The coach driver married off his two elder daughters to the first comers. Fewer mouths to feed is always a good thing. For big celebrations a ceremonial tent is erected near the pump. The ground is covered with carpets borrowed from neighbors, drapes are hung and decorated with palm leaves, dozens of lanterns are dotted around the place, and, for as long as the party lasts, the guests, all dressed up, imagine they’re living on the other side of the wall. The coach driver did not disappoint: he bled himself dry to give his daughters proper weddings, calling on Tamu each time to make a real night of it.

Khalil left school and became a shoeshine boy, working the streets, cafés, and all the bustling city squares.

Little by little, he became part of our group. He toned down his arrogance, and we became more easygoing, less aggressive. He’d often join us in the evenings at Nabil’s shack. He’d bring a bottle of Coca-Cola and some Henry’s cookies or a bit of hash, with his American tobacco and rolling papers. He’d tell us all about his fabulous days in the medina, his struggle for control of a strategic square, the tricks he’d use to deceive the café waiters, who’d chase off all interlopers: kids renting out newspapers, pedlars of contraband, pimps, pickpockets, shoeshine boys. . He’d describe to us in great detail the exquisite meals he’d treat himself to if the morning was successful: spicy sausage sandwich, puréed broad beans with olive oil and cumin, calves’ feet or a sheep’s head, roasted to perfection. He’d make our mouths water with all these marvels. On Fridays, he’d say, people give away couscous and whey outside their front doors. He’d been known to devour three breakfasts in a row, elbowing beggars out of the way to grab a bit of meat.

We knew he was exaggerating, but we loved hearing it anyway. He said it was a shame that slippers don’t need polishing, otherwise he’d have made a fortune! But he couldn’t complain. His father had set him a reasonable sum to bring home at the end of the day. And he managed it. And not by taking the easy way out like other boys his age: he only rarely had sex with tourists, even though it brought in the equivalent of a day’s work. No, that wasn’t his style, or only at times of extreme hardship.

And that was how, on account of a wretched broken leg, a family’s destiny had darkened. Though Khalil and I buried the hatchet, it was only years later that we spent any time together, at the garage. And that was because of Abu Zoubeir.

WITH BOYS LIKE Khalil the shoeshine, Nabil, the son of Tamu, Ali (or Yussef), alias Blackie, Fuad, and my brother Hamid, we made up our own little family; it was us against the world. If any of us was in trouble, the others would rise up as one to rescue him. When Fuad, for example, started sniffing glue, we waged a ruthless campaign to get him off it. But he carried on in secret. So many times I’d find him standing at his stall, completely out of it, letting little kids pinch his cakes, not pelting them with stones like he normally would. Worse, the brats were shameless enough to pick his pockets, as if he were a no-good drunk. Fuad was gone. He was traveling in his head. I could shake him all I liked, he wouldn’t respond. His eyes, wide open, were contemplating a world I had no access to. So I just picked up whatever was left of his cakes and dragged him back home. As soon as his mother opened the door, she’d explode in a torrent of threats and abuse. We’d be lucky if she let us in at all. I’d carry my friend into a room the size of a storage cupboard and put him down on a mat like a bundle. He just let me do it. Sometimes, he’d smile at me, a sign he was still alive.

When Fuad lost his father, his uncle Mbark (now the muezzin) married his mother — in order, they claimed, to save the children from an outsider’s clutches. It was an old custom, which Fuad never managed to accept, especially as it meant losing his position as head of the family. I think his addiction to glue began in reaction to this marriage — which is unnatural, whatever they say. Fuad was incapable of smoking kif or hashish like everyone else. The smallest toke would set off a coughing fit that had him doubled up on the ground. Glue suited him better; it was his only means of escape. We tried excluding him from the group for a long time, but we didn’t give up on him. Obviously, we couldn’t do without his skills on the field, but he was no longer welcome at Nabil’s. One important detail: he never sniffed glue on Sundays, game days, as if soccer gave him more of a high than the junk he was constantly inhaling. My brother Hamid’s hard-line stance paid off in the end; Fuad suffered greatly from the isolation. He’d reacted angrily at first, threatening to leave the Stars and play for a rival team, but in the end he gave in. It was around that time that he and his sister, Ghizlane, moved in with their grandmother in Douar Scouila. One day, in front of everyone, he gave his black, sticky handkerchief and his tubes of glue to another addict who happened to be walking past. It was over. He never touched the stuff again.

Over time, we did up Nabil’s shack, putting in benches, a carpet, a round trestle table, and lots of pouffes. If the radio-cassette player broke (and it often did), we’d make the music ourselves with all kinds of percussion instruments: tam-tams, darbukas, saucepans. Sometimes Nabil would let loose, launching into a performance in imitation of his mother. He had a beautiful voice. He’d make us laugh so much when he stood up to dance. He’d shake his ass in perfect time to the music, undulating his shoulders, making his head move sideways, as if each part of his body was detached from the rest. As if his limbs were obeying different brains, conducted with brio by an angel with an invisible baton. He had such white skin, Nabil, and his wavy, chestnut-brown hair had a strange effect on us. Hamid couldn’t resist taunting him, calling him by his mother’s name: Tamu this, Tamu that. Nabil would laugh along with us, but he didn’t stop dancing. He was swept up by a secret, powerful, heavy swell, sculpting the cloud of smoke that got thicker and thicker, itself describing a thousand arabesques. Spliffs passed from hand to hand, the songs grew louder. I remember one night seeing the corrugated iron roof lift off, inviting the infinite sky to join the party. I saw stars, the moon, and red bats’ eyes winking at me.

I also remember (and how deeply I regret it) the shameful episode that shattered our new family. It was in August, at the height of the blistering heat. We’d just won a crucial game against the Serpents of Douar Lahjar, our long-standing rivals. Fuad had played brilliantly, scoring so many goals that it was looking like a complete massacre. Khalil, our central defender, had put his mantra into practice: striker gets past without ball, ball gets past without striker, never both together. His bravado cost him quite a few injuries and a black eye. And I don’t want to brag, but I was on fire, leaping like Yachine in his glory days. Gravity couldn’t touch my elastic body. The only goal I’d let in, everyone agreed, was unstoppable. So, rejoicing in our crushing victory, we decided to celebrate that night at Nabil’s. Everyone had brought something. Khalil had tracked down some first-class hash — it was greenish, almost black, and gorgeously sticky. We rolled and smoked joint after joint, sipping coffee mixed with nutmeg. Hamid had made us an explosive concoction, Coca-Cola with a slug of methylated spirits, which blew our heads off. Intoxicated by our triumph and the meths, we sang and danced, first alone, then in each other’s arms. Nabil was euphoric. He’d put on a white gandoura, knotted a belt round his thighs to emphasize the gyrating of his hips, and had taken the floor, a circle forming round him. The radio-cassette player worked like a dream. The percussion reverberated all around us, inside us, making the blood rush in our veins, making it pulsate; our ordinarily anemic faces were flushed with the exhilaration of great feasts, of gris-gris and marabouts in wild trances. This world we’d entered was unreal, far from all the filth and the dross, from hunger and its ghosts. The only thing that mattered was the overpowering feeling of invincibility that flooded us. We were kings, on top of the world, blind drunk, swimming in the clouds, clapping our hands and screaming for joy. Nabil’s gandoura ballooned around him as he whirled. He fluttered his eyelashes and spun round and round, pirouetting endlessly. Then, like a parachutist surrounded by his silk, he collapsed on the floor, in a faint. You could have sworn an amorous, jealous angel had conspired to make him fall. I don’t know what came over my brother, but he swooped on him like a vulture. Hamid always took his adversaries by surprise; that was his trademark. He’d strike the moment their guard was lowered. But now he started kissing Nabil, who did not react but lay there inert, as if dead. The countless glasses of alcohol we’d downed in the course of the evening had a lot to do with it. Hamid kissed him, or rather devoured him with kisses, as if he’d always desired him and was now finally able to take his revenge, throw off his inhibitions and ferociously trample his frustration. Then, pausing momentarily, he surveyed the excited horde, and, un-embarrassed by our presence, he calmly stripped Nabil, pulled out his own cock, which was stiff as a rod, and planted it in the plump, pinkish, exposed rump. He did it so straightforwardly it was unnerving. It didn’t seem to shock anyone, apart from me. Whatever Hamid did he did quickly, and the sex act didn’t last long. I’d turned round so as not to see the grim spectacle; I could only hear moaning, mingled with the singing of Nass El Ghiwane. Then it was Fuad’s turn to straddle the sleeping boy. He did so delicately, nuzzling and stroking his mount as if they were setting off on a long journey. Nabil was unconscious, laid out in the middle of the room like a corpse. Fuad sat astride him, whispering unintelligible words in his ear. A squawk like a bird’s, then a yelp, like someone being stabbed. And on to the next. Ali made a show of remorse, hesitating briefly, and finally took the plunge. Khalil was not to be outdone. He was raring to go, grumbling that the dark-skinned boy was taking his time. He pushed Ali off, unsheathed his prick and went at it. His groans made the whole room erupt with laughter. There was only me left. I don’t know why I didn’t listen to my heart, which ordered me to leave, to run away as fast as I could from this accursed, hellish place. I stayed where I was, head down, stuck in a nightmare from which there was no escape. I felt their challenging stares forcing me into a corner, my back against the wall. I was rooted to the spot, I didn’t know which way to turn. Hamid had left the room so as not to witness my shame. He knew my frailties, my cowardice. As God is my witness, I tried to step up. I had to prove to them I wasn’t a wimp, I was no queer. My honor — or my ass — was at stake. I went over to Nabil, trembling, thinking I could manage it, if only my lifeless dick showed some interest. Beads of sweat trickled slowly down my forehead, taking the route of tears and falling onto the naked body right in front of me. There were tears mixed with my sweat for sure; I recognized their salty taste in my mouth. At that precise moment, Nabil opened his eyes — eyes that were pitiful, bewildered, bereft. He must have been wondering what was happening. Had he committed a foul in the game that he was paying for now? Had he hurt someone? He didn’t know. Nor did I. In any case, his gaze banished any heroics my friends were expecting of me. They weren’t holding it against me, anyway, because I watched them slink off one after the other, as if they’d abruptly sobered up, suddenly realizing the depravity of their act. I stayed by Nabil’s mortified body for a long time, in silence. He struggled to get the words out: “So what happened?”