Something was going on between us, inside us, and that Sunday we spent exploring Rabat’s sunny streets and monuments, crossing the Bou Regerg River in a felucca, strollingaround Salé only went to prove it. A real understanding. Onebig intellectual collusion. A shared desire to laugh at the samethings. A certain tenderness still in its beginning stages. Wasit love? Perhaps. In any case, a strong attachment already, atleast for now.

Instinctively, without thinking, I was starting to seduce him. I did a lot of talking. I showed off my culture, myknowledge of literature, movies. I called it my city, then mytwo cities: first Rabat, then Salé, then Salé and Rabat, thenRabat-Salé. I briefly recounted the history of both my cities.I was the perfect guide and my intimate and precise familiarity with even the smallest details of those places reallysurprised me. I felt like the king of Rabat-Salé. My palace wasthe casbah built by Oudayas. And next to me stood this Swissman, yesterday, almost a stranger, and today a brother, ateacher, a boyfriend, perhaps, not yet my lover.

On the beach at Salé, I talked about Pier Paolo Pasolini, who had spent several months in Rabat during the last yearof his life. This author-director fell in love with Salé at firstsight. He even wanted to shoot a film there. He also wantedto convert to Islam. And it seems he would often come to thebeach alone to watch the sunset, to the very beach where Jeanand I stood watching it.

Several months later, Jean told me how moved he was by my Pasolini story, especially by the things I left unsaid butstill made understood. In time, Pasolini would become ourwitness, the priest-imam who would bless our relationship.

As we were leaving the beach in Salé, Jean leaned his head in closer to mine and with his right hand caressed myshoulder.

I was surprised but not really surprised by this sign of affection.

I had won at something, won someone over. I felt proud without exactly knowing why.

On the felucca that brought us back to Rabat, we fell silent. We had said what needed to be said, perhaps a littlemore. In our silence we learned how to be really close.

It was en route to meet his colleagues from the University of Geneva, professors we were going to eat dinner with inAgdal, a middle class neighborhood in Rabat, that I told himthis recent but important news: the French Department atMohamed-V University had found me a scholarship to go toGeneva to complete my studies, but not right away, in justtwo years. At first, he didn’t say anything for about twelveseconds that seemed like an eternity. Then he surprised me by running his left hand through my hair. Finally, and with greateffort, he murmured: “Mabrouke.” I didn’t ask who hadtaught him the Arabic word for “Congratulations.” He washappy for me (for us?), and that was more than enough to fillme with joy for a long time.