When a Bank Account is Better than a  Mattress

Towards the middle of the summer, things got busy enough for Senen to look for another member of staff; and, after a pleading look from me and a short interview, Abel was eventually invited aboard to scrub urinals and herd runaway langosta at my side.

Spending 24 hours a day with my boyfriend was a surprisingly pleasant experience – calm, supportive and a joy to work with, his now permanent presence in Vilanova also meant that he was on hand for activities of a social nature.

So in between shovelling dead marine-life into hungry Spaniards, we visited the local fair, ate ice-cream, strolled along the beach and failed repeatedly at casually dropping in on other family members living close by – one can never just ‘casually drop in’ on Maghrebis.

No matter at what time, and with what lack of notice your visit takes place, they never fail to magic an enormous meal from goodness only knows where. And before you have time to say “please don’t trouble yourself, I’ve only just had lunch”, you will be forcibly plonked down at the nearest table and urged to dig in (sans cutlery) to roast chicken, couscous or kefta, washed down afterwards with glasses of steaming sweet tea – the fresh yerba buena still bobbing around amongst the sugar silt.

(Abel informed me that although one is, out of politeness, expected to refuse food and drink on first being offered it, it would be considered even more rude not to accept the unavoidable second attempt at persuasion – oh woe was me in this cultural minefield…)

As the summer progressed, things got more and more unpleasant at ‘home’ as Abdel Latif’s marriage inexorably hit the skids. For yes, he definitely was married, but to a rather singular woman.

Kenza, although not unattractive, was as fat as her husband was pipe-cleaner thin. And though initially there appeared to be nothing seriously amiss in their union, it soon became obvious that all was not as it should be.

Kenza did not have a job, but still managed to spend very little time at home; usually barging in as tight as a tick in the wee early hours of the morning accompanied by ‘friends’ with whom she proceeded to conduct raucously screeched conversations over thumping music while all the other occupants of the house tried in vain to get some much-needed sleep.

I noticed that it was Abdel Latif who did all the shopping for the household and that during the few free hours he had during the day, it was also he who fought to contain the rampant pigsty that was their living space: on the rare occasions his wife dignified the apartment with her presence, it would be to lounge on the sofa, idly changing the channels on the television while managing to refrain from doing a whole lot else.

For it transpired that Kenza had rather a serious drinking problem (as did Abdel Latif – I suspect it was that most unfortunate of shared interests that had initially brought them together), as well as a mild to probably quite serious drug habit; but far more serious than either of those already serious things, for the future of their marriage at least, was the common knowledge in the local North African community that Abdel Latif’s wife would sleep with pretty much anyone who asked.

So we were forced to watch as Abel’s uncle got thinner and more despondent; until suddenly, one long-overdue day, Kenza packed her bags and left; which in itself wasn’t a bad thing except that she took all my summer earnings with her.

And here is where the advice about bank accounts comes in handy (hindsight is a wonderful thing, so it is) and the advice is: USE ONE.

I hadn’t been for the simple reason that I had not been given an employment contract, and was therefore unable to pay my wages in through the proper channels in case questions were asked.

And yes, at the time, tucking hundreds of thousands of pesetas into the cover of a book which was in turn tucked under our stained mattress really did seem like a safe and sensible alternative… I was still only twenty-one – surely that counts as a defence??

If Kenza’s betrayal was the ultimate straw to my proverbial camel, and I wasted no time in begging Abel to get us out of what had quickly turned into my own personal Hades.

Luckily Samiha’s brother, Fadhil – recently arrived to partake in the family merriment for a few days – had already arranged a lift back to Madrid, and for a cash sum we were permitted to put our names down for a spot in the already packed car.

Kenza had left me with no money, no trust and not much amour-propre. She had, however, gifted me a photograph of a stranger’s penis, to be discovered when my camera film was dropped off to be developed…

Having frequently tut-tutted in disapproval at the North African habit of criss-crossing Europe in ancient vehicles, suspension quivering under the weight of twice the recommended occupants plus vast laundry bags bulging with stuff and tied haphazardly to the roof; I now found myself in the bizarre position of contributing to the spectacle.

Abel and I fled Vilanova i la Geltru: squeezed like battery hens into a two-door French roller skate with cousin Fadhil, four Moroccan strangers and all the additional luggage and gubbins associated with such nomadic wanderings, we were driven through the night from Barcelona towards the second marker in our exodus; Madrid.

The cramped discomfort and sheer tedium of the six-hour journey was increased exponentially by a moronic squabble that erupted between me and Abel’s cousin. Never one for backing down when faced with opposing views, I had met my match in the intractable Fadhil, and in no time at all we were bickering away like pre-teen siblings in the back of the car.

Fadhil: ‘American English is so much better than the English spoken in England.’

Me: ‘Oh! So you’ve been to England and the US, then?’

Fadhil: ‘Well no, I haven’t been to either, but I have spoken to English people, and Americans in the films definitely speak a lot better.’

Me: ‘In what way?’

Fadhil: ‘They pronounce the words better.’

Me: ‘ I’m afraid I don’t agree with you. The United States is an amalgam of many of the world’s nationalities and therefore it stands to reason that the English language has been corrupted by the influences of other immigrant languages. And while that might help non-native speakers understand US pronunciation more easily than British English, it certainly does not make it any more “correct”.’

Fadhil: ‘Well their English is still better.’

Me ‘You barely even speak English! Who are you to judge? How would you like it if I started voicing my opinion on the merits of Saudi versus Maghreb Arabic?’

(Just as a quick but relevant aside, Arabs from the Middle East reportedly look down on North African Arabs. Arabic spoken in the Maghreb is frequently influenced by French, and other linguistic sources, and therefore not considered authentic Arabic by purists).

Fahdil (turning over to go to sleep): ‘Fatah, your girlfriend is very aggressive. Could you please do something about it, I’m trying to sleep.’

Me: ‘Aaaggghhhhh!’

With his infuriating words still spinning round my head and his chauvinistic undertone ringing insistently in my pink-with-fury ears, the car finally pulled to a stop outside Madrid bus station. Within minutes we were deposited on the pavement, luggage and all, and with a few assalamu’ alikums and the screech of tyres, were finally and blessedly alone once again.

There are no words in existence (American or English) that could describe the relief at being able to spend the final five and a half hours of that seemingly interminable journey in the comfort of our respective coach seats. We didn’t even disembark for the world-famous lavatory/dingy bar/scantily stocked gift shop stop in Ciudad Real, that, Ladies and Gentlemen, was how comfortable we were – public transport in Spain suddenly proving so vastly superior to an overfilled two-door French sardine tin that we could probably have stayed snuggled there indefinitely.

But as we rolled back into Granada’s ugly concrete bus station after our three-month absence, reality kicked in: no job, no house, not much money – there were a lot of plans that had to be made…