THE DAY JEAN-RICHARD MOREAU MET CLAUDETTE.
(French playboy Jean-Richard recalls his arrival in Morocco, ten years ago.)

     The Atlas Mountains loomed larger and larger on the horizon as the driver of the white Fiat sports coupe approached Aïn El Qamar. Less than three hours earlier he had been in Rabat, the seaside capital of Morocco, with its bustling streets, gleaming white villas, purple bougainvillea, and cosmopolitan air. Now he was truly in another world. Around him as he sped along the two lane highway were tiny farms where chickens and goats intermingled outside modest box-shaped earthen dwellings.  Jellaba-clad men pushed wooden plows drawn by donkeys. Women were invisible, doubtless indoors as was their custom. Occasionally, the driver could see flocks of sheep tended by small boys. At times he whizzed past older children holding up a scrawny chicken or rabbit for sale. He did not stop. He saw these things, but paid little attention. In his ten years in Aïn El Qamar, similar sights had become commonplace. They were not part of his own private world which consisted of the school where he taught, his French friends, the tennis court of the Hotel El Qamar, long weekends out of town in four-star hotels, and countless brief affairs with beautiful women, French, Italian, Spanish … that is to say whoever was desirable, available, and willing.
     I hardly know Morocco, thought Jean-Richard Moreau. Not its people. Not its customs. I’m really nothing but an intruder here, and if at times the Moroccans seem unwelcoming and even  hostile, then who really is at fault?
     People like Laurent and Christiane Koenigsmarck would not hesitate to blame the “natives,” Jean-Richard knew. Their kind obviously felt that they had the right to claim whatever they desired in Morocco as their own and that the Moroccans were born to serve them.
     Jean-Richard did not share this racist attitude, though he understood it. Prejudice allowed the Koenigsmarcks and others like them to forget their own inferiority, and ironically, despite their frequent complaints, they were probably happier here than they could ever have been in France. Still, there were times when Jean-Richard could hardly prevent himself from telling them how much he despised them. But he never said a word. One did not publicly criticize one’s own kind, and the facts were plain. Jean- Richard had remained in Morocco for ten years, and like the Koenigsmarcks, he had no intention of leaving. From the beginning, Morocco had offered him asylum, not merely from his own country, but from memories that haunted him, that denied him and would always deny him the happiness that he had once believed possible.
     Happiness! Jean-Richard laughed bitterly at the word as he drove past a tired elderly couple hoping for a free ride. He had not deliberately snubbed them. They were merely part of the scenery and his thoughts were elsewhere.
     “Happiness!” he repeated aloud. Did such a thing as happiness even exist? He thought he had known happiness those years ago in Paris. Happiness had meant being twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, feeling that each new day would bring you joy upon joy, loving, and the security of being loved.
     What idiocy! You did not stay young forever and each lonely day only destroyed you more. You dared not love for fear of being hurt, and the love others professed to give you was a sham, a dirty painful farce.
     The French in Aïn El Qamar thought of Jean-Richard as a carefree, fun-loving playboy, but that was because they did not see his moments of despair, did not sense the hollowness of his life. These he hid with smiles and charming remarks and a gallant manner. His friends knew only the exterior, the wavy golden blond hair, the sun-bronzed skin, the deep brown eyes, the lithe athletic body, the impeccably tailored clothes. They did not see the ashes where once his heart had beat.
     Only Claudette Verlaine knew of the conflicts within Jean- Richard, and though she sympathized with his private agonies, she was unable to understand them fully. She was in reality what Jean- Richard only pretended to be, a lover of fun and excitement and adventure. She relished these things, while for Jean-Richard they were only a way to fill up the empty hours and to stave off boredom. Claudette knew the real Jean-Richard, and considered him her dearest friend, but she realized that she was powerless to help him, and had long ago stopped trying.
     Jean-Richard still wondered what had prompted him to bare his soul to her that day ten years ago in Casablanca. Neither had been in Morocco for more than twenty-four hours when, totally by chance, they had made each other’s acquaintance in a popular Italian restaurant. In the course of conversation, they had discovered to their amazement that they were both heading for Aïn El Qamar.
     “Live with me,” Claudette had said boldly and unexpectedly.
     “Quoi?” asked a stupefied Jean-Richard.
     “Live with me,” she replied. “I do not wish to be alone in a small town. It does not suit me to share a house with another woman. You are single. I am as well. We shall live together. Nothing could be simpler.”
     Jean-Richard admired her boldness, but had hesitated to agree to her request.
     “What is the matter, chéri?” Claudette had asked.
     And then, surprising even himself, Jean-Richard had found himself taking her question literally and telling her exactly what the matter was. Perhaps it was because she was a stranger. Perhaps it was because this beautiful woman seemed to have lived and experienced many things in her thirty-five-odd years. Whatever the reason, Jean-Richard was soon revealing to her all of his secret anguish, telling her every humiliating detail of the memories which had rendered his life meaningless.
     “Pauvre garçon,” said Claudette sympathetically when he had finished. “What a horrendous thing to have happened to you!” Then her face had brightened and she had said, “But now is the time to start anew. I want someone to live with, a friend, a confidant, a protector. Should we become lovers, so much the better. Mais ce n’est pas nécessaire.”
     Jean-Richard could scarcely believe what he was hearing, but Claudette had been insistent.
     “Alors, will you share a house with me?”
     And Jean-Richard had impulsively decided to take the plunge.
     “Yes. I will,” he had replied. “You’ve made me realize that I don’t want to live alone either. It’s a great idea, in fact. D’accord, Claudette. We’ll greet Aïn El Qamar as a team.”
     Jean-Richard caught a distant glimpse of Aïn El Qamar now, cradled at the foot of the Atlas Mountains on this October afternoon ten years later. He was thirty-four years old. And the town where he lived was, if not home, then at least a comfortable and non-threatening place for Jean-Richard to hide.
     Aïn El Qamar was growing larger by the minute as he neared it. He could perceive the minarets of its many mosques beginning to distinguish themselves from the rest of the town. Then, as he approached the turnoff from the main highway, the olive groves which surrounded Aïn El Qamar blocked his view of it.
     Not yet, he thought. I can’t drive in yet. I need more time to myself. He slowed down, pulled his Fiat over to the side of the road, and got out. The olive groves were deserted at the moment. Locking the car, he walked across the wild grass which covered the ground and sat in the shade of an olive tree.
     Jean-Richard glanced at his watch and saw that there was still another hour before his first class. He had prepared it yesterday after his morning lessons. Then, just before twelve, he had left for Rabat, having no classes either that afternoon or this morning. It was a business trip. Somehow or other there had been a foul-up in his accounts, and his last statement had shown too much money being transferred into French francs, leaving him not enough Moroccan dirhams for his daily expenses. Knowing that a phone call would be futile, he had decided to make the trip by car. The hours waiting for the Moroccan bureaucracy to attend to him had seemed endless, but finally yesterday evening he had finished his business. Having already checked into a comfortable downtown hotel, he had gone directly to a restaurant he did not know personally, but which a friend had recommended to him. And yet another of his romantic adventures had begun.

KEVIN KENSINGTON COMES OUT TO DAVE
(a few months before their arrival in Aïn El Qamar.)

     They were among the few trainees remaining in Rabat that weekend in late August of last year. Most of their fifty-odd colleagues had left the training site to explore various destinations in Morocco—Tangier, Fez, Marrakesh—or to visit those Peace Corps volunteers who had remained in country despite this being the hottest month of the summer. Dave was recovering from the flu; otherwise he would certainly have left the high school dormitory where they were staying for a more entertaining destination. Kevin, on the other hand, had not wanted to travel anywhere despite being in perfect health. For the past several weeks, in fact, he had scarcely wanted to leave the training site, even to go to a restaurant for dinner.
     Kevin occupied the cubicle next to Dave’s. It was for this reason that Dave overheard Kevin’s tears that August evening. Even so, he hesitated at first to interrupt Kevin’s pain. Kevin had been a loner during the first six weeks of training and Dave had felt that any intrusion upon Kevin’s privacy would have been just that, an intrusion. And so he had held back, until today.
     But the tears Dave heard seemed to hold such desperation that they were finally impossible to ignore. Rising up from the bunk where he lay attempting to read a French novel, Dave went out and stood for a moment next to Kevin’s adjoining cubicle. Then, pulling back the curtain which gave a modicum of privacy, he entered.
     “Get out of here!” Kevin cried out from the bunk where he lay. “Can’t you see I want to be alone!”
     Ignoring Kevin’s anger, Dave went over and sat next to him. “What’s wrong?” he asked sympathetically. “I know something’s been bothering you. You’ve seemed really depressed these past few weeks, and it’s not getting any better. Why don’t you talk about it?”
     “What good will talking do!” exclaimed Kevin. “Talking won’t bring him back to me! Nothing ever will! I … I wish I were dead!”
     “Won’t bring who back to you? Who are you talking about, Kevin?” Dave paused. “An ex-boyfriend?”
     At first Kevin couldn’t believe his ears. He had been so careful not to let on to anyone in his training program that he was different. How in God’s name had Dave figured out his secret?
     “You can talk to me about it, you know. I promise you I’ll understand.”
     Incredibly, Kevin could hear sympathy in Dave’s voice. But how could that be? Dave was so normal. He must have dated dozens of girls back in the States. How could he possibly understand Kevin’s feelings for another man? And yet here he was looking at him compassionately and saying, “You can tell me about it, you know. I know what it’s like to lose a boyfriend.”
     “What?” Kevin thought he must be hearing things.
     “That’s right, Kevin,” said Dave. “I came to Morocco because the guy I shared my bed with wouldn’t live openly with me as my boyfriend. Leaving Ethan was the saddest thing I ever had to do, but I couldn’t go on living a lie, and once it was over between us, I needed to get away, far away. That’s why I came to Morocco. To escape. So tell me, what brought you here?”
     “You’re…you’re…,” Kevin stammered.
     “I think the word you’re looking for is gay,” completed Dave.
     “But you’re so … I mean, you’re not …”
     “I don’t act gay?” asked Dave. “What does acting gay mean? Stop thinking in stereotypes, Kevin. You’re no more stereotypical than I am.”
     “How come you never said anything before?”
     “You weren’t ready to hear it. But I’ve come out to four of the other trainees,” admitted Dave. “Or shall I say, we’ve come out to each other.”
     “You mean …?”
“There’re at least five of us in this training program. Five that I’m sure of. And now you make it an even half-dozen. They came for the same reason I did. Moroccan men are hot. I had a Moroccan boyfriend when I was studying in France. That’s why I’m here. And you, Kevin? Why are you in Morocco? Or more to the point, what are you running away from? What happened between you and your boyfriend? What was his name by the way?”
     “Jamey. Jamey Morales” said Kevin. “And he was my college roommate, not my boyfriend.”
     “But you wanted him to be?”
     “Yes, I wanted him to be!”
     Kevin once again burst into sobs and Dave pulled him close and let Kevin’s tears fall on his shoulder, all the while holding him in his arms and saying over and over again, “It’s all right, Kevin. It’s all right.”
     Finally Kevin’s tears subsided, and he removed himself from Dave’s embrace. “I honestly can talk to you about it?” he asked disbelievingly.
     “Yes, Kevin, you can.”
     Was it actually true? Could it be that Dave was really gay? And not only Dave but others of his fellow trainees as well? What a relief already to know that he was not alone!
     And so Kevin began to unburden himself of the pain which had been getting steadily more unbearable until today he had thought seriously about taking his own life. For it was three months ago today that Jamey had had been killed.

MARCIE NELSON WONDERS ABOUT JEAN-RICHARD(What else could a Wisconsin farm girl do but fall for precisely the kind of man her mother warned her about?)

     Marcie Nelson was examining her face in her bathroom mirror. Darn! she thought disgustedly. No face could be more out of its element than mine is in Aïn El Qamar. Why can’t my skin be a little less pale, or my cheeks just a little less pink, or my eyes a shade less blue? Maybe I should dye my hair black, she fantasized.
     Marcie giggled as she imagined herself with black hair. That would probably make her look like “Morticia Addams” or something equally horrifying. No, she would just have to face the fact that she was going to stand out in whatever crowd she might find herself here in Aïn El Qamar. And that meant among the French as well as among Moroccans.
     She wished she could master the art of dressing stylishly. It was true, of course, that not all the Frenchwomen in Aïn El Qamar were clothed like something out of Vogue. Claudette wore her flamboyant sexy tight things, Michèle looked like a left-over flower child from the late sixties, and then there was Christiane Koenigsmarck who might easily have bought her clothes at K- Mart. But there were others, Madame Lemont, and Madame Marchand, and Madame Arrier, women Marcie hardly knew but whose style and sophistication she admired. Unfortunately, their clothes would no doubt look as foolish on her as would black hair or heavy eye make-up. She’d only look like a small town girl making believe she was someone else and fooling nobody. Face the facts, kiddo, she told herself. You are what you are and only time and experience—if you’re lucky—are going to change that.
     She ran a brush through her thick honey blond hair, rinsed her mouth, dabbed on some cologne she had received as a going-away present, and walked into her living room to wait for Kevin to arrive. She sat down on the lone banquette. It was the only seat available, because after just a bit more than a month in Aïn El Qamar, she had not yet bought much furniture, only the banquette, and the coffee table on which she ate and prepared lessons, one lonely plant by the living room door, her bed, and some kitchen supplies. On Kevin’s advice, she had decided to accumulate things slowly, and get only what pleased her, instead of buying a lot of furniture on credit right away as did some volunteers who then ended up with a ton of junk which they didn’t really like, and a mountain of debts.
     Marcie already found herself thinking of a third year in Aïn El Qamar after she had completed her two-year stint. This mixture of Arab and European worlds never ceased to fascinate her. In fact, she couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else. As far as furnishing her house was concerned, she could probably pick up some nice things from teachers who were planning to leave at the end of the school year.
     Looking around the nearly bare living room now, Marcie thought to herself: It certainly isn’t a home yet, but in time it will be. In time …
     Involuntarily she looked down at the airmail envelope on the table before her. Time … How could she think of time here when there was Eddy to consider? Eddy, who had been so hesitant to let her leave. Eddy, who still wrote her constantly, trying to get her to change her mind and come back home.
     She had known Eddy Gustafson since they were kids. They’d been best friends in grammar school, steadies in high school, and they’d continued their relationship by mail throughout college. Marcie had stayed at home and attended the University of Wisconsin at River Falls, just a few miles from where she and her family lived. Eddy had gone to the University of Chicago. They’d seen each other during vacations, though, and when graduation had approached, he’d asked her to marry him.
     I always knew he would, she told herself now in Aïn El Qamar, and I always knew I’d say yes. So why then am I here, thousands of miles away from Eddy? And why is his ring hanging from a chain around my neck, and not on my finger?
     Eddy hadn’t understood her hesitation to marry him right  away. She’d told him she wanted to see more of the world. She’d told him not to worry, they’d known each other for so long, two more years apart wouldn’t make a difference. He could come over during the summer, or she could go home. She had done her best to be persuasive, and finally he had agreed, however reluctantly, to let her go.
     Another letter had arrived from Eddy today. Come home. Please. I need you. I want you. I love you.
     Marcie loved him too. But she was beginning to come to the awful realization that she didn’t really need him. She had taken to life in Aïn el Qamar like the proverbial fish to water, and though she wrote Eddy regularly, it was more out of excitement over her new and thrilling experiences in Morocco than out of a need to feel closer to the man she loved.
     And did she really want him as he wanted her? If so, how was it possible that they had never slept together? Was it true, as she had told him, that her religious and moral values forbade her to have sex with a man before marriage? Or was she merely fooling herself? Was the answer much less complicated? Could it be simply that Eddy did not excite her? Would she, for example, have turned down a man like Jean-Richard?
     The thought of the Frenchman jerked Marcie back to reality. Now what on earth had made her think of him? She hardly knew the man. Not only that, but she had already heard enough stories about him to make her realize that he was not the sort of person she wanted to become involved with. She had too much self- respect to let herself be seduced by someone whose reputation for one night stands was legend in Aïn El Qamar.
     Still, she could not deny that she felt a shiver of excitement whenever she saw his wavy golden hair and sun-tanned face. Just the sound of his voice speaking French almost made her heart stop beating. And like it or not, she had lately begun thinking of the man much too often for her own good.
     Marcie had tried to tell herself that this was because he was foreign, because he was French. She had majored in la langue française at U.W. and was enchanted by its sounds and the feeling of romance she got whenever she heard or spoke it. That was one of the reasons she had chosen to come to Morocco. For the first time in her life now, she found herself in a place where she could hear and speak French whenever she wished. Was it merely that Jean-Richard was the first Frenchman that she had ever really known? Was that the reason she reacted to him in a way that threatened the stability of her relationship with Eddy?
     Or was there more? Could it be that she sensed in Jean-Richard some deeply hidden pain that cried out to her? No, she was being foolish and fanciful! All the same, there were moments at school when she would catch a glimpse of him with a look of emptiness in his eyes even as there was a smile on his lips. Or was that merely her overactive imagination reacting to life in a strange and exotic world?
     What a lot of questions without answers, Marcie told herself now as she looked down at Eddy’s letter. She knew that she ought to answer it tonight, but tonight she was invited to Jean-Richard’s, and after that she had to plan a lesson for an eight o’clock class tomorrow morning. I’ll write you tomorrow afternoon, Eddy, she promised.
     Just then the doorbell rang. Marcie rushed back into the bathroom for a last quick look in the mirror. There’s nothing you can do about that face, she groaned. Maybe someday you’ll have glamour, maturity, and sophistication, but for now you’re just a small-town Wisconsin hick.