It was after ten. We were in the same place, numb with fear and cold, drenched through, worn out physically as much as mentally. The day had been long, the evening longer still. The waves pounded relentlessly against the reefs and breakwaters; I could feel them crashing in my veins. Reda had dozed off on my shoulder with his mouth open, his jaw slack. The wind was dropping, which had prompted Pafadnam to take out his meal of barley-bread, black olives and fried fish. It smelled good. Kacem Judi had produced a tomato salad, some meatballs and a navel orange, Yarcé a sandwich. As for Yussef, Reda and me, we’d naively imagined we’d be dining out in Spain, no less. ‘A feast of tapas in the heart of Algeciras, washed down with sangria! That’s the way to celebrate your new life!’ Those were Morad’s words; he hadn’t spared the superlatives when it came to the food abroad, the infinite variety of dishes we’d encounter: fruit that melted in the mouth, unheard-of in Moorish lands, every type of vegetable, no matter the season, and unbelievably tender, succulent cuts of meat.
Morad knew what he was talking about because he’d lived in Paris for ten years. Ten long, happy years. Paris the beautiful! Paris the mysterious! Paris that to our Bedouin ears sounded like the promise of paradise! Morad had been deported three times, so that in Tangier at Café France – general HQ for any would-be immigrant – he’d been awarded the noble title of European Deportee. A richly deserved nickname we were all obliged to use, otherwise he’d lose his temper.
‘Morad the European deportee!’ he’d shout. ‘Yes, sir, say
