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HASSAN NAJMI Arrival in Paris He still remembered the moment they left from the port of Tangiers. It was very early morning and the light was still dim when Gertrude said to him: “You’ve got the address now, haven’t you? So you can come to Paris whenever you like. It’s a standing invitation, Mohammed.” Then she had brought her mouth to his ear, possibly to prevent Alice Toklas, who was standing nearby, from hearing the few words she quickly spoke to him, this handsome young man from Tangiers who had captivated the two women for the last few days. Mohammed had gazed deeply into Gertrude’s face, perhaps to determine how serious the offer really was. He feared that what she had said might have been nothing but common courtesy, a mere nicety. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, raising his eyebrows and puckering his lips as if to say: “I don’t know!” Deep down, however, he realized the invitation was genuine. Being given it in private had increased his confidence in its sincerity and that of the person who had made it. It may have been at that very moment that he made his decision, and then it became only a matter of time. The same port. The same early morning. Perhaps even the same dim light. However, it was another moment of departure that he would never forget. He stood there for a long time, gazing at the point where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic and the Rock of Gibraltar looms on the far shore, enveloped in fog. Then he rushed over to the ramp that led onto the anchored ship, just moments before it set off for Marseilles. He embarked hurriedly lest he feel a sudden pang of regret, give up and turn back. He had to make light of everything he was leaving behind lest he go back on his decision. With the exception of his cousin Bakhta, whom he had intended to marry and in whose arms he had dreamed of spending his life, nothing was worth regretting. Of course, there were plenty of things he would remember: his many friends at work and in the city;Tangiers itself, and its sprawling, well-kept coast; his table in the corner of the Paris Café; the reed huts that served as brothels on the Malabata beach; his little library and some of his personal belongings, which were few. BANIPAL 43 – SPRING 2012 91

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