Street of Thieves by Mathias Enard

I’d have liked to tell them the history of Tangier, of the citadel, the little streets, but I was absolutely incapable.
    There is always a certain embarrassment in saying goodbye, especially on a silent, deserted street, next to the trashcans of an inn whose tired neon lights, on the balcony, under the sign, from time to time electrified the thin lines of rain that were beginning to fall again. It’s one moment too many, when you don’t know if you should draw it out or, on the contrary, shorten it and disappear. You’ll get wet, Judit said. Thank you for tonight, I whispered. Bassam held out his hand to Elena without lifting his eyes to her face; better stop there, the gleaming city and the Propagation of Koranic Thought was waiting for us; the stroboscopic light that fell intermittently on Judit’s face froze her eyebrows, lips, and chin. See you soon then, maybe, I said. Ilâ-l-liqâ, she replied, those were the first Arabic words I heard from her mouth, Ilâ-l-liqâ, her pronunciation was so perfect, so Arabic, that, surprised, I mechanically responded Ilâ-l-liqâ, and we started on our way back.

I don’t know if it was the rain that reawakened Bassam, but a hundred meters after we left the girls, he couldn’t stop talking. Oh wow, oh wow, what a night, hey pal, did you see that, man, they’re crazy about us, I should have pushed for giving them Arabic lessons, they definitely would have followed us, did you see how she was showing me her tits, still it’s incredible, I thought your story about Carmen and Inez was a load of crap, what an amazing stroke of luck. Oh wow.
    The strangest thing was that he didn’t seem frustrated or disappointed about bringing them back to their hotel, he was just happy and couldn’t care less about the rain. Me on the contrary, half soaked—and we still had a good forty-five minute walk to go—I felt a terrible void, a weariness, as if, by showing me Judit before taking her back, Fate had only increased my loneliness tenfold. Now, walking toward our neighborhood, it was Meryem who came back to me painfully, her tenderness and her body; the arrival of the Spanish girl revived her absence, showed me the path of my true love, I thought, and the more the reality of that single physical contact grew distant—almost two years—the more I thought I was realizing how important she was to me since Judit’s presence, instead of immediately arousing new desires, had reminded me of details (smells, textures, moistures) that were manifesting in the rain: the incurable melancholy of hormones. Bassam was wound uplike a clock, going on with his oh wows which were overwhelming me. Bassam, shut it, I shouted. Just shut up, please. He stopped short, standing stock still in the middle of the boulevard without understanding. I yelled, you’re right, you know what? We’ve got to go, leave Tangier, leave Morocco, we can’t stay here anymore.
    He looked at me as if I were a halfwit, a retard who has to be spoken to gently.
    Be patient then, he said, because God is on the side of the patient.
    He was quoting the Prophet, with irony, maybe. If Bassam was capable of irony. I felt as if I were completely drunk, all of a sudden, immensely, hugely intoxicated, with no reason whatsoever. Yesterday the expedition with the Group, tonight Judit. If all that had a meaning, it was completely obscure.
    It was raining harder and harder, we ended up flagging down a passing taxi that cost me my last dirhams.
    After we reached the Propagation of Koranic Thought, Bassam started praying. I smoked a joint while he stared at me wide-eyed. Sheikh Nureddin doesn’t like that, you know. We have to be pure.
    I held up a fragrant middle finger, which made him laugh.
    The kif calmed me down a little—Judit on loop in my thoughts, I kept reliving the evening, her smiles, her thoughts about Morocco, about the Arab Spring, about Spain, I could see