“Think of your mother ... what’s the one thing she told you you should never lose?”

“My passport!”

“Right, and here it is!”

“Oh, my God, thank you, thank you! How could I have forgotten that? ... I can’t even prove I exist if I don’t have mypassport.”

“Oh, come on now, you certainly do exist. I would be glad to testify to that fact if you wanted me to.”

“How’s that?”

“How’s that! ?”

“Yes, how’s that?”

“Listen, have you figured out where you’re going to sleep tonight?”

“Probably here, if you don’t mind?”

“Okay, then. Tonight, after dinner, I’m going to show you how I would testify to the fact that you do exist. Run alongnow, I’ve got work to do.”

“Good luck!”

“You too! And don’t forget, dinner is served from 7 to 8:30.”

“Thanks. See you tonight.”

Tangiers. January, 1997.

His name was Mohamed. And, like so many others, he dreamt about leaving Morocco some day, for France, Spain,Germany, it didn’t matter where, but his wildest dream wasabout going to the United States. He knew what he had todo, had even come up with a plan, a simple one, simple buteffective: seduce a Western woman, offer himself to her, showher what a Moroccan man was capable of, in other words,fuck her like an animal, make her see stars in broad daylight,screw her nonstop, drive her wild, make her worthy of him,deserving of his cock. He wasn’t afraid to talk like that, thatwas his big life plan, what he planned to do to make his lifea success. Nowadays, he said, the only thing still working inMorocco was sex, sex, sex, and more sex, sex from dawn todusk and all night too, sex everywhere and sex with everybody, even in mosques. Sex, he used to say, was the country’snumber one natural resource, its national treasure, its maintourist attraction.

But Mohamed wasn’t lucky. All he met were hookers, sluts, bleach blondes, old ladies who wouldn’t spend a dime, bitchesworse than any Moroccan woman. Up until then, he thoughtMoroccan women were the world champions when it cameto manipulating men and getting involved in every kind ofsexual trafficking and, needless to say, magic. He was wrong.Women existed in other places, especially in France, whomade Moroccan women seem as blameless as angels. No, hewouldn’t go through with it, just made up his mind not to.From now on, he’d be careful around these witches regardlessof their nationality, cautious around these infamous creatures,these Amazons untamed by faith or by law, wary now aroundthis horror that he now named woman.