My mother carries a struggling baby goat in her arms, the heels of her purple suede go-go boots sinking into the mud as small children circle around her, taunting her, calling out, “Señora, señora!” She and her maid, Zorra, have walked out into the Sharf—meager strips of farmland just outside the city gates. My mother has decided to buy a baby goat, thinking it will be a good pet for us, only realizing her error after housing it on the rooftop terrace of our broken-down hotel, where it eats all her remaining underwear. After a few days, she gives the goat to the hashish dealer Mohammed as a present for his children.
