Bled Dry Read online

  Born in Meknès, Morocco, in 1958, Abdelilah Hamdouchi is one of the first writers of police fiction in Arabic and a prolific, award-winning screenwriter of police thrillers. He is the author of Whitefly (2016) and The Final Bet (2016) and lives in Rabat, Morocco.

  Benjamin Smith holds a PhD from Harvard University, and is currently a visiting assistant professor of Arabic at Swarthmore College, in the United States.

  Bled Dry

  Abdelilah Hamdouchi

  Translated by

  Benjamin Smith

  This electronic edition published in 2017 by

  Hoopoe

  113 Sharia Kasr el Aini, Cairo, Egypt

  420 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10018

  www.hoopoefiction.com

  Hoopoe is an imprint of the American University in Cairo Press

  www.aucpress.com

  Copyright © 2017 by Abdelilah Hamdouchi

  Protected under the Berne Convention

  English translation copyright © 2017 by Benjamin Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN 978 977 416 848 2

  eISBN 978 1 61797 840 1

  Version 1

  1

  Nezha wasn’t yet twenty years old, but she looked like a prostitute on the verge of early retirement. Layer after layer of makeup had transformed the softness and innocence of her face, giving her a severe pallor. Wrinkles from frequent all-nighters were carved deeply into her features. She had difficulty erasing the blue hue of her lips caused by all the smoking, and the whiteness of her teeth had given way to a strange yellowish color.

  She sauntered down the sidewalk carrying her small handbag, and without a bra her breasts almost spilled out of her shirt. Her high heels caused her to wobble and walk crookedly. She was intentionally giving the impression that she was an easy catch. She stirred up the passing drivers so much that one car nearly hit another. An intoxicated driver slowed to cruise alongside her with his head out the window, telling her about the wild night he’d have in store for her. Even though Nezha tried to give the impression that she was enjoying all this attention, deep down she shuddered with fear as she walked alone down the sidewalk of a dangerous street that was empty of other pedestrians at this late hour.

  She was, in fact, carrying out the terms of a pact she had agreed to in order to satisfy the vanity of an older man, who got off on watching this.

  Hamadi pulled up in his Mercedes. He gave a subtle signal and she hurried toward him. She spoke to him, leaning her elbows on the base of the car’s open window, and meanwhile thrusting out her ass as far as possible. Her movements were overly provocative. Inebriated drivers drooled, and not a single one protested that the Mercedes was blocking the street—until she got in.

  Hamadi let out a triumphant laugh and turned toward Nezha, looking first at her makeup-caked face and then lowering his gaze to her bare thighs. He continued his boisterous and repulsive cackle while repeating all sorts of obscenities about how he wanted to force himself on top of her. She fired back with even more obscene language, detailing how she wanted to be pounded by him.

  The dirty talk was all part of the game, but when Hamadi used this language it seemed out of place. He was close to sixty years old. His features projected a stern and serious disposition, accentuated by his thick black glasses. He was a shrewd banker who had climbed the rungs of the ladder and was now bank manager. A bruise—commonly adorning the foreheads of those who prayed frequently—was his stamp of piety. His depravities with a girl the age of his younger daughter did not suit him. Instead, they made him an object of scorn, even in Nezha’s eyes. She thought he was revolting, but nonetheless, she tried her best to provide him with some lewd new joke.

  They had met when the bank refused to cash her check for a paltry sum. The check was for ninety dirhams, and the lowest amount the bank would cash was one hundred. A customer had given her the check after a blowjob in his car, while he was driving, that had barely lasted a minute. The bank teller knew the check would bounce, but Nezha complained about him anyway, as if he were the person responsible for cheating her. The teller transferred her to the manager, Hamadi. She had hoped that he would treat her with the respect and affection of the father she had lost, but since that day she became Hamadi’s companion for his “day of depravity,” always the first Saturday of each month.

  The moment the parking attendant saw the Mercedes pull up, he found them a spot reserved for well-known patrons. Nezha got out of the car and waited for Hamadi to lock the door. Hamadi was of average height, and this evening he was dressed casually, looking like someone who had just changed out of his work clothes. He hid the wrinkles on his neck behind a colorful scarf, which gave him an effeminate look. As soon as he saw the bouncer Farqash he rushed to greet him, but Farqash fixed his bone-chilling gaze on Nezha as they entered. Farqash twitched his head threateningly in her direction, indicating that serious punishment was in store.

  The bar La Falaise was really a stop-off before heading out to the clubs, which didn’t open their doors until after midnight. The bar was located downtown, close to the famous café La Choppe. It had an unlit entrance on an alleyway that led to a side street, where there was a secret door to the bar that only the employees knew about. It was swarming with beautiful young girls, most of whom were sitting with old men. The unaccompanied women sat smoking, legs crossed, waiting for a customer who was looking for a good time. The criteria for admitting women to La Falaise were very strict and centered foremost on beauty and youth, and then on the amount of money each girl could pay the hideous Farqash.

  Farqash was absolutely repulsive: he had a huge bald head, wide-set eyes, and a flat nose. His build was sturdy, and he always seemed ready for a fight. He was known for all manner of depravities: he was a pimp, a middleman, a crook, and a police informant. He had been imprisoned multiple times, and it was there—the rumor went—that he had begun dealing cocaine. The drug infested Casablanca, coming from Ceuta, the Spanish enclave in the north, where it was exchanged for hash.

  This was the man who ruled over La Falaise. Every girl gave him a percentage of what she made from her customers, and had to pay even if she made nothing that night. She even had to pay for her own cigarettes and drinks. When leaving, she had to place a tip in the palm of his hand.

  Farqash and Nezha had history together. Not long ago she had been his favorite— his spoiled lover, preferred over all the other women at the bar. But he had taken to another girl who had recently entered the scene, and since then he had begun treating Nezha like garbage. Just a month ago he demanded that she pay him, like everyone else. He’d had his fill and was tired of her. Nezha kept putting off paying him, but yesterday he had given her one final deferment, and time was up tonight.

  The law of La Falaise was firm: each girl was required to encourage her client to consume a specific amount of alcohol before leaving the bar. In addition, she was required to arrange their future rendezvous at La Falaise. If the girl wanted to continue working there, she had to follow these rules. If she ended up stealing customers away by suggesting a different meeting place, she would be kicked out of the bar and face one of two options: either Farqash would smash her face in himself, or he would instruct one of the many young street kids waiting in the alley outside to permanently disfigure her with a razor blade, so that no man would want anything to do with her ever again.

  Farqash’s new darling was really young. She had been plucked by one of the female scouts at the courtroom doors, moments after the judge ruled for divorce. This scout then sold her to Farqash fo
r 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 provid
ing 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 were serial adulterers, addicted to cheating on their wives. The bulk of them were respected officials, teachers, and other government employees. The way things worked at the hotel was that a customer paid for two rooms: one for himself, and a separate one for the girl with him. Of course, once inside, they met up in the same room. Added to the room charge was a fixed price for “special patrons”—an extra charge so the police would turn a blind eye.

  Nezha was one of the familiar faces at the hotel. When she approached the reception with Hamadi—both of them stumbling drunkenly—the doorman quickly greeted them, knowing a generous tip awaited him. Though he was yawning at this late hour, he cheerfully opened the door. There wasn’t really any furniture in the seedy lobby, just a single tattered couch that the doorman slept on, and a chair with a broken leg that looked completely uninviting to sit on. It was clear that the lobby was not designed to welcome any sort of normal guest.

  As they approached, the concierge tossed his newspaper aside and pretended to be serious. “Is this man with you?” he asked Nezha, as if he’d never met her.

  Nezha glanced at herself in the broken mirror on the wall and fixed her short skirt. “I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before,” she replied.

  She lit a cigarette and blew smoke in the concierge’s face. He was young, with stern features. He was overdoing his questioning, as if his job, and the hotel, were respectable. He had run through the formalities of this check-in procedure many a time, and being vigilant demanded that he treat all guests as if they were new arrivals. He placed one key in front of Nezha and a second in front of Hamadi. This part of the night always embarrassed Hamadi. Preferring not to say anything, Hamadi gave the concierge a conspiratorial smile, and then placed the money for the two rooms in front of him, along with an overly generous tip.