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stuffing themselves with lemon tarts or rosewater milkshakes while their men, mustachioed, no doubt dreamed of groping their breasts, thinking it was a pretty good deal, a few sweets in return for a session of heavy petting afterward in the nice warmth of a car or on a sofa. I think I was a little jealous of these fellows just slightly older than us, they had acquired the rightto slip their hands into the panties of their cousins in exchange for an official engagement and a little cash for rings and necklaces. As for us, we were waiting for our phantom Spanish girls, looking like out-of-town yokels slathered in hair gel.
    Bassam was fidgeting next to the crumbs of his black forest cake, whose candied cherry sat prominently, abandoned, in the middle of the plate.
    I pretended to get impatient too, what the hell are they up to, what the hell are they doing, five more minutes and I’ll tell Bassam we should go drown our sorrows in beer somewhere—it was raining again.
    It’s well known, Spanish girls don’t go out in the rain.
    Suddenly I saw Bassam leap out of his chair; he craned his neck like a giraffe and gave me a few kicks under the table. I turned around; two young European girls had just come in; brunettes, with long hair worn down, bangs over their eyes, they wore harem pants, dozens of bracelets on their forearms, leather handbags and clogs made from the same material: Spaniards without a doubt, incredible. Actually no, it wasn’t all that incredible, but it placed me in a delicate position.
    â€œNo, it’s not them,” I said to Bassam.
    He looked at me disconcertedly, sighing.
    The two girls must have entered the bakery for shelter from the rain.
    Bassam was irritated, he began wondering if I hadn’t been taking him for a ride; the fact that two Spanish girls came in as we were waiting for two other ones gave him the feeling that something wasn’t right. Young Iberians strolling in pairs in Tangier in this season weren’t as common as all that.
    An idea came into his head:
    â€œGo ask them if they maybe know Inez and Carmen.”
    I almost replied Who?, but remembered the names of my two ghosts just in time.
    â€œMaybe they’re in the same group.”
    He wore a challenging look on his face, a dangerous look; he was trying, above all, to test me, to find out whether or not I had lied to him.
    I sighed; I could tell him I was too chicken, he wouldn’t have understood. I saw him again the way he was the day before, cudgel in hand, beating the bookseller; I wondered what the hell I was doing there, in a tearoom with my pal the madman with the pickaxe.
    â€œOkay. I’ll go.”
    Bassam was literally licking his chops, his fat tongue slid over his upper lip to gather the last bits of chocolate shavings; he picked up the candied cherry and popped it into his mouth, I turned my eyes away before seeing if he chewed it.
    â€œOkay. I’m going.”
    Never had I dared to approach a foreign girl directly; I had talked about it a lot, we’d talked about it a lot, Bassam and I, during those hours we spent looking at the Strait; we had lied a lot, dreamed a lot, rather. He was looking at me with his naïve, brotherly look, I remember having thought about my family, my family is Bassam and Meryem and no one else.
    â€œOkay. I’m going.”
    I went over to the girls’ table, I’m sure of that; I know I said something to them; I have no idea in what gibberish, in what babble I managed to make myself understood; I just know—I had all the time in the world to think it over later—that I looked so sincere, so little interested in them with my story of Carmen and Inez, I so hoped they knew this Carmen and this Inez, that they didn’t suspect a thing, they answered me frankly, and it all happened in the most natural way in the world, and then they saw clearly, as they heard Bassam, as they saw Bassam’s face, that it wasn’t a trap