The Storyteller of Marrakesh (10 page)

I was there that night. I was on the square.

We turned to the speaker. He was a Gnaoua musician, his bright white finery stark against the night, his drum slung across his shoulder and resting against his waist. Sitting very still, he cut a flamboyant figure in that setting, pride in every line of his bearing. His drum seemed an intrinsic part of him: he caressed its head as if to glean from it secret meanings only he could sense.

He raised his dark visage so that it merged with the night.

My name is Bilal, he said. I was one of those drumming that evening, but I did not see her, and I did not see him, and yet I dreamt about her a few days after her disappearance. I do not know why I was visited with that dream. It has left me with all sorts of questions.

He laughed, showing brilliant teeth.

I am a simple man, he said. I like the simple things in life. I am not like you. I do not like difficult questions. I play music for a living because it makes me happy. I like to be happy, so the music plays me. My group comes here every year from Amizmiz. There we practise all year round in a large orchard attached to a
foundouk
. It is the only green space in our arid township. We play and we play, we play our hearts out, we play ourselves into a sweat, and we are happy. We believe that there is no meaning in life other than this happiness. It banishes the heat, makes the hours quiver, and sets everyone's feet dancing.

He raised his callused hands.

One day I would like to play with that man Hendrix, who was here many years ago, and I have heard still visits occasionally. I would like to greet him as my brother and accompany his guitar with my
deff
. We will have a good time. There will be no secrets between us. He will go away filled with joy. Of this I am convinced.

He laughed again and regarded me wistfully.

But that is an altogether different matter from my dream. And it is the dream that is like a bird in my head. I cannot get it out, and I would like to get it out. I would like that very much indeed because, until I do, it is getting in the way of my music.

He drummed out a quick tattoo on his
deff
.

But what do you want from me? I said.

He rested the drum on his knees and reflected for a moment. His head was bowed, his eyes on the ground. Suddenly, with a gentle, boyish smile, he spread his hands wide. Only this, he said, an answer to a question. How is it possible to feel nostalgia for a woman I never met?

I gazed bemusedly at him. There was something appealing in the naivety with which he'd asked his question.

What we think in life echoes in our dreams, I said.

But I didn't even know her!

You knew of her. Men talked about her, and incessantly. The entire city was abuzz with the news of her disappearance. The legend was enough to send your mind spinning. So one night you dreamt about her. It's as simple as that.

Is that why dreams are the last things to die in a body?

They are roads only, I answered. Signposts to be deciphered.

Then where did my dream take me? Where did that road lead? Tell me, because I understand nothing.

I cannot tell you unless I know what you dreamt.

He did not answer. Instead, he turned to two of his fellow musicians who had joined our circle and said: Brothers, we should start a fire because the night is turning cold.

They had wood with them. We started a fire.

Bilal opened his shoulders to receive its warmth.

Beyond him, all over the square, companion fires were springing up. Their winking luminescence mirrored the stars. Only the lightest veil of woodsmoke separated the Jemaa from the sky.

With a weary sigh, Bilal propped his head in his hands and gazed at the fire. Where I'm from the spirit of the desert is everywhere, he said. It is our father and our mother. It permeates everything. It laps at our feet like the ocean. Its dust colours our breath.

He took off his sandals and held them to the fire. They were warped by the desert sun, creased by its sands.

In my dream I was travelling from Tetouan to the camel souk in Goulimine, he said. I do not know why I was bound for Goulimine; I have no interest in camels. And I have never been to Tetouan. But such is the logic of dreams. I was part of a slave caravan. We were traversing endless dunes, following time-worn trails, journeying from oasis to oasis. I had no music with me; a chain bound me by my neck to my companions. If I felt the frequent lashes on my back, I said nothing. The hunger and the thirst that filled my being made all other feelings redundant. Above the closed sack of days only the hope of a quick death sustained me in that hell.

One night our caravan stopped beside a red wadi; the horses and camels were browsing in its shadowy depths. The wind blew across the sand and I knew, from its damp fragrance, that we were not too distant from the ocean. When the first drops of rain struck my back, I didn't know what was happening. I had never known rain. I curled up like a terrified animal. I thought the raindrops were whiplashes. But as my hair and clothes began to get drenched, I felt a strange and delirious happiness. I burst into laughter. It was as if I had died and ascended to heaven.

Moments later – how many moments? – I felt her hands drumming on my back. I tensed and tried to get up, but her weight rested on my hips and made movement impossible. One, two, three – one, two, three, four – I began to breathe in time to her rhythms. She was good, her hands lightly leaping from shoulder to shoulder as she played with practised ease, using the heels of her hands and her fingertips. And, all the while, she planted shapes on my back – large, wet bouquets of geraniums, showers of lilies, moist almond blossoms such as those that grace the most exquisite gardens. In the depths of that wintry desert, spring rain!

Soon I was running with that rain on my back. She urged me on with small, sharp cries. My happiness lent me wings. I covered great distances. Behind me, time had stopped; before me, I glimpsed the ocean of eternity. The desert sped by in clouds of dust, then fell away. I shouted out in triumph. Her drumming hands had released me from my enslavement.

He lowered his dark eyes. We waited in suspense.

And then I woke up, he said.

An audible sigh of disappointment went up from our circle.

He shrugged, disconcerted by our reaction.

What can I say? I felt as you did. My heart felt lighter than my head. My back was still vibrating. I sprang out from my bed. There was an owl hooting outside my window. It described frantic circles in the air. I watched it for a while, and then I turned away. The sudden end of my dream was painful. I would have liked to have at least said farewell.

From the edge of the circle, my nephew Brahim spoke up, with more than a trace of jealousy in his voice.

Did she say anything to you at all? he asked.

Only this. Right at the end. She said: Enviably, this is the way.

I asked, very gently: How did you know her identity?

Oh, I knew who she was, he said. Dreams are like that.

Then I must disappoint you, I said. I don't know what your dream signifies. At the most elemental level, I could tell you that women represent the forces of life. But apart from that, your dream is beyond my capacity to interpret.

He took off his cap and fanned himself. He gazed at us one by one and pursed his lips when no one offered to help.

Is that it? he asked, and his tone was heavy.

That is it, I said.

Then why did I dream about her? he asked insistently. Why did she visit me even though I wasn't one of those she'd met? I was there that night, he repeated, performing on the square. I remember the crimson moon, the long black limousine, the evening's haze. The police were out in force. There were rumours of a visiting Arab sheikh. But I did not know who she was. And I did not see her on the square.

But I did, a man's voice interjected.

I was on the square that night, and I met her there.

The speaker was a slim young man in a threadbare suit. He wore a red rose in his buttonhole and a cheap wool scarf around his neck. His tone was cool and fastidious.

I saw them both, he said. In fact, I spent some time with them.

He surveyed us with an air of triumph, pausing to let us digest his words. We did not know how to react, so we maintained an impassive silence. I wondered where he'd come from. I could not recall ever having seen him on the square.

Have you seen the movie
Casablanca
? he asked. They were like the stars of that movie, Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, only younger. He was smart, in a brown suit and fedora; she wore a lightweight plaid coat over a knee-length red dress. I wouldn't call her beautiful, but she was certainly arresting. Her features were delicate but vigorous. She had long arms and legs. She let him do all the talking. She seemed withdrawn, but contented.

How do you know so much about them? someone asked.

It's quite simple, really. I had the pleasure of painting her portrait. He commissioned me. And paid what I asked for. It was a privilege.

I took him in at a glance.

Where are you from, I asked. And what is your name?

He was silent for a moment; he flicked off a fly that had alighted on his forehead, then answered: My name is Taoufiq. I am an art student from Tangier. I come here from time to time because it amuses me to set up on the square. I'm not in it for the money. I only paint portraits.

Someone behind me muttered mockingly in Tashilhait, our local Berber tongue: Pretentious bastard.
Casablanca
wasn't even filmed in Morocco but on a Hollywood back lot.

That raised a laugh, but I was curious to hear the art student's story, so I gestured to him to get on with it.

He lit a cigarette, adjusted his scarf, examined his fingernails. With a quick, rather contemptuous smile, he flicked a glance across our circle. Oh, I don't know if I should bother with this lot, he said. I should probably just leave.

Barakalaufik
, the same voice behind me whispered in Tashilhait. Thank you kindly, and good riddance.

I suppressed a smile. Instead, in a preceptorial tone, I said: Either tell us what's on your mind, or leave. The choice is up to you. But don't take all night thinking about it.

So that's how things are, he said. I should have known better than to open my mouth. Your rules are ridiculous. I'm not going to stay and be insulted.

Indeed? I said. Very well then. Have it your way.

He took out a large handkerchief and blew his nose. To my surprise, I saw his eyes filling with tears. He fussed with his cigarette, but made no move to leave, just as I'd anticipated.

I spread my hands in a conciliatory gesture.

I have no desire to humiliate you, I said. That is not the way we do things here. If you have something to tell us, please go ahead.

Clearing his throat, he remarked brusquely: All right, I'll tell you, if only to honour their memory, given that everything else that I've heard here has been nothing more than abject fantasy and wish-fulfilment. You want the truth, don't you? I'll give it to you, despite the fact that, quite frankly, you don't deserve it.

He paused to draw deeply on his cigarette. Blowing a ring of smoke into the air, he gazed around the square as if seeing it for the first time.

It's strange to think that this is where she disappeared, he said. Right in the middle of a crowded square. And I was probably one of the last to see her.

So you'd like to believe, someone piped up derisively from the back.

Giving him time to compose himself, I interjected: Do not take offence at our rough-and-ready ways. You are an artist, and we do not mean to offend your sensibilities, the likes of which we don't often encounter on the square. What draws us here tonight is a common endeavour, the sharing of a unique experience. In remembering that singular encounter, with all its drama and disorientations, each one of us reveals how rarely the sublime appears in this life. For beauty, like faith, is food for the soul. It ennobles us and we want to hold on to it because it arrests us in our depredatory course through life. Beauty transforms our desire – it doesn't do away with desire but exalts it. After all, if we cannot imagine ourselves as different from what we are, wherein lies the promise of existence? Beauty gives us the capacity to reimagine our lives, and in so doing, to dignify ourselves.

I had barely finished speaking when a mild-looking man raised his hand as if he were in a classroom. He was bespectacled and balding, with a round face and belly. Forgive me, he said apologetically, I probably don't have any business speaking here, but my name is Larbi and I am a lecturer in rhetoric at Al Qarawiyin University. I'm studying traditional modes of storytelling, and your little discourse on beauty reminded me of an incident a few years ago involving a famous professor at our university. This professor, while addressing a large audience on the subject of beauty, asked that a piece of ambergris be passed from hand to hand until, by the time it reached the last person at the back of the massive hall, it had crumbled away to nothing. But the entire hall smelt of ambergris, and every person there had been touched by its essence. The professor concluded his lecture at that point, stating that he had nothing more to say on the nature of beauty.

And that, said the bashful rhetorician, sweating profusely, is all I have to say. I hope you will excuse my interruption.

I acknowledged his contribution with the dignity befitting such an illustrious person, from the oldest university in the world no less, and thanked him for his story.

The art student, who had been listening in silence, now bowed his head. When he looked up again, it was to address us collectively. In a sombre voice, he said:

Forgive me, my brothers, if I came across as opinionated. I was clumsy. In reality, I am quite shy, and I try to make up for it by acting arrogant. I would like to ask your leave to introduce myself again. My name is Taoufiq Bouabid. I am from Tangier. I am a bona fide artist, and I specialize in miniature portrait painting in the Persian style, for which there is very little demand today. My colleagues mint money by catering to rich Westerners with a taste for large canvases in fake ethnic styles; I come to Marrakesh because it feels shameful to busk in the streets of Tangier after four years of training. I visit here once a month; I stay for a fortnight and work every day, though not always in the Jemaa. Sometimes I set up in front of the Saadian tombs, or you will find me in the narrow alleyway leading to the Jardin Majorelle, or next to the Dar Si Said or the Royal Palace. At night, I stay with a friend, a guide attached to the La Mamounia Hotel. He alerts me to where the tourist traffic is likely to be concentrated on any particular day, and that's where I set off with my easel. Yes, I am a tourist whore, I suppose you could call me that, but they are the only ones who will pay for my art, alas, and that is the one thing in life that I will not compromise. I would rather starve – for the last two years I've often lived on one meal a day – because even a whore has his principles, and my art is my salvation.

Are you a good painter? someone called out.

The portraitist hesitated. He scanned the ring of onlookers to see who had spoken; then, with the shadow of a smile, he said: I am the best.

That raised a laugh, and the man who'd asked the question said: Then you will paint a portrait of my oldest daughter, who is engaged to be married in three months. And if you are really as good as you say, then I will spread the word among my friends, and you will be assured of customers in Marrakesh.

The art student raised a hand to his heart.

I will try not to disappoint you, he said.

What will you charge me for your services?

For you, nothing. The honour will suffice.

Perhaps you can offer him the hand of your middle daughter in exchange, Fouad, someone suggested to the man who'd made the offer, to a renewed outbreak of laughter.

How large will the painting be? the elderly Fouad said suspiciously, his native Marrakchi guile getting somewhat the better of his generosity.

Two inches by two inches, which is the standard size, the art student replied, before adding that he would also include a cedar-wood frame, three inches wide on all sides, on which he would paint a traditional
touriq
design composed of interlacing floral, palmate and foliage patterns.

Your offer is generous, Taoufiq, I said with a smile. I am sure that Fouad will be more than satisfied. Now repay our hospitality by telling us what happened that night on the square.

The art student blushed deeply, nonplussed, it seemed, by both my curiosity and my forthrightness. All the same, as if in acknowledgement of his obligations, he launched immediately into his account with a quick, awkward declaration that it was the first time he had ever spoken about the encounter. He sat very straight as he took us through the events of that evening, speaking slowly and with frequent pauses, scrupulously careful of every word that passed his lips. It was clear that fidelity to the past was important to him; quite often he peered into the distance as if to glean from it half-remembered details, and, when he succeeded, his large, dark eyes widened in astonishment.