Boy From Risani
It was when he said he’d be at the bus station at four o’clock that I began to ache for the strange little boy who had become my shadow. The bus left at five-thirty, and he knew that. I said I’d be at the station at five. He said again that he’d be there at four. What was nothing to me was far too important for him to risk missing.
I went to the terrace to write for a while, while he went off to god knows where. I wished he’d eaten something, but he’d refused when I’d offered him some of my brochette. Which surprised me, because I thought he was going to ask for a meal. No one ever follows me in this country without wanting something. He did accept tea, though, and drank in silence while I drank my own tea and read. I felt bad ignoring him, but we’d run out of things to say.
The whole experience began to feel a little sad.
He’d come up to me on the street, like so many adolescent boys did, and asked me the usual questions: where are you from? what is your name? In this he was no different. Younger though, thirteen. I asked. A local kid, stuck in Risani. Thirty kilometers away, the sand dunes rose majestically above the desert plain, but ever since they paved the road, Risani’s been nothing more than a transit stop. I was just passing through myself, coming back from the dunes, en-route to Marrakech. He was there to stay.
When he followed me to the bus station I thought I had it figured out. He wanted to carry my bag. A lot of people in this country, kids especially, will latch onto you, lead you somewhere or carry your bag ten paces, and demand money for their information or time. Sure enough, he did carry my bag, ten feet into the storage room. I gave him a dirham – whatever, he seemed a nice kid – and thought that would be the end of it.
But he kept following me when I left the station. Followed me right back to the café. Said almost nothing. Ate nothing, and never spoke until I asked a question, just sat there watching me with his dark eyes. His subservience started to worry me. Why was he latching onto me? What did I represent to him?
At five o’clock, I returned to the station. He was there of course, sitting on one of the cold stone benches. I had resolved to be as nice as possible to the kid, and smiled broadly when I saw him. I had an intuition he needed that.
He carried my bag to the bus.
I gave him ten dirham, much more than I needed to.
At the last moment, he wanted to give me his email address. I tore a small scrap of paper out of my magazine and took it down. I said goodbye, and wished him luck. I really did wish him luck. I was headed to new adventures, he was forever in Risani.
I felt his eyes follow me as I boarded the bus.
Two minutes later, he stood before me again, standing in the aisle in front of my seat. He held in his hands his small plastic wristwatch, and tried to give it to me. I refused as best I could, but he only fished from his pocket a heart-shaped pendant of black stone, and a thin book: Voyage dans l’Espace et le Temps. A child’s book on astronomy, very much of the kind I used to read.
I managed to get him to take back his watch, but I kept the pendant. And I kept the book because I wanted children’s reading material with which to practice my French. And then he was gone. Through my tinted window I saw him watch the bus roll off. He had to know he’d never see me again. His face showed nothing, but his eyes – what did he want from me? What kind of life did he have that he would attach himself to a stranger, sit in silence for most of the afternoon, and then show up an hour early just to meet me again?
I wish I hadn’t taken his book. I can get such a thing anywhere, but for him it might be almost irreplaceable.
