unfinished structures, the remains of ambitious real estate projects, abandoned for lack of capital.
He made his way up a fine avenue its central garden planted with tall noble palm trees, the deep green grass was well watered and the flower beds planted with bright flowering shrubs. Upper class apartment buildings lined both sides of the avenue.
A panel announced the transformation of a cathedral into a cultural centre for the Wilayah of Medina Hurriya. It was not a sacrilege, but rather due to the disappearance of its congregation.
Further on was a public garden that seemed to have been transformed into a filthy refuse dump, certainly due to the negligence of the local authorities and the loss of value of collective civic values by the population.
Ennis sought for an explanation, was it due to a cultural or economic phenomenon, he asked himself. He had seen countries in the Gulf States less rich than before, but nevertheless well organised and clean. He was perplexed before the transformation of a country that he had known as a student.
In one of the public gardens he observed a scene that confusedly recalled the French past, a typical merry-go-round with its gaily painted horses, children laughed and shouted as it turned, the music however was the strident music of North Africa.
He then passed through a market place, the air filled with the smells that drifted from the cheap cafés and restaurants that lined its pavements, the smells of spices, grilled mutton and mint tea. Further on commenced a district filled with shops that specialised building materials, pumps and electrical equipment, the signs of the small businesses were like those he had seen in Casablanca, written in French and Arabic.
From time to time he passed an elderly French woman making her way to the market place. They wore their old-fashioned print dresses covered with small blue flower patterns. He pedalled past a young girl who balanced a platter loaded with flat round loaves of bread on her head. He could not resist the idea that certain scenes were not unlike those he remembered at the beginning of the century in Barbes, a district to the north of the Gare du Nord in Paris.
He then entered a high class district and a square lined with fine plane trees and palms. He rode past the Consulat General de France a splendid 19th century edifice built in white stone, lined with elegant columns, in the traditional French Hausmanian style. It was surrounded by a garden enclosed by a wall and solid ornamental railings in cast iron, a magnificent portal bearing the arms of Napoleon III led to the entrance of the Consulate General; it corresponded to the dignity of Algharb’s grand protector. Through the portal Ennis saw the well-watered lawns trimmed to perfection.
It was lunchtime and there was little movement, the guard wearing the uniform of the RASE paramilitary forces surveyed the scene, bored by inactivity, alternately scratching his crotch and behind.
Further on there were private schools for the children of the upper classes; panels announced courses in computer skills and communications.
For the most part the streets retained their French names and the map the hotel given him was not to difficult to follow, but here and there the names of streets had been replaced by those of great Arab figures, there was avenue Hassan II, boulevard Moulay Yosef, but also named after heroes such as cours Saddam Hussein and to his astonishment boulevard Muhammad Atta.
In the cafés, as in all the offices Ennis had visited, he had observed to his own discomfort the enthusiasm with which almost everybody smoked. There seemed to be a mania for cigarettes, which seemed to serve as a social accessory, and which persisted with an astonishing insouciance in the Arab world and lesser developed countries, even more than half a century after the link between tobacco and cancer had been proven.
He slowly returned taking a slightly different route passing small-whitewashed houses that were no longer very white. A total calm had fallen over the city in the heat of the afternoon. He watched a cat stretching itself in the sun, no doubt after its morning rest following a night fighting with the numerous other cats of the district. Its ear was tattered attracting a small swarm of black flies. Further on more cats squabbled over the remains of a meal on a filthy plate under the shade of the plane trees that lined the sides of the street.
He continued a little before stopping for a pause, taking advantage of the shade and an old bench.
“How’s life?”
“Hello,” Ennis replied looking up, there was a young man of about seventeen or eighteen years old standing before him.
Since the outset of his journey he had become used to such casual meetings with the locals. Young people who were simply curious or wanted to speak with a foreigner, offering their services as guides, asking for a cigarette or money.
“You’re a foreigner.”
It was more a confirmation than a question.
“Yes.”
Ennis said nothing more not wanting to engage a conversation and certainly demands that he would refuse.
“You’re a journalist.”
Ennis was surprised. It was not a question but a affirmation.
“Me, I’m Hamad.”
He offered his hand. Ennis could not refuse the out stretched hand from his engrained sense of politeness.
“I can help you.”
“Help me?”
“Better we don’t stay here, come with me, we can sit down and take a coffee,’ he said pointing to one of the small cafés opposite.
“We’ll go inside, it’ll be better,” he said as he bowed his head and made a discreet sign with a finger to his lips.
“Sit down, I’ll tell you my story.”
The café was poorly lit but it was secluded.
“My father came here after the Morocco’s independence, there was no war then, it was not like in Algeria.”
They sipped their coffees slowly as Hamad casually told him of his life in Algharb.
“I would like to show you something interesting, if you will come with me.”
For reasons he could not explain, his professional sense was awakened, it was probably due to the young man’s evident knowledge that he was a journalist.
‘Leave your bike here, it will be safe.”
They turned into one of the small insalubrious side streets where small children played in the shadows. Above them washing hung on lines stretched between the old buildings, three or four floors high. A dog scratched at one of the broken door.
“Come on, quickly.”
Ennis followed Hamad into a dark porch way where the odours of old cooking fat assailed his nostrils. The dirty paint peeled off the damp walls. In the dim light Hamad took a small stairway up to the second floor where he paused, looking carefully behind them, then he turned into a narrow corridor. Bright light poured in as he opened a door, he nodded Ennis through; he stepped out onto a roof where lines of washing were strung out to dry in the hot sun. Ducking, they crossed the roof and through another door entered into the darkness of an adjoining building.
“Wait here a moment.”
Sheik Abassami
Ennis waited in the dark listening to Hamad's footsteps. After what seemed a long moment he returned.
“Come with me, it’s OK.”
He followed him then entered into a small room. After a cursory glance at Ennis a bearded man led them into a second room.
Seated in one of two armchairs positioned before a low table a man of uncertain age looked at Ennis and made a sign towards a long sofa facing him. He then turned to Hamad.
“Thank you my brother.”
Hamad bowed slightly touching his breast with his right hand then turned and left the room without a word.
“Sit down Mister John Ennis. Welcome to our country.”
Ennis sat down on the sofa. The man was dressed in a white djellaba. It was difficult to say whether he was European or not, he wore a small beard and Ennis could not help thinking he resembled a traditional image of Jesus. He could have been Lebanese, maybe Spanish or Italian. His hair black and straight, not like that of a typical North African, his skin wa
s slightly olive coloured, his cheeks close shaven. He had a calm patrician air.
“Perhaps you would like a coffee?” He made a sign to one of the two men standing in attendance, who turned opened the door and issued instructions in a low voice to another person outside.
“Excuse me Mister Ennis for this impromptu invitation.”
He spoke English almost without an accent.
“Let me present myself, I’m Sheik Abassami bin Khalid, I have the honour of being the leader of the movement El Assad el Arabiya”.
Ennis had vaguely heard of this movement. Assad Arabiya he seemed to recall was a movement dedicated to the restoration of the historical pride and culture of the Arab world. Religion was an integral though not overriding feature of their philosophy, which focused on traditional values harmonised with modernisation, the acceptance of women in public life, and a moderate form of nationalism, though rejecting Western ideas incompatible with the purer values of the golden age of their history. They valued Arab art, the development of literature, sciences and architecture in the tradition of Andalusian culture.
“You have heard of our movement, n’est ce pas?”
“Yes.”
“Contrary to what certain people might think we are not fanatics of God, we respect and obey his laws, but also those of wise men who guide us on earth in the interest of our temporal life.”
With a gesture of his hand he invited Ennis to take the coffee that one of the guards had placed on the table before them.
“We are against the corruption practised by the