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We had come to the médina in Tangier in search of a pickpocket, and our hired guide had found him. Al’alla was hunched over a newspaper at the front table in the tiny cafe, the only spot within bright enough for reading. After ushering us into chairs and ordering our tea, our guide and translator Ma’halla spoke in rapid Arabic to Al’alla: “Don’t say a word of English, my friend. Let me do all the talking. Just answer my questions in Arabic and we’ll both have money for the smoke tonight.”
Well he could have said that; but it soon became irrefutably clear that Al’alla had been a skilled pickpocket in his day.
QUESTIONS TUMBLED eagerly from Bob; he’d hoped for years for this opportunity. But Al’alla was no easy subject. Perhaps embarrassed by his miscreant days, he skitted and skirted the core of his story. Bob prodded,
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He was a well-known pickpocket, successful but retired, with nothing to fear for answering. He never hesitated with his responses, but appeared thoughtful. Sometimes Ma’halla answered Bob’s questions himself, and Bob would have to insist that he ask Al’alla.
Al’alla had honed his talent as a child in Tangier, then travelled to Barcelona for the big time. It was the sixties, and while Tangier revelled in flower power and hippie freedom, its drugs were routed to Europe through Spain. Al’alla found picking pockets far more lucrative and infinitely safer. People carried cash then, not plastic, and innocence in travelers was more prevalent than sophistication
On La Rambla, Barcelona’s broad and proud promenade, people strolled like clots through an artery, beneath spectacular architecture and between kiosks of birds, flowers, and newspapers. Parrots squawked, pigeons cooed, cut lilies and hot paella wafted on the air – it’s still like that today. No one worried about the darting figure of a well-dressed gentleman, so obviously in a hurry, as he ricocheted off the moving mob.
Al’alla in his 50s still has a handsome face, though its several scars suggest a rough past. He’s small and wiry with delicate hands. His soft-spoken manner and gentle composure allude to the pretender’s persona he got away with in his furtive past. Today he works as an electrician, and his handful of tools lay on the table as we spoke.
I’ll confess: I was more than a little worried when Ma’halla first led us through the endless high-walled alleys of the old city. It wasn’t long before I realized we’d never find our way out alone. The busy souk with its colorful stalls of spices, brass pots, and rugs gave way to the vegetable sellers who sat on the ground shelling peas, defeathering hens, stripping mint leaves. Then there were only blind alleys, closed doors, and the occasional Arab hurrying past in his sweeping jeleba. Ma’halla was not particularly savoury: his face, too, was scarred, and the few teeth he possessed were red with rot. Big and well-built, he was thoroughly shifty-eyed. His English was good though, and he exuded a wary confidence that suited his mission.
THE UNNAMED CAFE was a hang-out for small-time crooks and drug addicts. A few strung-out characters packed their pipes behind us as the proprietor boiled water in a kitchen smaller than a tollbooth. It was like an outtake from Midnight Express.
As our chat segued into demonstration, a few of the other patrons became interested. Bob bravely stole the watch off Ma’halla and made him a believer. He did a little close-up magic to lighten the mood. Al’alla showed his old hip pocket technique, remarking how very much like riding a camel it is – one never forgets. His light-fingered lift was a new one to Bob, a sort-of two-step process accomplished in the blink of an eye. With two fingers outside the pocket the wallet is raised; the thumb and forefinger immediately pluck its exposed edge. Praise was offered all around.
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Now another man became involved, also named Ma’halla. He emerged from the depths of the narrow room with an unassuming confidence, as if he felt it his duty to participate. For one who wouldn’t admit to being a pickpocket, he had some pretty smooth moves, favoring the head-on approach. He also had lived in Barcelona, he told us, but worked in the hashish trade. Soon the two Ma’hallas and Bob and I adjourned to a sunny alley where I videotaped Ma’halla #2 as he performed his interpretations of the wallet-steal on Bob.
I’m looking through the viewfinder filming Bob’s back as he walks away from me. All our gear hangs on my shoulder. Scary Ma’halla is behind me. I’m all ears. I’m trying to focus, to follow take two. Was that the sound of a switchblade? A shadow flits over me and I flinch, ruining the take. Looking up, I see it’s just a thin man in a jeleba dragging a little boy. “No photos,” he says gruffly, hurrying past.
Finally, we’re finished. We thank Ma’halla #2 and follow our guide through an unfamiliar maze. This is not the way we came. Ma’halla begins pointing out the sights. “Look, behind this green door is a mosque. You can peek in, but you cannot enter. Look at the iron star of David over this door; a Muslim lives here now. We are a happy society, nonviolent.” He comes to a dead stop.
“Here you will look. Say ‘salaam.’” It’s a gift shop, a mini-bazaar crammed with gaudy jewelry, hookahs, carved wood. We look around politely and extricate ourselves, worried about making Ma’halla unhappy. He might have earned a hefty commission.
Ma’halla trudged on, then Bob; I followed, calculating the risks. My shoulders were tense with the perception of continuous threat. Bob and I had fought off ten or twelve persistent characters before meeting Ma’halla, all of whom insisted on escorting us. One, with a sinister twitch and stutter, we couldn’t shake for half an hour. Another, in perfectly rehearsed English, reasoned that hiring one mosquito would keep the other hundreds away. Eventually, we fell into the dubious charge of Ma’halla, who came with his own set of perils.
When we finally emerge, blinking, into the sunny square beyond the city walls, we slump a bit with relief. We’re out. We still have our cameras, not to mention our skins, intact!