The night before the party, he could not fall asleep. The heat in his apartment was suffocating and he spent the night lying on his bed under the open windows, waiting for the morning breeze. At six o’clock he got up. The sky was overcast: it would be another sweltering day. By eight o’clock he had showered and dressed, and he was pacing around his living room, incapable of reading, working, or even just sitting still. He was afraid of falling asleep on the old bench and being late for the lunch. One of his colleagues had warned him: it was important to arrive neither too early (for fear of appearing impatient and ridiculous) nor too late (for fear of offending the king, who would inaugurate the meal). When the tension became unbearable, Mehdi grabbed the keys for the Simca and decided to set off. He would get a head start, in case the car broke down, and he could always stop off and see Henri, whose beach hut was on the way to the palace. Mehdi could not possibly consume alcohol in the king’s residence, but he would ask Henri to give him a glass of white wine. He could drink it on the terrace and it would help him relax.

  He drove to the center of town then joined the coastal road toward Skhirat. As soon as he was out of Rabat he felt calmer, almost in a holiday mood, and he started thinking how good he looked in his outfit, how surprised Henri would be to see him dressed so elegantly. To the left of the road the town had given way to countryside. Farmers were selling vegetables in little wooden shacks by the roadside: sweet peppers, onions, tomatoes. Then the ocean appeared, glittering in the sunlight, and in the distance Mehdi could see the ocher ramparts of an old kasbah surrounded by palm trees. Below that were the rocks where waves crashed in flurries of foam, and some young barefoot boys were fishing for cockles and crabs.

  He parked the car outside Henri’s beach hut. The front door hung ajar. The living room and the kitchen were empty. He called out but no one answered. Eventually he found Henri asleep on the terrace, lying on a canvas deck chair, a book open in his lap.

  “Henri?”

  The lecturer opened his eyes and a smile lit up his face when he recognized his former student. “Mehdi? What a nice surprise!”

  Mehdi looked down at his overpriced moccasins and decided he would not tell Henri about the king’s birthday. Henri was too polite to criticize him or express his disapproval, but Mehdi felt certain he would be disappointed. Mehdi did not want to be thought of as a sellout, a traitor, a bourgeois hypocrite.

  “Well, well . . . You look very elegant. And I like your beard now. Less Karl Marx.”

  Mehdi stroked his chin. “Yeah. Well, we’re all getting older, aren’t we? Isn’t Monette here?”

  “No, but they shouldn’t be long now. You’re a little early.”

  “Early?”

  “Yeah, she’s gone to the airport to pick up Aïcha. She’s spending the summer here. Don’t tell me you didn’t know?”

  Mehdi had arrived here feeling swollen with pride and self-confidence, but now, hearing this news, he felt as if he were melting, crumbling, liquefying. His outfit suddenly struck him as vulgar and embarrassing. Henri must think that it was for her, for Aïcha, that he had bought these too-tight pants and this shirt which now felt as if it were choking him.

  Henri clambered out of his deck chair. “I’m sorry, I haven’t even offered you a drink. I haven’t been sleeping too well at night, so during the day all I have to do is open a book and I’m gone. Why don’t we open a bottle of white wine?”

  Mehdi nodded. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth and he could not utter a single word. Aïcha was coming. In a few minutes, maybe in an hour, she would be standing here, in front of him. What message was fate trying to send him? He watched as Henri returned from the kitchen, bottle in hand. His former professor was saying something but Mehdi did not hear him. His head was too full of thoughts. I ought to leave now, he thought. If I don’t, everything will be screwed. He wondered if anyone would notice his absence at the birthday party. Would the minister look for him among the other guests, to introduce him to the king as a young man with a bright future? No, Mehdi told himself, he would have bigger fish to fry.

  “Hell of a time for her to arrive, isn’t it?” Henri asked, laughing.

  “What do you mean?” Mehdi stared at him, his face creased in an anxious frown.

  “The king’s birthday, in Skhirat. Monette was afraid she wouldn’t be able to get to the airport with everything going on. I offered to go with her but she wanted to do it alone. You know what those two are like.”

  No, Mehdi didn’t know. He didn’t know anything anymore. He gulped down his glass of white wine. He could feel the cold liquid running down into his empty stomach. If he got drunk he wouldn’t have to think anymore. It would become impossible to back out then, to get in his car and introduce himself to the members of the Court. He looked at his watch. Almost eleven. For a few seconds he stared at the hands on that little round face. Then he gave his glass to Henri, who poured him another one.

  “Nervous, huh?” Henri was amused by his friend’s attitude, which he attributed to romantic feelings. Mehdi could not keep still. He sat in the deck chair then got up again. His pants were digging into his belly and he stood there, glass in hand, his gaze switching from the front door to the ocean and back again. The sky was a very pale blue, almost white, and his shirt was drenched with sweat. It was so hot that the ocean itself looked like it was boiling. The huge waves crashed onto the beach with a sound like thunder.

  “Could you lend me a pair of trunks?”

  “You want to go swimming? Really?” Mehdi was already unbuttoning his shirt, there in the middle of the terrace, as though he were all alone in the world. “Hang on, follow me. I have what you need.”

  Mehdi wished he could tell him. He would have loved to have the courage to ask Henri for his advice. “Will she be happy to see me? Will she think I’m setting a trap for her again? Tell me, Henri, is she still angry with me?” But he said nothing and locked himself in the bathroom. He got undressed, put on the trunks, which were a bit too big for him, and went down to the beach where the sand burned the soles of his feet. He started running and threw himself into the hollow of a wave that was coming toward him. Every time he lifted his head out of the water he had to dive down again to avoid being swept away. The waves kept coming, ever higher, full of foam and salt like the drool of a rabid dog. He tried to swim but it was not his arms or legs that carried him forward. His feet kicked in the void. He was pulled out by the current, farther and farther from shore. He opened his myopic eyes. The sand and the hut had disappeared and all he could see was the infinite black expanse of bubbling water. There was no point trying to resist so he let himself by rolled like a stone by the backwash. With one hand he held up his trunks, which were sliding down his thighs. He couldn’t catch his breath but he wasn’t afraid. He let his body be sucked into the depths. On his skin he could feel the bite and sting of sand and shells. He thought about the way Aïcha swam, her grace and tenacity. And, once again, he remembered the image of the tall blond woman by the side of the pool, in her mauve swimsuit. Now and then he would manage to raise his head above the surface of the water, to suck in a mouthful of air, and then he was swallowed again, dragged down toward the bottom, flung around like a rag in a washing machine. But the ocean didn’t want him. He was still holding on with one hand to his trunks when it spat him out onto the shore, his hair full of sand and stones. Henri was there and he helped him to his feet.

  “You scared the shit out of me. I almost went in after you.”

  “Everything’s fine,” said Mehdi. “The current was stronger than I realized, that’s all.”

  Henri wrapped him in a towel and they went back to the terrace. They finished the bottle of white wine and opened a second one. Mehdi chain-smoked cigarettes, squeezing the filter tightly between his thumb and his index finger. At the palace, now, they must already have served lunch. The king would be sitting at his table alone, as protocol dictated. Mehdi was drunk now. His eyelids were heavy, his thoughts hazy, and there was a satisfied smile on his face. It was the most beautiful day in the history of the world. Nothing could happen to him. Fate continued to make his decisions for him and all he had to do was submit, to abandon himself, to trust in destiny as he had trusted in the current that had brought him safely back to shore. He felt refreshed by his swim, his body relaxed. He looked at his watch. The hands were motionless. He had forgotten to take it off before he dived into the sea and now it wasn’t working anymore.

  Then he heard a car engine. A woman’s voice. It was Monette, calling Henri, asking him to help her carry the suitcase. Mehdi felt as if he was still somewhere deep in the ocean, and the sounds that reached him there were distant, muffled. He stayed sitting in his deck chair, with his back to the beach hut. He could not bring himself to stand up. He imagined that, the moment he saw her again, his heart would stop beating. Through all those months spent thinking about her, torturing himself, Aïcha had become almost unreal, like one of those mythological creatures who cannot be looked in the eye without the beholder being transformed into a pillar of salt. And yet here she was. Just in front of him. He held up his hand to shade himself from the blinding sun. Here she was, her long straight hair cascading down over her bare shoulders. She was wearing a black dress with thin straps and he stared up at her slender bust, her long neck, and lastly her face. He stood up so suddenly that his head started spinning. She kissed him on the cheek and in that instant, as she was leaning toward him, he had to force himself not to hug her. Not to yell “I love you” and “Please forgive me, I beg you.” Instead he said, simply, “Hello,” and smiled at her.

  Monette set the table. “So are we allowed to have some wine or have you drunk it all?” She had been afraid they weren’t going to make it back. “There was a roadblock just after the palace. Some military trucks had been parked sideways across the street. Apparently they were stopping all cars coming from Rabat. But they let us through. We must have made a good impression on them!”

  Mehdi did not speak much during lunch. He gave peremptory replies to the questions Henri asked him about his job at the tax office and his new responsibilities. Aïcha asked if he was still writing and Mehdi got into a muddle. He concluded: “As soon as I have time, I’ll get back to it.” Occasionally she would look up at him and stare without smiling. She seemed less shy than she had before, more sure of herself. She ate and drank with gusto. Monette kept shooting her knowing looks and Mehdi thought they must be laughing at him. When Aïcha talked about Strasbourg, she kept going on about “David this” and “David that,” as if that damned young man had become an essential part of her life. Not only that, but David was currently in Spain with his parents and it was not impossible that he would join her here, in August. “We’d be very happy to have him to stay,” said Monette with an amused smile. “Wouldn’t we, Henri?” Henri nodded but said nothing. He was staring at Mehdi’s hand, the fingers of which had been drumming on the wooden table for some time now.

  Mehdi felt like he was about to explode. His drunkenness had turned to anger and he regretted having stayed, having waited for this woman who seemed to be enjoying his humiliation. He should have gone to the palace, continued along his own path, thought only of himself and his career. He would have met important people there and written down their names, addresses, and telephone numbers in the little notebook that he always kept with him. His watch was broken and he had spent all that money on his clothes for nothing. What a mistake it had been to open himself up to this hurt. He was about to invent an excuse to leave when a man, one of their neighbors, came to the front door. Henri stood for a few minutes with him in the doorway and when he returned to the terrace Monette noticed he was looking very pale.

  “What’s going on?”

  “That was Robert. He says something’s happened in Skhirat. People have heard shots being fired and apparently he can smell gunpowder at his place. For the moment he thinks we should stay where we are. He’ll let us know as soon as he hears something.” He went to fetch the radio from their bedroom and switched it on. He seemed relieved when he found the national radio station, which was playing an Egyptian love song. “And we still don’t have that damn telephone! It’s intolerable, not knowing what’s happening.”

  The Egyptian song ended abruptly. And Henri recognized the notes of “La Galette,” a military march. All four of them were staring at the radio now, as if this object contained the answers to the questions that tormented them.

  “What about my parents?” Aïcha said. “They must be worried.”

  They began guessing what might have happened. The Libyans had fomented an attack. The king was dead and would be replaced by a regent. All four of them felt a mixture of fear and excitement. They were aware that they were living through an important moment, a historic day that would be written about in books. Unable to keep still, they began pacing around the terrace, smoking. Two helicopters flew over the beach. Aïcha and Monette surrendered to panic: “What’s going to happen to us?” Henri started lecturing them about how it had been bound to happen, how he’d sensed the status quo could not be maintained much longer. Mehdi grew impassioned, talking about popular revolutions and guerrilla wars. He was so glad he hadn’t gone to the birthday party. Not only because he was still alive, but because now he could pretend he had always been on the right side. He could say he had not rubbed shoulders with all those powerful people. Later, if anyone asked, he would explain that, yes, he had been invited but he had refused to go, wishing to signal his opposition to such an indecent display of luxury.

  “I was supposed to be there,” he admitted.

  “What are you talking about?” Henri asked.

  “The king’s birthday party. I was invited.”

  “Ah, now I understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Your clothes, the way you were acting. You should thank Aïcha, then. I reckon you’re much better off here than you would be there.”

  He turned up the volume on the radio. “Attention! Attention! The army has taken power. The monarchy has fallen. The people’s army is in control. A new era is beginning.”

  Throughout the afternoon and part of the evening, they believed that the king was dead and that Morocco had fallen into the hands of its generals. Aïcha thought about the portrait of Hassan II in her father’s office. She remembered the jubilation that had greeted Mohammed V’s return from exile. She could not imagine her country without a king. Were they really going to become one of those states run by soldiers? On the radio, the message from the army was played over and over on a loop, and Henri was being driven mad by the absence of news. “Why hasn’t Robert come back? We can’t just stay here forever, waiting like idiots.”

  “What else did you have in mind?” Monette asked him.

  Night fell, plunging the beach into darkness. They had finished the wine and Henri went to fetch some beers from the fridge. Only a few cigarettes were left, so they shared them, passing each one from hand to hand like a joint. They fell silent. All four of them appeared to withdraw into themselves. In the face of the unknown it seemed pointless to talk about something they knew nothing about, to make speculations that would probably turn out to be false. They thought about their own futures. About the consequences this would have for each of them. In their secret hearts, they calculated what they might lose and what they could gain. What would happen to their careers, their ambitions, their happiness? They couldn’t have said if this coup d’état was a good thing or a bad thing. If they should worry or rejoice. But they were all afraid.

  The moon, as round and incandescent as a cigar end, was reflected in the big puddles that the ocean had left behind as it withdrew. From the terrace the beach looked like a plowed field, and in the distance some vague shapes reminded Aïcha of the outlines of oxen. It was almost midnight by the time Robert returned. General Oufkir had spoken on the radio. The coup had failed and the king was alive. The loyalist army, deployed in the streets of the capital, had retaken the radio station and the Ministry of the Interior. In Rabat rumors spread like wildfire, passing from house to house, fueled by the tales of those who had survived the coup and returned home and the lies of those who were jealous that they had not seen anything. Already the traitors’ names were being whispered: General Medbouh, Colonel Chelouati, and Lieutenant Colonel Ababou, director of the NCO training school in Ahermoumou, whose young soldiers had led the coup d’état. Robert had spent the evening on the phone, but he was incapable of answering Henri and the others, who assailed him with questions. What had motivated the coup? “Too early to say.” How many people were dead? “Dozens, maybe more. Someone told me that there were corpses floating in the swimming pool at the palace. They spanked a general and hunted the king to the toilets where he was hiding.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “I’m going to bed,” Henri declared, and Monette followed him inside. Aïcha and Mehdi were left alone on the terrace.

  “I was thinking about finishing my residency here in Rabat. It might not be such a bad idea.”

  “So you’d abandon your David?”

  “He’s not my David.”

  “Whatever.”

  She got to her feet. She picked up the glasses that had been left on the table and the ashtray full of cigarette butts.

  “I suppose you’re going to sleep here, then?”

  “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

  “Let’s go inside. It’s cold.”

  They were lying next to each other on the damp bench when Hassan II gave a speech on the radio, around one in the morning. She turned her back to him. She appeared to be sleeping. Mehdi thought he would never be able to fall asleep. He wanted her so desperately that he had to force himself not to cover her with kisses, hold her tight against him. He was thirsty and his breath smelled of wine and tobacco. He couldn’t kiss her with a mouth like that. He would have to venture through the freezing house in his underpants. Drink a glass of water, come back, then kiss her skin. He would start with her back. Let his lips linger in the hollow at the base of her spine. Lick her belly. Wake her softly.