Khaled did not meet Huda since she led him to the location of the forum in the first day. It was very difficult for him to describe how these five days went on whether they passed fast or slow.
Sometime he would feel enthusiastic when he liked an interposition, so adrenaline would rush through his body, his ears would go red, and he would raise his hand asking for permission to speak. The forum was well organized. Interpretation was available across three languages which were Arabic, French and English. He found himself speaking about his experience of translating the short novel Le Horla into Arabic and sometimes about his own interpretation of the literary works of Guy de Maupassant. He did not of course mention that he translated it while eating “kikes” dessert and drinking minted tea. He did not either tell them that his cat ate one of its drafts when it smelled like yellow cheese.
In other time, the nostalgic feelings would get mingled with loneliness. He could not understand whether it was excessive politeness on Huda’s part who perhaps preferred to keep him focused on the forum, or there was something he could not grasp.
He did not try to call her because he did not want to look impolite. Up to that moment, she acted towards him in outstanding feminine nobility. Was he actually living the illusion of self-importance that falsely depicted for him that Huda adored the ground he walked on?
His response was negative. Never before had he reached such a stage; it was true that the reservation mask was about to fall, it actually did fall; nevertheless, there was a space in his heart and heart to retreat. Despite that it was a narrow space, it existed at least. He resembled it to a spare tire that seemed for years useless; however, it was in other rare times a treasure when it was needed.
In some rare occasions, he used to redo that troublemaking, amusing feeling that reminded him of his early school days. He took a seat in a dark corner and listened without paying any attention to what the speakers were saying especially after lunch time when it was the nap period.
His nerves would relax and his eyes would become motionless. Then he would become completely unaware of anything around him. Only the sound of clapping would wake him up; he used to find his head on his shoulder and his tongue hanging out of his slobbering mouth. He used to clap enthusiastically not for admiring the speech of course; rather, he would be happy that the evening was over.
He was not in the mood to establish any relationship with the other attendees… there was a man of letter from Iraq and another from Tunisia. He chatted with them a few words such as aha… yea… did you see?... Oh my God… take care.
At night he used to walk in the streets near his dwelling. He did not need to lose his way at that time in that specific city whose inhabitants speak a language he did not know the minimum amount of linguistic security…the amount that would enable him to ask at least about his biological needs … the amount that can be found in tourism guides in any country such as:
I’m not from here!
Where can I find a restaurant?
Where’s the embassy of my country?
Where can I find a rest room?
And other similar questions. Therefore, he was keen not to go far away and to remember the way back to his accommodation.
In that corner, the small café that really surprised him was called Tangier Café. In the other corner, there was a small bookshop where a woman whose face was full of freckles worked all day. The shop in the other corner sold children’s toy store. This was his way to draw a map in his mind to reach a busy main street. He enjoyed spending his free time watching the people and life around him. A lot of Moroccans were passing near him. He was able to recognize them because of their features. Fortunately— or unfortunately—he did not know anyone of them, nor did they know him.
On the last day of the forum, they organizers handed him an envelope that contained some considerable amount of money. He did not expect or think of that at all, but it seemed that those people knew his worth.
He did not know why he burst in laughter when he reconsidered it. He remembered an Arab writer who reported once a person saying, “I need to go to a country that knows my real worth”. The writer responded, “Why do you insist on exposing yourself? It’s better you stay where you’re unknown. In the west, it’ll be easy for them to figure out what an idiot you are!!!”
He was watching the TV absentmindedly. The Moroccan TV channel seemed fantastic to him during his short period of migration. He was even smiling while watching the advertisements that he used to hate.
How many things migration can make beautiful in people’s view!
He hears banging on the door. He flies to the door and his heart is beating violently not knowing what is taking place. He opens the door and puts his head out a small window…are these policemen?
The policeman shows him a piece of paper. Khaled concludes that it should be a search warrant. They are three stern-looking policemen with fierce, stern looks. He opens the door to let them enter while attempting to overcome his surprise and wondering when he will wake up from this nightmare quickly.
One of them goes straight away to his bag and empties it quickly. Khaled notices that he threw away the Maruja packs carelessly. He remembers involuntarily that Muadh will come tomorrow to take them.
Cautiously the policeman cuts the lower layer of the luggage with a sharp razor. More cautiously he removes it a bit by bit until he tears it completely out. On the bottom, under that layer, there lies the last thing in the world that Khaled would have ever expected. It is the last thing he may ever dream of.
It is Zahrliza or the Moroccan Mona Lisa.
Like any other respectable person, Khaled does what he has to do… he falls unconscious!