Tangeri

Follow this deep immersion in the city of Tangier, told by those who lived it and loved it until you could describe its bowels

The wind sibilates pushing from the sea to the shores as a dear brother embraces his family, then winds through the high towers of a medieval era still alive and perceptible. Some men stand on skinny, thin boats pulling heavy nets of good catch with their hands, sweating and whispering so as not to be caught stealing. They feel the fear of superstition and have respect for the tradition crept into it. They bow their heads as soon as the sun appears on their battered shoulders swinging over the shallow water. Swaggering little fish swim under the keel, brave of their own naivety. It is in the morning and the city stirs, waking up, giving off a scent of intense and lovable modern tomb.

The scent of turmeric, olives, cheese and delight of a toasted and thunderous hot bread after being broken. The merchants cheered in front of the still empty square filled only with birds and a small soft haze that spreadslowly and then disappeared. The man of the mosque shouts his oldest precept to invoking men to prayer. The long dresses that rub on the ground, the leather shoes and the angular faces are a symbol of an unchallenged race. They are the holders of an ancient and sacred treasure of vitality. Scrolling through the faces I recognize that of my mother, she has already laid out the laundry to the taste of soap French she buys from a dealer who grazes on the streets with her own cart. That man is the essence of soap. Women take to the streets before the heat can even become unbearable. Covered with a dark veil over raven-colored hair. Their eyes priceless treasures of a supervatial and vain beauty. They sneer with their children, helpless little ones on their day-to-day tour of the adult markets.

I was born and raised in Tangier. My town and my mistress. At night I wander the streets where no lamppost can illuminate well the sleeping mosaics on the walls. I wander by writing love poems that I leave under the doors of women I can't have. They are married and in love with their veil for fear of giving in to the enticements of a poet. When everyone falls asleep I run into a corner bar and try my luck with alcohol, I shouldn't, but I give in to know what it's like to always hang on with your god. A friend of mine French tries to keep up with some Flint or August or some other Western songs, but it's always my phrasing that stays in the air for longer. He drinks too much to make himself presentable and to have access to ideas. I drink little, just to alter normality by ingesting any elixir of extremity. Then I fall asleep to the corners of a canopy at the port to wake me up with the racket of birds arguing some run-down sardines, left to rot in the sun.
By day I work at the national library, gliding between the tall marble columns and the flag of our nation hanging from a bronze pole. She's been standing still for years and I've never seen her move under a rustle of wind. It's a shame, he looks like a soul in immovable pain in the library in search of a good book of short stories. I love to rub myself on the shelves full of books and vintage tomes, beautiful, hard and leather with the inscriptions in Arabic and French embroidered in gold. Some are in Greek and I often think that someone will sooner or later come to our library and ask me for one of these tomes. I wish I could hear a soft voice capable of reading ancient Greek and spreading it to these high-ceilinged rooms.

Silence is able to drive me crazy and from time to time to break my madness I throw a shrill scream from a row of books in which no one ever sets foot. I don't think anyone can ever hear me, or maybe I can. There is no way to tell if someone held tight inside a pure tailoring dress will ever mean a scream of joy and passion. I am jealous if someone touches my books, I consider them mine because I look after them all day long preventing wacky patrons from destroying their internal beauty and forget the respect that this ancient art still deserves.

I walk listening to my steps through the great sacred text room. I am a blasphemous creature but full of love. I have no hatred in my veins but so much curiosity to break every law on earth in order to know which one to choose with courage. I wear a light dress the opposite of what my skin is. It's clean, so is my skin. Lucid in the sun, clear at night and then constantly mutates, always choosing a pretext to smell of something that is not raw. I am animated by the interaction with other men and this makes me a frequent researcher of perfection and my own scent. I constantly mix the love for the thousand women and one man, only one, enough to understand what I am made of.

The day flies away without hope of being able to mature. It's always like that, I only notice one thing when the calendar marks its passage. The sky changes and becomes brown, but not dark. I look out of the big arched window and see him sighing for a light that he will see again tomorrow. Like a slight dash the glow gives way to a cloak of severity and darkness. I often wonder what happens in that second when the day becomes evening and then night. Three seconds in all to change people.
I lock the library well, while I greeted colleagues and other lords of a higher ream than mine. I don't know the names, or it's likely that in the discomfort of the presentation he forgot them for lack of importance.

I'm back in the street impressed by the desire to move fast through the alleys. White walls with a shadow cut sideways are the announcement of the bright luminaries. I love this moment, when artificial light is just an extra note and serves no purpose. Without it we would see each other anyway and that turning them on half an hour before dark is just a prevention note.
I head as usual in a semi-crowded place of nice and charming people. It's not a bar, it's the haunt of solitary lures and effervescent civilians. The master knows me, he hangs some of my poems, I gave them to him with the intention of paying for it. He's a tall, skinny guy, dark-faced, light-handed, married and exhausted by the nightlife. Pour a finger of reddish liquor into a little glass. My dance begins shortly after I drank seven in total. I dance for friends and meek peacocks sitting on sofas. I'm so tired because I haven't slept in two days. I am the moon that does not want to go away and always remains alert even with a clear and clear sky. I feel my clothes weighed like iron metal, sweating profusely because the heat is the friend who never shakes you off.

Leaving the local meeting Youssef, reminding me of the name I also retraced the whole story of his life. He's not married or engaged or promised any veto. He just reads. All day, every day. That's all it's doing. I envious him by the tender ledge that sprouts from under his nose. A cute and minute mole on a sweet mouth of youth. He greets me with the fervour of an 18-year-old who can't wait to turn into me as a womanian who has descended among the mere mortals. He hugs me and I don't know how to disave him because it reminds me of one of those victims of late infidelity. I also embrace him by giving him all my last strength. Let's talk for a good half hour of futility before we come in again and start drinking. I drink only myself, he follows religion step by step and immediately after noticing that the place is teeming with those like me he realized that I was not so much a god. He left leaving the room sympathizing with a glow more internal than external. Outside it's really dark and Tangier feels like another Arab paradise where you can indulge in a bit of grace. How beautiful this city is, I say it several times, using the favor of alcohol and all those who together with me sing an old song. We drink again, dance and plan to live forever immortal.
The birds are crawling, this time for a piece of filthy bread under my shoe. They dare screaming and trying to parade it without having to get into my range. They flap their wings strongly trying to stay on position. I grant him with hindsight to see them again tomorrow morning less agitated.
Please let me sleep even one more breath. I am tired. I wandered around the city describing it. This is Tangier and I'm Sabil. I just try to imagine what you saw from my words.

Reviews

[Eilis]

Love the ending. Kind of sums up writing in general in that we may write for ourselves, but there is always the curiosity of what our imagination will look like to others. And, so often, I find, it is not what it looks like to me. But that's a part of the act of writing as well, I suppose, and one of the parts that sees me keep striving to present the picture I am aiming for.

I am a devourer of stories, and I would read a book of these. I love stories about places I have never been, especially when they offer such a sense of things that I could feel myself there without the act of walking the streets.

Your descriptions are inspiring. Your characterizations offering just enough to make the characters full and real. This is the kind of writing that makes me want to go and write. I realize this isn't a super helpful review, but it takes me a bit to dig in to an author's work and articulate what I see there. I'm looking forward to reading more here.

[Vin]

wow!! i felt like i'm travelling. So good with detailing you are!! All my wishes