Khaled got up half wake half dreaming. Gentle knocks on the door. Remnants of a dream accompanied him to the door. He stopped for a while to resist his staggering. He straightened up and stroked his hair in a spontaneous movement that did not change his state at all. He opened the door.
Rahma turned her back in a slow movement that reflected the age of a woman who aged over 70 years, and she made a meaningless wave. He contemplated her with sadness mingled with a lot of love. Rahma was one of the few people who were still living in the same building since the Spanish occupation of Tangier. She worked with the Spanish as the guard of the building, and she remained in the same building taking care of it, and watching people coming and going.
The inhabitants of the whole neighborhood call her Aziza Rahma. Despite that she did not have any grandchildren, they all considered her their grandma including the new comers. She was a good woman who belonged to a pure world that would not get stained.
A new email arrived:
“Dear Khaled,
We would like to thank you for your literary contribution with us. We enclose herewith the wired transfer details of the sum of 350$ in exchange for the four short stories you published in our magazine.
Thank you very much. Keep in touch.
Creative Writers Magazines Administration”
He read the email again and again, and his heart rate became faster. When his situation became too desperate, it was defused. The email that bore the good news shyly arrived. Finally, he would be able to move freely again at least for a short time. He would not face humiliation during the day nor worries at night.
It was one of the rare benefits of his fondness of writing. Why do people write? He answered this important question while gulping the dessert, “To receive some good dollars, of course”. Then he roared in laughter.
The email worked his appetite up. He swallowed the plate of dessert with a cup of tea while he was thinking of quickly going to the bank to check whether the transfer had arrived or not. He browsed a local news website as he usually did. There was a piece of news that caught his eyes and rose his anger:
“Tangier Today knew a few minutes ago that a foreign gang could rob a precious painting called “The Moroccan Mona Lisa” from the American Museum in the city—formerly known the American Commission. An informed security source maintained that the robbery was carried out in a way similar to Hollywood movies; the gang, consisting of three members, was in disguise. They used a sleeping gas before quietly robbing the painting.
More details to follow.”
As if you weren’t experiencing enough troubles, oh Tangier! They had robbed the remaining remnants of your beauty. One day he read that this painting was for a real Tangierian girl called Zohra. It was painted by a Scottish artist called James McBey in 1952. Zohra, as he read, was still alive, and her grandchildren were living in the States.
He thought, “Thanks God they didn’t harm any person” while he was dressing up and getting ready to leave. Suddenly he slapped his forehead as if he remembered something.
“Didn’t harm any person! Oh my God. I’ve totally forgot about my friend Mahdi. He’s a private security guard there. What an amnesiac person I am!”
He tried to call Mahdi, but the mobile died out because its battery was empty. He thought that it was really a Hollywood movie for all parties. He put his mobile in his pocket, carried the plate that was empty, excepts for the drawing on it, to give it back to its owner while murmuring,
He descended the stairs and ignored the lift that used to work once in every 365 days. He handed the plate to Aziza who was cleaning the stairs of the third floor. She smiled and did not comment. She was praying for him while he continued descending the stairs quickly until her voice completely receded.