In Arabian Nights (29 page)

'What kind of business?'

'He remembers things for people.'

If you required an important date to be memorized or the text
of a legal document, or a poem you especially liked, Waleed
would remember it for you. He made a small charge depending
on the length and complexity of the thing to be memorized. Like
a social hard disk, he performed a function with the ear and the
mouth that is more usually done by the eye and the hand.

Late in the afternoon Waleed turned up at the guest-house
to take a nap. He had just memorized a seventeen-page
document and was feeling a little drained from the feat. He was
big-boned and calm, with a waxy face that reflected the low-watt
lighting. As soon as we had been introduced, he asked for my
parents' names and my date of birth.

'Don't worry,' I said, 'I won't need reminding of that information.'

Waleed tapped the front of his head.

'It's for the register,' he said.

I asked him why people didn't write things down like everywhere
else, why they preferred trusting his service to a sheet of
paper.

Waleed stretched out on the divan that ran along the far end
of the entrance hall.

'It's a tradition,' he said.

'What is?'

'Using the mind.'

'But if something happened to you, all the information would
be lost.'

Waleed tugged off his yellow slippers.

'Just as it would be if there was a fire, a flood, or a thief.'

'But paper liberates the mind,' I insisted.

'You're wrong,' he replied. 'The written word is weakening
society, turning it to pulp.'

'But writing makes books,' I said. 'And books are the most
precious thing we have.'

'Books are an insult to the mind,' said Waleed.

'They are magical.'

'No, they're the reason for society's collapse.'

Waleed was part of a tradition almost lost in the West, a
tradition that predated writing. Most of us spend our lives railing
against the deadening effects of television and computer
games, and we celebrate the written word. Waleed was a link in
a far more ancient chain, a chain that existed since the dawn of
humanity and is now under threat – that of the spoken word.

For Muslims, the power of memory is important because it
enables them to memorize the Qur'ān, an achievement regarded
as a blessed act in itself. According to Islamic tradition, the
Angel Gabriel recited the Holy Book to the Prophet Mohammed
over a period of about twenty years. Mohammed, who was
illiterate, committed the entire text to memory as he received it,
just as his disciples did and Muslims continue to do today.

But at the battle of Yamahah, little more than a decade after
Mohammed's flight from Mecca, so many of his followers were
killed that there was a real fear the knowledge of the sacred text
would be lost altogether.

It was then that the Qur'ān was written out for the first time.

Waleed had said the only man in Fès with a better memory than
he was a storyteller called Abdul Aziz. He was in his eighties but
had a mind so crisp that he could supposedly remember every
word he had ever heard spoken.

'Where can I find him?'

'I will take you,' said Waleed.

Two days later, we packed the children into the car and, with
Waleed directing, we drove out of Fès, down a series of bumpier
and bumpier tracks into the low hills that encircle the town.
There were olive groves on either side and the odd stone wall
speckled with moss.

After forty minutes, we rattled to a stop.

'It's the end of the road,' said Waleed. 'We walk from here.'

The sun was dazzling, the air tinged with the scent of warmer
months approaching. We strolled through a meadow of citrus-yellow
flowers. Ariane fell to her knees and made a posy. She
gave it to Waleed.

At the end of the field there was a ramshackle house, its brick
walls pocked with holes, its roof about to cave in. The path leading
to the place was littered with tin cans and shards of broken
glass. A dog raised the alarm, ran out barking, a smudge of
brown.

A moment later, the silhouette of a man was in the doorway.
He was tall, alert and walked with a cane. The sun was in our
eyes and so I didn't catch his face at first. Waleed stepped forward,
kissed the old man's hand and made the introductions.

'I present to you Abdul Aziz,' he said solemnly.

The man shook our hands and welcomed us. His hair had been
dyed orange with henna and his face was dominated by a sore on
his right cheek. It was an inch across and glistened in the light.

He rounded us up with his arms.

'It is a blessed day,' he said.

Three stone steps led up to the house. The door was badly
warped and had a crack down the middle so wide you could see
through it into the salon.

We went up the steps.

The inside was cosy and simple, the home of a man with no
interest in the material. There was a picture of fantasia, a
swirling rush of paint, men charging with their guns; and a dark
lacquered cabinet packed with an assortment of plates. At the
far end of the room stood a copy of the Qur'ān on a carved
wooden stand.

Abdul Aziz opened a cupboard and wrestled with a long
object, tied at both ends. He slid it out. It was a carpet. The
strings were unfastened and the rug laid over the floor.
The design was Persian, a central medallion with interlocking
arabesques at each corner. It was exquisite, the colours cochineal-red,
sapphire-blue, with a hint of lilac along the edge. Just before
spurting praise at seeing such a beautiful thing, I put a hand to
my mouth and swallowed my words. In the East, an object
admired by a guest is presented to him as a gift.

Abdul Aziz invited us to sit on the carpet, then limped away
to prepare the tea. When he came back a few minutes later, he
found me stroking a palm over the knots.

'It was given to me a long time ago,' he said.

'The work is very fine.'

'I keep it in the cupboard,' he replied, 'and bring it out when
guests come to visit.'

'It's Persian.'

'Yes, from Isfahan.'

'Have you been there, to Isfahan?'

'No, no. A man from Iran gave it to me. I helped him through
a trouble in his life.' Abdul Aziz paused, poured a glass of tea
and tipped it back into the pot. 'I told him a story,' he said.

He poured the tea again, leaned forward and kissed Timur on
the cheek. I said that I had heard of his powerful memory. He
waved a hand to the window.

'A memory is no more than a tool,' he said. 'It's worthless in
itself. A good memory is not the power to think. What has value
is the thing you are holding in your mind.'

'How many stories do you know?'

The old storyteller stared at the carpet's interlocking
arabesques, the corners of his mouth rising in a smile.

'Many hundreds,' he said dimly. 'Thousands. I don't know.
But a single good tale is as valuable as them all.'

I asked about the tradition of storytelling in Fès.

'The stories that touched the ears were as great as the buildings
that still entertain the eyes. They were sacred in their own
way.'

'Are there any storytellers left?'

'One or two, but they can't support themselves. Some have
paying jobs. They tell tales in the evenings after their work is
over. But they are not celebrated any longer.'

'I am searching for the story in my heart,' I said.

Abdul Aziz lifted his head until his eyes were in line with my
own.

'I haven't heard of that in many years,' he said.

'Most people don't seem to know about it.'

'Of course they do not,' said the old man, raising the pot high
to pour more tea. 'They have lost the tradition. It's like a piece of
slate that's been wiped clean.'

'Could you tell me my story?' I said.

'How can I do that?' Abdul Aziz replied. 'For only you will
know it.'

'Can't you see it?'

He shook his head. 'Of course not.'

'But how will I know it?'

The storyteller raised a finger. 'Be patient,' he said.

The brown dog ran inside and rolled over. Moroccans usually
keep dogs outside. They say that when they enter a home, the
angels leave. But Abdul Aziz was a doting master.

'An audience of dogs would listen far better than a crowd of
people,' he said, running a hand over his dog's belly. 'These days
people tell stories haphazardly,' he said. 'But it was never like
that. Before the traditions faded, they used to choose them more
carefully, selecting a tale for a particular person and a particular
setting, to have a special effect.'

'You mean teaching stories?'

The old man traced one of the carpet's lines with the tip of his
finger.

'All stories are teaching stories,' he said.

Ariane and Timur were growing restless. They wanted to run
out to play in the meadow, to hurl each other into the carpet of
yellow flowers.

'I will tell them a story,' said Abdul Aziz. 'I think that they
will like it and that it will like them.'

He stretched back, stroked a hand down over his throat, and
said: 'Once upon a time there was a kitchen in a palace, as
grand as any the world has ever seen. There were pots and pans
hanging on all the walls, and delicious ingredients piled up,
waiting to be prepared. In the middle of the kitchen stood an
enormous chimney and below it was a magnificent iron stove.

'Fifty chefs worked day and night to prepare the food for the
table of the king. There were pies filled with peacock meat, roast
lambs, skewers of venison and platter upon platter of meatballs,
for everyone knew that the king's favourite dish was meatballs in
creamy white sauce.

'Now,' said Abdul Aziz, 'one of the junior chefs had just
finished preparing the last platter of meatballs. He opened the
great iron door of the stove and slipped it inside. The dish began
to sizzle as the fat melted and the temperature rose. The heat
grew more and more suffocating and the meatballs began to
bake. They cried out to their leader: "Help, help, do something,
please, because we are being cooked alive. We will do anything
for you, but first you must save our lives!"

'The meatball leader, who was the largest of them all, raised
himself as high as he could and called to his fellow meatballs:
"Have faith, O meatballs, I shall save you. I promise that we shall
not be cooked, but salvation will occur in the most extraordinary
way!" "What will our salvation be, O great leader?" "There will
be soothing medicine to cool your burns and a fragrant bed for
you to lie down upon and rest."

'Just then, the door of the oven was swung open and a cool
white sauce was spooned over the meatballs. They gasped with
joy and thanked God for saving them from the terrible fire.
"You did not listen to me, my fellow meatballs," said the
meatball leader, "for I promised you a cooling medicine and,
look, it has come." But then the heat began to rise once again
and some of the meatballs, the ones nearest the edge of the
platter, were roasted alive. "O leader," cried the others, "please
save our souls. We will follow you to the end of the earth. Just
save us from this terrible heat." "Be calm, my meatballs," said
the meatball leader. "Calm yourselves and the fire will be
cooled. I promise you."

'At that very moment, the door of the oven opened again and
the great platter was carefully removed by the chef. He shook it
a little, to make sure the meatballs were not sticking to the
bottom, and tipped it on to a bed of saffron-coloured rice.
The dish was adorned with fragrant leaves and herbs. The meatballs
were carried at shoulder height from the kitchen through
the palace corridors and into the throne room, where the king
himself was dining with his guests.

'The meatballs couldn't believe the change in their fortune. "I
told you all that our bad luck would be reversed," declared the
biggest meatball. "You just need to believe in me for I am your
leader." The other meatballs squeaked words of praise as they
nestled into the soft cushioning bed of rice. Suddenly the platter
was laid down in front of the king himself.

'Some of the meatballs were dazzled by the glint of jewels on
the necks of the guests, and others became overcome by the
sound of the musicians playing on a dais in the room.

'But then the brotherhood of meatballs were removed a few at
a time, spooned off the platter on to individual plates. And, far
worse, hungry mouths round the table began gobbling them up.
"O leader, our leader," cried the remaining meatballs, "what is
happening to us? Our numbers are being culled and in the most
shocking way! We are being exterminated."

'The king himself dug a fork into the platter and skewered
six meatballs in one blow. "Treachery!" the last few meatballs
cried. "How could this be happening to us?" By this point,
the meatball leader was sick of hearing of the problems his
meatball followers were facing. He shouted to them: "You were
cooled by the medicinal white sauce, were you not?" "Yes, yes,
we were!" shouted the last remaining meatballs. "And you
were removed from the terrible fire and placed on a bed of cool,
calming rice, were you not?" "Yes, yes, we were," said the
meatballs. "Well, when are you going to understand that you
are meatballs and that as such you are destined for the stomachs
of hungry men?"

'A moment later, the meatball leader was scooped up and
swallowed whole by the king. The last meatballs on the platter
continued to shout and scream and protest their unwillingness to
be eaten. But by then no one was left to listen to their cries.'