July 12, 2005--Some journal notes

The cat exploded out of the dumpster. We all thought it was a piece of cardboard blown out by the wind, but when it hit the ground, it ran along the street and jumped into a window.

The man threw the grey bird up in the air, it hit its climax and plummeted like an old lady, wings fluttering frivolously like the frills on a dress. A little boy picked it up and handed it back to the old man. The man held it in his palm and petted its neck. The bird never slowed its jerking head. “Is it hurt?” I asked. The man nodded. The man decided it had rested enough and threw up again, to my surprise. This time, after what looked like a downwardslope, the bird caught a breeze and went over the rooftops. It must be difficult to catch a good breeze in the medina. The alleys are so narrow.

The secretariat general of the region lost the letter that yto made, after months of waiting for them to make it, she got their letterhead and made the letter herself. All they had to do was sign it. Finally, after four days of coming back for the letter, the man said, what happened to the letter, my office is so disorganized, what did you incompetents do with the letter. And Yto said, I gave the letter to you, not to anyone else. The problem was it had to go to the President for him to approve it. It went to him on Wednesday, but he couldn’t sign it after he approved it because it wasn’t his signature day; he has one day a week when he can sign things.

Senhaji, director of the cinema for 35 years, does not know the safe number by heart. He asks Maya to find the little slip of paper in the desk drawer that was emptied yesterday. “I am the only one who knows the code” he says, but even he does not know it. And what if we don’t find it? I say, totally bewildered at the prospect. That’s OK, he says, there’s nothing in there anyway.