Tom Foran Clark

The bus rolled out of Taza onto harsh and barren plains, then climbed like a heavy cog-train up mountains to the chalky cliffs of Al Hoceima, located so high above the blue Mediterranean it was harrowing – hair-raising. One could make out the tiny Spanish islands of Peron de Alhucemas -- not so much in the far distance as breathtakingly far below.

At the town’s central square were corner cafés, restaurants, barber shops, and the almost surreal art deco style hotel, the Florido, narrowing back from the square to a wedge, like a pie slice -- all at the brink of a precipice.

Emery took a simple room with just a washbasin in it at the Hotel Rif, on the Calle Sultan Moulay Youssef, then went to the edge of the cliffs that dropped to the sea and watched the sun go down. Afterwards, he got Tijane at the the Restaurant Parada, then tea back at the Florido. Then he went up to his room.

In the morning, under gray skies, Emery got on the bus to Tetouan, passing through the rugged convolutions of the Rif -- the lowest of the great Moroccan ranges and by far the most dangerous. The range rises to the Jebel Tidrhine a peak over eight thousand feet above sea level, and drops away, east and west, toward the Straits of Gibralter. In the Rif are Cedar forests riddled with macaque monkeys -- Barbary apes -- hunted by the big cats, the leopards, facing extinction in Morocco. Poppies grow here -- and kif which, when processed, become hashish.

The bus entered a dreamy realm of streams amid gorges, falls cascading down inclines. Boys all along the route chased the bus, holding kif up to the windows. "You want? You buy? Stop the bus! Stop the bus!"

High in the mountains, amid fogs of mist, the clouds, they arrived in Ketama, circled in cedar trees, maples, and candlestick pines. They rolled to Berberad and Chechaouan, the village clusters stacked improbably along the cliffs, and on to Tetouan -- the Berber word means "open your eyes" -- where they got off the bus.

Emery walked toward the Centré d’ Ville and took a room at the Hotel Persia, at the edge of the Medina, offering cheap rooms on the second floor, over a busy auditorium-sized café on the ground floor. A young man in a brown djellaba, with the hood over him, took his dirhams and led him to his room. Emery put his rucksack in the room, then followed Outman back to the café, where he seated Emery at a table out front of the café. Presently, a waiter brought Emery a glass of hot mint tea.

Shortly after, Outman joined him at his table, with a friend in a matching djellaba -- Hakim. At first the two said nothing, silently passing a pipe of hashish back and forth as Emery dully looked on. Finally, they offered him a hit.

"Non, Merci" Emery said politely.

"Americaine?" Hakim asked.

"Oui."

"You are not smoking?"

"I am allergic. It is not good for me." Emery waved his hand in a circle above his head.

"Ah. A little crazy. But that is being good sometimes, no?"

"No. It is not good for me."

The two ordered tea, and sat with Emery a while longer. Dusk came. The pipe was re-loaded, and re-lighted. Emery stood, called for the waiter, and settled the bill for the three of them. Then he excused himself, and set out for a walk.

"Wait! Wait!" Hakim called after him. I have one more question."

Emery stopped walking, turned, and faced him. "Yes?"

"You are drinking Centenario sometimes?"

"I don’t know what that is," Emery admitted.

"Spanish brandy," Hakim said. "Is being good for you."

Emery told Hakim he'd be back after a while. He wanted to get some fresh air, to walk, to enjoy this beautiful May evening. The air seemed both muggy and pristine, both warm and chilling. The stars in the sky were as many and as dazzling as those he’d seen in Assissi and out in the Sahara. For about a half hour, he stood and watched the heavens. Then Emery walked back to the café.

There, an old man in a striped djellaba ran up, shaking his fist at Emery. "Are you the Americaine?" he demanded to know. "What is your rucksack in the room! You have not paid!"

Emery explained that he had indeed paid. He had given the money to Outman.

"Outman? Who is this Outman?" the man snapped. "You pay or I throw you out! You pay me now."

"There’s some confusion here," Emery said. Perplexed, he peered around the café, looking for Outman and Hakim. "Do you know Hakim?" he asked the angry man.

"Hakim? I am knowing many Hakim. Also many Outman. These are not giving rooms. They are not taking money."

"Outman took mine."

"Then it is gone. Me, you must pay."

"But I paid already," Emery groaned.

"Enough. You leave now."

"No -- I'll pay you," Emery said. "Okay, okay." He paid the man, who now smiled and very politely led him to his room. Emery's rucksack was still within, exactly where he’d put it.

"I am Saib. If you are having a problem, you are coming to me. Come with me to the café. I serve you tea."

Emery sighed, exasperated, and followed him back down. He sat at a table near the one where he’d sat with Outman and Hakim. Saib now served Emery, personally. The dust having settled, as concerned the hotel bill, Saib was now very sweet to him. "If you are having a problem," he said again, "you are coming to me." Emery nodded, said nothing further, and enjoyed the tea.

He’d sipped only about half the small portion of tea when Hakim strolled up and sat down next to him. "There you are," Emery said angrily.

"Here I am."

"Where is Outman?"

"He is out there," Hakim answered, gesturing out to the sky and stars.

"Hakim," Emery spoke gently, "Saib, the hotel proprietor, insisted I had not paid for my room. I had to pay him. I paid twice"

"You are having a room?"

"Oui."

"Then you are being happy?"

"Not for having paid twice."

"You are paying twice?"

"I just said so."

"Then you are having your room."

"Hakim," Emery began -- then he stopped himself.

"I am having Centenario," Hakim said

"Spanish brandy?"

"Yes." Hakim showed Emery. "It is being good for you."

The waiter came and served Emery another glass of tea. "Compliments of Saib," the waiter reassured him.

"Merci," Emery said. "May I order tea for my friend?"

"Oui. But not compliments of Saib."

"I am being paying," Hakim insisted. The waiter went, then came back with tea for Hakim. When the tea was gone, Hakim poured in Spanish brandy. "It is being good for you," Hakim said again. For a moment, Emery thought Hakim had run out of things to say. "You are being traveling in the Rif?" Hakim asked.

"No. I have just arrived in Tetouan. I have come from Taza, traveling by bus through Al Hoceima, Tleta Ketama, and Chechaouan."

"You are being traveling to Tangiers?"

"No. To Ceuta."

"To Algeciras -- Spain?"

"Oui."

"You are being enjoying much Centenario!" Hakim poured more brandy. "Drink up!" he said.

When Hakim excused himself to make water, Emery leaned in his chair and spilled the Centenario in his glass on the gravel near his feet, covering the stain with a shoe when Hakim came back.

"You are being seeing Marrakech?" Hakim asked.

"Oui."

"I am having many friends there," Hakim said.

"I had a friend there," Emery said, and he told Hakim how they’d met, and how this friend had gone on to Agadir without Emery, and so on.

"He is being driving a Mercedes-Benz?" Hakim asked. "He is being called Skip?"

"Yes!" Emery said, astonished. "How do you know this?"

"I am knowing this Skip. He is being in Tetouan many times -- for kif."

"Yes. He talked about the Rif. He loves the mountains. He got a us a hotel room in Marrakech, but then we went camping."

"He is being cray-zee for kif,” Hakim said, pouring more brandy. "Skip, he is sneezing on me -- Satan is being sneezing. Skip is having the devil in him-- Shaitan,” Hakim maligned him, his face now twisted cruelly. He sneered at Emery. "You are being conniving also with Shaitan?"

"No," Emery said.

"I am killing Shaitan," Hakim whispered, glaring at Emery hatefully, drawing in closer. "I am killing Skip."

"You killed Skip?" Emery said, and laughed.

Hakim brought out a knife, glistening, its blade six or seven inches long. "With this knife I am killing him."

"Put that thing away," Emery insisted. "You’ve had too much brandy. You don’t even know Skip."

"Then how I am knowing he is driving a Mercedes? -- silver. It is in Saudi Arabia now."

"And Skip? Where is he?"

"Skip Ga-lee-ga, yes -- I am remembering. He is conniving with Shaitan. I am being sitting here with Skip Ga-lee-ga."

"Did he return to the south?"

"I am taking him to the cliff and putting my knife in him. I am pushing him over the cliff, screaming."

"That’s enough," Emery said. He stood to go.

Hakim stood, too, and followed Emery through the café. Emery pretended to go to his room, but instead made a sharp turn and went around the inner walls of the café, then around the hotel on the outside, and back in again. When he got to his room, Hakim was in it, standing in the corner next to his rucksack. He had removed his belt and, holding it in his right hand, having folded the belt double, he was slapping his left hand with it.

" Skip Ga-lee-ga, he is being sent from Shaitan," Hakim spit it out, now standing directly in front of Emery, sneering fiercely. "You are being sent from Shaitan. Tell me first where is your passport, and then I kill you."

Emery ran past Hakim, out of the room, in search of Saib. "Saib!" he cried out. "Saib! Saib!"

The waiter caught Emery, and held him still. Saib approached. "What is wrong?" he gasped, regarding Emery in his turmoil. He must have been white as a sheet. Blood dripped from the back of his hand. Hakim must have cut Emery as he ran by Hakim in his flight. "Hakim! Hakim!" Emery panted. "He -- he said he is going to kill me!"

"Who is this Hakim?" Saib again asked Emery. "Sit down, sit down," Saib insisted. "Salah, bring him tea." The waiter went, and came back with tea. "I am putting padlock on your door," Saib said. "I lock you in. You safe."

Emery took the tea with him up to the room. He heard Saib close the padlock. "You are safe," he called through the door. "Now you sleep," he said, and padded off back down the stairs. Emery turned off the light and laid down on a mat on the floor. Trembling, he lay awake the entire night in a panic of anticipation, fearing further entanglement with the psychopath.

As dawn approached, Emery was on the verge of leaping out the window. Now he noticed the sound of heavy breathing, very near to him. He turned his head: it was Hakim, right next to him. "You are lucky you are being living," Hakim whispered in Emery's ear.

Emery ran to the padlocked door and started pounding on it like a man trapped in a burning building. Saib came up to unpadlock the door and was shocked when he saw two had spent the night in one room -- at the single rate. Saib started yelling at Hakim in Arabic, and Hakim screamed back at him. Accusations flew.

In the midst of this, Emery grabbed his things and fled, going straight to the bus station to catch the bus to Ceuta. Luckily, he had not missed the bus. On the other hand -- the bad news -- the bus had not yet arrived.

Hakim came up whistling. "Bon jour!" he said brightly.

"Back off," Emery said. He was not going to trade words with this madman.

"I am sorry to be calling you Shaitan," Hakim offered.

The bus rolled up. "My ride is here," Emery said. He boarded, lifted his backpack to a rack, and sat down. He did not look out the fogged window. Hakim was tapping at the glass with his dagger point. "I lied about Skip Ga-lee-ga’s car," he called through the closed window. "Is not in Saudi Arabia," Hakim said.

The bus jerked suddenly, pulling away. They lurched ahead, onto the road. A Mercedes-Benz passed them -- silver.

The bus came to a harrowing curve. They came close to going over. Emery closed his eyes.

"We’re gonna be awright," came assurance from an American with a Southern drawl at the back of the bus. "We’re almost there."

"Almost zer," echoed a twangy, nasal German voice.

"I’ll never do this again," said a girl having no particular accent Emery could discern.

"Neffer," the German agreed.

"It’s gonna make a good story," the Southerner offered.

"I don’t know," the girl said. "I don’t think anyone would believe it."

The bus arrived at the harbor -- the edge of the world, for all Emery knew. Everybody had to get out of the bus. A bunch of them crossed over a line in the sand, going on foot, hauling their suitcases, packs, and whatnot into official Spanish territory. Forms were filled out. Passports were stamped. Warnings were given. Any dirhams people still had with them could only be exchanged in Spain at half their face value. They could have told Emery he had to throw all his dirhams into the sea -- so what? He only wanted to get on that boat.

A shuttle bus from the frontier to Ceuta pulled up. It carried them to the docks. There, passengers purchased tickets for the ferry. Aboard the Andalucia, Emery connected faces with the chatterboxes on the bus -- the girl, ebony-colored Rita; the Southerner, bronze or golden Jack; and the alabaster German, Dieter.

There were wooden folding chairs and chaise-lounges all over, but Emery preferred lying down, stretched out long on the deck with his eyelids closed, or standing at the ship’s rails with his eyes opened wide. Ceuta retreated behind them -- the high Spanish battlements, the jagged mountains. For a while, there was only the blue ocean.

Then the Rock of Gibralter appeared. "Europa!" Dieter cried out.

Civilization -- that ornament, Emery contempated. The loftiest city on the mountaintop sits on a volcano. Everywhere is Vesuvius, Pompeii, Atlantis. There is fire; then there is rain. The last word, like the first, is not mankind’s.

"Spain!" Jack intruded on Emery's thoughts, rejoicing. "We’re gonna make it!"

Now, all around, was commotion. The boat seemed to tilt as passengers went suddenly to the Gibralter side of the vessel. Then, as the novelty of perusing the Rock of Gibralter dwindled, the onboard aggregation dispersed. The lopsided boat again leveled out, slicing faster forward through the sea, churning up exquisite, gleaming white and turquoise suds.

Emery sought out Rita and company, but he didn’t intrude himself on them. He only hovered near. They were laughing, swearing, hugging, chatting -- carousing affectionately. Suddenly Jack was up on the boat rails, beating his chest and crying out across the waters, "We are gonna make it!"

Rita sashayed over, smiling, and, searching Emery's eyes, asked him his name.

"Call me Emery," he said.

“Richard Emery?” she asked, her eyes wide with astonishment. “Do you know Pike in Marrakech? -- Lawrence from Lawrence? -- the Treasure Hunter of Saint James?”

"I know Pike," Emery said.

"I can’t believe this!” Rita squealed, taking his hand. “Let me introduce you to my friends."