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      Born in Meknès, Morocco, in 1958, Abdelilah Hamdouchi is one of the first writers of police fiction in Arabic and a prolific, award-winning screenwriter of police thrillers. He is the author of Whitefly (2016) and The Final Bet (2016) and lives in Rabat, Morocco.

      Benjamin Smith holds a PhD from Harvard University, and is currently a visiting assistant professor of Arabic at Swarthmore College, in the United States.

      Bled Dry

      Abdelilah Hamdouchi

      Translated by

      Benjamin Smith

      This electronic edition published in 2017 by

       Hoopoe

       113 Sharia Kasr el Aini, Cairo, Egypt

       420 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10018

       www.hoopoefiction.com

      Hoopoe is an imprint of the American University in Cairo Press

       www.aucpress.com

      Copyright © 2017 by Abdelilah Hamdouchi

       Protected under the Berne Convention

      English translation copyright © 2017 by Benjamin Smith

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

      ISBN 978 977 416 848 2

       eISBN 978 1 61797 840 1

      Version 1

      1

      Nezha wasn’t yet twenty years old, but she looked like a prostitute on the verge of early retirement. Layer after layer of makeup had transformed the softness and innocence of her face, giving her a severe pallor. Wrinkles from frequent all-nighters were carved deeply into her features. She had difficulty erasing the blue hue of her lips caused by all the smoking, and the whiteness of her teeth had given way to a strange yellowish color.

      She sauntered down the sidewalk carrying her small handbag, and without a bra her breasts almost spilled out of her shirt. Her high heels caused her to wobble and walk crookedly. She was intentionally giving the impression that she was an easy catch. She stirred up the passing drivers so much that one car nearly hit another. An intoxicated driver slowed to cruise alongside her with his head out the window, telling her about the wild night he’d have in store for her. Even though Nezha tried to give the impression that she was enjoying all this attention, deep down she shuddered with fear as she walked alone down the sidewalk of a dangerous street that was empty of other pedestrians at this late hour.

      She was, in fact, carrying out the terms of a pact she had agreed to in order to satisfy the vanity of an older man, who got off on watching this.

      Hamadi pulled up in his Mercedes. He gave a subtle signal and she hurried toward him. She spoke to him, leaning her elbows on the base of the car’s open window, and meanwhile thrusting out her ass as far as possible. Her movements were overly provocative. Inebriated drivers drooled, and not a single one protested that the Mercedes was blocking the street—until she got in.

      Hamadi let out a triumphant laugh and turned toward Nezha, looking first at her makeup-caked face and then lowering his gaze to her bare thighs. He continued his boisterous and repulsive cackle while repeating all sorts of obscenities about how he wanted to force himself on top of her. She fired back with even more obscene language, detailing how she wanted to be pounded by him.

      The dirty talk was all part of the game, but when Hamadi used this language it seemed out of place. He was close to sixty years old. His features projected a stern and serious disposition, accentuated by his thick black glasses. He was a shrewd banker who had climbed the rungs of the ladder and was now bank manager. A bruise—commonly adorning the foreheads of those who prayed frequently—was his stamp of piety. His depravities with a girl the age of his younger daughter did not suit him. Instead, they made him an object of scorn, even in Nezha’s eyes. She thought he was revolting, but nonetheless, she tried her best to provide him with some lewd new joke.

      They had met when the bank refused to cash her check for a paltry sum. The check was for ninety dirhams, and the lowest amount the bank would cash was one hundred. A customer had given her the check after a blowjob in his car, while he was driving, that had barely lasted a minute. The bank teller knew the check would bounce, but Nezha complained about him anyway, as if he were the person responsible for cheating her. The teller transferred her to the manager, Hamadi. She had hoped that he would treat her with the respect and affection of the father she had lost, but since that day she became Hamadi’s companion for his “day of depravity,” always the first Saturday of each month.

      The moment the parking attendant saw the Mercedes pull up, he found them a spot reserved for well-known patrons. Nezha got out of the car and waited for Hamadi to lock the door. Hamadi was of average height, and this evening he was dressed casually, looking like someone who had just changed out of his work clothes. He hid the wrinkles on his neck behind a colorful scarf, which gave him an effeminate look. As soon as he saw the bouncer Farqash he rushed to greet him, but Farqash fixed his bone-chilling gaze on Nezha as they entered. Farqash twitched his head threateningly in her direction, indicating that serious punishment was in store.

      The bar La Falaise was really a stop-off before heading out to the clubs, which didn’t open their doors until after midnight. The bar was located downtown, close to the famous café La Choppe. It had an unlit entrance on an alleyway that led to a side street, where there was a secret door to the bar that only the employees knew about. It was swarming with beautiful young girls, most of whom were sitting with old men. The unaccompanied women sat smoking, legs crossed, waiting for a customer who was looking for a good time. The criteria for admitting women to La Falaise were very strict and centered foremost on beauty and youth, and then on the amount of money each girl could pay the hideous Farqash.

      Farqash was absolutely repulsive: he had a huge bald head, wide-set eyes, and a flat nose. His build was sturdy, and he always seemed ready for a fight. He was known for all manner of depravities: he was a pimp, a middleman, a crook, and a police informant. He had been imprisoned multiple times, and it was there—the rumor went—that he had begun dealing cocaine. The drug infested Casablanca, coming from Ceuta, the Spanish enclave in the north, where it was exchanged for hash.

      This was the man who ruled over La Falaise. Every girl gave him a percentage of what she made from her customers, and had to pay even if she made nothing that night. She even had to pay for her own cigarettes and drinks. When leaving, she had to place a tip in the palm of his hand.

      Farqash and Nezha had history together. Not long ago she had been his favorite— his spoiled lover, preferred over all the other women at the bar. But he had taken to another girl who had recently entered the scene, and since then he had begun treating Nezha like garbage. Just a month ago he demanded that she pay him, like everyone else. He’d had his fill and was tired of her. Nezha kept putting off paying him, but yesterday he had given her one final deferment, and time was up tonight.

      The law of La Falaise was firm: each girl was required to encourage her client to consume a specific amount of alcohol before leaving the bar. In addition, she was required to arrange their future rendezvous at La Falaise. If the girl wanted to continue working there, she had to follow these rules. If she ended up stealing customers away by suggesting a different meeting place, she would be kicked out of the bar and face one of two options: either Farqash would smash her face in himself, or he would instruct one of the many young street kids waiting in the alley outside to permanently disfigure her with a razor blade, so that no man would want anything to do with her ever again.

      Farqash’s new darling was really young. She had been plucked by one of the female scouts at the

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