I was just starting to get undressed when all of a sudden this knock comes to the door. I put my shirt back on andwent to open it. It was Michel Foucault. More shock, moreconfusion. He had a sweet smile as he whispered: “I thoughtyou might be hungry so I brought you this cheese sandwich.I fixed it for myself in case I got ... well, I think you need itmore than I do. There are also two containers of plum yogurt,that’s all they had left in the fridge. Now listen, try to eat allthis before you sleep. It’s not good sleeping on an emptystomach.”

He knew just what I was going through.

With no warning, tears started running down my cheeks. And they were hot.

I put my head down. I really didn’t want Michel Foucault to see that I was crying. I whispered the words “thank you”three times. Once again he wished me good night andreminded me that wake-up time was 7 a.m.

“Yes, that’s all. A bed is already asking for a lo

Marrakech. August, 1996.

It was hot. Too hot. People said this place was an oven in the summer and it really was! But that didn’t bother me a bit. I waswith Jean. Everything was going great with us. After Rabat, therelationship turned serious. Making love had a lot to do with it,but that wasn’t the most important part, not for me anyway. Inever said no to him. I was delighted to have a man of my own,someone who was interested in me, someone who got me outof my working-class world, at least for a little while, a culturedman, a Western man, in some ways the man of my dreams.

Yes, things were going great.

I told him about everything. My dreams. My secrets. My family. My reading. My shortcomings. My movies. I spent along time talking to him about Paris because it had alwaysfascinated me, because I hoped to live there some day. Ishamelessly expressed my desire to become an intellectual, tobe able to see the world more and more like an intellectualdoes, like he does.

Yes, things were going great.