill. Once in my hands, I passed on the aforementioned document, without even glancing at it, to the prefecture — those men, those women, the famous appropriate authorities.”

“Not even glancing at it, you say?”

“Not even.”

“Well, my dear friend, we can already predict the worst catastrophes are in store for you. One must always read everything when it’s an administrative affair. Down to the last word, every comma. And even between the lines.”

“Perhaps. But I didn’t pay any attention to the information in the document because I believed (naively) that I already knew the details.”

A pause.

“After all, I know who I am, right?”

This was said in a defiant tone, the strands of his hair disheveled, his look somber. I, prudently:

“We say that, and then one day…”

He cut me off, vehemently:

“But no! Big mistake! We don’t know who we are, monsieur! We know nothing, monsieur, no matter what Aristotle and all of philosophy have to say about it! When I received my identity card, I saw with stupefaction that after ‘place of birth’ came the response: ‘Khzazna,’ even though I believed I remembered — vaguely — having been born in Rabat.”

“You remember your place of birth? That’s a bit precocious.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I mean to say that I’ve always more or less known that I was born in Rabat. Where did this strange Khzazna come from? It wasn’t a series of typing errors, the letters in ‘Rabat’ and in ‘Khzazna’ aren’t close on the keyboard. I verified — even a monkey typist, even a doddery drunkard, could not end up with ‘Khzazna’ while trying to type ‘Rabat.’ Or else, he would have to be flailing around in every which way…”

He leaned toward me, finger raised.

“I calculated the probability of getting ‘Khzazna’ while trying to type ‘Rabat’: one chance in one hundred thousand billion. On the human level, monsieur, it’s an impossibility!”

“Excellently said.”

“All this was bizarre. At that moment, I couldn’t do anything, for I was preoccupied with my departure for France, which constitutes, as you know, a veritable obstacle course, with its pre-registrations, its registrations, its thousand certificates…But I remained intrigued by this story.”

“Why not just forget about it?”

“Forget about it? It quickly became an obsession! After resolving a thousand problems related to settling in France, I reached a calmer period of my life; and, to be honest, happier. We are, after all, in one of the most beautiful cities in the world?”

“Mmm.”

“One of the most interesting?”

“Hrmblmmmn.”

“But all my friends at the Cité Internationale where I had set down my luggage, all my friends were born in prestigious places, such as Fes or Rabat or Marrakech, or at least interesting places, such as Azrou or Azemmour. But Khzazna? Quès aco? I kept a low profile, buckling under the weight of my shameful secret. And if they were to ask me where I had seen the light of day? Would I be able to lie?”

A waiter materialized above our table, haughty in black and white, and enjoined us to order something (“or else disappear,” his scowl seemed to say). We ordered two coffees and he left, full of disdain. The young man resumed his story.

“Sometimes it was the opposite — I was caught up in a flash of exaltation and saw myself as a duke or at least a marquis, lord of a land perhaps inundated with history, and I was ‘of Khzazna’ as others are ‘of La Rochefoucauld.’ But the exaltation faded fast and I was rotting away once more in the agony of not knowing who I was, having been born nowhere. I needed to be sure! After research worthy of the best explorers, conducted at the Centre Pompidou and at the Bibliothèque Nationale on the rue Richelieu, after exhausting numerous road maps, I succeeded in locating this place where I had been born, at least in the eyes of the law. The pre-war Guide Bleu, unearthed at a secondhand bookstore, was adamant: Khzazna existed indeed!”

“That must have reassured you.”

“It was a spot on a map!”

“That’s better than nothing.”

“Mmmmyeah. A Guide Bleu dating from the Protectorate, suffice to say from prehistoric times…So, a few months ago, during summer vacation, back in Morocco, I wanted to be sure. Without saying anything to anybody, I took the bus to Rabat and I went to see. I saw. In fact, Khzazna is not the name of any city, nor any village, nor any hamlet.”

“A ruin, then? A poet’s dream? At least a well?”

“No. It’s a beautiful land fifty miles east of Rabat, a rather pleasant countryside where time stopped long ago — in the age of the Guide Bleu perhaps. It’s swarming with cows, sheep, hens, and rabbits.”

“So far, nothing extraordinary.”

“Nothing extraordinary, certainly; but imagine my surprise when I learned, after approaching a local gnome and asking him a few questions, that there wasn’t even a hint of a hospital nor of a maternity ward in this place. There’s only a free clinic in the small neighboring village, constructed two years ago. I’m a little bit older than that, after all.”

He slouched in his chair, brow furrowed.

“The question you must be asking yourself now, that I asked myself a long time before you, is the following: where was I born, exactly? Between two trees? On a hill? There, next to the stream?”

“In a barn, like Jesus?”

“There wasn’t a single barn in the vicinity. (Do you mind? It’s my story.) When I returned to the house, in the grips of a great anxiety…”

“…of identity…”

“…I rushed to the kitchen and demanded that my mother enlighten me. She was kneading I don’t know what in the half-light. A good minute passed before anything happened. Then she replied, seemingly unbothered, that I was born in the maternity ward of Rabat, like everyone else…”

“…but…”

“…but that my maternal grandfather had beseeched my parents to write the word “Khzazna” in the family records, in the appropriate box.”

“The grandfather’s always to blame.”

“Indeed, but why? Why? You’ll never guess in a million years.”

“I give up immediately.”

The waiter appeared and placed on our table, in a brusque gesture, two cups of coffee (tintinnabulating as they knocked against each other); then he left, full of arrogance. The young man leaned toward me once again, as if he were about to reveal the third secret of Fatima.

“All because, at the time, he would often run as a candidate in the local elections in the district of Khzazna! Elections he sometimes won, but with the tiniest lead: one vote, one alone, could make all the difference.”

Now I really got into the discussion, my voice vibrating with incredulity (80 %) and indignation (20 %):

“You expect me to believe that in this land where there are only, according to you, cows, sheep, hens, and rabbits, they vote, they elect representatives of the people in real assemblies? There are congressmen? Councillors? County magistrates, perhaps?”

He drank a small sip of coffee then struck his fist against the table (an abundance of! followed).

“Exactly, monsieur! There is all that and perhaps even more! Laugh as much as you like!”

“But…why?”

“The first governments after Independence wanted it that way, probably in order to balance the weight of Rabat, that nest of leftists who voted like one single man for Abdallah Ibrahim and his friends. As I just told you, there were so few voters in Khzazna that one sole vote could make the difference. For my grandfather, I then represented not his grandson newly landed on earth (you-you-you! ululated the women), but a potential elector who would vote for him when I came of age, twenty-one years later.”

I was flabbergasted.

“Twenty-one years later?”

“Indeed!”

“And they say Moroccans don’t know how to plan for the long term?”

“Utter nonsense!”

“That they only live in the moment?”

“Baloney!”

Moved, we looked into each other’s innermost depths, proud to be part of a people so concerned with the future, and we ordered a pomegranate juice to drink to the health of triennial, and even quinquennial, plans.

The waiter insolently asked us if we really intended to sip pomegranate juice after drinking coffee. He seemed to imply that we were sinning against the spirit of the place, against the P*sian custom, against all traditions. We told him to get lost, which he did with a majestic step.

However, the young man was worried. He started up again, in a melancholic tone:

“This story has plunged me into a state close to nervous breakdown. (Yes it has! Yes it has!) To learn first of all that I’m not who I thought I was, which is to say a Rabati; to get used to this new identity as a citizen of Khzazna; then discover that this identity that I had ended up accepting was itself a fiction; and that this fiction was a political manipulation designed by my own family…”

“We cannot be betrayed but by our own.”

With a distracted finger he wiped the bottom of the pomegranate juice lingering in his glass; then he sucked his finger, becoming more and more heavyhearted.

“Well, I wasn’t yet at the end of my troubles. That same night, while I confided the discovery of my precarious stateless state to my uncle Brahim, how did my uncle respond? Comforting words, a fitting hadith, encouragements? Not at all! He pushed me even further into my distress by revealing to me an even more bizarre fact that concerned me as well.”

He squeaked:

“My own uncle!”

“Family, I tell you… But what did he say, exactly?”

“This: ‘My dear nephew, not only were you born nowhere, but, in a certain way, you were never born at all.’ Just like that!”

“Allow me to write that phrase in my notebook.”

“‘My dear nephew, not only were you born nowhere, but, in a certain way, you were never born at all.’ And he went on to recount a detail that everyone had forgotten — except him.”

“Uncles, they forget nothing.”

“It’s important to know that I was born (if we can call it being born) toward the end of December 1973. My father was summoned to a council where he was told the following: ‘My dear Abdelmoula’—did I tell you that my father was named Abdelmoula? — ‘if you declare the birth of your son today, or even tomorrow, he will lug around for the rest of his life a year reduced to a few days. Everyone will think he’s eight years old, when really he’ll only be seven years and five days old. Better to wait for the beginning of the coming year and only then go bother the civil registrar.’”

“Understandable.”

“For close to a week, and while I was wriggling about, innocent, in my diapers, nothing happened. I mean officially. In practice, my family probably slit the throat of some ram, or at least a rooster, and offered plates of couscous to the poor near the mosque; but I didn’t yet exist on paper. In my diapers, yes; but on paper, no. Then, around the 2nd or 3rd of January, my father went triumphantly to announce my birth to the authorities. The authorities, who are used to — the imbeciles — believing the word of citizens, thus noted that a certain X*, son of Abdelmoula Y*, was born in Khzazna January 2nd, 1974.”

“Fake birthplace, fake year! Bravo! You’ve got it all!”

“This avuncular revelation stupefied me. I went stumbling out into the night to wander in the little streets of Rabat. It was gorgeous outside…”

“Let’s stick to the story.”

“The question I was asking myself that night, stumbling in the streets, haggard, the question I’m still asking myself, is: am I really myself if I was born elsewhere and the year before?”

“Colossal enigma!”

We ordered another fruit juice to better meditate on life’s uncertainties. The young man seemed to have calmed down, now that he had emptied his heart of past resentments, as if the confidence he had taken in What’s-his-name was enough to appease him.

He glanced at the parvis in front of the church S* G* of P*. A tourism van had just unleashed tens of Japanese tourists who were agitating silently. A Comoran was selling hot chestnuts while two Tamils seemed to be surveying the area. A beggar, sitting on the steps of the church, was reaching an alms bowl toward the faithful entering into the house of God.

My one-night companion continued.

“What a truly superb city! I really think I’ll end up becoming a citizen of P*. Let it take as long as it takes. At least that’s an identity.”

He got up and took off, just as civilly as he had approached me, after throwing a crumpled banknote on the table. I remained alone on my banquette.

Not for long: The famous Samir J*, passing by, noticed me through the window, entered the café, and came to join me, hoping I would buy him a drink.

“One day,” Ali confided in us…

“Wait, let’s order first.”

(What are you going to have? I dunno…You? etc.)

Five minutes later:

“One day,” Ali confided in us…

“Or rather ooonnnnne night,” crooned Hamid.

“Stop, let him talk!”

“Good God! If we can’t coo along…”

“Except you’re not cooing innocently, you’re doing it just to bother him.”

“Me? You accuse me of being some kind of provocateur? etc.”

Five minutes later:

“It was last year. I was freelancing for La Tribune de Casablanca—we have to pay for our studies after all…”

“Sure, but hang on a second, someone must have pulled strings for you. One doesn’t just become a freelancer for La Tribune like that.”

“You think someone pulled strings for me? You accuse me of being some kind of bourgeois? etc.”

Five minutes later:

“One day, and this is what I’ve been trying to get to, one day, I found myself in Khouribga, researching (get this) ‘men who matter.’ Bizarre, no? (And note that I’m talking about men, not women — freelancers aren’t sent off to research icons or muses…”

“That wouldn’t be a bad film title: No muse for the freelancer.”

“…nor the skilled kolkhoz women, even less the Cleopatras or the Kahinas, as if those tramps’ counterparts didn’t exist in the Cherifien Empire under Hassan II. But anyway.) You’ve asked me to essplain. It was a sudden whim of the director of La Tribune. Thumbs passed through the holes of his cardigan (he didn’t have the money to repair the seams, you know how poor the gazettes are), so, fingers in the holes, a badly lit Casa Sports dangling from his disdainful lip, spectacles on his nose (à la “press boss”), he hit me with the following, at dawn: ‘You’re gonna do a piece for me on men who matter…’—utterly untimely—‘…in Khouribga.’ I didn’t dare ask him what he meant by that. (A freelancer shuts up or gets out.) I wasn’t so much worried by the strangeness of this inquiry: why the devil was La Tribune de Casablanca interested in what went on a hundred miles to the east, high up on this arid plateau where nothing grows except esparto and problems? I’m a freelancer, I don’t bother myself with these considerations. So I rushed pronto to the bus station, I boarded a bus dating from before the Flood — held together only by a bolt, paint, and prayers — and after a trek which it’s best you know nothing about (someone even vomited on me, a baby), I got off around noon in Khouribga, a dusty little town…”

“…with every intention of staying that way…”

“…where a cousin of mine had been wandering around the Tadla bitumen office for months. I quickly stumbled upon him, as he spent all his days in a café, hoping for employment that never came, but still living in hope. Emotional embraces, taps on the back, I’m fine, my brother, hamdoullah, and your mother, hamdoullah, and your sister, hamdoullah, fine, fine, thanks be to God, and the little Narjis, he’s getting bigger, hamdoullah, and the old Allal, may God rest his soul, oh really? ma cha’llah, and the neighbor So-and-so, we hung him, and the cat, etc. Five minutes had passed when I suddenly remembered the reason for my expedition.

“‘Hamou…,’ I say to him.”

“His name was Hamou?”

Ali ignores the senseless interruption.

“‘Hamou, I say to him, I’m looking for men who matter in this town!’ He nods, pours himself a cup of tea, sips the boiling beverage, brow furrowed, eyes half-closed, lost in thoughts as deep as ‘the lake’ of little Lamartine (do you remember, from high school?), thoughts so deep that one might worry he’d never return, lost in the world of Ideas (you remember, philosophy class?). Then he shakes himself…”

“What does that mean, ‘he shakes himself’?”

“…he shakes himself like a horse and hits the palm of his hand on the table, with a male and resolute air. ‘Ali,’ he says to me, ‘I know them all!’”

Sensation around the table.

“Happy times when one can know all the men who matter in Khouribga!”

“Today, the population has exploded in every direction. We’re even in Italy!”

“We don’t know our neighbor, monsieur!”

“We don’t even know where we live!”

We finally kept quiet and regarded, eyes filled with emotion, our friend who was recounting this incredible adventure in such detail. During the explosion of commentary that interrupted his narration he was chomping at the bit, metaphorically speaking, all while caressing a cat; this cat submitted his derrière to him, as is the habit of cats, all while purring peacefully. The silence that had just fallen over Café de l’Univers invited Ali to resume his story.

“So Hamou tells me about many of these men who matter; he even has the courtesy to present them classified by category — my cousin is methodical, like all the Soussis. I note in petto what he reveals to me, thank him, take care of the bill (a languid tea, an insoluble coffee) and plunk myself on the sidewalk. Did I mention it was hot out? It was as if we were, as the poet said, ‘under the torrents of a tropical sun.’”

“Which poet?”

“It doesn’t matter, it’s just an expression. The tropical sun, ‘which spreads heat over our fallow lands.’ What is to be done? as old Vladimir said. Let’s begin with the entrepreneurs, I say to myself, mentally consulting my list, maybe there’s a lunch to be had from it. I begin my rounds with Tijani, a prominent businessman, owner of a second-hand Bentley bought from an old crazy Tangéroise woman. I bribe the chaouch who keeps guard at the entrance of the building. He opportunely turns his gaze toward the road, shimmering with dust, while I climb a steep staircase; then I’m parleying with a panicked secretary in a sort of antechamber — I swear, it was as if she had never seen a journalist before, that young bird, much less a freelance journalist — one might even say she had never before seen a man, so much did she gawk, mouth agape — I try to dazzle her by presenting my fake press pass but does she even know how to read? Well, when she finally understands that I don’t want her virginity, or her wallet, she goes to scratch at a door, pokes her head in, chirps…Long story short, Tijani receives me in a brand spanking new office, minimalist, in tones of gray anthracite, with a green plant in a corner that seems to keep watch. Tijani went to high school in Casablanca, some engineering school in France, then did his MBA at an American university — without tiring himself out, I might add — I would learn later that he’s hypermnesic and a total idiot. He returned to the country, one wonders why, perhaps to make his mother happy, or else he did something stupid in the US (we’ll save the slander for another time), so he returned to the country and created his company here, christened Tijani and Co., which incidentally is a bit boastful since he’s alone in his office, with the green plant and the secretary in distress: Mr. Co. is conspicuously absent. Whatever it may be, I congratulate Tijani on his success. Bravo! He shows me, quite proud, the plans, graphs, and diagrams, the hyperboles and even a parabola — then proposes that I, for the sake of my article, meet his FD, his HRD, or even his XYZ (all gentlemen who I suspect only exist in his head, for I didn’t see anyone in the hallways of Tijani and Co., except for, useless to repeat it, his trying secretary and his plant, haughty as a hidalgo). I suspect he is a mythomaniac, a high-flying crook, but it’s too hot to clarify matters; and in the end, hey, as long as he doesn’t eat my cookie or bother my wife what does it matter to me whether Tijani is a businessman or a scrounger? I have just enough time to ask him a question: ‘Dis-moi, Tijani…”’

“You addressed him with the informal tu?”

“At the time, everyone tutoyer-ed each other.”

“Who’s ‘everyone’?”

“Everyone who knew how to read and write. And who spoke Moroccan.”

“You’re taking the piss out of us, etc.”

Five minutes later:

“So I ask him: ‘Tell me, Tijani, how do you follow the cycles of demand, the needs of the consumers, the projections, all that?’ His eyes widen. ‘Or maybe it’s your FD who takes care of it? Or perhaps your XYZ?’ His eyes widen. ‘Unless there’s a secret journal here that monitors the market?’ His eyes widen. ‘But I go see Bouazza, of course!’ he cries. ‘For God’s sake!’ He can’t disclose any more, he has to slip out for an important business lunch — to which he forgets to invite me, the pig. Here I am on the sidewalk, the sun dripping from the heights of the blue sky. Qué calor! as the Colombians say. As if we were in a hammam at rush hour. I wipe my forehead with the sleeve of my shirt. My next rendezvous is with the governor, Si Ahmed, one of those brilliant technocrats recently nominated by the king to the head of important cities. I go by foot to the prefecture. It’s at the end of the avenue. The chaouch who stands guard before the imposing building starts chasing me like I’m some kind of scumbag, at least he’s about to, pitchfork raised, murderous eye, when he understands that I purport, me, a simple citizen, to go see the governor; stop there! I brandish my fake press pass, decorated with the colors of the national flag, threatening, and pass myself off as a special correspondent of Basri — might as well really go for it. Do you remember Driss Basri, who was minister of the interior at the time? Yeesh…The sole utterance of his name made men piss themselves; the sight of his face, from a distance, made women faint from fear; and the chaouch fell like flies when his emissaries presented themselves at the drawbridge.”

We interrupt Ali.

“We were all alive then. Today’s youth don’t want to believe us. They downplay it, the little bastards: come on, they say, he wasn’t so terrible, your Basri.”

“Our Basri? The dogs!”

Ali was starting to get irritated.

“May I continue?”

“Go on, go on.”

“So the chaouch, before perishing from terror, opens the front door for me and from one moment to the next I find myself in the office of Si Ahmed. His Excellency, who doesn’t hate being talked about, receives the hack journalist, the freelancer — but what did he know of it? — with kindness. He is welcoming, certainly, even courteous; but he is also a voluble visionary who deploys, to my stupefaction, relief maps, perhaps of Vauban, on a big meeting table. His hands flutter about: he points out this, shows me that, underlines, designates, regenerates, erases, constructs. He’s the demiurge, I swear! Next he shows me the aerial photos taken by drones belonging to the US Air Force, which maybe didn’t even exist at the time; he speaks to me of phantastic, phantasmic projects, perhaps even pharaonic, in any case there’s a ph somewhere in there. He gets heated, he sweats, he evaporates, more and more eloquent. Globalization is a game for him, his benchmark is millions of dollars, he’s met Bill Gates and slapped a Chinese man. All the same I end up interrupting: ‘Si Ahmed, this is all great, mais comment faites-vous…’”

“Him you vouvoyer?”

“Yeah, because we were speaking in French, not Moroccan.”

“Bizarre, etc.”

“ Five minutes later:

“‘Si Ahmed, this is all great, but how do you stay up to date with what happens in your wilaya? I mean, at the level of the average citizen? Your regular guys?’ His eyes widen. ‘Or perhaps it’s your secret police who take care of that?’ His eyes widen. ‘Or else, you stroll around incognito in your city, like Haroun Arachide did before in Baghdad?’ The governor throws his arms to the sky, appalled by my ignorance. ‘What do you mean, secret police? What are you talking about, Arachide? For everything I need to know, I consult Bouazza, of course!’”

“Again Bouazza?”

“The same. I don’t have time to mark my astonishment, Si Ahmed gets up, rolls out his six feet and two inches, crushes my dextral and excuses himself: he has to welcome Darryl F. Zanuck to convince him to transfer Hollywood to Khouribga — or at least to make a branch of it there. An ancient taxi, the kind that stays at the same speed even when it’s lost its wheels, quickly brings me to the Trade Union House where I meet the legendary Kafouyi…”

“Kafouyi himself?”

“…Kafouyi who directs the federation of local trade unions with an iron fist, Kafouyi who makes Les Bitumes du Tadla tremble when he raises his left foot, when he threatens to unleash…”

“Lightning, like Zeus?”

“…the famous general strike that will bring down global capitalism starting with Khouribga — it’s only a beginning, let’s continue the fight! The man, whom I telephoned from Si Ahmed’s office, awaits me resolutely in front of the building that houses The Trade Union—be afraid, bosses! Militant handshake, virile pat, the man receives me as though we had stormed the Winter Palace together. I go to make my little provocation…”

“You dared provoke the famous Kafouyi?”

“I did.”

“And you survived?”

“I did.”

“Well well, my colonel, etc.”

Five minutes later:

“So, I set right about provoking the old Kafouyi of the zmâlas: ‘Mr. Secretary General, you have been in power since the departure of the French, since the death of at least three popes, since the passing of the comet, that’s a bit long, no? People are saying that you cut yourself off from the laboring masses, people are whispering that the Trade Union House is like the palace of Sleeping Beauty — people are protesting that nothing has changed since the year of Typhus. So (I clear my voice) how do you know what the state of mind is of your adherents?’ His eyes widen. ‘How do you decide when it’s necessary to trigger a strike and when to stop it?’ His eyes widen. ‘How do you estimate the combativeness of your troops?’ He gathers his brow, irritated by my insolence: ‘I know very well what the workers are thinking, monsieur,’ he quakes. ‘All I have to do is talk to Bouazza!’ Hell and damnation! Again Bouazza? Who he? The large Kafouyi shows me to the door without ceremony, like a vulgar reformist, like the last of the Mensheviks, and without leaving me the time to ask him who he is, this famous Bouazza, to top it all off! Waiting for an unlikely taxi on the sidewalk, liquefied by the sun spreading over the city like a layer of magma, I think to myself that it’s obviously this Bouazza I need to interview instead of wasting my time with second fiddles — whether they be unlikely CEOs or a megalomaniac governor or the king of the syndicates. He is the one who is, without a doubt, ‘the man who matters’ in Khouribga, the one who makes things happen, one of the movers and shakers, as we say in good French. Before going on the hunt, I needed to cool myself down (it was 104 degrees F) and get a haircut. Desperate, I play the semaphore and a Peugeot survived from the band of Bonnot stops before me. I throw myself in. I collapse. The taxi driver kindly helps me out. ‘A good hairdresser? Well, you don’t have a choice, there’s only one in the city. It’s Bouazza.’”

Consternation in Café de l’Univers.

“What? A hairdresser? Oh misery, deception!”

“Our illusions, crushed!”

“We thought at least L’Orchestre rouge…”

“…the Count of Saint-Germain…”

“…a bionic spy…”

“I am filled to the brim with astonishment. I would even say: flabbergasted. The taxi drops me off in front of the barbershop. I enter, a bit worried, but there’s really no reason to be. The place resembles a hundred others, but the boss, the aforementioned Bouazza, doesn’t resemble anyone else. Bland, gray on gray, the mustache of a field mouse…He extends a floppy hand, I am his first client of the afternoon, he informs me, and points me toward the chair where I am to perch myself. A sweeping glimpse around: a few guys sitting in chairs but, visibly, they are not clients, but rather friends, neighbors, the curious. No apprentice in sight, no associate. This Bouazza seems to do everything in his den: shampooer, delouser, hairdresser for women, hairdresser for men, colorist if the occasion presents itself, perms for the Polynesian dentist’s wife washed up there no one knows how. Bouazza is a polyvalent figaro — as in, you ask him if he can do something, he responds: I can!”

“We all know someone like that.”

“The man of agile hands starts to do his work, his fingers ferret about in my hair, searching for the rebel cowlick, and I set about learning the central role he seems to play in the capital of bitumen. I don’t double cross him, I put all my cards on the table: I cut the deck with the governor, I declare Tijani, I lay down Kafouyi. He, the capillary artist, nods, ambling through my hair; doesn’t say a word but nods; and when I’ve finished, as the prose writer said, he remains silent for a moment, contemplating his oeuvre inversed in the mirror: he did a sort of monk tonsure that was very à la mode, àlamoude, he affirms — for example, from the times of cathedrals — then finally responds to the question I had asked him. Correct, he says, correct: all these characters are his clients.

“‘And it’s you,’ I dared, ‘who informs them of what goes on in their fair city?’”

“He wipes his hands on a rag dating from the year of the unicorn. The three or four bumpkins seated along the wall had not yet opened their mouths — like a brochette of half-wits waiting to be devoured by a giant. Then he gives a faint smile, like a grin putting on airs, and finally he murmurs:

“‘Me? But I know nothing of what goes on here… I never leave this shop, which I inherited from Mr. Ceccaldi, who was the hairdresser at the time of the French. I was his apprentice.’

“And then the brochette of half-wits starts up in unison:

“‘Bouazza never leaves this shop. He inherited it from Mr. Ceccaldi, who was the hairdresser at the time of the French. He was his apprentice.’

“My heart skips a beat out of fright, or perhaps from surprise. What is this cinema — or rather this ancient theater, with choir and coryphaeus? I get up, shove a few crumpled bills in the hand of the artisan, who verifies the amount with a glimpse of the eye—l’oeil du maître—then pockets them without saying a thing. I don’t know why, I feel a strong desire to slap him but I restrain myself, for these events are bigger than me and I find it all very tiresome. Well, it’s decided, I’ll leave this incomprehensible town — after all, my article is written. I start running, on the big avenue I stop an old Strindberg car, and I slump into a beat-up seat. The road that leads to Casablanca snakes around the plateau that shines with a thousand fires, etc. (I’ll describe it another time). I have a moment to think, between two deviations in the road. And it’s then that I understand.”

“You understand the deviations?”

“No. I understand this story of Bouazza the hairdresser, who calls to mind a cretin from the Atlas, who most certainly is a cretin, and a beautiful one, and yet, it’s in his den where conflicts are mitigated, it’s in this insignificant place, essentially empty…”

“That reminds me of the Tao: The spokes of the wheels converge at the hub. They converge toward the empty space. And it’s thanks to the empty space that the chariot advances.”

“Oh yeah, yeah, there’s another: The vase is made of clay but it’s the empty space that makes it a vase.”

“So, continuing on: It’s in this insignificant, essentially empty place that the way of the world is negotiated between the authorities, the futile people, Kafouyi, the businessmen, etc. War, devastation…”

“Again with the deviation.”

“No, I said: devastation, dev-uhhh-stay-shin.”

“Apologies.”

“War, devastation, the struggle of everyone against one, or even everyone against everyone, all that is resolved at the barber’s. There, each person unloads, without giving the impression of doing so, his observations, his demands, his remonstrances, his conditions, his numbers, his statistics. The choir — these bumpkins who have nothing else to do between two harvests other than populate Bouazza’s cavern — the choir records it all and makes it into a refrain. The governor, the businessman, the trade unionist, the journalist take a seat in turn in the armchair, and at the end of the day, it creates a permanent negotiation. And it’s thus that we are a nation. Because we all accept this incessant palaver at Bouazza’s.”

“Isn’t it Renan who wrote something like ‘What is a nation?’”

“We’ve had the answer for a long time. We are a nation because, despite our differences of opinion, we all find ourselves at Bouazza’s.”

“We are smarter than Renan.”

“On the other hand, he wouldn’t have given me a monk’s tonsure.”

“Certainly not…”

“…àlamoude.”

And on this lovely afternoon (“golden brown,” “glowing,” etc.); on this lovely afternoon when time seemed to stand still, as if awaiting its hour, when we claim the sun stops its trajectory (“have I really been following its course all this time?”) for a few moments, just before plunging behind its horizons (“bluish,” “distant,” etc.), leaving man as an orphan of its light and uncertain of tomorrow; so, in this lovely Casablancan afternoon, in the middle of the crowd (“colorful,” “rushed”) invading the paths of the park, we looked at each other, moved; and in the same gesture, with the same energy, in this Café de l’Univers where, after our ramblings, we discovered certain laws (“the Laws of the Universe”), we raised our empty glasses to the memory of Ernest Renan and to that (future) one of Bouazza, to the longevity and vitality of our beautiful nation — and, above all, above all, to the empty space perfect in its milieu, the incredibly beautiful empty space that one sometimes has the desire to bow before and kiss on its hands — even the rain, even autumn, doesn’t have such delicate hands; the empty space so opportune, so violent and so efficacious, that it’s thanks to it, and only it, that the chariot (of the State) advances — that our cows are well guarded — and that our banner flaps in the wind, proud, haughty, and perfectly useless.

“Brussels,” murmured John…

…and something in him whispered: “Funny place to meet up.” They were irritating, these set phrases that surged on the current of his thoughts. In this case, he knew where the expression came from. A film, of course. A French film, with Deneuve and Depardieu. But more often than not he didn’t know where these stray fragments came from, but they were there, suddenly, clearly stated, floating in the intimate monologue that accompanied John from morning till night, a wave of words he could only escape by closing his eyes and listening to a sonata (“Again with your Bach!” sighed Annie…). An article caught his attention in the Volkskrant he had just bought in the Amsterdam train station and was now reading while waiting on the platform for the Thalys departing for Brussels. Scientists had made “a giant step” in mindreading. More irritation. Why were they talking about progress (a step is progress, isn’t it?) when science made an advance — hmm, “an advance…”—when science made an incursion (an intrusion) in people’s heads? John tried to inculcate a sense of perspective in his students at the University of Amsterdam: yes, science is still the most precious thing man has (“And art, m’sieur?”—he had chosen to ignore, for once, Guusje and her little face riddled with freckles, eternally questioning everything…), yes, science, it’s what separates us from barbarism, but (he had raised an imperious finger) limits must be established!

He finished the Volkskrant article and the Thalys still hadn’t arrived. He consulted his watch then began an imaginary course for the ectoplasms: “What does that mean, ‘to read the thoughts of Mr. Tartempion’? All I had to do was think of Brussels and the phrase ‘funny place to meet up’ formed mechanically in my head. Where does this idiocy come from? We don’t know! From physicochemical connections in the spongy mass we call the brain, from an electric shock…It all happened automatically, as if I had inadvertently pushed a button programmed, unbeknownst to me, to open a hidden door. (A sweeping glance around the lecture hall to check that his students had understood the image.) To what extent am I, me, responsible for that chain of events?”

The Thalys pulled in noiselessly along the platform. John steered himself toward car 11, in front of which stood an affable employee who took a glance at his ticket.

“Seat 74, on your right,” said the employee in Dutch and then French.

John contented himself with nodding his head and giving a faint smile. He had stopped making remarks along the lines of “Yes, I know, I take this train two times a month” a long time ago, for they accomplished nothing, except, perhaps, an irate reaction from the employee (“Excuse me for trying to be of service…”). He had decided, once and for all, to consider each civil functionary as a machine with which it was necessary to maintain relations that our descendants will maintain with their South Korean robots: informative, brief, concrete — never any affect or emotion. (“But, m’sieur, you’re dehumanizing the world.” “That happened long before I came along, mademoiselle Guusje.”) Placing his suitcase above seat 74, John resumed his course: “Even if we get to that point one day, by implanting the most advanced electrodes in Mr. Tartempion’s brain, to ‘read’ his thoughts, how would we separate those that belong to him of his own right, those that engage him and genuinely express his ‘ego,’ from those that appear all of a sudden, that do nothing, so to speak, but pass through?”

He plopped onto his seat, adjusted it to the reclined position, closed his eyes and continued. Addressing Stephan, one of his favorite students, he said: “Suppose I watch our Great Leader on the television — assuming we are in a totalitarian country — and this incongruous phrase forms in my head: ‘Get out of here, fat-ass!’ because at school, that’s what we shouted at one of our classmates who was a little chubby and the Great Leader had put on some weight in the past few months…So, Stephan, you are a functionary of the Ministry of Control of the People’s Thoughts and the electrodes are informing on me. The brain of citizen John Van Duursen, at 8:56pm, was crossed by the words ‘Get out of here, fat-ass!’ at the moment when our glorious Guide appeared on the little screen — so, Stephan, the question is: Am I responsible for this concatenation of words that formed without my being able to do anything about it?”

The Thalys had just set off and was now gliding out of the station, with the city on the left and the port on the right. “Il y a des marins qui naissent / dans la chaleur épaisse…”, the song popped into John’s head; he very much admired the great Jacques Brel. Look who was adding grist to his mill now (“So to speak,” thought John, vexed at not having anyone to whom he could remark that to add grist to the mill of a Batavian was certainly as pointless as supplying coal to Newcastle or sand to the Sahara).

“Looks like I got a little derailed there,” he said — and he heard the phrase: “You mean, a little detailed?” Ha, ha. Here we have the clear proof of his theory: our thoughts don’t belong to us, for the most part. They fall under the jurisdiction of…what’s the phrase? Ah yes: spontaneous generation. They are little electric currents that…Anyway. He dove back into his magazine. The phrase “funny place to meet up” was all the more incongruous because he knew perfectly well why he was going to Brussels: to put an end to his relationship. Funny place to break up.

Nagib puts down Le Matin du Sahara, looking preoccupied, subsumes us in his detestation of the world in one glance, and bursts out:

“What are autoimmune diseases?”

Prudently, we keep quiet. The question seems to evoke others. A discussion might break out, medical, mean. It’s hot, Saturday morning, Maure’s cat (the boss’s cat? To whom does this wretched cat belong? And can a cat belong to someone in the first place?), the cat of Café de l’Univers sleeps, rolled in a ball, on a neighboring chair. The passersby pass, hurried, because we are in Casablanca, and not in Tafraoût, and because we must look hurried, even if we have nothing to do, to allay suspicion, to convince others that we’re up to snuff, that we’re true Casablancais, busy, industrious, useful — not like those Marrakchi clowns, who do nothing the livelong day, nothing at all but stare at a big ochre minaret and tell jokes.

The silence thickens like cotton wool soaked with the blood of the poor.

So Nagib changes his tactic. He points his finger at Hamid and repeats his question, which becomes comminatory:

“What are autoimmune diseases?”

Hamid, attacked, first defends himself by pretending to be deaf, then mute, then an idiot, which for him isn’t difficult. But nothing was able to divert the rage of knowledge that had taken hold of Nagib. He repeats his question, louder.

Dadane, who joined us this morning, swoops (half-heartedly) to Hamid’s aid.

“Autoimmune diseases? It would take too long to explain, and would require, in addition, pencils, paper…But, instead, I’ll tell you the story of Bennani’s bodyguard…”

Everyone raises their eyes, even those (Hamid) who earlier had pretended not to have them. Collective astonishment:

“Did you say ‘bodyguard’?”

The Moor draws closer, noting our awakening, sensing consumption. We rapidly order mint teas, a coffee, a Mekka cola.

“Did you say ‘bodyguard’?”

Dadane settles into his cramped chair, clears his throat, takes on a tone of “I’m about to tell you something really amazing,” and jumps in:

“Toward the end of 19**, high school students in the advanced math class in the Lycée Lyautey in Casablanca (I among them) decided to organize a little celebration, to celebrate…to celebrate what, exactly? I don’t remember. But it doesn’t matter…”

“There aren’t that many reasons to be happy, we won’t be finicky. Continue.”

“The students were perhaps commemorating the demonstration of a theorem?”

“Ha ha, very funny…Anyway, they rented a room on Boulevard Mohammed V, a space pompously christened ‘the celebration room’ by the proprietor. In reality it was a type of big hall that took on a festive spirit and whose walls, bounni-colored, oozed despair. The ceiling was strung with large banners that had been placed there for another occasion (the creation of a union) and that someone had forgotten to take down. So what, we would celebrate beneath partisan slogans — it would take more than that to ruin the commemoration of Thales’ theorem.”

“Thales is imperturbable.”

“Irrefutable.”

“Sent to do some reconnaissance, Anouar had accepted the owner’s conditions. He was the one who had described the room to us, but, prudent, he had spoken of pink walls: we didn’t know what the color bounni was. Pink walls! Old Thales would be turning in his grave with glee. Greeks like pink (don’t they?).”

We didn’t respond, we were no Hellenic experts.

“Stocks of drinks were purchased: Coca-Cola, Youki of course, Sim, Sinalco, and other brands that have completely disappeared from the surface of the planet.”

“No alcohol?”

“Yeah, a bit of beer. Discreetly. These were the days when you could drink beer without triggering a heavy fire of fatwas, without provoking questions from Parliament, without upsetting the Pakistanis in the distance.”

“Joyous age!”

“When the day came, we gave ourselves a close shave, perfumed ourselves with a ten-franc Spanish perfume, and walked gaily to the celebration hall to save the price of a bus ticket (1 dirham and 20 centimes). We put on our least shabby clothes, our least dusty shoes, our least nominal ties. Thales’s band traversed Casablanca as if it were a conquered city.”

“The world is ours!”

“After walking for a half hour…We had arrived! But what, what’s going on, the door is closed! We hung around in front of the hall because that imbecile Mourtada had forgotten the key in the pocket of his everyday pants, which he wasn’t wearing today, by definition: he was in his Sunday best, even if it was Friday night. He went running back down Boulevard Ziraoui to look for the key. We waited for him on the sidewalk (there was no danger, these weren’t the days when extremists came to blow themselves up in a crowd as soon as they noticed a gathering of more than three people).”

“Happy days!”

“Joyous age!”

“So we wait peacefully, talking about Hilbert spaces and Maxwell’s equations. But…a black BMW pulls up in front of us. Do I need to describe a BMW? It’s a German-made car, particularly well designed and with a powerful engine. It’s a gem of that advanced technique that will always squash the beggar.”

“We know what a BMW is. We’ve seen them. From a distance.”

“Bennani gets out (from the black BMW). Bennani was the rich kid in the advanced math class. Rather nice, intelligent, generous on occasion, his only fault was that he was rich and we weren’t. Normally, all he had to do was appear to send us, by contrast, back to our sad condition of ‘sons of the masses.’ (It was the time when even the sons of the masses could go to the Lycée Lyautey in Casablanca.)”

“Happy days!”

“Joyous age!”

“But that day, he couldn’t outdo us. We were in our best threads. Or rather: our most decent threads. Even our nominal ties could bear the comparison with his satin lavalliere with one dangling button. We felt like we could stand up to Bennani. On this sidewalk where we were loitering, we held our heads high, proud to be as well dressed as he. Dadouche had even borrowed a suit from his cousin. So he took a step toward Bennani, ready to defy the gaze of the nabob math wiz.

“‘Monsieur, we shall fight!’

“‘Duel! Duel!’

“But then out of the BMW came a second man, on the heels of Bennani. And what a man he was! He was a hulk. Huge. Mean. He rolled his large shoulders proudly, showed off a strangler’s hands, and his square jaw quivered menacingly. He was dressed in black and wearing glasses of the same color. Black!”

“The detail!”

“Out of instinct, we bookworms huddled before the door of the party hall on the Avenue des Forces-Armées-Royales, we bookworms, out of instinct, take a step back. Murmurs of astonishment. (‘Who is this guy?’ ‘Chkoune hadak?’ ‘Mnin khrouj dak James Bond?’) Bennani, seeing that the door of the party hall was closed (that imbecile Mourtada had not yet returned), leans against the wall, calm, and lights a John Player Special — he would never have been caught raising a Casa Sports to his lips. Dadouche, vexed (his attempt to defy Bennani by gaze had been stopped short), demands:

“‘Hey, Bennani, who is this guy?’

“Wisps of smoke hovering below his nostrils, Bennani responds, as if stating the obvious:

“‘He’s my bodyguard.’

“And bam! Knocked back down, our ridiculous clothes, our cologne made in España, our shoes polished with Kiwi. As usual, the rich had distanced us by choosing another arena. (The rich shift the debate: that’s their great strength. They are always where we don’t expect them.) Distressed, we looked at the bodyguard with bulging eyes — we had never seen one from so close up. His face looked the part, and his gestures even more so. He positioned himself between us and his master and banged his right fist against his left hand. We were submerged in our astonishment. Zriwil asked:

“‘Your…what?’

“The bodyguard set about examining us all from up close, starting with Zriwil.

“‘One wrong word and I’ll kill you…’

“‘What, wrong word? All of our words are in bad shape, busted, broken…It was only yesterday that we were introduced to Hugo. And plus, we’re friends with Bennani,’ replied Dadouche.

“Meanwhile, Mourtada had returned, with the stride of a melancholic ferret, and we were able to enter into the party hall. Some sandwiches were moping in a corner, next to some withering drinks. A big banner, stretched across the width of the room, proclaimed the pride of the bus drivers to finally have their union. Yellow garlands trickled from the ceiling, looking like they’d hung themselves the day after the party. The boss, who had spared no expense, had installed an old Teppaz survived from the Titanic and exactly three records: Aznavour, Petite musique de nuit, and Nana Mouskouri (Greatest Hits). We were over the moon (c’était Byzance) but not Bennani. He threw down the covers with a disdainful air after barely looking at them.

“‘What is this junk shop?’

“That was how he crushed us, routinely. If someone was excited, he would denigrate: he had seen better, he knew better. Better: he possessed better. What am I saying? He was better.

“He shrugged his shoulders.

“‘I’ll bring you real music,’ he decides.

“He leaves, followed by his bodyguard, to rummage through the trunk of the BMW and comes back, followed by his bodyguard, with a big cardboard box, and in a flick of the wrist, LPs galore. Marvin Gaye, Paul Anka, the Supremes…Through this room barely widowed of its unionists echoes the animal desire glorified by soul music:

“Let’s get it on…

“Bennani grooves a bit, is imitated by his bodyguard, closes his eyes, then says:

“‘This song is magic, girls drop like flies listening to it, if you had brought your chicks…’

“The phrase lingers, unanswered. We lower our heads, mortified. As for ‘chicks,’ we had among us only three little bookworms, Najla and two others, our classmates, who bore the brunt of our fantasies but who seemed to be interested only in math — not in us, with our faces looking like we’d been dug up from the grave.

“The night unfolds normally, which is to say abnormally: three girls, sixty starving people — and Marvin Gaye. Standing in a corner, smoking his John Player Specials, Bennani observes us: he’s at the zoo. His bodyguard, who plays with a nonexistent earpiece, drinks beer after beer: it’s free, because who would dare ask for money from such a massive guy? From time to time, he inspects.”

“Inspects what?”

“Well, everything…he taps on the walls, like you do when you search for a hollow, with the palm of his left hand flat and little sudden knocks with the bent index finger of the other hand… He stares defiantly at the banner of the unionists. He sizes up the sandwiches, relieves them, if necessary, of their garniture (mortadella can be quite dangerous). He opens the door and examines the Avenue des Forces-Armées-Royales, so propitious to the rise of tanks. He comes to look at us from up close, with a suspicious air, as if we were cooking up an assassination attempt. He purports even to frisk the body of the little Najla, who escapes by screeching. He asks for identification from the landlord, who had come to check that everything was going okay. The landlord takes offense (he is after all in his own place), we nearly have an incident, the bodyguard has to rein himself in.

“So much so that we begin to feel sorry for him, this man with nothing to do. Ahmidouch asks him where he’s from. ‘Settat!’ he responds, as others might say New York or Paris. We look at each other, astonished — there’s a school for bodyguards at Settat? He misunderstands our hesitation. Menacingly:

“‘Do you have a problem with that?’

“Not at all, we explain to him. And the accusing index fingers are extended: he’s from Benahmed, him (the fat one) from Tata, him from Sefrou, him (the little guy) from Sidi-Bennour, I’m from Fkih Ben Salah…

“The strongman of Halles can’t believe it. He thought we were all sons of the upper class, bourgeois, loaded, from Casablanca or maybe even from Fes…And he finds out we’re as much of a bumpkin as he is! Dumbstruck (I’ve been wanting to say that for a while now), he goes to check that the avenue hasn’t changed directions. Then he comes back, as if some dawn is beginning to glow beneath his neurons. He murmurs:

“‘But you’re all sons of the masses…’

“A collective shudder courses through us. You have to remember that this story takes place in an age when three people out of two were part of the police, where snitches abounded, where you could be denounced by your own shadow — the bitch. Expressions like ‘sons of the masses’ that seem harmless today rang out at the time like a proclamation along the lines of: ‘I am Marxist-Leninist and I plan to overthrow the government.’

“In any case, the fact that Mr. Bodyguard used such a dangerous expression suggested to us that: 1) he was crazy; 2) he was a snitch; 3) he was drunk. The truth was probably a combination of the three (1+2+3).

“As soon as the words are heard and their dangerousness percolates in our brains, we disperse throughout the party hall, not wanting to finish the year in prison — we had competitions and exams to worry about. The bawdyguard follows us (he divides in two, in three, in umpteen), clinging to some of us, embracing others, smooching Najla and proclaiming urbi et ‘roubi, to the city and to us country folk, that he loves us all, on the whole and in the details. Bennani, standing in a corner, stunned, was like Napoleon looking on as Moscow burned, with no fire extinguisher.

“His bodyguard is crying now, so sloshed from the alcohol we could have set him ablaze with a snap of the fingers. He stammers, snot deforming his words:

“‘You are all sons of the masses…Like me.’

“He turns, by chance, toward the native of Sidi-Bennour.

“‘My name is Bouchta! And you, my brother, what did God name you?’

“‘Jilali,’ the Sidi-Bennourien affirms proudly.

“The bodyguard steps back a few centimeters and stares at Jilali’s pants. They’re pants that (how can I phrase it?)…have lived. They were originally corduroy, probably. A long time ago. Then, at the mercy of rubbing against the back of CTM bus seats (the most cramped in the world, calibrated for Pinocchio); of the abrasion suffered from rough chairs; against entryways waiting for a door to open; on the sidewalk, the days of lining up in front of the police station, waiting for the forces of Law and Order to hand over an identity card; against the trees on the boulevard; the stadium bleachers; the deteriorated, discouraged walls; on the asphalt, if there was a fight or skirmish…at the mercy of all that, the corduroy was no longer ribbed and barely corded; now it looked like one of those humble fabrics we turn into dish towels — and these were Jilali’s Sunday pants.

“The bodyguard turns toward another guy.

“‘And you,’ he asks the Fkih Ben Salah native, ‘what name did God give you?’

“‘Cherki,’ replies Cherki.

Bouchta the bodyguard attentively examines the aforementioned shirt of Cherki. It has traveled, it’s undeniable. One can speculate it’s had an adventurous life, come from a weaving loom from the age of the Hittites, falling cleanly on Assyrian buttocks, at the beginning, then little by little deteriorating, passed from one person to another in the great movement of migrations toward the West, debarking one day from a dhow or a felucca, along with a thousand of its sisters, prisoner of privateers, thrown in a heap on the floor of illegal souks, grabbed by a speculator who puts it up in a dark alley the next day to sell for a profit (“It’s from Germany, my brother!”), and it’s Cherki who acquires it, moved, dreaming of the effect that beautiful shirt, only the tiniest bit worn, will have on the little Najla when he sports it at the big party where he finds himself presently, the eye of the bodyguard fixed on him. The bodyguard intensifies his sobs while his retinas dart back and forth between Cherki’s rag and Bennani’s shirt, designed by a Parisian couturier, brought from Paris by the arrogant Airbus, unwrapped the same morning as it had been packaged in silk paper by a maid with eyes lowered, pressed (the shirt) even if it was of no use. Bouchta repeats, tearful:

“‘You are all sons of the masses…Like me.’

“Bennani, understanding that everything was going to heck in a handbasket, wrests himself from his promontory and comes to take the human rag by the arm to drag him toward the light of the avenues. But nothing could be done: the man frees himself in one move, seizes his master by the throat and yells out:

“‘But you! You! You are not a son of the masses!’

“Shock! The masks fall. The troupe fraternizes. Comrades, drop your weapons! Marvin Gaye stops singing: the promise of a happier tomorrow. El pueblo, unido…The banner flaps in the wind — now it’s taking on all its meaning — the meaning of History. The owner of the hall has disappeared: he probably went to go alert the police. We other bookworms, we watch the scene, eyes bulging. So many things happening! The garde du corps bellows in the face of Bennani before him, spraying him copiously with spit and with his class hatred, and hurls out:

“‘I’m gonna kill you!’

“Bennani runs away, his hands awkwardly hanging onto the lapels of his jacket, like a diligent turkey; he breaks through the door and runs toward the BMW. The bodyguard follows him, light-footed Achilles, with us on his heels. The rest, the murder, the decisive blow, happens in the blink of an eye. Pif, paf…Hissing of the noble fabric of his shirt…Crack of the collector’s item watch smashing on the cobblestone…Bennani lies on the sidewalk, nose smashed, writhing in pain. The bodyguard retreats into the night with a supple step, head sunken into his shoulders. He’s stopped crying, only his haughty sniffling recalls the outbursts from earlier. He turns around and from a distance yells to us in a manly voice, no longer trembling:

“‘Adieu, boys! Bouchta salutes you!’

“Indeed, he said ‘Bouchta.’

“He was no longer ‘the bodyguard’ of anybody.

“He was a free man.”

At Café de l’Univers, there were six of us, seated, observing the comings and goings of our Casablancan citizens, during a lovely lethargic afternoon in the month of May; but it could have been another place, another day, different people. It could have been Tunisia, April, a crisp morning. Seoul, December, night, all of us lying down. On the other hand, what Hamid told us was truly incredible and unique. He hadn’t said a word for an hour. Taciturn, meditating. Lost in the labyrinth of his neurons. A guy had asked us the way to the cathedral, which had brought about biblical complications. When the dust had settled again and the man had left, Hamid finally shook himself, opened his mouth, and started to talk. He began with a loose characterization of Moroccans:

“We are,” said Hamid (he paused), “we are (he swallowed a sip of coffee), we are (he put down his cup) an inventive people.”

He had put the word in italics. So we examined it closely. Then we demanded, silent, the proof (we, too, know how to use italics). Confronted with this nonverbal wall, this walled-in wall, Hamid had no other alternative than to elaborate.

“I say this because, while you were grappling with that persistent man, I remembered a curious affair that took place in the ’70s near El Jadida. It was all about, or rather it all started with, a memorandum from the Minister of National Education, a memorandum coated in the pompous style we affected in those days — and in classical Arabic if you please, the language of Jahiz and Mutanabbi. This memorandum arrived one day, like a swirling dead leaf, on the desk of all the leaders of the establishment…”

“They all shared one desk?”

Hamid, shrugging his shoulders, ignored Khalid’s interruption.

“…a memorandum informing them that a new discipline had been registered in the program for the sports portion of the baccalaureate: swimming!”

A sip of coffee, inhaled noisily, punctuated this revelation that we sensed was heavy with consequences — but which exactly? Had water in a cage, in cubic meters, ever threatened anyone? (Heavy water, maybe?) Chlorine poisoning? Stings from stray jellyfish? Amoebas? We digressed in aquatic conjectures. Hamid, his molecule of java ingested, continued his story:

“The memorandum concluded thus, threatening: all necessary measures must be taken so that those among the candidates who choose this discipline for the baccalaureate, this new discipline, can do so in the best conditions. With my most sincere regards, etc., etc. Signed: the Minister of National Education. Followed (I imagine) by a moment of astonishment. Then the leaders of the establishment held their heads in their hands…”

“…in their one office?”

“…held their heads in their hands (at least, I assume, because I wasn’t there), and a single roar ascended into the untroubled azure of the peaceful El Jadida skies: WHAT?”

Ali felt impelled to contribute his grain of salt to the affair. He protested:

“Hang on! It would amaze me if we were able to roar the word ‘what,’ which is, by the way, a pronoun. At best we might cackle or caw pronouncing it.”

Jamal:

“Or squeal it. We can squeal ‘what.’”

Hamid shook his head.

“Imbeciles. We can roar all the words of the dictionary. We can snarl them, bray them. It’s all in the intonation, the timbre, the breath.”

“Tra-la-la, pee-pee, hip-hop — there are plenty of words we can’t roar. Let alone snarl or bray.”

Nagib snapped his fingers, as if he had resolved a particularly difficult enigma.

“I understand now why lions have such a limited vocabulary: they can roar essentially nothing. That said, I don’t really know when a lion would have the opportunity to use tra-la-la, pee-pee, or hip-hop in a conversation. At night, in the savannah.”

Hamid put an end to these flights of fancy by loudly striking the table.

“Shut up, all of you! This is my story, let me tell it or I’ll keep quiet and never open my mouth again!”

“Oh my…Look how mad he’s getting…Go on, tell us, tell us.”

Hamid started up his story again:

“If the leaders of the establishment took their heads in their hands as one man, if they roared WHAT? as one wild beast, it was because they had immediately seen the problem, ze big problem, which was…”

He interrupted himself to bend down and pet the cat, leaving us to simmer in our curiosity. Then he straightened up and began again, his voice cavernous, his eyes tragic, index finger raised as if he were at last revealing the third secret of Fatima:

“…which was the regrettable, deplorable, but nevertheless irrefutable, absence of even the smallest swimming pool in El Jadida!”

Boom! So that was it. We got down to brass tacks concerning the tragedy, the complications, the eleventh dimension. He leaned toward us all, which was a bit of a feat since there were five of us (excluding him), necessitating that he contort himself into the barycenter of a hexagon:

“Nothing! Zilch! No pool! Nada (you can say that again)!”

Nagib furrowed his brow:

“But wait a minute…I vaguely remember those days, I was a kid then, but…Wasn’t there a pool at the campsite run by Madame Muñoz’s husband? I mean her second husband, the Moroccan, what was his name?”

Time stood still as all six of us tried to remember what the devil the name of Madame Muñoz’s (Moroccan) husband was.

“Tarik? Abdelmoula? El Haj? Abdallah? Maati? Miloud? Robio? Driss? Lgouchi? Bouazza? Mohamed? El Ghoul Jr.? Hassan?”

A quarter of an hour went by before we all agreed that we had never known the name of Madame Muñoz’s (Moroccan) husband. We saw him sometimes in her villa; he would water the garden, play with the dog, smoke a cigarette, go in, go out…He was an anonymous type, it seemed, or if he had a name, he never revealed it to us, for his entire essence came down to the fact that he was the (Moroccan) husband of Madame Muñoz, and that sufficed for a name, like all men who merge with an exploit — the man who saw a bear, the man who beat El Gourch in a bicycle race, etc. For Madame Muñoz was beautiful and rich, like all French women, and so tell me how a little guy from El Jadida had managed to replace — in her heart and in her bed — her first husband, who was French and thus handsome and rich? It was an exploit at least as worthy of being recognized as that of the man who beat El Gourch (in a bicycle race).

“Anonymous or not,” resumed Nagib, “that guy managed the campsite, didn’t he? And there was a pool in the campsite, wasn’t there?”

“Yes and no,” responded Ali.

“What do you mean, yes and no? What kind of logic is that?”

“There was a pool, in the guides and on the sign at the city entrance; there was one in rumor, in hearsay, and in memory. But there wasn’t one on the site, where it should have been: it had been filled in by the previous managers, the Révolles, who had had a lot of children and who worried that one of them would fall in.”

“But it was still, nevertheless, indicated on the sign?”

“The tourists, once they were stationed on the campsite, once they had slipped into their swimsuits and let out a cry of joy (in anticipation), searching in vain for a pool in which to cool down, were angry and disappointed, but never mind, Madame Muñoz’s (Moroccan) husband showed them the way to the beach, immense and empty, and they went en masse to drown themselves in the Atlantic.”

Hamid, glacial, murmured:

“Are we done now? Can we forget about the untitled husband of mother Muñoz? Can we forget about the Révolles and their non-regulatory campsite? Can I continue?”

“Yeah, yeah, no, no, go on.”

“So: the absence of even the least swimming pool in El Jadida. Whence the problem (at the time, we used the word ‘problem’ and not ‘concern’ as we do now), whence the problem: how were they to obey the memorandum from Rabat? Then Hammou, the director of the Abou-Chouaïb-Doukkali High School, had a genius idea. After despairing for an entire day, like all of his colleagues, after envisaging resignation, failure to comply, alcohol, he took the letter from Rabat back to his office, bringing the memorandum up close to his eye — the good one — scrutinizing it closely, and then (I imagine) a smile lit up his pirate face, his eye twinkled and he said: hehe!”

“An eloquent man.”

“Hehe, he repeated, unable to shout ‘eureka!’ Hehe, he repeated; for he had noticed a detail that changed everything: the memorandum from the minister mentioned swimming, but did not specify swimming in water.”

Intense excitement at Café de l’Univers. We looked at each other, taken aback. After a few moments of floundering, so to speak, Ali summed up our stupefaction:

“Swimming in water…You know of other kinds?”

Hamid very slowly nodded his head, his eyes expressionless, his breath barely perceptible, like a tortoise that knows something you don’t. He cleared his throat and demanded, Socratically:

“What is swimming, deep down?”

“Exactly, it mustn’t take place deep down,” replied Nagib. “One must remain on the surface.”

“You big idiot! When I ask ‘What is swimming?’ I’m being rhetorical. I’m not waiting for someone to answer me, I’ll answer myself. And my answer is this: swimming is, above all, movements. Movements! Yes, messieurs! That’s why we say swimming strokes.”

Hamid lifted himself halfway up on his seat and seemed to convulse. Worried, we looked for the Moor, so that he might quickly fetch a doctor, or, if unable to find one, the corner healer, with his herbs and dried lizards. Then we understood that Hamid was in fact in the middle of essplanining something, like the philosopher who proves his theories by acting them out, Hamid was demonstrating swimming by swimming in the (“golden brown”) air of Casablanca.

“The art of the swimmer,” he said, gesticulating furiously, “lies in stringing together the appropriate movements. The chest, the legs, the arms — all move in a coordinated fashion. Harmoniously. It’s the crux of the affair: there are only gestures. Propulsion? Well, propulsion is nothing, my friends. It follows naturally.”

We considered this proposition for a moment. Ali triggered the counterattack.

“Wait…If propulsion follows naturally, if, in other words, it is only secondary to the swimmer’s art, why is it that competitions are decided in the order in which the athletes arrive at their destination? The fastest wins; thus, propulsion is the most important thing.”

“False. It is scientifically proven that it’s the quality of the movements that assures propulsion: thus it merely follows naturally. Look at the bumpkins bobbing on Sundays at Sidi Bouzid. Most of them ‘doggy paddle,’ which consists by and large of doing a lot of uncoordinated movements, as long as they manage to keep their heads above the water. These bumpkins don’t move more than a centimeter. You can continue your conversation with them, you on the beach, them in the water; after a quarter of an hour, they’re still there, wriggling and telling you about the moussem of Moulay Abdallah. While the rare person who manages to imitate the crawl, or the breaststroke, well, they manage in the end to travel a bit. I repeat: swimming is, above all, movements.”

We were not convinced.

“Alright, we’re convinced. So?”

“So, Hammou, the director of Abou-Chouaïb-Doukkali high school, decided to organize the swimming exams in the high school playground. Not in the water, because there was none, but on the sand.”

This gave rise to one single shout at Café de l’Univers:

“WHAT?”

Hamid, imperturbable:

“Indeed! Sand! All they needed was to bring in a sufficient quantity and place it in the playground in a big regulatory rectangle: twenty by six meters. And the wheels were set in motion! Well, I suppose ‘The wheels were stuck in sand!’ would be a more accurate metaphor.”

We were blown away.

“That’s crazy! We don’t remember this story at all. Are you sure this happened in El Jadida? Are you sure you didn’t make it up?”

“It is perfectly authentic. It was before your time.”

“Oh okay, alright, fine, okay.”

“So Hammou calls his colleagues and tells them to meet him in a café next to the local public theater, the one that’s falling to ruin today but which had its hour of glory. My father saw Jacques Brel sing there…”

“Can you ‘see’ someone sing? Wouldn’t you say my father heard Jacques Brel sing there?”

“Are you calling my father blind? He paid his five dirhams, he was in the second row behind the Corcos, the governor, and Madame Dufour, and he saw, with his eyes, Jacques Brel sing. But why are you trying to p…me off with Jacques Brel? I was talking about the café that was next to the local theater…”

Ali interrupts:

“Ah yes! It was called La Marquise or La Duchesse or some similar nonsense but everyone called it Dadouchi’s since the owner was named Dadouchi. Incidentally, even after his death, we still called it Dadouchi’s even though someone named Bouchta took over the café, which was officially called La Marquise or La Duchesse — but we continued to say Dadouchi’s — which was rather macabre seeing as the guy was lying in the local cemetery.”

“Bizarre. We referred to this place with a name that had nothing to do with its owner? Isn’t there a philosophical problem there?”

Hamid stood up and pretended to take off.

“Alright, well if my story doesn’t interest you…”

“No, no, stay. We won’t say another word.”

Hamid grumbled, for appearances, shooed the cat and sat back down.

“So, Hammou explained his idea to his colleagues at Dadouchi’s. Everyone found the idea ingenious. They congratulate him, they promise him a blowout kefta grill, they marry his daughter on the spot. Everyone’s happy. Everyone, except one person: the director of the Ibn-Khaldoun high school, a certain Tijani. Tijani had a problem, let’s say a problem of luxury: a beautiful lawn, a legacy of the Protectorate, decorated the playground of his establishment. He was very proud of it and looked after it with the meticulousness of an Englishman, manicure scissors, sprinkler on standby. Out of the question, he roared right in the middle of La Princesse (that’s what Dadouchi’s café was called, not La Marquise or La Duchesse as Ali claims), out of the question, he roared, to dump cartloads of sand on that marvel which constituted more or less the only green space in the city! His colleagues shrugged their shoulders. He persisted: we’ll do without quartz and silica! ‘And how will you accomplish this miracle?’ mocked his colleagues, who had already forgotten that swimming in sand was also not very common — how quickly we adapt. ‘You’ll see!’ he replied, mysterious. And he leaves them there in La Princesse, astonished. The next day, first thing in the morning, he asks one of his students, rather supple, rather soft (so as not to ruin anything, you’ll understand in a minute), he asks him to try to swim on the lawn. The student doesn’t understand: why this harassment? He wasn’t any rowdier than the others. Tijani essplains to him that it’s not a punishment, but an ultra secret project. Is NASA involved? the student asks. Or maybe the CIA? Tijani pushes him down onto the grass; the student contorts, pants, and moves, oh miracle; proving thus that it was doable, as the director had thought, now rubbing his hands together excitedly while the earthworm continued to crawl. That very night, at the café adjoining the local theater, which was called (I remember now) La Royale, and not La Princesse, that very night, Tijani announces to his colleagues that his students would train on the green grass, the gift from God.”

“Why ‘gift from God’? Sand was created by God, too.”

“Okay but stop right there, you’re not going to compare sand and grass?”

“Why not?”

“But…grass, it’s green, it’s vibrant, it synthesizes I don’t know what exactly, and it drinks water, I mean, s…it’s different from inert, stupid sand, which results from the degradation of rock.”

“Certainly. But everything is divine creation, isn’t it? So why rhapsodize and roar ‘oh, the great gift of God!’ when faced with a waterfall, a beautiful tree, or a cloud, and say nothing when staring at a pebble or listening to a braying donkey?”

“I repeat: because sand results from degradation of granite and other rocks. For God creates, He doesn’t degrade. That’s perhaps the work of the Devil or at least of Nature, which doesn’t deserve any better, the villain. While vegetation is the exact opposite of degradation, of putrefaction…”

(You’ll see, he’s going to talk to us about “dissipative structures.”)

“…it’s like dissipative structures…”

(See?)

“…they introduce order within disorder. After all, we can’t treat as equal that which makes a mess of things and that which picks up after itself.”

“In other words, God only created that which is beautiful and orderly? Who created the ugly, the disorderly, the dumps?”

“The Devil, probably.”

“You’re lucky it’s hot out today, otherwise I wouldn’t let this load of nonsense slide.”

Hamid waited patiently for the theological storm to pass and then continued his story as if nothing had happened:

“Then Tijani announces, standing up, as if towering over the stupefied La Royale, that his students, you see, will be taking the bac swimming test on the grass; it is out of the question for him to transform into a miniature Sahara his lovely lawn, inaugurated in its time by Marshall Lyautey (go ahead and try to prove him wrong). Silence in the ranks of La Royale. The other leaders of the establishment furrow their brows, make eye contact — was there a reason to complain, to oppose him? No, they decide, and they order: who wants a coffee, who wants a beer? Then Hammou stands up. Stop right there! He is not having it. What is this bunk? Standing opposite Tijani — like two cowboys at the end of a film — he formulates what I propose we refer to henceforth as Hammou’s Theorem: ‘It is easier to swim on grass than on sand.’ The statement rings out in La Royale like the conclusion of a scientific presentation, just before the thunder of applause. Someone ventures: ‘Are you sure?’ Hammou stands by it: ‘It is easier to swim on grass than on sand!’ The bac candidates at Tijani’s school will be at an advantage compared to the others. This was unacceptable! The exclamation point was worth a veto.”

“The plot thickens.”

“The polemic splinters instantly. La Royale divides into two camps: on the port side, those who accept Hammou’s Theorem. Starboard, those who refute it a priori — we are not yet at the proofs. The arguments are flung into the air like gyrfalcons flying out of their native ossuary. Those pro-Hammou cite the viscosity of the blades of grass and the morning dew; those pro-Tijani counter with the rollability of grains of sand. Finally, the doyen of the leaders of the establishment…”

“Who? Zerhouni?”

“…finds the solution: call in a specialist of fluid mechanics. Abdeljebbar, his nephew, was an engineer who graduated from the École Mohammedia for engineers and, as such, knew the Navier-Stokes equations, which determine, as you are aware, fluid mechanics. They called in Abdeljebbar, who lived five minutes away. He came. Was informed of the problem. Squinted his eyes. Pouted. Took a notebook out of his pocket. Etched a few very elegant curves. And decided thus: the results obtained for swimming on sand must be multiplied by a factor of 1.2 to be compared to those obtained on grass. Still all that depends on the quality of sand and on the ambient hygrometry, but anyway, if we kept track of all the variables and of all the parameters needed to resolve a problem, we would still be in the stone ages.”

“Problem solved.”

“Not quite. The head of the establishment of Lalla Zahra, a certain Zniga, entered the scene. Possessing neither sand nor grass, Zniga proposed adding gravel into the list of water substitutes. It was too late, since everyone had accepted sand, grass, and the coefficient 1.2.”

“Gravel? That’s not a sport anymore, it’s torture.”

“That’s what La Royale unanimously decided: Zniga was denounced. (As an aside: this was perhaps the day that began Zniga’s decline. ‘Denounced by his peers,’ as wrote the local correspondent of Le Matin, he shut himself away in morose silence, which degenerated into a sort of nervous breakdown and he ended up assassinating two attorneys a few years later. But anyway, that’s another story.) So all the high school students of El Jadida began to prepare for this strange swimming test that promised surprises, perhaps even world records — in slowness, naturally, but that’s still something. The day of, everything went well. Diving was out of the question, of course. Some jumped in the sand, others stepped over a small fence and found themselves grasping at grass.”

“Which is better than finding yourself grasping at straws.”

“…they set about swimming diligently and, at the end of the day and taking into account the 1.2 coefficient imposed by Abdeljebbar, everyone had their grade.”

“All’s well that ends well.”

“Almost. For there was the case of Talal. Do you remember Talal? Whom we nicknamed Bouboule, because he was really fat? Talal was a boy with no story, with no collective importance, barely an individual. His mother was invisible, his brothers insignificant, his sisters nonexistent, his cat scared. His father wasn’t much of anything, some kind of clerk in a trial court or something of that sort, or perhaps not, perhaps he only gave off the air of running through court hallways, busy, rushed, jabot utterly askew, like those men who call themselves doctors for twenty years and then one day it comes to light that they can’t read or write. But this clerk, real or illusory, Talal’s father, kept in his wallet a document of the highest importance. Guess what it was, friends?”

“A map of Treasure Island?”

“The blueprint for the atomic bomb?”

“The list?”

“No, you band of donkeys. (What list?) What he guarded preciously in his wallet was a rectangle of a few centimeters in length: a business card. But careful! Not just any business card! It was…”

He withdrew into his chair and subsumed us in a gaze sparkling with commiseration (for we didn’t know).

“It was the business card of the king’s chef!”

General commotion.

“Don’t forget that this story takes place at the beginning of the ’70s. Everything related, closely or distantly, to the Palace made the masses tremble with fear. The man who buttons up Hassan II’s shirt cuffs has more power than a minister. He who shines his boots commands generals. So, his chef! I don’t know how the evanescent clerk procured that business card but he hinted that the king’s head butler was a cousin of his and, as a result, this calling card that he only exhibited on rare occasions conferred on him an infinite prestige. You didn’t mess around with Talal’s father.”

“Precisely, let’s get back to Talal…”

“I’m getting there. So, the young Talal jumps in the sand, spreads out over it like an obese tarantula, swims haphazardly, but — catastrophe! — he faints a few meters from the rope that symbolizes the edge of the pool. Sunburn? Exhaustion? Abulia? No one knows. His classmates, on solid ground, cry out, wave him on, encourage him…Nothing works, he looks like a recumbent marble statue petrified by a gust of wind. Talal lies still. Talal doesn’t move. His professor, a bit of a risk-taker, throws himself into the sand and fishes out the poor boy. There he is in the middle of the playground, awoken by a few vigorous slaps. ‘Where am I, who am I, etc.’. That night, at home, he rests, surrounded by the affection of his invisible mother, of his insignificant brothers, of his nonexistent sisters, and of his cat that scrams, frightened. His father enters and announces to him coldly that he received a zero in the swimming test. General affliction, the ghosts groan, insignificance clenches its fists, the feline redoubles its pusillanimity. But what could be done? Spurred on by his pater (who fondles the business card in his pocket), Talal goes to the high school the next day and drops off a complaint. In essence, it said, conditionals included: ‘If I had taken the swimming test in water, as do civilized people, and not in sand, I would not have washed up flailing on the aforementioned sand and thus would not have failed the test’—which, I mention in passing, was formulated with a rare grammatical accuracy. ‘You would not have washed up, nitwit,’ replied his professor. ‘You would have sunk like a stone and you would be dead.’ And he adds, digressing, as professors often do: ‘By the way, a mammal cannot wash up on sand.’”

Nagib is outraged:

“He’s wrong. Whales wash up on sand. Whales are mammals.”

“No, they’re fish.”

(Thus ensues a pointless discussion, which has taken place in all ages and all latitudes, on what whales are — meanwhile people are dying of hunger (in their case, a whale, conveniently carved up, would be most welcome [but are they halal?]. Victory to Nagib and all of science: cetaceans are mammals. End of digression.)

“Anyway, the affair reaches the head of the establishment. It’s true that Talal had not finished the race…”

“He finished it on the sand,” Nagib intervenes.

“But he had begun it on the sand,” Ali retorts. “At what point do these millions of grains cease to be sand and become a part of the fiction?”

Hamid shrugs his shoulders and continues his story.

“The leader of the establishment thinks of the clerk’s business card. He knows he’s in a minefield. Talal did not finish the race but there is perhaps a way to come to an agreement. He decides then to give a grade to the toothed whale in proportion to his breaching…”

“Breaching?”

“It’s the technical term. The breaching becomes thus a relative failure. Since Talal traveled two thirds of the pool, or rather the dry dock, he would have the same grade as one of his classmates who was at his distance at the time of his wreck (if I dare say it) — a grade lowered, however, by a third to take into account the fact that he did not faint in the middle of his efforts. I said we were an inventive people. And that’s how the whole affair came to end.”

Hamid had said it. He had even proved his starting assertion. At Café de l’Univers, all six of us remained for a long moment in silence, in that lovely unending afternoon. I don’t know what my friends or the cat were thinking about. I was seized by a strong emotion — tears came to my eyes, my heart tightened. It was gone forever, that blessed age, where we faced, imperturbable, the most absurd problems fate thrust upon us. I closed my eyes…I saw once more those faces of El Jadida: the governor, enigmatic; the super, attendant; Madame Corcos, who led the majorettes on the boulevard once a year; Charef the sworn interpreter, who was originally from Algeria (we forgave him); the doctor Argyatos; the owner of the Bata boutique; the local correspondent for Le Matin. We were a city proud of its Portuguese past and its hybrid present. We were unsure of nothing, capable of anything — even of inventing dry swimming. But where are the sands of days gone by?

The classroom door opens. Amir and Sylvie enter, a bit intimidated. They take a few steps, look at the walls, the board, the tables…

He woke up from a bad sleep, populated with djinns and demons, and the first thing he saw, before even being able to murmur “staghrifoullah,” was a gnome. And this gnome, who resembled his son, was holding in his hands a picket sign imprinted with only one word: liberty. The child (or the dwarf?) began to speak — it was strange, he had the voice of an adult. But what was he saying?

“Father…and my liberty?”

Why are you calling me father…Omar wanted to ask, vexed, but the words never came: the gnome’s face had just undergone the subtlest of transformations — it was and was no longer his son, as if oscillating between two faces, one lost, the other found again. What was the meaning of this mystery? Omar wanted to ask his wife, who had just materialized by the bed — or before him? What was this phenomenon? He saw her in a chiaroscuro, simultaneously from the front and in profile, he saw her as he had never seen her before — but had he ever seen her before? It was as if it were a stranger who was standing there, somewhere, in his living space. Would she dare to breathe? She did better: she apostrophized him. His mouth opened like a canteen. She’s apostrophizing me! I’m not even sure what that word means, but that’s probably what she’s doing — what she’s daring to do — and this is probably what they call “the signs of the end of times.” The Hour is approaching, the tombs will be dug up, the earth will vomit its entrails…This woman, bestowed upon me by a fat’ha in a dark house, dares to speak to me. What is she saying? I’ll settle the score with her later. For the moment, let’s listen.

“Man, I want to be free.”

Where is that damned gnome? Omar lowered his eyes and saw a child watching him, his eyes big, opened wide, as if filled with limpid water. And the child repeated that scandalous word “liberty,” then raised his hand and presented his palm to his progenitor: the impious word was displayed on it, etched with ash.

Servant! Maid! Bring me a belt, a bludgeon. I have important business: I must correct wife and child. They address their lord and master without being authorized to do so — did I even summon them? What is this? The start of a debate? I only debate with my peers — I only listen to the sheikh—and he only listens to God. That’s the sacred chain. If even one link cedes, there’s dissent, the thread is broken, the text is unwound. Order keeps the world spinning on its axis, I’ve been taught that since I was a kid, on the braided mat, in the swaying of bodies through which wave after wave of knowledge enters, raising the walls and erecting the city — where the space belongs to men. Hey, servant! The straps! But what…Here she comes, silent, but voluble in movement, her little fist raised — that limp body can tighten? But this madness is never-ending, but her, too, but…she’s brandishing a picket sign. Omar leans in, adjusts an imaginary pair of spectacles and deciphers the consonants forming the word karama. Alright then. The maid too? Asking for dignity now…What place does sentiment have here, how is intellect infecting girls, are you something other than exploited at will? Where’s the whip? Forget the whip. Bring me a harness. Wife, the harness! It’s for the maid, she’ll bring me the bludgeon, I’ll knock out my disgraceful son — but not before he’s brought me the poker. I intend to burn it into your flesh, my wife — but first bring me the harness — I intend to engrave it with a few appropriate sentences — we are not a unique people as claim the chess players, but I am the master in my home. Bring me some coal!

And then the world started to spin. They came at him from different angles, sideways, determined — it seemed to him — to shatter the sphere revolving around him. Perhaps this was the moment to propose a truce, an arrangement? He rejected the idea for what it was: the work of the Devil. Besides, it was he who possessed the soul of his son and (if they had them) of his wife and servant. They continued to spin around him, sometimes breaking the circle to draw near his eyes like a flash of lightning, murmuring those words of liberty and dignity that their clumsy fingers had written on the picket signs. He suddenly remembered it was his fingers that had done it. In other words, they had stolen his work! What right did they have? These two women (these two phantoms tormenting me) don’t even know how to read — in any case he preferred it that way — which is certainly clear now. But then, the picket signs? Did the troll…? Let’s try a diversion. In a brusque movement, Omar seized his wife’s wrist, but his fingers closed on empty space, he tried to slap the little servant and met a void, he didn’t dare bite his son’s neck, afraid of tasting his own blood. My God, will this trial ever come to an end? Why, why did you forget about me…

The despairing man woke up, this time for good. He was covered in sweat. His wife was breathing softly next to him, in a deep sleep. Her regular breathing was barely audible. Outside, the city was humming with the peaceful murmur of a sleeping beauty. So, it had been a bad dream. Curse the Devil! He sat up in his bed, then got up and put on his slippers, preparing to do his ablutions. It was time to give thanks to God.

As he lumbered toward the bathroom, he saw, in the hallway, carefully positioned against the wall, the picket sign he had made the night before. Ah yes, the demonstration, this afternoon…He would be there. Without fail.

1. “Philosophers have only interpreted the world; the point is to change it.”

MARX, KARL. “Theses on Feuerbach.” Karl Marx and Frederick Engels, Selected Works, Volume One. Trans. W. Lough. Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1969. 13–15.

2. “This one went forth in quest of truth as a hero, and at last got for himself a small decked-up lie: his marriage he calleth it.”

NIETZSCHE, FRIEDRICH. Thus Spake Zarathustra: A Book for All and None. Trans. Thomas Common. Mineola: Dover Publications, 1999.

3. “The eternal silence of these infinite spaces frightens me.”

PASCAL, BLAISE. Pensées. Trans. W. F. Trotter. New York: E. P. Dutton & Co., 1958.

4. “To the eyes of the world still intact / It feels grow and weep, unspoken, / Its sharp, underlying crack / Do not touch, it is broken.”

PRUDHOMME, SULLY. “Le Vase Brisé.” Stances et Poèmes. Paris: Alphonse Lemerre, 1866.

Translated by Emma Ramadan.

FOUAD LAROUI was born in 1958 in Oujda, Morocco. After his studies in the Lycée Lyautey (Casablanca), he joined the prestigious École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées (Paris), where he studied engineering. After having worked in the Office Cherifien des Phosphates company in Khouribga (Morocco), he moved to the United Kingdom where he received a PhD in Economics, and moved to the Netherlands where he currently teaches econometrics and environmental science at the University of Amsterdam. In addition, he is devoted to writing: fiction in French, poetry in Dutch, academic and nonfiction work in English. He has published over twenty novels and collections of short stories, poetry, and essays, and is a literary chronicler for the weekly magazine Jeune Afrique and Economia Magazine, and the French-Moroccan radio Médi1. The Curious Case of Doussakine’s Trousers won Laroui his first Prix Goncourt for the short story. Deep Vellum will publish his most recent, Grand Prix Jean Giorno-winning novel The Tribulations of the Last Sjilmassi—his first in English — in 2017.

EMMA RAMADAN is a graduate of Brown University, received her Master's in Cultural Translation from the American University of Paris, and recently completed a Fulbright Fellowship for literary translation in Morocco. Her translation of Anne Garréta’s Sphinx was published by Deep Vellum in spring 2015 and was nominated for the PEN Translation Prize and the Best Translated Book Award. Her translation of Anne Parian’s prose poem Monospace was released by La Presse in fall 2015, and her translations of Anne Garréta’s Prix Medicis-winning novel Not One Day, Fouad Laroui’s The Tribulations of the Last Sjilmassi, and Brice Matthiuessent’s Revenge of the Translator will all be published by Deep Vellum in 2017.

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