Strongest Woman in the Village

Naked,
and the sun already having embedded itself in the horizon, I stood in the last orange light offered by the sea.

“Aiiieee! Berber chokran salaam!”

I apparently strayed too far onto my balcony.

Somehow my landlady had aligned herself on the ground to have a perfect view of my gratuitous toweling campaign.

Fuck.

In a panic, I realized I don’t belong in this country. Is it illegal here for a woman to see you nude? While discussing “The Fixer,” (see my Jan. 19th piece) I mentioned my affinity for subversion, and I proceeded then, to relish the brash spectacle of hash consumption.

The air was cold, but it was not just that. I temporarily lost my nerve- it didn’t feel good to have possibly broken a law in this country. I observe the way some of these law-abiding citizens live here in the village- I can hardly imagine the hell of a summer spent in a Moroccan prison, god-knows the composition of that tagine.

I dressed quickly, grabbed my notebook and exited before the village policeman- the same guy who I learned, is “trying to send a message,” is able to use me as a message to aspiring village naturists.

If caught, I would be beaten extensively. The policeman would be sure to send this message right outside the police station, in the dust next to the disemboweled cat. Later they would ask me questions, and I would simply stammer,

“ Avocat. S’il vous plait, monsieur, avocat.”

We’ll see. At that moment, I could only dress, the wailings of the thick Berber woman car-alarming me into action.

Tonight, the unlit alley outside my door was a welcoming place. I made my way “uptown” and the screams faded.

I began to calm. My landlady is a pragmatist, and I do still owe her money. So she can just treasure that little moment we shared, and that’s the end of it.

Still, she somehow managed to become even more invasive than she already was. Two days ago she barged in and took a small table from my balcony. Last week she pounded frantically, entered, and removed some pots from my kitchen area.

When I mentioned to Fergle and The Brit that I was a tenant of the self-described, “Woman Businessman,” they immediately nodded slow, deep nods of recognition.

“Strongest woman in the village, too, I reckon,” says Fergle.

“I was impressed that she had had her daughter in on the negotiations. She’ll end up business-savvy like her mother,” I say. My anecdotal evidence of this small crack in the institution of female oppression fails to gain traction:

“Savvy? All she does is repeat, ‘You pay now?’” Vlad has a point.

“But her daughter knows French, Berber, Arabic and English- to me, that, is impressive.” They shrug it off. Maybe as a mono-linguist-American, I am relatively easy to impress.

We did a little book swap then. I passed on books that had been given to me: Fermin(Thanks Mom!) and Danziger’s Travels (Thanks Nate!) and they give me The Master and Margarita and 1876.

Well, who the hell knows what happens when I get back to my room tonight. Will the police be waiting? Worse, perhaps, will my landlady, a former stunt-double for Danny DeVito when he played ‘Penguin,’ be waiting? Wish me a ‘bonne chance,’ if you would, please.