It was a very busy period. One night, people I didn’t know came to the garage to talk with the master. Abu Zoubeir, who normally dismissed us when he had important visitors, asked us to stay. Nabil, Hamid, and I felt flattered; we took it as a promotion in our secret struggle to be closer to the master. Now we were part of the inner circle. Abu Zoubeir consulted us on all kinds of subjects and seemed to take notice of our opinions. I’d keep my mouth shut, for fear of coming out with something stupid, but Nabil didn’t hold back, launching into damning condemnations of American or Israeli attacks. Abu Zoubeir agreed with him, and I admit I was a bit jealous. Luckily, my brother Hamid was there to fly the flag for our family and went one better, blasting the crusaders and the Jews. Better yet, he attacked Arab regimes that had no dignity, prostrate as they were before their Western overlords, their sole aim to perpetuate their dictatorships. I nodded my agreement; Hamid was completely right.

The television was turned to a channel that showed massacres of Muslims on a loop. And that made our blood boil, I can tell you. The little Palestinian boy in his father’s arms had died a hundred times. Every time he died, we had tears in our eyes. And rage sweated from all the pores of our rigid bodies as the loop showed the slaughter again and again. We saw soldiers, bristling with weapons, shooting blindly at people throwing stones, and we wanted to strangle them. The child was dead all right, but his father didn’t relax his grip, as if he were still alive. As if the piercing screams he’d uttered a few minutes before were still ripping through the uproar of shooting and people in panic. Abu Zoubeir said we had to react. The Prophet would never have tolerated such humiliation. Sitting cross-legged before the master, I felt fire flare in my belly, setting my eyes ablaze. A thirst for vengeance twisted my guts. We were ready to redeem our lost honor in blood. We weren’t losers or cowards. Still less doormats, on which repulsive heathens and our country’s corrupt wiped their feet.

Abu Zoubeir’s friends observed us with an air of satisfaction. One of them, probably their leader, was an elderly man, impressively tall in his turban and a white djellaba. He smelled of sandalwood, like the perfume Hamid used to bring back for Yemma. He closed his eyes and made a speech. It was about hope, about Jihad, about light. While there were still men like us, young, brave, with conviction, all was not lost. Satan’s henchmen had it coming. They would pay a hundred times over for what they were making us suffer. We would make their lives hell. Their sophisticated arsenals would be obsolete and ridiculous. God was with us and victory was within our grasp. We had weapons the unbelievers did not: our flesh and our blood. We would return them to God; He demanded them of us. Our sacrifices would be rewarded. The gates to heaven were wide open and beckoning. Those blasphemers could only tremble in their foul pigsties, in their debauched, abject lives, determined as they were to infect our children with their impurity. . Then he stopped talking. Stroking his beard, the sheikh cast his eyes over our faces, which were all lit up, and said: “You cannot defeat a man who wants to die!”

After a communal prayer, he stretched out his hand, which we all kissed in turn. And we never saw him at the garage again.

The sheikh’s face would haunt us for a long time. I remember the strange scene on the doorstep before he left. Abu Zoubeir knelt down and kissed his slippers as if paradise lay beneath them. The sheikh helped him to his feet and embraced him. He whispered in his ear something we couldn’t hear. But as he came back in, Abu Zoubeir’s eyes were red, as if he’d been crying.

14

ONE EVENING, HAMID arrived at the shack to tell us the good news: Abu Zoubeir was treating us to a holiday. Now that was a word that didn’t figure in our vocabulary. It sounded so sweet to our ears! Although, to go on holiday implied we’d been working hard and our bodies were crying out for rest, which hadn’t been the case for some time now. Life in the garage was easy: we recited the Koran, we prayed, we listened, we ate properly, and we slept. We were outside the world, as if in a chrysalis, attuned to the master’s wisdom and our own untroubled hearts. But the decision had been made and we were thrilled. Everything had been arranged and thought out down to the last detail: a small van would come to pick us up the next day to take us to the mountains, because Abu Zoubeir wanted to thank us for our diligence in his classes. Nabil started dancing in the middle of the room; he couldn’t express his joy any other way. Hamid said that we were all invited and that it would last a whole week. Khalil and Fuad were immediately given leave from the printing press and the Internet café without any deduction from their pay. “A present is a present!” Hamid added. Nabil, Blackie, and I had trouble sleeping that night, we were so excited by the idea of the trip. We’d packed our bags, remembering toiletries, kimonos, and our djellabas, in case it was cold up there. It was the first time I’d be leaving Sidi Moumen, or riding in a van. Seeing as he was no stranger to police vans, Khalil couldn’t say the same.

The minibus turned up at seven in the morning, as arranged, outside the Oubaida brothers’ café. We were on time; none of us was going to miss this. We boarded the bus and took our places behind Emir Zaid, who’d been concealing from us his skills as a driver. There were three rows of black leather seats. I sat up front to get the best view of the countryside. The journey would take all day. “The Middle Atlas isn’t exactly round the corner,” the emir had explained. We were soon out of Sidi Moumen. It was getting hot already but not in our air-conditioned vehicle; that meant you could go from summer to winter at the flick of a switch. We drove through Casablanca and the emir made a detour through the big boulevards to show us Anfa, the poshest neighborhood in the whole country. It’s hard to describe that part of the city, as we couldn’t see much. We could barely make out the lavish houses through the walls of thick foliage, which was dotted with curious flowers, like purple, red, and yellow bells, and farther off, brightly colored sprays with complicated shapes; I had a weakness for those little white flowers with the surprising scent. I opened the window to inhale the smell. The emir, who knew everything, told me they were jasmine. I thought the name suited the flower and said: “I love jasmine.” I wondered why these pretty plants didn’t grow where we lived, since we had the soil and the water; a few cuttings would be enough to cheer up our lives. Quite a few people grew plants in front of their shacks, but they were never so beautiful, or so sweet-smelling. Maybe it wouldn’t suit jasmine to be so close to the dump. A flower as delicate as that would commit suicide, the stink was so suffocating. It would be almost an insult to its sweet fragrance.

We seemed to be flying as we drove. We didn’t feel any jolts, as there were no potholes in the freshly tarmacked streets. The roads were wide and clean. Cars straight out of the future were parked here and there. The emir cruised along slowly, letting us take in the beauty all around us. Then he headed for the coast road and we saw the sea. It was an extraordinary sight. This different air was making me dizzy; it had a funny smell. I shivered, staring at the infinite silvery blue, with the white sun floating above. Seagulls, craftier than the ones in Sidi Moumen, were trailing a boat that must be taking people to Spain. Khalil was gazing at the ship and I think in his mind he was on it. People told so many stories about stowaways who hid in the cargo hold to flee the country. But he’d have wanted to be standing on the deck, in full sunlight. The whole atmosphere radiated happiness. Yet we weren’t so far from Sidi Moumen: a quarter of an hour by car, at most. Of course, our buses didn’t go to the rich parts of town, so our kind of people wouldn’t pollute this elegant environment. Which I completely understand, because we were incapable of keeping a place as clean as this. And the jasmine, like the bellflowers, would have been picked and sold by the bunch. Or just uprooted for the fun of it. All the houses would have been burgled, in spite of the security guards with their big sticks who watched over every one of them. And no doubt envious people would have gone and set fire to them. Emir Zaid said that we were in the stronghold of Satan’s lackeys, that the infidels who shut themselves away here owned three-quarters of the country’s wealth. And the fact that we lived in utter destitution was because of these leeches, who’d made pacts with the Western devils to exploit us and keep us in a state of total dependence. Without them, we die. But without us, they too are doomed to certain death. Because they need a docile workforce, and blood to suck. They kill us by degrees. But if we have to die, we might as well take them with us and have done with it, once and for all. .