One evening, Jean and I were out walking. We were walking around l’Hivernage, this chic neighborhood, beforeheading back to the hotel. All of a sudden, these two copsstopped us, even though they seemed very nice. They spoketo me in Arabic, spoke with a lot of violence and a lot ofcontempt: “What are you doing with this man? Why are youbothering him? Don’t you know it’s against the law in thiscountry to bother tourists, you stupid ...?” Unaware of thedanger, I defended myself: “But I’m not bothering him. He’smy friend.” They shot right back: “Your friend or yourboyfriend? Where do you think you are, in America? This isMorocco, you’re in Morocco now, you ignorant piece of ...you stupid fool. How much is he paying you? Let’s see someID and make it fast ...”

Jean didn’t understand. He spoke to them in French, told them I was his student in Rabat and we were visiting Marrakech together. They ordered me to tell him that what theywere doing was for his own safety, his own protection, so he’dhave a nice vacation, a good feeling about Moroccans, leavehere feeling happy and come visit again, come back to see ourbeautiful country where he could always find someone toserve and pamper him.

I very reluctantly had to be the translator.

My identity card saved me. “Lucky for you you’re from Salé. If you had been from Marrakech, we would have hauled you inright away .'.. Go on, get out of here. And don’t let us catchyou around here again. Consider yourself warned. Move it...”

We started walking again, Jean and I, in silence. We started to hear these sounds, sounds that let us discern, there in thedistance, the true soul of Morocco: Jamaa al-Fna Square,vibrant, ablaze, overflowing with joyous insanity. But whowas being celebrated?

These two cops, just as they were getting back into their patrol car, yelled out from the other side of the street: “Makesure he pays you a lot ... and wash your ass good when he’sdone, dirty faggot.”

Two young lovers, in a state of shock, saw the whole thing happen. They just stood there. For a couple of seconds, theboy stared at me in an odd way. The girl tried to make eyecontact and smiled. Then the boy did too.

I didn’t sleep that night. I cried my eyes out but found no comfort in tears. I don’t know if Jean understood what reallyhappened.

The next day, this brutal bell and this voice that sounded like it belonged to some boxer who was traumatized foreverby his losses vigorously announced that sleep time, here atThe Salvation Army, was over.

It was already seven in the morning. Back to reality.

It was still dark outside.

Michel Foucault had vanished.