to have rediscovered their world and their values.”
“They have regressed and very poor. I believe, in the near future, there is the risk of a real explosion because of their large population, the pressure is enormous. For the most part they live in misery, especially in Cairo and Algiers. It is evident they will never find their mythical Al Andalusia or even their more recent pre-colonial past. Their future is full of dangers with a population of two hundred and fifty million!”
She paused pensively.
“What do you think of us?”
They stopped and Ennis looked at her, he had not realised it, but now he saw she was very attractive, her dark eyes sparkled under the harbour lights.
“What do I think of you,” he hesitated, “I think you are very beautiful.”
“Don’t be stupid!” she laughed showing her white regular teeth.
“What do I really think of Algharb? I don’t know, I had an interview with bin Ibrani, I haven’t formed any really clear ideas yet. What is certain is that the country is much poorer than before. Yes of course there are prestigious new government buildings, new monuments to the glory of the Insurgents, but all together there is little real progress that is visible.”
“Well I’m pleased that you’re objective.”
“Journalists should be objective, at least serious ones,” he replied smiling to her.
She was close to him and took his arm.
“I like you John Ennis.”
“Be careful the mullahs will punish you!”
“I’m a Christian.”
“So how do you have a name like Asma?” he said smiling softly.
She laughed, “Asma means sublime in Arabic, it’s not specially linked to a religion, it's a traditional name, my mother must have liked it. I’m a beurette, if you know what that means?”
He vaguely remembered that beur was French slang for Arab and beurette was the feminine.
“Yes, I seem to remember that.”
“My mother was Algerian, my father was born in Sicily, he was Italian, naturalised French. Some Italians say Sicilians are Africans. Anyway that's why I'm Christian.”
They returned slowly to the hotel, where she left him at the entrance to the driveway.
“A bientôt!”
Ennis went up to his room questioning his unexpected meeting with Asma. Assad had tried to use him for political motives, for his movement. The story of the camps in the Queyras seemed provocative. He took out his Michelin guide for France and searched in vain, there was no town that bore that name.
The Set-up
Friday morning the loud speakers continuously broadcast recorded texts from the Koran calling the faithful to prayer in the mosques of Medina Hurriya.
The streets in the centre of Medina Hurriya were filled with a mixed crowd reminiscent of Algiers before the Caliphate: men in business suits, traditionalist bearded Arabs wearing djellabas and turbans, the young people wore jeans and many of the older women were veiled and dressed in black.
Ennis heard a voice and looking to his left he saw a man surging towards him, he was of medium height, wearing a large smile with his hand held out.
“Bonjour, comment ça va!”
Ennis looked at the man a little perplexed, he did not recognize him, he felt embarrassed, evidently he should have known him.
“This square is called Al-Tahir, in English that means Liberation, in memory of the Insurgents who fell in combat against the government of Paris.”
Ennis smiled weakly.
“You don’t recognize me! At the airport three days ago, Monday or Tuesday!”
“Yes at airport,” Ennis replied without much conviction.
“I’m the head officer at the airport customs,” he announced with a broad and generous smile. Ennis, after an instant of reflection, had not the least recollection of the man.
“No, you don’t remember me? It’s normal, the uniform and the hat.” He made a sign with his hands as though he was straightening his hat.
“It’s me who let you through with your bags and your computer, let me see your name is...”
“Ennis.”
“Ennis, that’s it, John, you’re American.”
“Yes.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Friday, next week.”
Ennis was puzzled; he did not know how to handle the stranger, who after racking his brain he still could not remember.
“Listen my friend why don’t we take a coffee together, over there,” he said pointing to a café, “That’s my car parked in front of the café.”
Ennis looked across the road, there were several late model cars parked in front of the café. He looked at his watch.
“Look, I’m sorry but I really don’t have the time,” he said unconvincingly.
“Don’t worry my friend, I’ll let you through on Friday, count on me.”
Shit! Shit! I’m really a stupid sucker, he thought as he followed the man across the road. The customs man took a corner table.
“I’m Salem Alawi,” he said holding out his hand, then snapping his fingers imperiously he called the garcon and ordered two short black coffees.
“What do you think of our country Mr Ennis?” Alawi did not leave him the time to reply. “Me, I was here at the time of the French,” he paused in a moment of real or feigned nostalgia, “today it is necessary to construct our country, we are not rich,” he sighed and lowered his voice. “You know that Algharb is ripe for becoming an Islamic emirate?”
Ennis looked around him uncomfortably, was the man a provocateur?
“My wife is sick,” he said his face fixed in a look of desperation.
Jesus Christ! What a stupid fool, caught like a naïve tourist.
“To buy medicine it’s necessary to have dollars....”
Ennis looked at his watch, in the vain hope of escaping from the trap that had closed on him.
“I can offer you a good exchange rate,” said Alawi, his face brightening.
“I’m sorry, but I have all the currency I need.”
“Monsieur Ennis, I’m an honest and sincere man, I can help you at the moment of your departure, here’s my card.”
Ennis took the card and looked at it, Alawi’s name was printed without a title or address.
“I’m sorry....” said Ennis desperately.
Alawi took him by his arm. “Listen Monsieur Ennis, be chic, help me!” He took out a photo of his wife with two young children. “The mother of my children, she has grave health problems, women’s things. I only need five hundred dollars.”
Ennis wanted to escape at any price. At the bar he could see people were watching, a foreigner talking desperately with a local.
“Look okay. Okay, but I really have to leave at once.” He discretely took out his wallet and slipped out a five hundred dollar note and slid it across the table under his hand to Alawi.
Alawi took it and passed a bundle of soiled Algharbi government scrip to Ennis, who waved it aside. “Please Monsieur Ennis, I insist, I’m not asking for charity,” he folded the money and lent over tucking the money into Ennis’s shirt pocket.
He stood up.
“Allah’s blessing on you my friend,” he held out his hand, “until Friday.”
“Friday,” said Ennis forcing a smile, then hurrying away cursing to himself. Screwed like an American! He felt like a naive tourist. This cheap little conman Alawi had screwed him, maybe he was a customs officer or perhaps from the police.
The Plastic Bag
He returned to his hotel where he had a lunch appointment with David. He did not repeat the story, it was too embarrassing to have fallen into such a trap. David would take him for a fool.
He went up to his room, he had just enough time to shower and change before lunch. As he came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist, drops of water fell from his head as he leaned over, searching for a clean shirt in one of the tier of drawers of the wardrobe. To the left he noticed a plastic bag next t
o his shoes, he was puzzled, it was not his. It was one of those fancy plastic bags from a boutique with its name printed on the side.
He lifted the bag out and opened it with a certain apprehension, the light from the lamp in the wardrobe was not very bright, but he could distinguish what seemed to be bundles of money.
He took the bag to his bed and took out one of the bundles, they were Algharbi scrip, thousands, tens of thousands. There were also Euros. He felt a surge of anxiety, where did such a sum of money come from, what was it doing in his room?
He looked into the bag again turning over the bundles of money, there was a wallet, he opened it, there were papers and an identity card, it was that of a young woman, he looked a the photo, then the name, Asma Saïd. He looked again at the slightly faded photo, it vaguely seemed to resemble Asma, one of those photos taken in a photo booth, it was of a much younger person, the hair was different...no it could not be her...it could be any young woman of Maghribi origin.
Who had put the bag there? He was certain it had not been there earlier that morning, before he had gone out. At the bottom of the bag was some feminine underwear. He decided to put the bag back where he had found it, hoping that during lunch its owner would collect it. Maybe the young woman or a friend had mistaken the room for their own. Was it the room maid? Perhaps it was Asma, she had inexplicably put it there for some reason?
It was a large sum of money for a country in grave economic difficulties. What was worse was that it could cause him some serious worries. He was nevertheless intrigued and even excited by the find. The girl Asma was perhaps the mistress of a rich man, perhaps a Saudi, there were still quite a number of rich Middle Easterners, they liked