five hundred dirhams. In less than a week, Farqash had trained her to obey him and to master her new trade. As she was blessed with a winning combination—a tall and slender figure, a huge bosom, and an alluring face—he made her a barmaid. He also gave her a new name, Warda, instead of her Bedouin name, Hada. Despite having worked at La Falaise for over a month now, she hadn’t quite managed to give up her comical Bedouin habits, which seemed to really arouse the customers.
Warda leaned down to give Nezha a kiss on each cheek, and then gave Hamadi an enthusiastic kiss just beside his mouth, angering Nezha. This uncouth Bedouin girl had taken her place with Farqash and now she was attempting to steal Nezha’s generous once-a-month customer! Warda brought them to their usual table in the corner and bowed respectfully. A minute later she returned with a cold beer, some snacks, and a pack of Marlboros for Nezha.
The bar was packed and full of commotion, contrary to what it looked like from the exterior. The floor was upholstered in dark-red moquette and the round tables were surrounded by chairs that had embroidered covers. The walls were covered with massive drapes, giving the impression that there were windows even though there weren’t any. The bar counter in the center of the room was dimly lit with red lights that hung from the ceiling, like an island detached from the rest of the place. La Falaise’s esteemed patrons were accompanied by beautiful half-naked girls. The regulars stood near the bar, an intimate meeting point where a newcomer would feel out of place and probably wouldn’t last very long.
Saturday night was different from other nights, as a band took over the small stage and played popular songs, replacing the original lyrics with comical and vulgar insertions.
*
Hamadi was returning to his senses, as the effects of the whiskey he had consumed before meeting up with Nezha wore off. He averted his eyes from her as though he’d forgotten her altogether. She knew this state all too well. The sobriety affected him temporarily until the alcohol in the beer was able to snap him out of it again. She took advantage of this opportunity to head to the bathroom. As soon as she disappeared into the drunken crowd, Farqash grabbed her by the neck and dragged her into a dark corner of the bar. He wrapped his arms around her as if choking her—intent on squeezing her so hard she couldn’t breathe.
“My money! Where is my money?”
She couldn’t speak, as she was nearly suffocating. He loosened his hold just a bit, so she was able to open her mouth.
“Tomorrow, Farqash,” she said, her voice trembling. “Tomorrow you’ll get it all.”
“If you don’t give me my money tomorrow, I will slaughter you. I’ll decapitate you.”
He scowled at her and pressed hard on her cheeks. Then he rammed his tongue deep into her throat and spat in her mouth. She was disgusted by him and rushed to the sink
to vomit.
Nezha returned and found that Hamadi had consumed two beers, one after the other, in record time. She sat in front of him. The clamor and dim lighting, not to mention her skill in hiding her feelings, meant he didn’t notice the anger written on her face. Insults and abuse didn’t affect her for more than a few passing moments. She had become used to all kinds of curses, humiliations, and degradations. What she really feared was a punch knocking out some teeth, a razor disfiguring her face, or gang rape. Except for those scenarios, nothing else mattered much. She had learned that returning home safely at the end of the night was the best that girls like her could hope for.
She let out a high-pitched squeal when Hamadi reached under the table and caressed her thighs, pushing his fingers between them. She giggled and drew his hand even closer, acting as if she enjoyed his fondling. This was exactly what Hamadi loved about her: this brazenness that a man couldn’t find with his wife. A prostitute searches for pleasure and embraces it.
He pulled off his scarf, revealing his ruddy, wrinkled neck with flabby layers of skin. He pulled Nezha close and whipped the scarf around her ass. She began to dance for him alone in their dark corner to the lyrics “What will he do? They brought him love at three in the morning.” The singer switched the word love in the song to a dirty word for sex. Hamadi couldn’t resist this: Nezha writhing in front of him above his lap, leaning over him so her hair touched him. He smacked her on the ass and let out a loud bellow. This was the declaration that the alcohol was taking over, and that the real excitement had just begun.
*
The evening in Casablanca doesn’t really begin until after midnight, and after midnight anything goes. Where would Hamadi decide to end their evening? They left La Falaise after one in the morning. In the car, Nezha tried to be more seductive, caressing his temple with her palm and distracting him as he drove.
“Where are you taking me, Daddy?” she said flirtatiously, as she blew cigarette smoke in his face.
He looked her over with a lecherous smile and grabbed her chest. “Hopefully to hell!” he responded.
The car took off into the street and Nezha knew that they weren’t heading toward Ain Diab, as she had hoped. Ain Diab was full of nightclubs frequented by Gulfies, strip clubs blaring pop music patronized by wealthy businessmen and power brokers, and whorehouses that stayed open into the wee hours of the morning with raucous parties that became the talk of the town the next day. Rather, he would force her to take a nauseating trip around the streets that occupied the most beautiful stretches of the city in the daytime, but that by night became exhibition grounds for the sale of sex.
The car had just pulled into the first street when two young men emerged from behind the trees, exposing their erect penises to the johns, who slowed their pace. An adolescent boy with a thin moustache approached their car, showing off his goods, letting it be known that he would have sex with men or women, no problem. Then another approached from Hamadi’s side. The car had barely passed the two men who had emerged from the trees when a row of transvestites emerged in their tight women’s clothing, hair cut like girls’, and their faces smeared heavily with makeup. They were sauntering around flirtatiously, winking at passersby, snapping their chewing gum, and blowing air kisses to drivers.
Only a few steps away from the gays and transvestites were the “open-air” prostitutes, who would have sex in that very spot for a small sum—no more than fifty dirhams. You would just head into the wooded area nearby, take off your pants, and finish off the job on all fours, like a wild dog, without a condom or any other protection. If one of the prostitutes asked you to wear a condom, that usually meant she had HIV. They stood there, legs swollen from fatigue, only a few feet separating one from the other, while stoned young men stood by to watch over them and take a cut of the profits. This type of prostitute was at the bottom of the barrel. Most of them were over forty and were either divorced or widowed, but still had families to support. If no one chose them that evening and the night passed without any business, they would transition to begging at daybreak. Or they would give a quick blowjob in an alley for twenty dirhams.
This was the sex market that began every night at midnight and lasted until daybreak. Competition intensified on the first Saturday of the month, when men’s pockets were flush with their wages. Hamadi loved taking an excursion through this dissolute marketplace. It really turned him on. But he cut the tour short and their trip abruptly ended at Hotel Scheherazade, crushing Nezha’s hopes of heading to one of the nightclubs in Ain Diab.
From the outside, Hotel Scheherazade seemed like a respectable establishment, but it was really a dressed-up brothel. It was located on a narrow street downtown, surrounded by bars and cafés. However, it was rare that a tourist would stay there, since the dimly lit sign bearing the hotel’s name was barely visible. The girls who hung around the neighborhood were hunting for customers they could bring back to the hotel. The proprietor was a reformed drug dealer who was able to launder money through the hotel. He enjoyed police protection and had made shady deals with the authorities so they would turn a blind eye. After all, it was illegal for a couple to share a hotel room without providing their marriage license.
The big problem for men like Hamadi, who relished their rare nights out on the town, was where to hide away with their girls. Most of the hotel’s repeat clientele