A Distant Episode

A Distant Episode
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“The September sunsets
were at their reddest”
—Paul Bowles, “A Distant
Episode,” The Delicate Prey
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I decided to return—To Aïm Tadouirt after being Away for ten long years I’d been there for 3 days—Long enough to fall in love With some of the village boys Hassan Ramani’s cafe—Had been my rendezvous For my heavenly delights
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As my chauffeur drove—Me down the dusty road Into the deep canyon Orange blossoms, pepper—Sun-baked excrement and The smell of rotten fruit Mixed with the musky—Scent of endless ozone and The smell of Moghrebi boys
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I lived for this instant—Closing my eyes happily that distant past returning "Vous êtes gêologue?”—the chauffeur asked looking at me thru his rearview mirror “A geologist, heavens no!—I’m a linguist and I’m studying Young cute Moghrebi boys”
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“There are no boys here—there are no languages only dialects of gangster thugs”—Exactly, I making a study—of young gangster Moghrebi hoodlums and their love-life.”“Keep on going south”—the chauffeur scornfully said and I noted his disapproval
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“You’ll find some boys here—you never dreamed of before but they murder guys like you” The decrepit limousine—Bumped its way along the Rocky dusty road some more Indignantly he dumped me—At the Grand Hotel Saharien Driving off with a mean sneer
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I was used to such treatment—But I had this superior attitude Imbued with Cultural Imperialism I was visiting Aïm Tadouirt—More for pleasure than intellect My colleagues didn’t need to know A young gazelle took my luggage—Up the stairs and to my room I paid him generously for his time
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Dabbing my sticky lips—I put on my tuxedo and weaved My way to Hassan Ramani’s café The insolent qaouanji wiped off—The table and I ordered some tea —And made necessary inquiries “Hassan Ramani is deceased”—the qaouanji said leaving me ridiculously feeling lonely
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Soon the qaouanji returned—I left him an enormous tip for The tea and I curiously inquired “Tell me, do you still sell—handsome young boys like Hassan Ramani once did?” The qaouanji sneered—“The Reguibat have boys but they’re very sullen, dangerous”
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“Just my type” I said—sipping my tea and letting him see my nice fat billfold “I like them so much—I want to make a collection of them, I’ll pay rather nicely” “Khamstache” he said—Jerking his left hand obscenely Three times in quick succession
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“Never, how about ten”—we quibbled some more and finally I agreed to fifteen “Wait in your room tonight—I’ll bring some Moghrebi boys To you for your delectations” Later the qaouanji came by—With a youth whose face was Covered by a dirty burnous
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“Agh!” I smelled a sweet—black odor of rotten meat in the air of my hotel room Odor of human excrement— so strong I almost vomited clung to the Moghrebi youth But his stench was canceled—By another even stronger odor The gagging smell of smegma
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The strange aromatic odor—Of a queer cheesy Arab boy as He began smoking a cigarette I paid the qaouanji and—Locked the door to calm my Nchaioui-induced erotic nerves The boy shoved a Sebsi—In my face and I thought He was going to Kif me!
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Then he slipped down—His wide serouelles trousers It was unbelievably huge! Thick as a Safsaf tree—An enormous Eucalyptus My Mektoub had arrived! My destiny was here—Hermetically sealed inside This rabid Reguibat Root!
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A deranged boy—Possessed by a holy Penis A Mejdoub piece of meat! Sweet Jam of Majoun—Seminal Manly Paste of Kouffa Tart Prickly Pear Basket! Fqih Foreskinned Djellaba—Djinn Khoya Brother of Night Guennaoui Dance of the Dead!
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It doesn’t take very long—The Reguibat boy soon turns Me into a mute captive clown I descend thru dialects—Thru French, Arabic, Berber, Tifinagh into Babbling Idiocy So much for my haughty—Western Linguistics Mind A desert fool now forever