Glass

And when I saw her she was sudden and blue.

Color like a beach-brochure with thick, unlikely cockpit karsts, hunching their green Spanish shoulders behind. The Mediterranean. Glow of phosphorescent teal despite coursing veins of rain down tight car windows.

I had told her two months ago. And then six weeks. Then four. Never sharing my sense of pending urgency, two-digit days became singular before she asked me to bring in my passport, scrawling an address in quick Arabic script. The police station. Rue Patrice Lamumba. You see, Morocco doesn’t issue “visas” per say, but the endorsement they stamp behind short glass and airport lines is only good for three months post-date.

Mine had been branded “December 12th”.

It was raining and I maneuvered the medina head-down, left hand clutching umbrella so as to rebuff its affinity for slapping inside out. Wet line running down a skeletal metal spoke and into my sleeve. Taxis sparse in such weather. I snagged one, partially occupied, with a gruffy-voiced driver, who proceeded to rear-end the soda semi before us. Both parties waved each other on, we passed the main square, slid into unfamiliar streets netting memorized landmarks. He slowed the cab and with a jerk of the fist, signaled my exit. Wandering with relief, having survived the endeavor’s initial leg I teetered off curb and across tile in the general direction with which he had thrown fingers. Asking at one building, the doorman commenced an embarrassing clatter of furious clapping from down the street when I had gone too far, when I had passed the station entrance.

Once inside, arching metal detector. Attempting to explain to a tall officer, him responding in French, my explaining in Arabic that it’s a language I don’t speak… He instructs me to enter by the other door, but as it was difficult enough to find this one I manage to make enough of a spectacle that he decides to escort me. Through the geometric chisel of hallways, side rooms, offices, past the heart of the building and to its opposite. Once inline, he removes me, snaking in reverse. Another room of beige-grey. The three women inside first try French and then Arabic. The one seated and nearest losing her patience with spectacular speed as I sputter through the extent of my juvenile vocabulary.

I guess my class hasn’t reached Al-Kitaab’s “Jill’s Trip to the Office of Visa Renewal” chapter yet…

They ask me lengthy questions in their “ksh”y, vowel-less darija. And I wonder what the hell I have gotten myself into.
For a newly-dated stamp they need proof of my school affiliation in Rabat, do I have a paper saying such? No. I try calling her. And then I call again. I try a different Activities Coordinator. Twice. Followed by the Academic Director, the Center’s owner. No answer.

The women standing, plaid pea coat, tries to coax me through questions, giving small gifts of English when her knowledge allows. I answer what I can and Grumpy orders a redial. One call, two. Finally I get through, offering my cell and the exchange is brief, harried notes taken. Notes I can’t read. Once complete, they hand over a chicken-scrawled list.
Seated and irritable, Grumpy enunciates with gelatinous condescension the items I must gather.
Proof of my taking class.
Letter from the family I am living with.
Four passport photos.
White form completed and photocopied twice.
Pink form completed and photocopied four times.
“Make 3 copies. And this one. That. Makes. Four.”
I thank her instead of punching her. Apologizing to the women for being mono-linguistic, American, and pit-sweaty stressed, I fumble my way back through the police station’s webs.

When I had asked earlier where to acquire said photos, the look from all three mangled pity and distaste. A photo studio, of course. Still believing that such places lingered only in the tight corners of tired Sears department stores, choice of retractable backdrop and one free 8x12 with your order – I entered the first “studio” I passed and walked out with my small plastic packet of prints. Feeling considerably capable at this point, I returned to the Center, recounted my tale to her, awaiting response – what's the next step?

Too bad it expired Friday and was currently Tuesday.
Not nearly enough time to hustle my ancient mother to the correct government office for her statement, and consequential written documentation, concerning my residence in her home. She was hospitalized last week because of high blood pressure complications. She can’t eat salt for pete’s sake.

Since the letter was thus out of the question, the Center’s owner, my Academic Director, seemed the best resource for smart answers. And thus we implored. Waving strong hands at my finger-pinched forms, he told us that obtaining a new stamp in the legitimate fashion, by way of bureaucracy, was not only too lengthy but was inclined toward failure. The easiest and most obvious thing to do would be to visit a Spanish enclave – Morocco’s northern shore hosting two – so that upon re-entry to Morocco I could finagle the extension I was seeking by default of entrance.

“So this weekend you will just make a short trip to Sebta,” he reasoned.

To which I countered, “Although… it expires… Friday…?”






Tiny choke in his throat.

“I should have been informed of this earlier,” he clipped, pensive.
You got that right, sugarpie, my eyes sliding toward her.

“I will think about what to do,” he continued, “and I’ll call.”



But he didn’t.

Afternoon became night and night became morning and I decided I was on my own. Backpack seams straining, I sped to the Center, intent on informing staff of my plan to justify my absence. Indignant that I had waited so long, ignored my instincts, depended on the guidance of someone apparently incompetent. I had done everything I could think of in order to AVOID this PRECISE situation.

Teeth-clenching urgency.

Regardless of intention I was now in a fix. I was barreling down alleys. I was going to Sebta.

Breathing hard, stomping doormat, I entered only to be handed a phone. She was on the other end. “The Center is offering you an escort. You will leave Thursday, tomorrow. Early.”

It took the day’s full remainder to slow my furious resolve, pack away the deliberate and decisive nerve I had donned AM.





“Jack.” My escort. Eight o’clock sharp.

We talked with lengths of spacing until I had exhausted my smoother repertoire. I did not know this man. Father to a young son. Catching, chain-reaction cough that quickened with anxiety, with speech. Milk but no coffee. Singing "When a man loves a women..." when it came on FM.

Passing torn tarp over banana trees, fragile like paper and snapping. Flock after flock of mud-sullied sheep, their herders stock-still and wrapped in plastic against the rain.

I wanted to say "mskeen" and then point. How unfortunate to spend all days, sodden ankles, sopping-chilled through cheap pullovers. What do their wives think when they stare off, post-dinner, a line of pebbled grit at their hairline, in their ears? Unfortunate to be so lonely, striking at stupid, blunt-faced sheep. But what do I know.

And the four hours dragged.

Rabat to Sale to Kenitra to Larache. Asilah to Tangier and then Sebta (Ceuta) on the coast.

Rolling, ascending; Northern coast so unlike the West. Road shiny and red from trickle and spill. Detours necessary where blacktop gave impression of upheaval, of tectonic interference, when really collapsed pockets beneath asphalt to blame.

“Put that you are here for tourism – don’t say anything about a visa.” Mist spotty when we parked, clerk behind the window grasping “Jack’s” passport. Then mine. The shake of his head. Glasses thick and yellowed, coloring circles around his eyes like sick and ancient bruises. A sudden exchange, “Jack” first playing innocent but the clerk was no fool.

It was the 11th of March, after all.

What then, “Jack” beseeched? Glasses like stains, the clerk blatant and foul. Him ribbed with impatience. We returned to the car.

“He knows you need a new visa. Says the only thing to do is talk to another man in-charge and see… I will call your Director.”

No answer.

“The Center, then.”

He’s out.

“His wife.”

On “Jack’s” side the conversation was a fierce flood of consonants, provoking fits of linked coughs and jutting hand gestures. I stared at tilted air vents, “Jack’s” hunch of grey hoodie. How tall was this man? Did he fold into the Ford? “He says to try talking with the boss. It’s the only thing to do.” And we walked heads down, from the car – lights blinking. A pithy, platformed entrance. No use playing dumb, “Jack” pleaded our case to the first thickset thug, nose round and pocked brown like a meatball, who shouldered through the door. Little interest, seeking proof of my Rabat-student status, he slipped back into monochrome, passport in paw.

“Jack” paced in pitted stutters. Rocking, see-sawing through the square. Not wearing his nerves on his sleeve as much as echoing them through canyons. In my head I willed him into stillness. Certainly this was no manifestation of confidence. And his constant shifting made me need to pee.

I stood, spine tilted as “the boss” came and went. Then returned. And then left. Each encounter an impossibly desperate discussion with “Jack”. Stout, prone to waddle, “the boss” waved us forward. And then drew us back. We moved when motioned, stopping when told. Thick dandruff like quartz flakes peppering his pate. I’m statue-still stationary, fists in fleece pockets. My feet defaulting to first-position. The passport was passed, “the boss” to his boss. The tale retold. Pointed looks, chins down. And then back to the platform. And then back to waiting.

Reluctant.




Ever

so

begrudgingly,

stubby fat fingers motioned consent.

Exhaling in sighs, “Jack” spoke without commas – re-entry would be easy, the hard part was through.

Unintentionally awkward, we toured Spain’s Sebta. “Jack” assuming I harbored great ambitions to shop. My sentiments on the visit being solely visa-related. We walked the main strip; saw the marina, old churches. Him ducking into baby boutiques, seeking out the perfect “onesie”. When at last he found it, he said lunch was on the Center. Destination McDonald’s in true foreign chic, car curling and bowing to Amy Winehouse’s tatty intones.

Later we parked amid sheet-metal warehouses, their garage doors wound back to reveal troves of new goods. Transnational trade. Minus all tariffs. Port town, after all. “Jack’s” trunk packed with glossy bundles of diapers, their name-brand cost in Sebta half that of Rabat.

Re-entry caused problems we thought we’d surmounted. Hour-long car line pre-tollbooth packed carport. Once reached, by dumb luck, new clerk glimpsed old stamp; his thumbing for fresh pages revealing our motive…

The shake of the head. “Jack’s” evident exhaustion.

And so we parked. Again.

And begged that morning’s window clerk. Again.

Who sent us down the street. Again.

Where we waited outside squat cinderblock. Again.
(Appeals valid only to “the boss” and his boss.)

The first complete English sentence he had spoken all day was “Jack’s”
“I hope the same men from this morning are here…

You said it, buddy.

“Naim, ana ayou-dan,” I said nodding.

Relief solidified once we had found them. And then collapsed as they peered without recognition at my rain-damp face. Amplified weather had necessitated my donning a second coat, but honestly, how many blond Americans pass that door in a day? We never dreamed we’d have to jog memories after the commotion we’d caused.

When they saw I WAS me, and “Jack’s” pleads reached a pitch, the hairline-flecked boss sighed surrender and signed.

Signature not enough, “Jack” was still forced through hoops once back at our booth, cars honking in anger.



And then finally, the sound.



So sudden and simple. The smack of a stamp. Mission: complete.

After that we were quiet. Four hours reversed. The fog was like ice cream from metal-spoon scoops; coiling in bolls that hollowed upon entrance.

I practiced and practiced, repeating the phrase, and Rabat was beneath us so I turned left to say, “Shukran, shukran kather-an. Bseebeb anta, youm-kin aub-kaa fee al-Magreb.”

It sure as hell wasn't Shakespeare, but the point got across.

Thank you, thank you so much. Because of you it is possible for me to remain in Morocco.

[Sebta/Ceuta pics uploaded]