...a deathly serenade...

thought, a petite young woman, only five feet and
some change, fiery with many of her inclinations
being incongruent to the natural impression a
person would come to expect, especially here, as if
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AA illuminating against a phosphors of religious,
political and cultural expectation; a vagabond too,
she acted freely: doing whatever she wanted and
knew this as one of her truths, a word she would
constantly repeat: Truth, truth, truth! The air in
the room felt quite fresh, though it remained as
destitute as the day I had arrived. It was cheap: a
hundred and eighty Dirhams a night, but I just
paid Yasin, the landlord, seven hundred a week
and he seemed to be fine with that. It had a small
stove too. Plus, it was close enough to Central
Medina. Though the window could be slightly
opened, the traffic from the nearby road was not
particularly audible. The room, very much silent
now, unbothered, as she awakened in a stir. How
was I supposed to react after what she had told me
the night before? Was it something her family had
to deal with? Had I become family? She had a
brother that was also living in Tangier too, near
the Pier, she had said. How aware was he of the
way his sister was living at this time?
Fundamentally, all that she had told me of him, by
this time, was that he had become extremely
religious as the years went by. —To him Allah is
more important than anything, even me, she had
said ironically. Especially since he lost his arm you
know. And that was about the most information
she had given me, beside the strange story of how
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