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issue 17: march - april 2000 

spanish translation | author's bio

THE MEAT-EATERS of MARRAKESH
by Rachel Resnick

 

Sheep's heads. Barcelona Market by GarryWhen I reach for Frank's hand and that hand is not there, is instead tucked inside one of his hidden Willis & Geiger poplin adventure coat pockets fingering some of his stash, habitually plying for wetness -- I can hear the stiff crackling of plastic between notes from the cobra charmer's flute, the crinkle of foil, or coarse paper, the muted come-hither rustle of pill against pill, tablet upon tablet, moist crumbling of dung-style opium, the promise of oblivion and answered need, not mine, not mine to answer-- when the press of bodies all around us becomes a breath-skinned constrictor that desires to squeeze the very fluids from our viscera, I feel a jerk at my elbow, hear a gargled voice, a hiss, but say nothing, not even when a low cry escapes Frank as he sinks, sinks! glorious defeat of the all-too familiar body which torments as it pleasures, I believe I can even hear the proud steroidal muscles sigh as bunching down they hit the dust of Marrakesh, and Frank's cry is immediately swallowed by more hissing and the distant drumbeats of leprous tribesmen, the stomps and claps of midget acrobats as they form human pyramids to jeer in their own unintelligible clicking language, and "good price" chanted by a small women no older than twelve with eyes of dust who weave carpets until their fingers and eyes leak blood, and I, rejoicing, watch all this dissipate in the twisted columns of oily smoke from the food stalls where earlier Frank ate a plate of lamb brain, sopping it up with a torn crust of bread, his mouth transformed into maggotry, into a portal of decay and insatiability; is it any wonder that I now turn and grind my foot into Frank's hand until I hear the concertina of cracking bone before I reach down to help him up with great delicacy of gesture and intention, only to bury my fists in his eyesockets once he is standing, then digging further into the cranial playroom itself, there to cop a feel of his beloved addict's brain, one little affectionate squeeze, knowing nothing except that we are everything and nothing together and I am damned, damned to the bone -- my anxious pelvis a shark's gaping jawbone -- eternally and with all due disdain, because I cannot erase the vision of two bodies rising, hers and his, his and his, always his and someone's, falling, nor fathom the way I want to think of them in the kasbah, the way I want to smell each and every smell from cured goatskin to sewage, from almond soap scum to yeasty orgasmic juices, see each item in the ritual room as it held its fetid breath for the ancient spectacle of the oldest duet, I want to hear the stupid things they whispered, how their bodies slapped and sucked away the twotimed sweat, the way the world's clock cracked its sixty knuckles against their one-two skin and beat mine a shinypurple while I slept in cretinous innocence in the Hotel Amalay around the corner, I confess I am perversely mesmerized by their beasting need, the enormous banality of betrayal, and must play it back again and again until it becomes pornography and me the Fecal Eye that shits in its Sacred Cunt.

*

       "We can wash this filth away, we can erase the dust. I will hold the nozzle over your head," Frank said.
       These were the bright ideas born of bellies full of cous-cous, the stimulation of images that no longer mirrored but did remind one of the libidinal and mutual grooming possibilities before stasis -- before damage.

*

       It happened in Marrakesh. In the filthy square of Djemaa El-Fna. On a Saturday, the day the Saadians customarily used to display the heads of their enemies by skewering them on iron stakes arranged artfully around the perimeter. The gore would slide down the red walls to form viscous puddles which were baked away by the sun within the hour, and baked into the walls in jagged streaks. From anywhere in the square, you knew you were being watched.

*

       Poppies. A red minaret. The color of your tongue.
       You understand now?

*

       Before the apple was bitten, and partaken of, twice, there was this. The ancient square of Djemma El-Fna. Their third day in Marrakesh. Second week in Morocco.
       Through the corridor of hanging meat they came into the square of Djemma El-Fna. Dust boiled, stirred up by stagnant gusts of words, the flatulence of constipated Arabs. Frank stopped at a food stall selling dates. There were dozens of different kinds. Cora calculated they hadn't fucked since Tiznit, ten days ago. Two months before that. A date the color of topaz tasted like caramel. Frank preferred the meaty dark ones the color and sheen of New York cockroaches. He bought a dozen roach style, a couple topaz. Even in Tiznit, Cora was sure, Frank had been thinking of someone else when he had fucked her. Like this one. The girl who walked by, giggling with her friend, swaying back to look at Frank as he grinned openly at her, the girl who walked by and stopped at an orange juice stall, to look, her full teenage breasts straining at the cheap shiny fabric of a modern Western-style shirt knotted at her belly so the ample hips and rounded ass could swing free in their tight acetate nightclub black trousers that showed her panty line and the lips of her vagina as she stopped, leaning against her friend, looking, responding to the unspoken language of desire and lust, of need and compliance. Frank had a hard-on. She could tell. Thwarted lust lent Cora mind-reading capabilities, only more; she could actually shrink down, enter Frank's skull, pull the skin over like a snug rubber bathing cap and settle in, like now, for the satyr's ride. The codeine Maroc was kicking in. She even felt it, her skin being permeable when it came to Frank. She knew he was thinking right now, Fuck Cora. He liked the girl. She liked him. He figured young whore fronting as virgin. He figured thirty U.S. dollars. Who was it who'd staked the whole trip? Him. Frank. Every red cent. Not fucking Cora. He was bigger than every Moroccan man he'd seen yet. His guns, his abs, his dick, his delts, his brain. Far bigger. He would push the girl to her knees, gather the girl's hair away from her face so Cora could see. He would make Cora watch the girl suck his cock.

*

       In Ouarzazate, where the world-famous rose water is made, there was a cookie named:
       EAT THIS & PRAISE ALLAH.
       Eat this and shit.
       The cookie tasted like dust with a few drops of honey.
       So many things were wrong.
       In the African light, images grew, tubers that would burst from the dark damp soil of your chest, where the rot begins.

*

       The meat is on the hook. Hanging. Skin flayed and stripped to expose magnificent marbling of creamy ratcolor. And muscular red meat --only in this case, the fat is discolored yellow with orange pustules and the meat is decidedly green not a uniform green, but pale pistachio at the edges and extending into a sodden green --for the meat, you realize, is rotting before your eyes -- the stench is so incomprehensibly vile that at first the brain rebels-- proclaiming the putrid scent sweet before the truth assaults the nostrils and one reels backwards. Only she can see the green rotted meat. Only Cora.

*

      Frank stopped at a food stall selling lamb brains. The brains were displayed on thick white ceramic plates. They were puttycolored and looked wet under the single acetylene bulb. The Moroccan boy at the stall grinned at Cora.
       "My friend!" he called out, addressing Frank. They never addressed Cora. "Big welcome!" One front tooth was gone, the other was decorated with an uvula of brown rot. The Invisible, despised by God the Grand Gynecologist and spurned by the man she craved, loathed by even crawling things, otherwise known as Cora, shifted her gaze from the Moroccan's face to the massive vat barely visible behind him. The water was at a roil and large bubbles were constantly forming. In the queer light of dusk, she thought she saw human heads bobbing to the surface, glaring at her, then sinking again. The bubbles grew and darkened at their crowns. The heads were snorting their indignation. One seemed to bob up more frequently than the others and she thought she recognized something in the baleful cast of the eye. A familiar hunger. But that could have been a trick of the light. The light was tricky in Morocco, casting shadows where there was no reason for a shadow.

*

       In Marrakesh, Cora saw:
       Naked man with a skunk do
       Pigeon crawling on child's fez while child ate a pigeon pastry
       Professional storyteller who raised one leg storkstyle while talking
       Professional storyteller (different one) with rubber tiara and cardboard ears
       Crippled teen in filthy oversized jockey shorts yanking shorts up and down
       Dromedary with psoriasis
       No Blue Men

*

       Frank sat abruptly on a wooden bench padded with a few sheets of folded newspaper, pulling Cora down beside him. The Moroccan scraped two lobes off a plate and into a bowl, placed it before Frank along with a disk of Arab bread.
       "Have a bite," he said. Cora refused, as Frank had known she would and Cora had known she would. More fucking Puritanism, the great American virus. It was becoming increasingly clear they did not share the same appetites.
       "Minarets scar the landscape," she thought she said. "They rise like brittle fungus. Bony stems that have lost their bloom."
       While Frank fell to eating, Cora watched as the Moroccan withdrew a skewer from the sheep's eye socket and hooked another sheep's head from the vat and set it steaming on a board.
       "This square is famous," she said flatly, and he conceded nothing with a liquid grunt.

*

       Imagine how the Saadian slave climbs out to the stake holding the head in a golden towel. Imagine him grasping the freshly decapitated head by the temples and plunging it down on the stake until he hears the thud of the skull crown meeting bone, but this time, he pierces the head. What a glorious shattering! A geyser of blood plumes forth dousing all the lucky ones who have pressed the closest, trampled the many. Where would Cora be in this eager crowd?

*

       Meanwhile the Moroccan, with a sly glance at Cora, drew back the boiled lips of the lamb's head and exposed the teeth. In Cora's discomfort and dimly sensed foreboding, she noted the lamb had an overbite, a clear case, and might have benefited from braces, if indeed they masticated the same way as humans. The boy leered at her, running his tongue along the bottom of his upper teeth, causing her to indulge in a fantasy replete with filth and disease and sublime degradation. When that faded, which was rapid, she could no longer deny the stronger vision: there was a spider that had appeared at the lamb's dental gates and stared at her in his radiant magnificence for a full eternal moment, before he retreated to shield her from certain blindness at such a holy vision. What had it meant? Frank was nothing more than a slurping sound; she did not look at him, not daring to look away from lamb or boy.

*

       Before Marrakesh, they had driven all over the south of Morroco. From Agadir, where Frank's wallet was stolen, to Tiznit to Adai to Tafraoute, on to Ouarzazate and Todra Gorge then Erfoud, through Berber villages. They had even ridden dromedaries through the drifting Saharan dunes of Erg Chebbi at sunrise, on Cora's insistence, but all she could remember was the corpse women. They had passed briefly through one village -- she couldn't recall whether it was before or after Erfoud or closer to Tiznit and she couldn't recall the name -- where all the women were covered from head to foot in black. Not even their eyes peered out from a medieval slit below as she had seen in other villages. Even Frank had been unsettled by the sight, and drove faster; but Cora didn't stop watching until the last silent blackshrouded woman faded into the dusty background.

*

       The boy released his filthy fingers and let the lips slide slowly back into place, at which point he buried the knife in the skull and began to slice. As he did so, the boiled ears flopped and steam rose in a halo from its head. Cora found herself laughing. She did not respond to Frank's irritable, "What?"
       A lasciviousness gilded the Moroccan's lips as he continued to carve. She was unsafe, that was what was going on, she had been given a warning, she was in jeopardy. Cora reached out her hand to grab Frank's thickly muscled thigh, but when he turned his face to her his eyes were shining with gastronomic opiated bliss and a bit of brain clung to his upper lip where it glistened like a milky white maggot.
       "Last chance," Frank said, pushing the bowl toward her. There was no choice but to watch the boy.

*

       The Moroccan stared at Cora while he cut. She looked at his fingers, saw the black filth gestating beneath his critical nails, the black filth growing in spirals from his knotted knuckles. She thought about how she'd been warned to use only her right hand in public because the Moroccans wiped their asses with the left. It was true, there had been little sign of toilet paper, and what passed for napkins were paperthin tissues that disintegrated with the least bit of pressure.
       The skull fell apart.
       The spell was broken, though Cora continued to watch and shrank away from Frank as much as she could without him noticing.
       The boy removed the brain and arranged it on another plate, patting it into place as he displayed the plate at the front of the stall. Then he scraped the interior of the head and shook the results into a cone of wax paper. A young Arab couple sat down to their left and spoke rapidly. The woman was wearing a traditional djellabah, but the more modern thin silky kind that actually revealed much of the body, unlike the coarse, shapeless ones favored by the fanatics. Like most women with the sexy djellabahs, she wore cheesy platforms with gold anklets, and Cora could see sleazy red leggings flash beneath the hem. The boy handed them two plates and the cone of wax paper. Still holding hands, the couple both unwrapped the paper and liquefied the face meat with misshapen lust. Frank pushed the empty plate away and stood up.
       "Let's blow this pop stand."

*

       Cora's fantasy:
       The dust was in Cora's ears, funneling. Filth demanded so much. A greasy gray cloud of smoke and cumulus hovered over the square, and she could hear the meat hooks twisting, the damp and sadistic footfalls of desiccated feet and dry-cracked heels storing extra rations of dirt in every crevice. Tearing free of Frank's side she glided down a side alley. Crooked pieces of wood above hung with green plastic, the African sun gilding the filthy walls with false moss, she moved underwater into the medieval, and slowly, the crowds dispersed, and more slowly, the street narrowed until she came to a deadend and above her was one tiny window placed high in the center of a building, and the window was barred, and inside she could hear the keening cry of a woman, perhaps a small woman, she must have worn bracelets or anklets for there was the sound of mad jingling before the keening cry turned to a wail, then cut off. It was then Cora saw the narrow dark entrance to her right, which she took, squeezing her body between the walls, having trouble finding her footing as the ground became more pitted and pooled with foul liquids. At one point, the walls pressed against her ribs and she had to duck, and there was no light anymore. Then the alley gave way into a crude misshapen room with a roll of bedding on the floor, a dirty Berber carpet and a pot full of cous-cous with a boiled lamb's head leering from the center, its teeth like rows of dice. On the wall was a cheap satin Raiders jacket hanging on a nail, and a framed photograph of Johnny Cash. A hand reached out and touched her leg, eyes glittered. It was the boy from the lamb brain stall, but he was younger, much younger. A small man. She shuddered from his touch, and he grew younger still as he groped between her legs; she had not been touched for so long the filth was warm and damp, then warmer, and damper, until soon he was a wanton child wailing.

*

       Palms. A white wall. The blankness of your face.

*

       Through the corridor of hanging meat they came, into the square of Djemaa El-Fna. Knuckles and hooves and glorious shanks of thigh meat dangling like earrings from iron hooks. Chopped hearts, strangled chickens with bound feet, past harpooned bladders, spiny pimplyskinned stomach linings draped over stalls, testicles garlanded over stalls. There were festoons of tripe -- Hawaiian leis of tripe -- and picture this -- the most splendid sight of all, an upside down bouquet, a chandelier of bloody lamb's heads, twisting in the clear African light.

*

       I turn and grind my foot into your outstretched hand until I hear the concertina of cracking bone before I reach down to help you up, knowing nothing more than we are nothing and everything together and I am damned. It is at this point what connects a man to a woman collapses into the unspeakable filth of a Berber toilet. I stand with splayed legs, each foot firmly planted in the ceramic footholds with the well of filth beneath me, exhale the possibilities in one silvery globuled stream until it disappears in the hole of iniquity. It is a peerless depth that is not even shallow that is woman.
       You understand now?

© 2000 Rachel Resnick

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author's bio
Rachel Resnick

photo: Mark Hanauer

Rachel Resnick, L.A. based fiction writer, essayist and playwright,was born in Jerusalem, Israel. Her first novel, Go West Young F*cked-Up Chick, was published in 1999 by St. Martin's. The paperback version is due out this May. She is currently at work on a female detective novel set in the world of L.A. strip clubs and plastic surgery. To find out more, to order books and to contact the author, visit her official, and also very good, website at:
www.rachelresnick.com
    

navigation:                         barcelona review #17                     March - April 2000
-Fiction Rachel Resnick The Meat-Eaters of Marrakesh
Josh Wardrip Death in the Third Person
Alden Jones Shelter
Matthew Tree
Summer of Love
Marjorie Kanter Delgado The Skirt
-Interview Matthew Tree
-Article March and April in Barcelona
-Quiz Jorge Luis Borges
Answers to Federico García Lorca quiz
-Regular Features Book Reviews
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