Taking Your Chances
"But what if I never get any chances?" I wailed as I sat beside him, begging for dirhams on one of the alleys approved as a tourist route on the edge of the souk.
"You’ll get chances, don’t worry about that. But they won’t be signposted. You’ll have to spot opportunities when they come, then decide whether to go for it. And do it quickly. Chances don’t hang around waiting to be taken you know."
I wish Mustafa was with me now, but he disappeared a year ago. He had just taken a chance, becoming a runner for one of Ibrahim’s men.
Ibrahim ran the western quarter of the souk, where the tourists rarely go. He controlled who went in, who came out, and what they were allowed to do when they were there. All his men had started as runners – it was the way he tested you, assessing your strengths and weaknesses, judging what use you could be to him, in particular, deciding how loyal you were.
I only learned this after I became a runner myself. Orphans like me don’t get many chances to escape the souk and getting into Ibrahim’s team was the first step. He hinted that he knew where Mustafa was, which made him believe he had power over me, but he didn’t.
So, there I was, sitting in the square, waiting to be sent to collect or deliver one of Ibrahim’s parcels, when a tourist steps out of a taxi right in front of me. He pays the driver, then stands there, staring at a piece of paper, gazing around like he’s looking for someone. He’s lost. If he’s here, on Ibrahim’s patch, then he must be lost.
Ibrahim looks across, then smiles, stares hard in my direction and sends me a message using his eyebrows and the creases in his forehead.
"Go on then. See what he wants. Remember, you don’t do anything for less than 10 dirhams. And be quick." Ibrahim has very expressive eyebrows.
There is little point in speaking Arabic to a tourist so I tried French but he didn’t understand. I prised the paper from his hands and read the name of the place he was looking for, out loud.
"Restaurant Alfassiar."
"Yes" said the tourist. "Do you know it?"
English was not my favourite language but I knew a few phrases so I tried my luck. "Yes. Follow me. Five minutes, no more."
I tugged his hand, put on my honest face, and started marching towards the gate into the souk, lowering my eyes so he would not see Ibrahim nodding, giving his permission to take a stranger in.
Taking a route that was longer than necessary, I turned this way and that, looking over my shoulder to make sure he stayed close. I tested my English by pointing out products where I knew I could get a small commission - "look almonds" "here, oranges" "see, figs." "very good yes?". I pulled him away from donkeys that threatened to tread on his lilywhite toes. A couple of times I even stopped him from stepping in waste matter. I was really earning this tip.
Ten minutes later I delivered him to the Restaurant Alfassiar, where the officious Head Waiter sneered at me as I grabbed the tourist’s hand.
"I bring you here, yes? I do a good job, yes?"
The tourist gave me a coin, one lousy coin, one miserable five dirham coin. I had no idea how much this was worth in England but I reckoned it was loose change, so I stood my ground. I didn’t know how to say numbers in English yet so I held out my hand with a begging look. He was impassive, and turned away into the restaurant. This was a disaster. If I went back to Ibrahim with this coin I would be beaten, and worse than that, I would be put back in the pecking order. I would have to wait weeks, maybe months, for another delivery and how would I eat? One brief encounter with a miserly Englishman meant a rough time for me. I wish I had never seen him.
I poured out my troubles to the Head Waiter who reacted as if Arabic was an alien language rather than his native tongue, so when I threw insults at him, and his mother and father, and other family members, he picked me up by my hair and threw me against a wall. I ran at him, arms flailing, and got close enough to bite his wrist before someone else joined in. I wiped the blood from my eyes and looked up, right into the midriff of a policeman.
I tried to escape three times on the way to the station but I wasn’t quick enough. The bad news was that Ibrahim would not be pleased with me, but the good news was that I could tell him the police had taken my tip, so I could take my chance and be five dirhams up.
So here I sit in my cell, waiting to be thrown out in the morning, listening to the idle chatter of the night shift. I learn that the Inspector’s daughter is getting married, that the Sergeant has tickets to tomorrow’s football match, and that the people paid to clean the station were doing a dreadful job and they would happily pay 20 dirhams a day for it to be done properly.
I could hear Mustafa in my head. "Princes and paupers are all the same little brother. The successful ones turn disaster into opportunity, then they take their chance."
I banged on the door. "Help! Help! I’m trapped in this filthy cell and I’m going mad looking at all this dirt. Fetch me a broom or I’ll kill myself. And if you like my work we can start the discussion at only 50 dirhams! Inshallah!"
