Adelita’S

By Carlos Sanz

Julian Valderrama, a young Spaniard from a small town, arrives to the International City of Tangier for reasons unknown to him. His only contact in town is Adelita who runs a boarding house with an iron fist. There he meets a mysterious woman who everybody calls the Duchess although no one knows if she is one, two young French teachers escaping their past, an eccentric Englishman determined to cross the Sahara on foot, and a comic individual dressed in a military uniform of his own making.

Julian Valderrama is astonished by the diversity of the international city on the verge of losing its international status and tries to absorb as much of it as he can. He finds in the Duchess a mentor introducing him to the secrets of the city and a protector when in trouble. The death of the Duchess changes his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514438947

Carlos Sanz

Carlos Sanz was born and raised in the International City of Tangier. After finishing his studies in Morocco and Spain he worked for the International Court of that city for five years. He moved to New York City where he worked at the United Nations and for the Government of the Republic of the Congo. He later moved to the private sector in the international trade. He has published “Memories of the Spanish Civil War” and “So Long, Tangier” the first volume of his trilogy “Tangier.” “Adelita’s” is the second, and the third is close to completion. He has also written numerous short stories, some published in Spain. His hobby is stone carving.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

CASA ADELITA

Tangier 1954

H E DID NOT want to be in Tangier. He checked the address again, Fifty-Four Boulevard Pasteur. He had been told that it was one of the best buildings in Tangier, but its zigzagging concrete facade made it look like an enormous gray accordion. It did not have majestic columns or an imposing solid entrance door or an ornate iron gate, not even a uniformed doorman. He stepped into a gallery---a tunnel, it seemed to him---which, like a huge mouth, was ready to swallow him. On the right side, there was a bookstore, showing books in a language he did not understand; on the left was a store selling appliances whose use he could not imagine. Hesitantly, carrying his battered suitcase with increasing annoyance, he entered the gallery, which, after two turns, ended at a narrow street. He faced a tall brick wall, hiding an abandoned construction site. With the images of the trip fading, the unfairness of his being in Tangier struck him again. He did not want to be in Tangier; he did not know how he had ended up in this city. He would rather be in Torreón, his hometown in Andalusia. He was irritated with himself for not resisting and objecting more forcefully to the arrangement contrived by his parents. His father had been strenuously insistent and his mother tearfully persuasive, and he had finally submitted to the centuries-old tradition of obedience to one's elders.

Turning around, Julian saw a tall, thin man, dragging a tiny dog out of the elevator; clearly, the dog did not like the outdoors. The tall man, tired of the contest, picked up the dog and stormed out of the building, cursing in a language that Julian did not understand. He got into the elevator and hit the button for the third floor hard as if wanting to break it. Coming out, he saw a door without a number or a plate. As instructed, he knocked on it, hoping that nobody would open it, and he would wake up from a bad dream. He knocked again, but nobody answered. He retraced his steps to the elevator. He stood looking at it, undecided. He could leave, but go where? Or he could keep looking for a door without a number or a plate. He walked in the opposite direction, and near the end of the corridor, he found another door with no number or plate. He knocked hard once with no intention of knocking again. This time, the door opened two inches. He saw an eye and little else.

Is this Casa Adelita? he asked impatiently.

Who wants to know? a woman answered brusquely, but her voice had a tinge of the soft Andalusian accent.

The young man was tempted to turn around but replied, speaking rapidly, I am Julian Valderrama. My uncle recommended this place. His irritation was increasing. Is this Casa Adelita?

Who is your uncle?

He had been told what a wonderful city Tangier was, of the freedom enjoyed by its citizens, of a place where people made money, and the police did not bother anyone. He had not been told about innkeepers' manners.

He has a garage, Garage Herrero, he spat out.

Miguel?

Yes.

A crook, but come in.

Julian entered into a simple room, where walls and furniture were gray from use. It had two small wooden tables against a wall and a larger one under its only window. Facing the two tables, there was an old bar counter used for many purposes. The walls were bare except for a large grocery calendar, heavily annotated.

Adelita, who appreciated men, admired the Andalusian man with his classical features, proud countenance, and skin with a faint hint of copper. He had moved in with easy steps, which reminded her of the handsome beaux of her youth.

Thirty-eight hundred francs a month, room and three meals served exactly on time. Breakfast at eight, lunch to please the Spaniards at one thirty, and dinner to please other nationalities at nine thirty. Laundry extra.

Adelita was a tall robust woman with black eyes and black hair, who twenty years ago would have turned heads walking down the Ramblas. She had powerful arms and a voice to match. Rough at the door, she was mellower inside her pensión; but even at her mellowest, she could roar at the slightest provocation. Follow me, she said.

She led him down a narrow corridor and opened the door to a room the size of a monk's cell, with a cot, a small wooden table, a chair, and a minute closet. The white walls had traces of previous boarders, but the bed linen appeared clean. Julian deposited his suitcase on the floor and looked out of the window at an abandoned construction site.

Yes or no? I don't have all day.

Bathroom? he asked, hoping that there was none, and he would have an excuse to leave.

Across the corridor. You share it with an Englishman. Yes or no?

Yes, he accepted, not having an alternative.

In advance, said Adelita, extending her hand.

I have my money---

I know, I know, sewn into your underwear. The Spaniards do that. Anyway, you can't leave without my knowing it.

I need to call my uncle.

Five pesetas for every local call. I have the key to the telephone lock. Five pesetas, one call. She showed him a bunch of keys with ribbons of different colors. Yellow, the telephone, she said, waving it temptingly while leaving.

Julian closed the door, noticing that it was made of flimsy plywood boards as were two of the walls. The metal-framed window was close to a partition. He wondered, with Adelita having divided an original room in two, how the other room got any sun, light, or air. Adelita, or a previous boarder, had nailed three hooks on one of the solid walls. He placed himself in the center of the room. He was two steps away from every corner. He unpacked mechanically and hung his few items of clothing in the closet, leaving undergarments and socks in the suitcase, which he hid under the bed. He extracted his money from the pocket that his mother had sewn into his briefs. He could not count the amount due to Adelita, as he only had pesetas, and he wondered where to keep the rest of his money. He could not carry it indefinitely in his briefs. He went looking for Adelita, who appeared as soon as she heard steps. He felt trapped by mighty Adelita, who was blocking his way. With the hint of a smile, she extended her hand.

How much in pesetas? asked Julian.

About the same.

Julian put the bills for one month's rent in her hand and pointed to the rest of his money. Adelita went to the kitchen and returned with a receipt and a well-worn ledger. As if talking to a slow-learning child, she explained, Here is the receipt for your payment signed by me here. As for the rest of the money, I can keep it for you. All the transactions are kept in this ledger, each entry signed by both of us, you and me, like this.

I worked in a bank. I know what a ledger is. You don't have to explain it to me.

Well, the young man has a temper, said Adelita playfully and continued opening the ledger. This one is an invention of mine.

As expected, Julian saw columns for dates, payments, deposits, balances; but in addition, there were two signatures on every line. Julian also noticed that she had hidden with her hand the name on top of the page.

You will have your own page. Also, after every transaction, I require that you check the balance of your cash with me. It will be kept in a separate account. Money and records will be kept in a safe place. Julian nodded.

Adelita, pen in hand, asked, How do you want to be known?

By my name, Julian Valderrama.

As you like. Names mean nothing. I deal in money.

But it's my name.

If you say so. She wrote Julian's name on top of a new page with unexpectedly beautiful penmanship. Let's see. She counted the money. She made Julian count it also and entered the amount in the ledger. She signed and made Julian sign. Done.

But I need some money now, said Julian.

We start with problems pretty soon, she complained without malice. How much do you want?

I don't know, fifty.

Fifty what?

Fifty pesetas, what else?

Fine. But if you need francs or dollars, I can get it for you.

Julian did not understand what she was talking about. He saw Adelita making the entry for fifty pesetas, calculating the balance, entering it, and signing it. She also made Julian sign.

As I said, next time, you will have to check the balance against the cash. Your cash will go in an envelope with your name. She took the money and disappeared.

Julian returned to his room. Except for the sky, everything was alien to him and sad. He sat down to write to Anita. He had promised to write to her, if not every day, at least three times a week.

Queridísima, Anita . . .

Her name brought him aromas of hyacinths and oranges. He wanted to tell her about the trip, what it was like to be on a ferry full of people crossing the Strait of Gibraltar, and how the sea had been calm, and nobody had gotten seasick. He wanted to tell her about the foreign port crowded with men speaking Arabic and dressed in unusual attires and about the women wrapped in white sheets---their faces covered, only their eyes visible---and how difficult it was to get rid of the people who, grabbing his suitcase, wanted to push him into a taxi. He reassured her that he was careful of pickpockets, as he had been warned that they were everywhere, that he was staying at the place on a hill in the modern part of town recommended by his uncle, and that, so far, he had not seen much of the city, but it looked big, modern, and clean. When he finished telling her about the journey, trying not to get her worried, he wrote about the accommodations, improving on the reality and stressing the cleanliness of the sheets. He wrote slowly in his best penmanship, using a pencil and a notebook that she had given him the day before he left after a long kiss under a fig tree. When he finished, he had filled three pages. Three pages, he thought, was a long letter. He had never written such a long letter. With the notebook, Anita had also given him twenty envelopes. He had been uncomfortable about accepting the twenty envelopes. Why twenty? It was as if she were putting a limit to their relationship. He felt uneasy inserting the letter in the envelope. His uneasiness increased when he began to write, with the American ballpoint pen he had received for his birthday, Anita's name and the name of her street, where he had played as a child and walked hand in hand with her. On the white envelope, both appeared distant and meaningless, disconnected from reality.

He decided to take a new look at the celebrated Boulevard Pasteur, a blur in his mind, but upon reaching the dining room, he saw a lady sitting at the table under the window. Her face was illuminated by the last rays of the afternoon sun, giving her an ethereal glow. In her late fifties, she had an elegant elongated face. Her dark brown hair with tinges of white was held back in a bun. Her eyes were of a very light color, which Julian had never seen. They could be gray or green---eyes that would have instilled fear were it not for her inviting, almost seductive smile.

Come sit with me. This is going to be your table. Adelita told me. She spoke Spanish with a slight German accent. I am the Duchess.

Duchess? questioned Julian, who believed Duchesses were exalted people who lived in palaces.

Yes, I am the Duchess, and everybody calls me Duchess, so you may also call me Duchess.

Julian was not ready or willing to engage in conversation with a stranger. He would have preferred to ruminate about his present situation, which was not of his doing, but he could not refrain from asking, Are you a real Duchess?

Why not? They call me Duchess. She kept her back straight with a military posture, like a princess. Her long hands were placed on the table as if she were granting an audience.

And you are? I know you are the new boarder, but who are you? Or is that an impossible question? Thousands of years of civilization have tried to answer it. Saying that, she laughed with the laughter and joy of a much younger woman.

My name is Julian Valderrama.

And what brings you to Tangier, Julian? People have different reasons for coming. Some come to hide their money, others to hide their pasts, still others to hide their forbidden tastes or eccentricities. They also come to make money, and some succeed. What is your reason?

Julian hesitated in answering. He had just met her. She was asking too many questions, and besides, he did not know why he was in Tangier.

I think an uncle of mine has a job for me. I will know tomorrow for sure. After a pause, he rapidly added, Truly, and he felt, for unknown reasons, that he should confess the truth to the inquisitive woman, I do not know why I am here. I was pressured into it.

Extraordinary answer, commented the Duchess with interest and without any sign of mockery.

He continued his unexpected confession. I was satisfied where I was. I was working in a bank. I had a fiancée, friends. Maybe I will find out tomorrow.

The Duchess was intrigued by the perplexed young man who did not know why he had moved to a foreign country.

Really, you do not know? she asked.

Really, I don't.

The Duchess got up and ceremoniously extended her beautiful delicate hand, which Julian feared he might hurt shaking, but she shook his hand with unexpected strength. She was as tall as he was, was slightly built, and projected poise and self-assurance. She wore an elegant straight dress somewhat out of fashion as were the lines of her eyebrows, giving her a mysterious charm. Nobody knows what anybody is or what anything means. What you told me, I will not repeat. I have said and done so many things that I do not want broadcast. I know the value of silence.

A young man about Julian's age came into the room, nodded at her, and disappeared along the corridor. Soon after, another young man, also about the same age and build, came and sat at one of the tables for two. The former had an olive complexion; the latter had very white skin.

Of course, you do not know the people inhabiting this peculiar place. The first one that arrived is a Spaniard who works I am not sure in what capacity in a brick factory. In sales, I believe. The other is an Algerian. He works at a newspaper. They do not talk much, but they seem to be very decent people, except that both are madly in love with the Goddess.

The Spaniard came back and sat with the Algerian. The two looked too tired and apathetic to be in the grip of a mad passion for anyone, much less a Goddess.

The Goddess, continued the Duchess, is Babette, a most beautiful young woman. She has long blond hair, perfect features, and the arrogant disposition of the truly beautiful. She likes to play with men, exerting her power. Observe how she teases them. When she comes, she will lightly touch the shoulder of one or the other, confusing them about her preferences, which probably are somewhere else. It seems cruel, but everything is permitted to beauty. Unfair? Perhaps. What do you think?

I don't know. I haven't seen her yet.

At that moment, the door opened, and the Goddess appeared triumphantly, the most beautiful face and perfect body that Julian had ever seen. She offered a brief smile to the Duchess, put her hand on the shoulder of the Algerian as if having slightly lost her balance, and went to her room at the end of the corridor. Behind her, trailing reluctantly, appeared another young woman, shorter with an engaging angular face and inquiring eyes half hidden behind round glasses with metal frames.

That is Monique. Both are teaching French to Moroccan children. They share a room. They seem to get along as well as two Frenchwomen of similar age can get along. After a pause, she explained, By the way, I do not live here. I come for meals only, much easier than cooking, and I do it also for the company of people. Company is good for one's sanity. Besides, the food is acceptable for the price.

Putting her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her fists, she asked, curious, Is this too much information for a first day? Well, I live on the fifth floor of this building, alone. The General also lives in this building, alone on the top floor. You will meet him any time now. Like me, he comes here only for meals.

Adelita entered with a large tray held over her right shoulder, which was strangely immobile considering the rhythmic movement of her hips. She deposited bowls of a pungent-smelling soup in front of the Duchess and Julian. Its aroma brought memories of home to him.

Where is the General? asked the Duchess.

This bowl, said Adelita, pointing at Julian's, was for him. He knows perfectly well that if he does not show up on time, I can use it at my pleasure, and he has to pay for it.

He is usually punctual, like military people.

Did I take his place? asked Julian.

No, no, the General and I have to sit diagonally. Facing each other produces wrong magnetic flares. Diagonally, we do not have electrical interference.

Is this everyone in the pension? asked Julian. The Duchess's conversation was having a soothing effect on him, like a light rain; he wanted to continue hearing her voice.

No, there is also Roderick, the Englishman. But he does not eat with us often. He is on a special diet of eggs, raw or hard-boiled; dates; and dromedary milk. You see, he is training to cross the Sahara solo.

When will he do that?

Who knows? He is a perfectionist. Who knows when he will complete his training?

After dinner, the Duchess asked Julian, Would you join me for a coffee downstairs at the Claridge? You will get a glance at Tangier's fauna.

They sat outdoors. The restaurant's only row of tables ran along the windowless wall of a bank. Julian contemplated with wonder the world passing by, people of different races speaking different languages. Some dressed like Europeans, others with the djellabas, mordukas, and haiks of the land. Some hurried by; others strolled leisurely, enjoying the cool of the night. He felt that they lacked the vivacity and joy of his town's paseos.

I like to sit here and watch, said the Duchess. Where are you from in Spain?

A town called Torreón, in the south.

Does it have paseos in the evening?

Yes, of course.

Then you may explain to me something that I do not understand. Why do people prefer one sidewalk to another and at times switch? What is the reason for the switch? What peculiar behavior. The one we are on is the more frequented, but do not miss the other one. Often, the most interesting people avoid the crowds. Julian could hardly see across the boulevard through the traffic and the parked cars. In that white building over there is the Casino Español. They call it a casino, but there is no gambling that I know of. You will probably join it if you want to meet Spaniards. One day, I will tell you what a real casino is like, the Monte Carlo Casino for example. Have you heard of it?

No was the brief answer.

They remained in silence for a few minutes. Julian absorbed in the street spectacle, the Duchess in her memories.

Look! she said as if awakening. There they go.

The Spaniard and the Algerian passed in front of them without a glance at the Claridge, each carrying a heavy large briefcase. They walked next to each other but as strangers. They had also spent dinner as strangers, without exchanging a word. They disappeared in the crowd.

Every night, I think every night except Sundays, well, Sundays for the Spaniard and Fridays for the Algerian, they go out with their bulging briefcases and return with the briefcases empty hours later. Isn't it interesting? They must have their reasons.

They finished their coffee. The Duchess paid and suggested that they walk a while down the gentle slope. Outside the busy boulevard, the city recovered the languid pace of its Moorish past. Even the cars, slowing down, seemed to respect the beauty of the spring night.

Do you know the name of this street? asked the Duchess. Boulevard Antée, Anteo, Antaeus, son of the Goddess Earth. He was a giant of tremendous force and was invincible as long as he kept in contact with the earth. Hercules, on his way to the Hesperides, ran into Antaeus and defeated him in a terrible battle on the beach over there by lifting him in the air. Some stormy nights, through the noise of the thunder and the wind, it is said that you can hear the Goddess Earth crying. It must be terrifying. Antaeus was buried under that conic hill in front of us. After the fight, Hercules married Tanja, Antaeus's wife. Hercules was so much in love with Tanja that he founded a town in her name that the Romans later called Tingis, our Tangier. Of course, we do not know what Tanja thought about the whole affair. Are you interested in mythology? Julian did not know if he was interested in mythology. Tangier, like all old cities, has a soul made out of the laughter and tears of its citizens through thousands of years. I guess we are contributing to it.

They descended the boulevard at a leisurely pace. They stopped at the window of an antique store. By then, they were facing a building that had pleasant proportions but that failed to please the eye. That is the so-called French Post Office.

I have a letter to mail.

If it is for Spain, go to the Spanish Post Office. It will be cheaper and will get there faster. They have a branch across the street from Cinema de Paris.

Where is that?

Leaving our building, turn left. Go four or five blocks to Place de France, which is not really a square but a crossroad. Ask anyone for Cinema de Paris. It's nearby. The post office is across the street.

CHAPTER 2

JULIAN

N EITHER THE GENERAL nor the Duchess showed up for lunch, but Roderick did. He strode in and sat on his assigned chair. As if discovering Julian, he stood. I am Roderick Sutterthwaite, he said in English, extending his hand.

Julian Valderrama, replied Julian, standing up. They shook hands and looked at each other inquiringly for a short time, and then both sat down and did not exchange another word.

Adelita brought two raw eggs and a large glass of camel milk for Roderick. She felt a particular tenderness toward him because, in spite his strong physical appearance, he looked childishly vulnerable to her. She was also in awe of the Englishman's fortitude and determination. He reminded her of the struggling artists obsessed and devoted to their quests, which she had known.

Thank you, Adelita. The eggs had a pinhole in each end. Roderick sucked on one of them, making a gurgling sound. After he finished laboriously sucking one egg, he drank very slowly, almost in small sips, half a glass of milk. He remained immobile as if in a trance, until he felt the milk had reached his stomach. Then, with a smile of satisfaction, he proceeded to suck the other egg; and as unhurriedly as before, he drank the rest of the milk. Once he had finished, he gave himself two pats on the chest and got up. He was a tall man with a mane of red hair inherited from his Welsh ancestors and a red face provided by the African sun. So much red was complemented by a well-worn reddish tweed suit.

One must always exercise after eating, he said aloud in French, hoping everyone would understand, and he left, absorbed in dreams of the desert.

Returning to his table, Adelita handed Julian a key attached to a large wooden plaque marked Hotel Martinique, Marseilles. Presenting it, she explained, Here is the key to the door. At one in the morning when I go to sleep, I pull the lock. With her head, she indicated an exceedingly large bolt that would be appropriate for a lion's cage. If you are not in by then, you spend the night on the street. I do not care what you do on the street, but I do care about my establishment.

Julian nodded. He thought that a nod was assent enough. He waited for more instructions, which seemed to be forthcoming with Adelita hovering over him. With none coming, he asked for directions to his uncle's garage.

You have a letter on the table. Is that for him? she asked.

No, for my family, he lied.

Then, before seeing your uncle, go first to the Spanish Post Office.

The Duchess told me how to get there.

Well, the Duchess knows many things, but sometimes she doesn't. I'll tell you. Leaving the building, turn left, and go four blocks to Place de France. Once there, ask for Cinema de Paris. The branch of the Spanish Post Office is across the street from the cinema. Julian refrained from saying that those were exactly the Duchess's instructions.

To go to your uncle's garage, she continued, retrace your steps, and passing this building, keep going downhill until you see a hangar crowned with 'Garage Herrero' in enormous letters, impossible to miss. By the way, do you know how difficult it is for foreigners to pronounce your uncle's name? But they take their cars to him. He must be a good mechanic, although, uncle or not, he is a crook. No offense to your family. There is one in every family.

He followed her instructions. The way to Place de France was a haze of cars and people. Intent on finding that square, which was really a triangular crossroad, he missed the clear view of the Strait of Gibraltar and the coast of Spain. Reaching it, he stopped to look at the unimposing clock standing in its middle. At exactly that time, he would be arriving at his bank in Spain, conforming to a routine that made his life easy. He looked around, searching for somebody with a friendly face. After some hesitation, he finally asked for directions to Cinema de Paris from a man leaning on a car who looked like his former colleague Pedro, whom he did not particularly like. He followed his instructions and was disappointed to discover that Cinema de Paris was not, as its name would indicate, an ornate cinema palace but an indifferent building without a graceful entrance or flashy lights. It could have been in Torreón. He crossed the street, and at the end of a gallery, he found the one-room post office, where two postmen were carrying on an animated conversation about soccer. When he deposited the letter on the counter, he felt like going with it to Anita, remembering every word written. They did not have any practice at being apart. Without interrupting the conversation about the upcoming game between the two Madrid teams, one of the attendants put two stamps on the envelope. Julian paid and waited to see his letter dropped in a large green receptacle. It looked lonely and abandoned. For a fleeting moment, he tried to imagine its reception, the physical act of delivery, and the emotions that it would awaken. Turning around, he retraced his steps to Fifty-Four Boulevard Pasteur and continued down the hill. It was impossible to miss it as Adelita had said. The letters were six feet high, black on white, and extended from one end to the other of the hangar. On the front, the two large metal doors were open, allowing him to see three cars being repaired. Through an opening in the back were four others in different stages of care. A middle-aged man in blue overalls greeted him. Good morning. Looking around, he asked, Where is your car?

I don't have a car. I ---

Interested in buying one in very good condition, very few kilometers?

No, I came to see my uncle, Mr. Herrero.

He is busy now, over there.

Julian saw his uncle in a heated discussion with a large man in a dark suit. They stood inside the glass enclosure, serving as an office. His uncle, wearing a short-sleeved grease-stained shirt, did not seem intimidated and conveyed strong displeasure at whatever the other person was saying.

It may take a while, said the mechanic.

I can wait.

You can wait there, said the mechanic, pointing to the battered backseat of a car, set against a wall. Julian could not find a spot on it without oil stains, but he sat on it anyway, trying to show that he would not mind working in a garage. His uncle did not look like the pretentious, boisterous person who came to his town every two years, driving a large American car of colors never seen in Spain and waving at acquaintances as if bestowing benedictions. In his garage, he looked like any overweight middle-aged mechanic. Julian counted three workers, all busy. After twenty minutes of waiting, he went to the gravel backyard protected by a tall wire fence crowned by razor wire. One car was a wreck beyond salvaging, two looked ready to be delivered, and two others were covered by tarpaulins. He returned to the garage. Soon after, the visitor left, shaking his head in disgust. Apparently, the discussion had been unsatisfactory for both parties. Miguel Herrero remained behind the glass enclosure, waving his hands as if chasing pesky flies. Julian's presence did not improve his mood. What are you doing here? There was none of the joyous back patting of their encounters in his hometown.

I am looking for a job. I understood you have an opening available.

For you, no. For a mechanic. Are you a mechanic?

No.

Isn't your brother a mechanic?

Yes.

Then why isn't he here? Julian did not dare say that he did not know why his brother had stayed in Spain or why he was in Tangier. He felt as if he were in a play, acting the wrong part. But he needed a job.

Don't you need an accountant? I am a very good accountant.

I have a very good accountant. I have had a very good accountant for fifteen years. And he thought but didn't say that the last thing he needed was a smart-ass nephew, digging his nose into his business.

They kept facing each other in silence. Herrero did not have the time or inclination to search for a job for a distant nephew, although, on the other hand, his reputation would suffer if he did not help a family member or at least pretend to. There were rules difficult to break even in a town considered lawless by some. He had managed his life without the help of the family. He had come to Morocco as a soldier in the twenties, when Spain was engaged in a bloody war for a worthless piece of Africa. He survived the battles in the mountains, and when he had a few days of R & R in the town of Tétouan, he and his friend El Picao deserted the army and crossed the mountains to Tangier on foot, where, as in the Foreign Legion, one could start a new life without explanations.

El Picao went his own way; he believed in Casablanca. Herrera went to work for a Frenchman who owned a garage. He learned the trade and manners and enough French to take care of foreign clients. In 1932, the Frenchman died in a car accident, which taught him not to drive fast if it was not necessary. The Frenchman's two sons were in France and had their own careers. The widow, who had been keeping the books for the business, decided that she could sell it to Herrero for the benefit of both. Herrero signed the promissory note, the widow joined her sons in France, and Herrero found himself the owner of a business, which he promptly renamed. The city grew, and so did the business. His luck improved, if you could say that,