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THE DAY EVERYTHING CHANGED FOR JANNA
(25-year-old Peace Corps Volunteer Janna Gallagher has been living and teaching in Aïn El Qamar, Morocco, for about nine months.)
It was one of those beautiful late spring days that made her wonder how Morocco could ever have been stereotyped as a desert land. Here in Aïn El Qamar, with the rich foliage of the Atlas Mountains as a backdrop and waist-high wheat growing green for miles around, the desert on the other side of the mountains seemed an eternity away. The winter rains were forgotten, the heat of the summer soon to come but still easy to push aside from one’s mind. School had recently ended. A year of hard, often exhausting classroom work was over. And for Janna Gallagher it was a time to relax, both physically and mentally, a time to enjoy the beauty of the fascinating worlds which surrounded her.
As she walked down Avenue Hassan Deux, the main street of Aïn El Qamar, carrying a basket of groceries, she smiled at the thought that what was foreign and exotic to the visiting tourists she saw alighting from the touring bus parked in front of the Hotel de la Paix—the donkeys carrying produce and merchandise on their backs, the men wrapped in their long flowing hooded woolen robes called jellabas, the women wearing either jellabas or the often colorful sheets called haïks which made them look like flower-covered ghosts, horse drawn wagons, vendors pushing carts loaded with oranges and plums—all this was somehow natural and commonplace to her after nine months as a resident here. Of course, evidence of modern life was everywhere around her as well. The traffic was relatively heavy: Simcas, Renaults, Fiats, and Peugeots raced along the main street, honking at bicycle riders and swerving to avoid donkeys and children. Students wore inexpensive but often surprisingly stylish clothing. The girls went unveiled, with usually only a scarf and a smock to maintain modesty. Janna passed the recently constructed Volvo showroom, a fancy new apartment complex which was being built to house the well-paid French or affluent Moroccans, and the Epicérie Mondiale which looked surprisingly like an old-fashioned small town American corner grocery store and was stocked with everything from peanut butter to French pâtés to kleenex and deodorants to Swiss chocolates. Looking at all that surrounded her on this warm afternoon in mid-May, Janna was once again struck by this blend of worlds, the old which resisted change with the strength and steadfastness of the mountains against which Aïn El Qamar lay cradled, and the new, which arrived from Europe and America with the speed and force of a supersonic jet, but which had only partially succeeded in breaking the barrier of ancient customs and attitudes.
In front of her Janna could see two examples of these incredibly different worlds. One of her students was walking towards her now, accompanied by his traditionally veiled mother.
They stopped to say hello, the student’s mother astonished at Janna’s greeting in Arabic.
“Kataarf l’arabiya!” exclaimed the woman to her son. “She speaks Arabic!” How often had Janna heard these words, surprised and shocked that so few of the French, whose presence had been felt for more than half a century, had ever bothered to learn the language of the local inhabitants.
“I am going with my mother to the dentist’s. She has a toothache,” said the student in English, using words which Janna had taught him that year. “She is a little afraid.”
“Don’t worry, alala,” said Janna to the woman in Arabic, addressing her as “madam.” “Everything will be all right. Kull shi la bass!”
“Kull shi la bass,” repeated the woman, with less than total confidence, and Janna wondered if they were going to the French- trained dentist whose offices were in one of the new apartment buildings, or to one of the many traditional Moroccan practitioners who operated at the souk, or outdoor market. She hoped that it was the former, but feared from the woman’s expression that she would soon be facing a pair of pliers and returning home with one less tooth.
Everywhere Janna looked as she continued on her walk she saw familiar faces. She was nearing the side street on which her house was located, and here too there were students, walking in groups, laughing and talking excitedly now that there were no more classes until next October. The boys were all smoking—it seemed that the entire male population could not exist without tobacco. The girls laughed coyly and Janna was sure that their topic of conversation was the boys they saw but could not associate with publicly. Once again, the conflict of worlds, thought Janna. They dress so much like Westerners, but their heads are halfway in the past.
Janna caught a quick glimpse of Claudette Verlaine, forty- something and the town’s most celebrated and glamorous single French woman, as she sped past in her Renault 12. Claudette, who taught with Janna at Lycée Mohamed Cinq, lived in a world which rarely involved the Moroccans of Aïn El Qamar except while she was working. Her reputation as a teacher was excellent, although it was not as a teacher that she was best known, but rather for the life and vivacity she brought into the sometimes monotonous day- to-day existence of Aïn El Qamar’s foreign community with daily get-togethers at her house and parties which she occasionally threw. Aïn El Qamar would not be the same without the ebullient exuberance of Claudette Verlaine, or “Miss Claudette,” as she was often called.
Janna realized with a start that she had reached the side street where she lived and she turned to walk along it. As she approached her house, the friendly faces of her neighbors smiled at her, greeting her warmly in Arabic, the little children running up to her to grasp her hand for a moment. What a contrast to the welcome she had received at first, the disrespectful comments from the men and boys, the cries of nisrania, or Christian woman, from the Moslem children, the whispered gossip from the women. It was true that she still heard such things outside of her neighborhood, but here, where she was known and liked, all that had ended. Janna supposed that her early experiences had been due to ignorance and fear, both on the part of those who had been rude and insulting, and on her own as well. Knowledge of each other had ended that, thank God, and Janna was grateful that unlike certain of her friends from training who had left Morocco at their first setbacks, she herself had decided to stay on.
Janna arrived at her house. It was refreshingly cool inside now, though Janna had heard that it would eventually be hot even indoors once summer finally arrived. She looked at her watch. It was nearly four o’clock and Lahcen would soon be here to give her today’s Arabic lesson. Janna went into the kitchen to put a pot of water on the three burner counter-top stove. Lahcen had discovered that he liked Lipton tea, and they always had several cups during their lessons. His taste was in marked contrast to that of most Moroccans, whose national drink was sugary sweet mint- flavored green tea. Though Janna had learned to love this hot fragrant drink, a cup of thé noir always made her feel a little closer to home.
She dashed into the bathroom now to run a brush through her short wavy red hair. She wore little make-up, so her freckles were especially prominent after her walk in the sun. Janna was not traditionally beautiful, but she sparkled with life and energy and thus had always been considered attractive. She wondered how Lahcen found her, then told herself she was being foolish. He was eight years her junior, and it was ridiculous of her to have such thoughts.
Still, Janna knew that she found Lahcen dangerously good- looking, with his curly dark brown hair, his warm almond-shaped eyes, and the smile which lit up his entire face and made her stir with desire and, she was afraid to admit, something very close to love.
You’re a fool, Janna told herself. He’s only a student. He can’t possibly be interested in you. And even if he were, a relationship between us would be impossible!
It was annoying to have to worry about your reputation, something Janna had never bothered to do before, but the fact remained that this was Aïn El Qamar and her neighbors were friendly only because they had put her into the category of saint. It would be so easy to become what they considered the only alternative.
Damn, she was living like a nun! Not since Christmas and a brief fling with another Peace Corps Volunteer in Marrakesh had she had sex. The intervening five months had seemed endless to her, and yet Janna feared that her feelings for Lahcen exceeded, or could exceed, a mere desire for sexual pleasure.
Have you lost your mind by falling in love with your student? she asked herself as she heard the doorbell ring and went to answer it.
He was there, tall and strong for his age. He smiled and Janna was forced to face the truth.
“Hello, Lahcen,” she said to him. You fool, she said to herself.
CLAUDETTE TELLS MICHELE ABOUT THE PARTY
(After 10 years in Aïn El Qamar, Claudette Verlaine, 45ish, is the town’s most celebrated Frenchwoman. Recent arrival Michèle Perrault, 30, meets Claudette after a morning of classes.)
Michèle turned onto the main road and headed in the direction of the Epicérie Mondiale, the grocery store where most of the French shopped for staples. On the way, she glanced towards the now deserted market grounds where once a week the souk was held. Janna had taken her there soon after their first meeting, and Michèle had been fascinated by the myriad tents filled with everything from rainbow-colored fabrics, to shiny new kitchen utensils, to fragrant spices, to fresh produce. And of course there were the animals: sheep, goats, chickens, rabbits, all for sale, and not as pets. Michèle’s maid Aïsha, did much of their shopping at the souk each week, and Michèle had to admit that the fruit and vegetables she purchased there were far tastier than those sold at the indoor market where many of the French shopped.
Michèle was going to the Epicérie Mondiale to get one of the few things which Aïsha, as a Moslem, was forbidden to purchase—wine—although more than once Michèle had spotted Moroccan men leaving the store with suspiciously shaped bags and had surmised that a good deal of vin rouge was being sold under the counter.
There were almost always several cars parked outside the shop. It did excellent business with the French and with the Europeanized Moroccans of Aïn El Qamar, and carried most everything that could be found in a much larger grocery store in Casablanca or Rabat. Michèle parked, locked her car for safety even though she only expected to be inside for a minute, and entered the shop. As usual, the shelves were piled high with merchandise. The Mondiale was small, but surprisingly well- stocked.
“Ah Michèle!” called out a voice, and as Michèle’s eyes became adjusted to the relative darkness of the shop, she saw Claudette Verlaine, the famous Miss Claudette of Aïn El Qamar. Today the voluptuous Frenchwoman was wearing a clingy green silk blouse and tight white slacks which she had tucked into a pair of knee- high black leather boots.
Claudette was in her forties, though few would have guessed, for the obvious care she took with her appearance. She was tall, perhaps five-ten, with a thick mane of auburn hair and spectacular green eyes. Michèle thought that the expertly applied make-up she wore was a bit more appropriate for evening than for daytime, but then Miss Claudette had a reputation for doing everything to excess—driving fast, playing hard, and making love like a tigress.
“Just coming from class now?” asked Claudette.
“In a round-about way. I stopped off to see Janna Gallagher.”
“A charming girl,” exclaimed Claudette. “Absolument charmante. She lets me speak my atrocious English and never corrects a single one of my many mistakes. Je l’adore!”
Michèle found herself somewhat tongue-tied at Claudette’s exuberance, but the glamorous Frenchwoman did not seem to be waiting for an answer.
“Mon Dieu,” she continued. “School has only just started and already I am in need of a vacation. Not that I don’t adore my little angels. But they can be little devils at times.” Claudette’s pre- teenaged students were in première and deuxième, the first two of the seven years of study offered at Lycée Mohamed Cinq. “I tell you, Michèle, I need a long vacation with a wonderful man who will make love to me from dusk to dawn, and then again from dawn to dusk.”
Michèle remained at a loss for words in the presence of such enthusiasm. Fortunately, Claudette had turned to the pudgy, balding shopkeeper and begun to read off her shopping list.
“Eh bien, monsieur, I shall have one bottle of Pernaud Blanc, one of Martini Rouge, and three of Gris de Boulaouane ...,” she was saying, and Michèle could only stand in open-mouthed admiration at this instantaneous change of persona. Speaking to the shopkeeper, Claudette was both aloof and commanding. Without being condescending, she nonetheless was able to keep her distance. It was quite an impressive performance, thought Michèle, who could see now how Claudette had managed to live for so many years in Aïn El Qamar despite her sexy ways and provocative attire.
As the shopkeeper’s youthful assistant raced around the shop to fetch Claudette’s requests, sometimes climbing up a ladder to reach the higher shelves, Claudette continued her conversation with Michèle, and once again she had become her usual ebullient self.
“So we were talking about vacation, n’est-ce pas? It is not yet November and already I am planning my December holidays. This year we shall have a longer period than we normally do because Christmas vacation coincides with the Moslem fete of Aïd El Kébir—you do know that means ‘big holiday,’ don’t you? They will celebrate by slaughtering sheep, and I shall celebrate by making love day and night for two glorious weeks. And let me let you in on a little secret, chérie ...” Claudette leaned over to whisper in Michèle’s ear. “I think I’ve found just the man to satisfy my urges. So tall, and handsome, and strong, and in his tennis shorts—a stallion! Now if I can just get him out of those shorts and between my bed sheets!”
A flustered Michèle noticed that the shopkeeper was again trying to attract their attention.
“Oui, monsieur?” said Claudette, resuming her nearly regal air. “Yes, that will be all. You have totaled it up in my book? Excellent!”
She signed her name in the notebook where her account was kept and noting that it was almost the end of the month, said, “I shall bring you a check within the week.” The shopkeeper handed the bag containing Claudette’s purchases to his young helper who proceeded to carry it towards her car.
As Claudette was leaving she called back to Michèle, “Oh, chérie, I almost forgot to tell you. I’ve decided to throw a magnificent party, the event of the year, on December l8th. That’s the first night of the Christmas holiday, so don’t leave town until after you’ve attended. Jot it down in your date book. It’s sure to be an unforgettable night! Au revoir.”
“Au revoir,” said Michèle, thinking to herself that Claudette could definitely be depended upon to bring life, energy, and excitement along with her wherever she went. It should be quite a party, Michèle told herself, happy to have something to look forward to, even though weeks away.
CLAUDETTE DECIDES TO THROW CAUTION TO THE WIND
(About an hour later, Claudette is at the Hotel El Qamar, the popular tourist hotel on the outskirts of Aïn El Qamar.)
“What a workout!” exclaimed Claudette as she took a seat at a table beside the swimming pool. “You never for a moment let me stand still on the court, Fareed. I shall have to find a way to pay you back.”
“And what exactly do you have in mind?” asked Fareed, sitting down opposite her.
“You’ll find out,” replied Claudette mysteriously. Fareed pulled off his sweat- stained tennis shirt to reveal a hard muscled torso. Mon Dieu, thought Claudette. He’s going to make me come right here and now.
With outward calm, she said, “I had no idea that Moroccans were such sun worshipers.”
Fareed leaned back, his hands behind his head, his eyes closed against the sun, the black hair in his armpits dripping with moisture. Claudette thought she had never seen such animal grace and strength. His every movement, every detail of his body excites me, she said to herself.
“You’re talking about my parents’ generation,” answered Fareed languidly. “For them, being dark was a sign of poverty. Only people who had to work in the fields got brown from the sun’s rays. But I live in a different world. I love the heat of the sun on my skin.”
And what delicious skin that is, thought Claudette, as her gaze wandered down from his finely-chiseled bronze chest to the line of hair that ran down his washboard stomach and finally to the prominent bulge in his tennis shorts. Like a stallion, she had told Michèle Perrault. Like a bull, she added to herself now.
“Would you care for anything to drink?” asked a voice beside them. Claudette turned to face the waiter.
“Mademoiselle Verlaine?” the waiter asked expectantly.
“Fareed, chéri?” asked the French woman.
“A Flag Pils for me,” replied the tennis pro lazily, still reclining with his eyes closed to the sun’s rays. Fareed obviously knew that even though Moroccan, he would have no trouble being served beer at this luxury tourist hotel where laws were bent to please its exclusive clientele.
“Deux Flags,” said Claudette with the poise and detachment that had always been characteristic of her dealings with Moroccans in Aïn El Qamar. Characteristic, that is, until the day last month when she had returned to the Hotel El Qamar for the first time since her summer holidays in Greece and Italy to find a new tennis pro giving a lesson to Dave Casalini, the American English teacher. She had taken one look at his strong muscular body moving across the court like a panther and had known suddenly that her life was about to change.
A month had passed since that first meeting, and today as Claudette sat drinking her beer, unable to keep her eyes off Fareed’s sinewy body, she wondered what it would be like to be known intimately by Mohamed Fareed.
Arrête, Claudette, she told herself sharply. Stop this at once! Even a brief involvement with a Moroccan in this small town would put her carefully maintained reputation in danger, and Claudette knew that a one-night adventure with Fareed would never be enough. Since the first day she had laid eyes on him, he had been her obsession. She could not stop thinking of him, even for a moment.
More and more these days, Claudette felt tempted to throw caution to the wind. But could she, after the years she had spent building an image for herself in Aïn El Qamar? Dared she let that image be destroyed? Claudette knew that people considered her wild, eccentric, and even promiscuous, but she had made it a point to keep her relationships with Moroccan males in Aïn El Qamar strictly businesslike. These men understood that she had established a hands-off policy and that she only associated with those who accepted this. Claudette had known many lovers after Jean-Richard Moreau, the man with whom she still lived, and there had been Moroccans among them, quite a number of them in fact, but always on weekends in Casablanca or Marrakesh, never in her own town. Not that she limited herself to Arabs. She had bedded men from all over Europe during her ten years in Morocco, and from other continents as well, but she had to admit that she preferred Moroccans. No other men could equal the hard macho virility of her Moroccan lovers.
Was it because Fareed was the epitome of this virile masculinity that she found him so exciting? Or was there something more to her passion for him?
Claudette had stopped counting her birthdays when she hit forty a few years ago, and though she was still able to maintain the facade of youth, she knew that this could not last forever. Already her curvaceous body was losing its firmness, despite the regular exercise she gave it, and her auburn hair seemed less lustrous. Perhaps soon, the green fire that burned in her eyes would begin to dim. And then, without her youth and beauty, where would she be? She could already feel changes taking place, and her mirror was beginning to become her enemy. So far the changes could be hidden with skillfully applied make-up and expensive moisturizing creams, but they would not remain so forever.
Was Fareed a last desperate attempt to cling to her youth? Claudette knew that she found the nights spent alone between weekends and holidays more and more difficult to bear. Was she beginning to need a full-time lover’s reassurance that she was still desirable? Was this what was urging her towards a dangerous liaison with the Moroccan tennis pro?
“What a morning!” exclaimed Fareed now, and Claudette was brought back from her reverie into the present.
“You must be exhausted,” she said, smiling sympathetically at him as he finished his Flag Pils. “Playing tennis for enjoyment is one thing but spending the whole day doing it can’t help but wear you out.”
“It’s not so much the playing as the teaching,” answered Fareed. “Some of my pupils are not ... gifted. This morning was particularly tiring. I really needed this beer.”
“And how would you feel about a good home-cooked meal? You must be famished. Jean-Richard told me yesterday that he wouldn’t be back from Rabat until early afternoon, and I’m sure Saadia has made enough for us both. She’s a marvelous cook.”
Claudette could scarcely believe what she had just done. It was insanity for her to invite a Moroccan bachelor to her house, especially when Jean-Richard was out of town. What if people should find out? What if being alone with Fareed should lead to ...? Was she losing her mind?
“Sounds wonderful,” he answered. “I don’t have another lesson until late this afternoon.”
“And I don’t teach again until four,” said Claudette. Mon Dieu, she was actually going through with it.
“Then we can have a long leisurely lunch,” said Fareed. “What have you got planned for me?”
“Planned?” But she hadn’t planned this! It had been a sudden impulse, a sudden uncontrollable impulse. She could still find an excuse to withdraw the invitation if she wanted to.
“Yes. What’s on the menu?” Fareed seemed puzzled by her confusion.
“That will be Saadia’s surprise,” answered Claudette. “I’m sure it will be luscious, though.” So she had made her decision. Right or wrong, there was no turning back. Her need for Fareed had overpowered her. Perhaps she had known all along that it eventually would.
DAVE TELLS HIS LATEEF ABOUT HIS PLAN
(23-year-old Dave Casalini teaches English at Lycée Mohamed Cinq. Lateef Raffali is his 19-year-old student.)
As Dave entered his living room, he found Lateef sitting on the rug, his back against one of the banquettes. He was reading a book, of course. This time it was The Graduate. He seemed to be nearly at the end of it. Dave crossed the room and sat down on the rug beside him.
“You never cease to amaze me, Lateef,” he said in English.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that you’re always doing something surprising,” explained the American, knowing that Lateef would now memorize the expression. “Didn’t you borrow that book just yesterday?”
“It’s a short book,” said Lateef modestly. “And I saw the movie starring Dustin Hoffman at the Cinéclub last month.”
“But still, that’s a pretty hard novel.”
“Aw, reading’s a snap,” announced Lateef, using an idiom which Dave had recently taught him.
“But with so many people in your house, how can you concentrate?” Lateef’s parents had been killed in an accident when he was a young boy, and he had lived since then with the family of his father’s elder sister, who had five children of her own. Dave knew that Lateef had always felt like an outsider in his relatives’ home, and a burden on them as well. The family had little money, and though Lateef had greater freedom than the students who boarded at school, his study conditions were less favorable. Perhaps that was why he had willingly accepted Dave’s early invitations to study at his and Kevin’s house, that and the fact that in the Americans’ home he had found the warmth and affection that had so long been lacking in his life.
Lateef closed the book and placed it on the banquette behind him. He turned to look at Dave, his dark eyes large and long- lashed. “You said before lunch that you had something important to tell me,” he reminded the American.
“That’s right,” said Dave. He felt his heart begin to pound, and wished for a moment that he were a smoker. If he had been a Moroccan, he would doubtless have lit a cigarette to calm his nerves, but Dave had never picked up the habit and had, in fact, even convinced Lateef to quit soon after they had become friends.
“So, what is it?” asked Lateef expectantly.
“What are your plans for the future?”
“The future?” Lateef seemed at a loss for words. “You mean after the bac?”
As a high school senior, Lateef faced the formidable obstacle of passing the dreaded baccalauréat exam in June. Dave knew he was worried about passing, although he himself was confident that his star pupil would have no difficulty breezing through the test. It was what would happen once Lateef had passed the exam that had Dave worried.
“Yes, after the bac,” repeated Dave.
“We’ve been over this before. You know I’d like to go to the university, Dave. But I don’t see how I can. Even if I do get in, very few students actually graduate. I’ve been a burden on my relatives long enough. It’s time I started earning my own living.”
“You’re only nineteen, Lateef,” protested Dave. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”
“I don’t see what else I can do,” said Lateef resignedly. “Anyway, you’ll be back in the States when this school year is over. So you don’t have to worry about it.”
“I do worry,” exclaimed Dave. “I can’t not worry. And that’s why ...” Dave hesitated. What he was about to propose would change Lateef’s life forever. The words Dave was about to utter might be the most momentous words Lateef would ever hear. So just say them, damn it, and get it over with! Dave ordered himself.
“I want you to come to the United States with me when I leave Morocco in June.” There, it was out!
“You what?” Lateef seemed not to have understood.
“I said I want to take you back to the States with me.”
The words seemed to be taking forever to sink into Lateef’s consciousness. Then, all of a sudden, his arms were around the American, and Dave could feel Lateef’s tears on his cheek. He wanted so desperately kiss them dry, but he restrained himself, as he always did.
“I’m so happy! I’m so happy!” wept Lateef.
“Does that mean the answer is yes?”
“Of course it is!” shouted Lateef, jumping up, pulling Dave with him. Hugging the tall American once again, he looked into his eyes and cried, “Thank you! Thank you!”
Then, without warning, he withdrew himself, a look of near despair shadowing his face. He turned and moved slowly towards the window, staring out into space.
Bewildered by this sudden change, Dave walked over to him, put his hand on Lateef’s shoulder, and turned him around so that they were face to face. “Lateef. What’s wrong? A minute ago you were happier than I’ve ever seen you.”
“I was, until ... until I realized ... Dave! They’ll never let me leave the country!”
“Who are ‘they’?” asked Dave. “Your relatives?”
“No, of course not. To them, I’m just another mouth to feed.”
“Then who are you talking about?”
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a passport to leave Morocco? Especially when you’re poor like I am. And even more so for the United States? It is possible for students to get visas to study in France, but that’s only if they’re on full scholarship. I still don’t know enough English to even get into an American university.”
“Your English is excellent,” reassured Dave. “You should hear yourself talking now! Besides, I’ve already thought of that. You know I recently applied for grad school at my alma mater, Chicago State University. Anyway, Chicago State has a great English language program for foreign students. After you’ve studied there for a few months, it’ll be a piece of cake for you to get into college. As far as money is concerned, don’t worry about it. We’ll find a way.”
“You really think it’s possible, Dave? I want to believe you, but ...”
“Leave it up to me, young man. I promise you that this is one dream that’s going to come true ... for both of us.”
“I can hardly believe it!” exclaimed Lateef. He walked over to one of the banquettes and sat down. “It’s just too wonderful!” he cried, and broke into tears once again.
Dave moved over to sit next to him. He put his arms around Lateef and let him cry on his shoulder.
At first it seemed that Lateef’s tears of joy would never end, but eventually he regained his composure and Dave said to him, “We’ll have lots of time for making plans. And I promise to get to work on your passport right away.” After a moment’s pause, he added, “And now Mr. Raffali, if I’m not mistaken, hadn’t you better be getting yourself ready for your afternoon classes? As for me, I’ve got a lesson to plan.”
The two got up from the banquette, Dave reaching down to the coffee table for a tissue with which he dried Lateef’s swollen eyes. “Wash your face before class, or your friends will think something terrible’s happened to you.”
“But I’ll just tell them the truth,” suggested Lateef.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Dave, “at least not for now. Let’s not tell anyone about our plans until we’ve started getting some positive results.”
“Couldn’t I even tell Naï ...?”
“No one!”
“All right,” said Lateef grudgingly. “And thank you!” he added, looking up to kiss Dave on both cheeks, as was the Moroccan custom between close friends. What a difference a few inches make, thought Dave ruefully. But he kept his thoughts to himself. “Off to school with you,” he ordered.
Lateef picked up his books from the banquette. Then, giving his teacher and friend a last smile, he left the room. A moment later, Dave heard the front door shut.
“Am I doing the right thing?” he asked himself for the umpteenth time. Dave recalled the name that Lateef had been about to say before he had interrupted him. Naïma. That was who he wished to tell of his good fortune. Naïma, the pretty teenaged girl that Lateef had known since childhood and whom he referred to as his girlfriend. Naïma!
Dave had only seen the girl once or twice, and yet he hated her, could not hear her name without wanting to scream. For it was Naïma who was Lateef’s girlfriend. It was Naïma whom he willingly kissed and held, and not Dave. Doubtless Naïma’s Moslem code of morality had prevented her from letting Lateef go any further than that in their lovemaking. Still, even the thought of the two of them alone together in the olive groves was enough to make Dave nearly explode with jealousy.
For Lateef had let him know in no uncertain terms that he could never kiss a man, could never allow a man to make love to his body, and this was precisely what Dave yearned for with all his heart and soul.
Dave glanced at his watch. Half past two. Only half an hour until he had to be in class, yet he still had no idea what he would be teaching or how he would teach it. As he sat at his desk, pen in hand, a notebook before him open to a blank page, several textbooks and grammar manuals strewn across the desk top, Dave found himself unable to concentrate on his work. His mind kept wandering back to Lateef, reviewing the time they had spent together. Now, as always, he sensed his friend’s absence. Never before had he felt such a constant need to be near another human being. Never before had he loved another human being so deeply, not even Ethan, with whom he had lived for nearly a year in college. Last summer in Spain had been spoiled by Lateef’s absence, though at first he had thought it would be good to get away for a while to better evaluate his feelings, and Lateef’s lack of a passport had seemed to offer him the perfect excuse to put some distance between them. He had even had a brief fling with an apprentice bullfighter, as he had hinted to Claudette. But it hadn’t been enough. Dave had thought of Lateef constantly while in Spain, and the pain of his loneliness and longing had been nearly unbearable.
And yet, was it any easier being around Lateef, knowing that they could not be lovers on Dave’s terms?
Once he had thought that Lateef was the answer to his prayers. Once he had had such beautiful dreams of a love that he knew now was impossible. Once his life had been so much less complicated than it was today.
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