Mustafa is stout, in
his fifties, and limps. But he has lovely almond eyes and a nice smile and if
he makes an effort he can be quite winning in his way. He is the night manager
in my hotel – he comes in at 8pm every night and stays until 10.30 the
following morning. He closes the main door at midnight, but only locks it at 3,
when he can allow himself a short sleep until 5 – at which point he opens the
door again.
With this shortage of
sleep he is understandably rather grumpy at times. I had imagined that he would
spend a lot of the daytime off asleep but no, he tells me he has to shop and
cook for his mother (Mustafa has never married – he says this is because
weddings are expensive and he is poor but I imagine the real explanation might
be a bit more complex).
His mother is only 72,
but she is diabetic and never leaves the house he says. He says he has to pay
so much for her medication that he is never left with any money. I find it
strange that a woman of 72 is so incapacitated and say that my father is 87 and
goes out of the house every day.
Hmmmf, that´s because
we work very hard in Maroc, it´s a poor country and we work much longer hours
than your father, he retorts. I wonder how he knows how many hours my father
worked, but decide to leave it. Mustafa is often, as I say, quite grumpy.
Well I am very sorry
for her, I say. And very sorry that you have to pay so much for the
medicaments. We are very lucky in England that we can
have all this quite cheaply.
Mustafa looks even
crosser. Yes, you people are rich and you don´t have to pay for anything!
But your King is so
rich, I say. Do you not mind that? He doesn´t even pause to consider: ´no I love
the king´, he says. And then, on considering, ´je l´aime beaucoup´.
Boy, does that King rock in Morocco …
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