Gates to Tangier Read Online Free PDF Page B

from childbirth. She read argume ­ nts by feminists that supported this, but nothing helps whenever she has to say that word.
    Gynecologist.
    Maybe I should have studied psychiatry, she thought, but that hadn't been pos ­ sible. For her, caring for a woman in childbirth was a way of feeling fully feminine, if she couldn't gi ­ ve birth, she would help others give birth, and that would help.
    "Very good," said Mercedes. "I think it is really great for a woman to study gynecology. I also wanted to study, I wanted to study architecture in Madrid, but in those days women did not travel alon ­ e, and certainly didn't study in universities. I almost did convince my father. I could convince my father of nearly anything, and asked my brother who was studying medicine in Madrid to take care of me, but my brother did not agree. He was a student and wanted to have a good time. So I became a housewife and raised five children here in Paris.
    "Which isn't less important than working, "s ­ aid Zohra. "Women don't want to have children anymore, they believe it diminishes their worth, you don't even see children in Pa ­ ris anymore. There aren't small children running around everywhere like in Tangier, where the str ­ eets are full of children. It always makes me smile."
    "We see children in Morocco, that's true, but they don't have enough to eat," said Maurice.
    "Yes, that is true. It would be better if they had enough to eat. Maybe I'll go ba ­ ck to Tangier someday to take care of the women there."
    Mercedes seemed a bit shocked at this. That was all she needed, for Marcel to go back to Morocco.
    "Oh, I don't mean it. As long as I am with Marcel I'll stay in Paris."
    "Marcel! Why didn't you tell us your friend was from Tangier?"
    "She isn't exactly from Tangier, well, was born there but her mother is from Chaouen, you know Chaouen? Now they call it Chefchaouen. Her mother lived in Tétouan and Casablanca. She was raised by her grandmother.”
    "Yes, I spent my childhood in Chaouen, hills and a few houses, it was wonderful. Sometimes I would go with my mother to Tangier, on holidays, but I never went with my mother to Casablanca. It was too far for a little girl."
    It was two in the afternoon, the autumn sun was pleasant and warm. Maurice didn't of ­ ten think of the strong sun in Morocco while in fo ­ ggy Paris, and despite the fact that the sun always made him happy when it came out in his new city, this sun always came accompanied by the threat of new clouds that would co ­ ver it, and rain that would then come to rui ­ n the party.
    On the table were two glasses of whiskey for the men, a glass of Pernod, and a plate of cas ­ hews, olives, and almonds. They drank and looked at the ceiling. Zohra wondered how they had come to talk about Tangier, since Marcel never spo ­ ke about it. But now, on Victor Hugo, it was almost a necessity. Zohra felt it was inevit ­ able. At meetings among ethnic minorities, the conversation always turns to hometowns. Not just the country, but the city or the town. She noticed how Maurice smiled when he spoke of Chaouen.
    Mercedes thought that her son deserved a more cultured woman. Zohra seemed like a girl from a poor family who had won a scholarship to get to university. And she was right. She was an excellent student at her school, and that is how she got sent to finish her high school in Rabat. She later received a scholarship to study in Par ­ is.
    Something was bothering Zohra, but she cou ­ ldn't pinpoint what it was. Something secret and incomprehensible. It was that feminine intuition that appea ­ red from time to time.
    Marcel would have preferred that they hadn't met. He had said, "We're adults now. We don't have to mix up our family in this." But Zohra had insisted on accepting his mother's invitation, which had been extended almost every week in the last year.
    Finally, Mercedes made the announcement.
    "Lunch is ready, let's go to the table."
    They went to the table. Zohra thought