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HASSAN NAJMI Mohammed had undoubtedly broken for good with his government job and executive privileges. He may have done so out of despair, the way someone might fling himself into empty space from atop a high hill, or like someone, in a state of panic, might clear a wall far higher than anything he could clear in his normal state.Those who didn’t know Mohammed as well as we in Tangiers did – although we had only met him late in life – would undoubtedly have said that he must have been touched in the head to do what he did; to pick up and run away across the sea to the north, like a crazed bull that had broken its lead and escaped. Someone who had worked both in the king’s palace and as an interpreter in the viceroy’s headquarters had no need to give everything up by flinging himself into the unknown.We know that he had visited France, Spain and England on ambassadorial missions, and that he had lived in Marseilles for a while with a group of Moroccan exchange students. We also know that when the students returned home, they discovered that their new knowledge was useless in the conditions that had prevailed since the death of one king and the rise of another. Consequently, they had been obliged to exchange their European clothes for the jilbab,1 the silham,2 and other traditional attire. They had nearly been buried alive. The government’s stance had been nothing but a façade designed to smother beautiful dreams, now shattered. We tried to get a sense of the state that Mohammed was in when he decided to leave. However, we can’t know for certain what it was. After all, in cases like these, even the person concerned may not be aware of the real reason for making such a life-changing decision. In reality, no one can say that someone was angry, desperate, crazy or stupid to do whatever it was that he did. It’s others who do the describing and the pigeon-holing, then present the descriptions and pigeon-holes as reality itself. They won’t let you live in peace if you refuse to give in and let yourself be categorized or stamped with a certain description or ready-made label.What matters is that Mohammed decided to go away, and that the ship took him off to Marseilles, in keeping with his own wishes. He spent the three days and nights at sea putting his memory in order, sketching out his possible 1 The jilbab – a long flowing robe with long, billowing sleeves which opens at the front – is the traditional attire of Moroccan women. 2 The silham is a hooded cloak, similar to the Algerian burnoose. 92 BANIPAL 43 – CELEBRATING DENYS JOHNSON-DAVIES
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HASSAN NAJMI horizons, taking stock of his potential losses and gains, and trying to determine how he could live a different life with minimal or no losses. In any case, he wouldn’t be arriving in Paris empty-handed. From the ship to the train, and from Marseilles to Paris; he knew where he was going, and he knew the address by heart.There are, in life, certain addresses, numbers and coordinates that are unforgettable, or which are worth remembering, especially when we pin our destinies on them, when they’re intimately linked with our grandest dreams, the things we daydream about before a midday nap. From Austerlitz Station, the horse-drawn carriage passed through several streets, before turning down Boulevard Raspail, next to the Carrefour de l’Odéon, Rue de Vaugirard and Rue de Médicis. The coachman took his passengers toward the intersection of Rue Guynemer and Rue de Fleurus. Addressing Mohammed with the same jolly tone he had maintained the entire way, the coachman said: “You! The one from Morocco! You’re just steps away from your destination. Give my greetings to the one you love!” Dragging his suitcase, satchel and khaki duffel bag with him, Mohammed experienced a strange feeling as he looked at the numbers on the apartment buildings and shops. Was he afraid he wouldn’t know how to read a simple number like “27”, or that he would make a mistake and not see it, as sometimes happens in optical illusions? However, it was only a feeling whose essence he couldn’t identify, and nothing happened to fulfil his vague premonition. After thirty or forty metres, he stopped to stare at the high blue plaque on which the name “Rue de Fleurus” was written in clear white letters. It was right on the street corner which overlooked the Luxembourg Gardens. Reassured, he walked on with confident steps, across another small intersection between Rue de Fleurus and Rue Madame. He walked slowly, watching for the house number as though it were a number in a horse race. Then, at last, there was the building at the heart of which, Gertrude Stein and company made their abode, nestled on its spacious ground floor.There was the large gate, the shady entranceway, and the geometric pattern sculpted above it. Towards the top of the building there appeared the name of the French architect, G. Pasquier, who had designed the building and overseen its construction in the year 1894. A huge marble edifice, its outer façade overlooked the small street, BANIPAL 43 – SPRING 2012 93

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HASSAN NAJMI

Mohammed had undoubtedly broken for good with his government job and executive privileges. He may have done so out of despair, the way someone might fling himself into empty space from atop a high hill, or like someone, in a state of panic, might clear a wall far higher than anything he could clear in his normal state.Those who didn’t know Mohammed as well as we in Tangiers did – although we had only met him late in life – would undoubtedly have said that he must have been touched in the head to do what he did; to pick up and run away across the sea to the north, like a crazed bull that had broken its lead and escaped.

Someone who had worked both in the king’s palace and as an interpreter in the viceroy’s headquarters had no need to give everything up by flinging himself into the unknown.We know that he had visited France, Spain and England on ambassadorial missions, and that he had lived in Marseilles for a while with a group of Moroccan exchange students. We also know that when the students returned home, they discovered that their new knowledge was useless in the conditions that had prevailed since the death of one king and the rise of another. Consequently, they had been obliged to exchange their European clothes for the jilbab,1 the silham,2 and other traditional attire. They had nearly been buried alive. The government’s stance had been nothing but a façade designed to smother beautiful dreams, now shattered. We tried to get a sense of the state that Mohammed was in when he decided to leave. However, we can’t know for certain what it was. After all, in cases like these, even the person concerned may not be aware of the real reason for making such a life-changing decision. In reality, no one can say that someone was angry, desperate, crazy or stupid to do whatever it was that he did. It’s others who do the describing and the pigeon-holing, then present the descriptions and pigeon-holes as reality itself. They won’t let you live in peace if you refuse to give in and let yourself be categorized or stamped with a certain description or ready-made label.What matters is that Mohammed decided to go away, and that the ship took him off to Marseilles, in keeping with his own wishes. He spent the three days and nights at sea putting his memory in order, sketching out his possible

1 The jilbab – a long flowing robe with long, billowing sleeves which opens at the front – is the traditional attire of Moroccan women. 2 The silham is a hooded cloak, similar to the Algerian burnoose.

92 BANIPAL 43 – CELEBRATING DENYS JOHNSON-DAVIES

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