I needed to talk, to hear someone else talking. I didn’t know what I needed to say. I needed to talk, just talk. Afterall, the Genevans spoke French and I spoke French too. Whyhad I studied this language for years in Morocco? Certainlynot to be reduced to this silence. Before, I used to think thatFrench was the best language for communication, a languagethat allowed you to express your ideas in a clear, precise way,achieve different shades of meaning, argue about things,defend yourself. I never imagined that French would becomethe language of silence. To say nothing, when one could bespeaking French, seemed inconceivable to me, incongruent,even scandalous! One had to react, had to defend the honorof the French language.

Not far from the Station, there was a taxi stand. Without even thinking, I hurried toward the first one. The driverput his window down. To my amazement, he was smiling.He didn’t give me a chance to talk. Before I could even sayanything, there he was, right in front of me, talking inFrench. I was so happy to hear a few words in French,words pronounced with a Genevan accent, that I forgot Ihad to figure out what he was saying. I asked him to repeatwhat sounded like a question.

“I asked if you were Kuwaiti or Qatari?”

“Neither. I’m ...”

“Saudi then ... yes, that’s it... You have eyes like a Saudi. You’re a Saudi. Tell me I’m right ... And you speak perfectFrench for a Saudi.”

“No, I’m not a Saudi...”

“I don’t believe you. You seem so Saudi.”

“No, not at all ... I’m ...”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess! Are you from the United Arab Emirates?”

“No.”

“From Bahrain?”

“No.”

“Before I make a fool of myself, I give up.”

“I’m Moroccan.”

“I love Morocco! I love women from Morocco. Are you from Casablanca?”

“No, from Rabat. From Salé, actually.”

To my great surprise, his attitude didn’t change, he didn’t become disagreeable. He certainly knew I wasn’t the kind ofperson he was hoping to meet, the nationality he had expected.

He got out of the cab and invited me to sit with him on the hood, which was still warm. Like me, he just felt liketalking. Like me, he couldn’t stand the silence. He spokemore than I did, spoke for a long time. About the sun inMorocco. About this woman, Seloua, whom he had been inlove with in Tangiers, this woman for whom he had beenprepared to give up his life in Switzerland.