Libmonster ID: UK-1401
Author(s) of the publication: IMAN NASIRI

IMAN NASIRI (Morocco)

ADIL GUEVARA*

I'm nineteen years old. I go out into the street and join everyone in chanting slogans as sharp as a dagger, with which we want to destroy all the disgusting vices of our society. We don't have oil, yes, we are not as rich as the countries of the Middle East, but we young people want to work and do something for our country. And we are not allowed to participate in political life or be in power structures. And here I am shouting even louder, shouting slogans so that everyone can hear me, so that all of us young people can be heard. I'm sick of these rich sons, and I don't want to get rich just to go to private school. And I don't want to use my few acquaintances to be treated in a private clinic.

I'll get my degree soon. And I'll have to look for a job. But how? I don't know who could help me. There's nothing special about me. And I don't want to go to France. Then neither here nor there will consider you their own. I would like to buy an apartment. But very expensive. We should get a car, too. But this is generally unthinkable, what kind of money... And so I want to travel! But you don't even have to dream about it. I'm just suffocating from all these impossibilities. So I fight every day. I'm going out for demonstrations. My colleagues call me Adil Guevara. Because I also want my country, Morocco, to embark on the road of progress, to be able to free itself from the ulcers that have covered our society. I want everyone to stop being hypocritical. I want everyone - both parliamentary deputies, ministers, and officials, well, everyone-to feel their responsibility, so that they can explain where all our troubles come from...

I believe that the "top" think about it, think about what is best to do and how... But when will we see the changes? How much longer do we have to endure?

The day before yesterday I met with my friend Hamza. He's always on the same page as me at demonstrations. He told me that he wanted to see me tonight, at eight o'clock sharp, at his house. "Not in a cafe," he repeated several times. Namely, at his home. Probably, he came up with something new, wants to share with us, prepare our new "throw". I was already thinking about what we could do to change our tactics. Maybe we should all go straight to the parliament, set up carts that are used by vegetable vendors traveling from market to market in different parts of the city, then light torches on them to remind them of how the Tunisian revolution began**, let everyone there know that we will stand up for ourselves, that we are not easily broken... Yes, that's right. Everyone should go there, but not to die, but to live... We need to revive the spirit of our true patriotism, to recall those Moroccan fighters for independence who gave their lives to the cause of liberation, who were exiled, killed, but whose goal was to save our country. In the name of freedom of thought...

"Not in the cafe!" Yes, probably, we will talk about preparing some serious operation, which should still be a secret. Oh, I'd like to know as soon as possible!..

19 o'clock. 40 min. I'm already standing at his door. I'll go up to his office at eight sharp. I don't want him to think I'm too impatient. You need to control yourself. Temper your emotions.

19 h. 50 min. I type something on my mobile phone without any meaning. I can't concentrate. I'm already getting goosebumps. I start to twitch. Passers-by might think I've escaped from a madhouse.

19 h. 52 min. I quickly order a cup of milky coffee from the cafe across the street, but the waiter hesitates. I haven't had my coffee in three minutes. I'm getting nervous. I tell him that if he can't hurry up, I'll leave, I don't need anything anymore! He snidely replies that " you, they say, are all in a hurry to get somewhere." Then I notice that the vein in his neck is quivering, that he is gradually getting angry, but I have no intention of fighting or making trouble today. I'll come back here tomorrow and deal with him.

He brought the coffee at 19.55. The time seemed like an eternity. Endless minutes. I slowly start to drink my coffee, then down it in one gulp.

19 h. 58 min. Well, here it is. It takes me just two minutes to walk up the stairs to Hamza's apartment. Get up, of course, slowly. So that you don't suffocate, so that you have enough breath for the upcoming important conversation.

20 hours. I ring the doorbell. Once, then twice.

I hear voices. Brilliant, so there are many of us, not just me. Let's join our efforts. It's strange that he didn't tell me the password. But it doesn't matter. Probably all of them are there.

I listen carefully. I don't want to miss a single word, not a single sound. We need to know what they are discussing there. I am always alert, always on the lookout. On the landing, the walls of which were once white, their voices echo. I hear Hamza's voice shouting to me that the door is open... I push it open and enter the room, not afraid that a wolf will come running out to meet me like in a fairy tale... I smile... I pass on. To the bedroom. Hamza is sitting there alone. I approach him modestly and timidly. I'm waiting for him to start his message. And he offers me a cigarette. I feel like he's playing with me. I'm blushing like a poppy. From impatience.


* Adil Guevara // Imane Naciri. Ne me jugez pas! Casablanca, 2012.

** In Tunis, a young unemployed man, who inherited a greengrocer's cart from his late father, went to sell vegetables in the center of the capital, but was chased away by the police. Then, in protest, he doused himself with gasoline and burned like a torch, which was a signal for the youth uprising in 2010.

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anger. From the revolutionary passion that has seized my soul. After all, I was already immersed in the situation, entered the role of a fighter...

Hamza takes a piece of paper out of a drawer in her desk. It's probably a master plan of action printed on a typewriter. And in it - about the role that is assigned to me... But I notice a green logo in the corner of the sheet. What kind of organization can it be?! Am I being played on? "Well, how is it? Are you interested in that? " asks Hamza. I looked at the sheet of paper. It was a job offer for the operator of some phone company. I read the text diagonally. I did a quick mental calculation. I'm supposed to get my degree in four months...

And he added: "My cousin works there. He says the atmosphere is right. The guys there are decent. Cute ones. In short, the place is quite stuffy for young people like us. After all, you're not going to be forever hanging around the demonstrations, exhausting yourself all your life?! Well, answer me! Don't worry about it! Others will take up the fire of your torch!"

Now time seemed to freeze again. I wanted someone to take me to another space. But at that moment, he handed me this piece of paper. He said that he needs to quickly pick up three guys for this request so that they can pass an interview with the company next week. And those three will be him, me, and one of his other friends. "So do you agree, or don't you?" he turned to me.

But who will stand in the first row of demonstrators instead of me? Who will take my place in the fight? Who will have their blood boiling like mine? Who will shout into the microphone that it is necessary to change the world? Who will demand changes in the life of our country? Who will change it if everyone leaves the ship of our still-unfinished battle just like me?

I once wrote poetry: "There are those dreams that are born when a child sees the stars in the sky. And there are dreams that die when we foolishly destroy them as we grow up. Still, not all dreams can be killed. They are stronger than us. Especially those that take us to other lands, other times, calling us forward. I'm almost twenty. And I, knowing no barriers, love this road. I like to search. Go find your dreams of accomplishment."

Now my dream is to end this insanity that I've been living in lately. I want to get married. I want to have children. House, car. I want to have a job, earn good money, and no longer depend on my parents. I want to finally live in my country and succeed in life.

I will work day and night to achieve this goal. I will bend my back and neck, break my spine, but I will fulfill this childhood dream. I'm going to this damn interview. I will try to please you and answer all your questions.

And then all this revolutionary passion of mine will boil out of my head, all this ardor of a fighter for justice will cool down. I will influence the system of our world order on the sly, from within itself... I won't give up my ideas. I'll just let them ripen properly. I really want to become some kind of minister. And I'll start my climb from the bottom rung of the ladder...

WITH A GOOD MOOD*

I am a forty-year-old woman who likes to walk around the city streets, go shopping, go to the market, chat and laugh with vegetable sellers, and hang around the windows of large shopping centers in my spare time. Moroccan streets - especially in the old part of the city-are a real buzz of life, which sharpens all the senses and sensations in a person, but most importantly-his vision and speech. Everything in you seems to wake up, as if you see everything anew, you want to talk to everyone, and everyone wants to talk to you. Listen to your opinion about something, and you need to hear what others think about you. I even sometimes feel that I need it, I depend on the street somehow, or something...

Although sometimes it depresses me. Here, for example, is this unfortunate paper handkerchief merchant. When he's in a good mood, he compliments me, and when he's in a bad mood, he throws dirty curses in my face... And other vendors-fried chestnuts (cold for some reason), bread or eggs, grape snails in a thick tomato sauce of questionable color - worry about my health and well-being as if their physical condition may not be indifferent to me.

Everyone smiles at me as I walk through the old town market. Everyone nods at me. Everyone is looking at me, taking in my figure, my hips, my chest. They sometimes call me a "tasty morsel"... I like that. I even think that this nickname suits me very well. I am indeed a "tasty morsel", and my whole body has long been ripe for enjoying it...

A bearded man (probably from the Muslim Brotherhood) stared at me. He's probably thinking about where I'm going to burn in hell, or maybe, on the contrary, where and when, in what paradise will we meet?

We must also pay tribute to the newspaper seller. When he sees me, he seems lost and starts praying for some reason. Maybe he hopes that at least in his mind God will help him imagine me without a dress? After all, God is allowed to do everything, and He does everything himself, without outside help...

But here comes a rather difficult moment for me. This is when I pass in front of a cafe where a dozen customers are sitting on the terrace, men, of course, with an Arabic newspaper in their hands. They can sip their milky coffee for hours and spend their time here, watching the passersby, betting on horses in the next race at the racetrack, hoping to win at least a few unfortunate dirhams, which they will immediately spend. Well, they got the money out of nothing...

They smoke cheap cigarettes, dividing each one into three parts. And most importantly-they have fun looking at women passing by the cafe. They don't care what they are. Just to say something after them. They mock you more often. But they are essentially beggars themselves. And they want someone to give them a gentle look...


* Du courage // Imane Naciri. Ne me jugez pas! Casablanca, 2012.

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It is in vain that I try to hide my ample bosom from their eager eyes, or to pull my dress down so that my thighs are not so prominent, and the material does not fit so tightly around my other curves... But nothing helps. You can't hide anything from them. All of them, I think, are now staring at me. This is not counting the builders working opposite, bricklayers building another new apartment building. They just compete in ingenuity, gossiping about me, looking at my charms.

But some of them, probably, and never went to school, compared me to a strawberry berry, which, apparently, is cramped in a basket... I even liked that. Why not? Such a beautiful red berry, ripe and juicy... I even felt like clapping my hands after hearing such a compliment from a simple guy. But the Moroccans are actually a people of poets, they all have a wonderful imagination, a sense of rhythm and rhyme. They're smart. Sometimes they're just really smart. They use everything to please a woman.

And as I walk through the market, along the long street, until I reach the bend where I left my car, I will hear so many beautiful words from the men's mouths that Baudelaire himself would envy. Probably turned over in his grave more than once in his grave... But here are the last hundred meters. A flock of young people is moving towards me. They're all looking at me, too. They turn instantly into adult males in their tribe. They loosen their tongues, try to outdo each other in the words and compliments they give me... They already feel like they have me in their hands. So they let me go around their circle...

Thank God I finally get to my car. My "way of the cross" is over. However, there is still the caretaker from the parking lot, who simply tries to be polite and helpful before letting me go, having received his payment, with the words: "May the Lord always keep you so beautiful!". In his hand, the change I took out of my pocket jingles happily.

My walk through the market is over. Purchases made. Will I come here again, to this old city quarter, or will I prefer next time a supermarket close to home, just a stone's throw away? Do I even need to perform this parade of mine, where I feel like a winner? Why would I do that? But I know myself well. I avoid the indifference and silence of the smoothed-out and remembered new neighborhoods. I am simply attracted to the noisy diversity of the market, its hum, its breath, its smells... It's real. Authentic. Let it be dirty. Littered. Sweaty. But I like it. With its ruins, piles of vegetables, its bustle, its voice... I like to pick out, touch ripe fruit, smell spices, and make my way along the rows, avoiding piles of junk lying right on the ground... But most importantly, I like the cheers of men when I pass by. Then it seems to me that I am desired by everyone. And I'm forty now... But I feel like I'm in my twenties here. And I feel good here.

Of course, I'm not a beauty, I know that. But I'm a woman. Just a woman on one of the Moroccan streets.

heir*

I was born rich: my father was rich, and my grandfather was rich. I am the eldest in a family with many sons and daughters. And I had to go through everything-beatings, punishments and prohibitions. I endured everything to clear the way for freedom and independence for my brothers and sisters. And even though I suffered a lot, they say that I was the one who took advantage of all the best: I traveled a lot, lived in luxury... It's true. After all, I'm the only one in the family who studied, the rest were merchants in the old city. They all had shops where they sold fabrics, jewelry, and traditional clothing. They can't speak French, but they do very well without it; they are all well known in the neighborhood, and they all earn a good living.

Everyone calls me, like in Egyptian movies, "Mr. Engineer". I am, indeed, an engineer by training, working in the city administration. I have an important position. I understand politics and things that are "completely incomprehensible", which makes everyone in the family proud of me.

When my father died, he left me, in his will, a wooden box containing all our possessions: papers documenting our ownership of houses, lands, and other riches, as well as jewelry that belonged to my mother.

After his death, I returned home late at night, my eyes wet with tears and this box in my hands.

Like everyone else, I never thought that one day I would lose my father, or rather, I just thought that he would never die. After all, despite his advanced age, he was cheerful, often laughed, fell in love... But most importantly, he was not a burden to anyone, did not cause trouble to anyone, did not bother anyone. There was no need for him to die anyway...

But when he died at three o'clock in the morning, he left me to take care of the house, my inheritance, and my sisters and brothers. And in this way I became for everyone a person to whom no one should object, and whose word is the law. This, I admit, I liked: to become a substitute for the caliph, the master, the patriarch. At four-thirty in the morning, when I finally realized what had happened, I opened the box I'd inherited. It looked like a wrought - iron chest from fairy tales containing a magical treasure, a mysterious bag or sack that had a thousand pockets that hid jewels... But unlike the heroes of fairy tales, I didn't need to summon a good spirit to open the treasury and take advantage of the wealth. My father became my own wizard. Well, now, it's going to be me.

I left in the drawer papers relating to the ownership of shops, houses, and land plots that I knew well, as well as my late mother's jewelry. But I took everything else for myself-documents confirming our right to thousands of hectares of land, which only Tolya knew about-


* L'Heritier // Imane Naciri. Ne me jugez pas! Casablanca, 2012.

page 70

to my father, to the high-rise buildings newly built in the city, to the huge shops with glazed windows...

All this I hid in my personal safe, which I allowed myself to buy when I received my second salary. We are not talking about those caches that need to be opened with a special key. No, I bought a real fireproof safe, which can only be opened by knowing the special combination of numbers on its lock. I promised myself that someday I would fill it to the brim with money until it burst on its own... That I would become as rich as my father... And now that he was dead, I was suddenly so rich that I didn't have to worry about my future anymore.

The next morning I put on my best caftan and tried to play the role of the eldest son who was assigned to take care of a fatherless family. I had a big funeral, a big wake, and everyone was crying. But not only to observe the ritual , you had to see that everyone was affected by the disaster... And I saw people crying who had never even seen my father before. But they were saying a lot of good things about him just now... In general, we have people who go from wake to wake, cry, and sincerely sympathize with the relatives of the deceased. Usually they are some poor, unhappy people, and it is no longer difficult for them to drown their grief in someone else's, washing it down with their own tears... There are also those who have seen the deceased no more than once in their life. Some neighbors, casual acquaintances, mostly women who are curious about the latest gossip...

We had a lot of such visitors that day, too. I didn't know them at all, but they all wailed when they were allowed to see the body of the deceased wrapped in a white shroud. They reminded me of old-time mourners who were specially hired for funerals for a fee. It was their job to break the ice in everyone's hearts...

After the funeral, I set about distributing my father's inheritance. Everyone was divided equally. My brothers bought all their shops from me, and as a bonus I got the house where my parents lived - a real fortress, with a large wooden portal in the old part of the city. I will, of course, resell this house to the French, who will transform it into a fashionable pavilion for their guests, and I will be the owner of the millions earned for it. All my relatives saw in my plan only a fire of hope for this money. Except for my little sister, who was sixteen years old at the time, but she was just like me, and her quick mind immediately calculated the benefits of this deal when she asked me what I was going to do with my parents ' house. And her piercing eyes immediately shone with a predatory light: she understood that money is stronger than blood ties... and then she decided that she would also study instead of being a regular dressmaker, like all the women in our family. He will become a lawyer. And she wouldn't get married like her sisters. He will wear a strict European suit that emphasizes the figure well, and not some hoodies prescribed by tradition...

I got married when I was 30 , too late for men of my generation; everyone had long considered me a hardened bachelor. I was picked up by a girl from a decent family, fair-skinned, thin and well-mannered. I didn't realize at first that she couldn't have had children. It wasn't until three years later, when she had another miscarriage, that I realized what was coming. But my wife was so attentive to me, so courteous, so warm and cordial, and never asked for anything, that I could not divorce her. I had affairs on the side, of course, and affairs with my cousins, who I begged to keep the children I had. I paid them well. These two rather distant relatives were also slender, with hazel eyes, and in some ways very similar to my wife... They gave birth to five children, but my wife took care of all of them as if they were her own, and the children themselves were very similar to their foster mother. They were beautiful and healthy children, strong, intelligent, and polite. There were five of them - a good number, it serves as a spell against the "evil eye" - they seemed to help me get rid of my sins... We will never tell them that the woman who takes care of them day and night is not their own mother. It was our secret. A family secret. Although painful. But he cemented our relationship for many years...

But my wife died. I left this life early. She suffered too much from not being able to make me the father of her children. A real husband. A man. As it should be in real families...

As for my sisters and brothers, I didn't really need to meet them anymore. They lived their own lives, but I was equally envious of them. I was too rich, they thought...

The children were growing up, but I didn't have any problems with them. They respected me. The eldest son, however, was a little depressed. But there was an excuse for this: he, like all older sons, bore the burden of responsibility for the whole family, all hopes were pinned on him, and he was the first to endure all the prohibitions that tradition dictated. But he felt that there was something special about our extended family, even though he didn't know what it was, despite all his intelligence.

When the time came, the children got married. My first sons were married at the same age, which gave me great joy. And their wives got pregnant almost simultaneously. I took care of their health, tried not to feed them anything at random, did not give them green peas in canned food, did not allow them to eat strawberries in incredible quantities, did not cook pies and cakes on honey with nuts and raisins... All these are extra pounds that are deposited in the hips... But they were still getting fat, eating a lot,and their breasts were blooming... My sons did not care who was born to them - it was God's will, they thought, and therefore they would be happy to have both a boy and a girl. I also rejoiced with them.

...The children were supposed to be born almost simultaneously. Finally, there were some muffled screams, and then thunder-

page 71

cue the cry of my grandchildren. I run to look at their wrinkled faces. Everything seems so small to me: noses, mouths, legs, and everything else. The girl was already dressed up in a white slider with a beautiful embroidered collar. Her hair was black and streaked with brown, and her eyes were closed. She was asleep. The boy is a plump, healthy boy, but somehow weak at the same time. He shouted incessantly. I woke up all the babies in the neonatal ward. It seemed to me that I had never seen anything so beautiful in my life. Even when my own children were born, I didn't feel so much excitement. Finally! I became a grandfather! They will affectionately call me "grandpa", and I will certainly spoil them. I will ask their mothers to live with them in my house. It's so big and spacious, I'll give them the entire second floor specially, cook delicious dishes, give them jewelry... For the excitement you experienced. For experiencing feelings that cannot be described...

But the happiness quickly faded. The verdict was relentless and harsh. Both children were ill. And their disease was hereditary. I did not understand the meaning of this misfortune. I was simply told that the disease manifests itself in a generation, which means that one of their grandmothers at least suffered from this disease...

The eldest son immediately began deciphering this hidden evil. How did it happen that both of his parents were healthy, and his child suffered from a "hereditary" disease? It is logical to imagine that one of them - his mother or father-was not his real parents. And he began to think of some "whispers" between my wife and me, some "suspicious conversations" that he had overheard, some "unclear" words, etc., and suddenly he decided that all his misery was coming from me, that I was hiding something, and he demanded explanations, a man's face-to-face conversation.

I was depressed, didn't know where to start, didn't know what to hold on to. His son was flushed with anger, and his face was red. I muttered something about my mother being "not his own mother," but I couldn't get out of it. All my attempts to explain something to him were futile, I couldn't make ends meet. I was completely defenseless. It was as if he'd been torn apart. Everything that had accumulated in his soul over the years spilled out in an instant. He slammed the door and left the house. He said he didn't want to see me again. And that I would never see him or my other children again... I found out later that he had found out the name of his real mother and the mother of my other children, that he had discovered that these women were related to me, that they had been ill, and that they had died in terrible agony... Then I met my brothers and sisters, my uncles and aunts, and they listened with undisguised pleasure to his almost unbelievable story (so terrible was it) about the misfortune that had befallen us. Their brother was finally out of luck! And yet so rich! The richest of them all!..

My sister Mary took advantage of my grief to sow doubt in the minds of my relatives about the righteousness of my wealth and whether our father's inheritance was truly divided by me correctly. She kept saying that the injustice must be punished, that the ruin that awaited me was deserved, because I had " stolen money from orphans." The word was "Stolen." So I'm a thief. And all my wealth is the fruit of my theft. Hence the unexpected luxury in which I lived.

They all gathered and united against me. My eldest son knew the combination of numbers in the lock of my safe, with which it was opened. Driven by anger and instigated by his uncles and aunts, he broke into my bedroom, opened Ali Baba's cave, and took everything. All documents on the right of ownership of both my father and me lands, houses, shops. All the jewelry, all the money. In their place, I put a letter that began with the words: "The thief is robbed." Then he wrote roughly, but with great feeling. He told us our whole story, like a La Fontaine fable about a cunning fox and stupid sheep, white as snow, who ate green grass with their heads down, not seeing anything around them, not noticing the danger that lay in wait for them. They grazed themselves in the meadows where their ancestors grazed, and did not know that they would soon be eaten by a cunning fox... My son also wrote to me that he would never forgive me, that he hated my selfishness and my greed...

Reading this letter, I felt bad. My heart ached. He may be right, but it's too late to repent now. I was aching inside, my heart barely beating. I lost consciousness and woke up in bed. A doctor with a frightened face, a servant, and my chauffeur were standing nearby. What a sad ending! My staff tried to report me to my sisters and brothers, my children. But none of them wanted to talk or come here...

But by punishing me, the Lord extended the days of my life. And with each passing day, I think again about how I destroyed and broke many lives. The lives of those I loved so much...

My children have become rich. And it warms my heart. But I can't be happy for them with them, I can't cuddle my grandchildren. I'm forgotten by everyone now. I am already 65 years old. This is all I wrote for you, my son, to explain everything that happened to us before I die. I kept the whole story in the back of my mind. Those pages of my life that destroyed me and all my connections with you, my children, my brothers and sisters. These pages are full of tears, bitterness, and nonsense. But I want you to know everything, to understand me, to learn the whole truth from me. No one is forcing me to write to you. No one takes my hand at all. No one comes. No one brings the medicine. I'm slowly dying. I miss you. And your brother, too. I often think about my wife. I miss her. And my daughters, too.

Goodbye, my son.

Translated from French by Dr. S. V. PROZHOGINA


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Create and store your author's collection at Libmonster: articles, books, studies. Libmonster will spread your heritage all over the world (through a network of affiliates, partner libraries, search engines, social networks). You will be able to share a link to your profile with colleagues, students, readers and other interested parties, in order to acquaint them with your copyright heritage. Once you register, you have more than 100 tools at your disposal to build your own author collection. It's free: it was, it is, and it always will be.

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