A Paul Bowles Short Story

Mustapha is a square, silent sort, with square jaws, low forehead, and thick black hair slicked back. His wrestler’s exterior hides a warm, generous, caring and polite beast. He has taken good care of me. He keeps surprising me by his gentleness. Two days ago, returning home around midnight we discovered a lady at the door struggling with the lock. I rushed back to open and hold the door for her, by doing this, I startled her. Only then I noticed that Mustapha's reaction was the opposite of mine: to fall back and leave her alone to achieve her doings in peace. He’d never correct me, but when I asked him he explained that educated Moroccans know to keep a distance, to be circumspect.

Knowing Mustapha is a bit like stepping into a Paul Bowls short story. He’s been in Tangier these 18 months, looking for a job. (Back in Casablanca he worked for his father’s construction company and ran his own internet shop). His job search routine is persistent and the same every day: he wakes around 1 or 2 in the afternoon; if it is the maid’s day in (she comes 4 times a week for 4 hours each, at 100 euros a month), he helps her clean up the house and cook; if not, he goes out to the beach; then he takes a nap; then he goes out to read his newspaper in a cafe (he reads Arabic with difficulty, moving his lips: he is an Arabic speaker but French reader), then to eat something in the dining quarter, usually some grilled wonders in some hole in the wall, then comes home around midnight, chats with his boyfriend on internet and surfs the web for music videos or watches TV. He turns in around 4 or 5 in the morning.

Last week, after visiting several jewelry shops, mostly machined 18K, I observed that there surely must be an opportunity in importing Indian jewelry; costume, if not gold. After all, Moroccans love beautiful, colorful, busy things; and the Gulf Arabs eat that stuff up. “Excellent idea”, said Mustapha. “On Monday I will investigate the legal ramifications”.

He’s investigating still.