The Storyteller of Marrakesh (11 page)

It was a winter evening, he began, much like this one. From a distance, everything looked hazy. A thick fog of woodsmoke had clogged up the square. From the food stalls came the scent of burning shavings. Out of the open windows of the Café de France floated green clouds of smoke from many cigarettes. The faces within gazed out at the vast darkness of the square as at a jungle, from a safe distance. There was an unmistakable excitement in the air, a sense of danger, of the sudden and the unexpected. It was night in the Jemaa el Fna, where anything is possible. From the numerous drum circles that punctuated the space, there emanated a deep and unsettling thunder, like a steadily reverberating roar. It was the signal that the Assembly of the Dead had sprung to life, its predators on the prowl. And I was sitting there in the midst of it all with my paintbrushes and my paints, well past the hour I normally frequented the place. I don't know why I dallied that night. Sometimes things happen for reasons we don't understand.

I've no idea where the two strangers came from. I saw him first: he was standing about ten paces away. He was impossibly elegant and, to my eyes, looked completely out of place. He reminded me of a younger, darker Cary Grant, who should have starred in
Casablanca
opposite Ingrid Bergman, in my opinion, instead of Bogart. He even wore an ascot, as if he were in the lobby of the luxurious La Mamounia Hotel rather than the most hazardous place after dark in Marrakesh. When he noticed me staring at him, he walked straight up to me with a smile.

But he surprised me by addressing someone else who was apparently standing behind me. I turned my head, and that's when I saw her. She was looking over my shoulder at the samples of paintings arranged on my easel. She was slender and lithe, with long brown hair and a waist so slim that I could almost span it with my hands. Since she seemed interested, I ventured to explain my art to her. I told her that I painted miniatures in the Persian style. I showed her examples of the different schools, such as Shiraz, Tabriz and Herat, and pointed out that most of my miniatures were in the Safavid manner, after well-known painters of the fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth centuries such as Kamal ud-Din Behzad Herawi, Reza Abbasi, Mirak Nakkash and Shah Muzaffar. She listened attentively as I spoke and I noticed that one of my portraits, especially, seemed to catch her eye. It was a copy of a painting of a young princess admiring a rose, done by Mirza Ali in Tabriz around 1540. It was painted in shades of orange, blue and black, with a pale-blue frame on which lines of poetry were inscribed.

She picked it up and studied it for a while before turning to her companion and exchanging a few words which I couldn't catch. Then he turned to me and asked, rapidly, in English, whether I would mind painting her in the manner of the portrait of the Persian princess. Since I didn't know the language, I couldn't follow him and had to ask for her help in translating. Of course, when she'd explained his request to me, I readily agreed. We negotiated a price – they proved surprisingly amenable – and she placed herself at my disposal.

I invited her to sit on a folding chair and positioned her hands and feet. I asked her to look me in the eye and, when she did, I was startled and nearly turned away because her gaze was so penetrating. I felt a little intimidated, my heart beating faster than usual. At the same time, recalling my obligation to capture her likeness, I forced myself to study her objectively. Avoiding her gaze, I took in her broad forehead, slightly elongated nose, delicately proportioned chin, full lips. She had a small scar above her right eye, a beauty mark on her right cheek. And yet, for all of that, she remained enigmatic. At length, with my eyes half-shut, I visualized her as the Persian princess. Observing her closely, I drew a trial sketch on a piece of paper, my drawing board resting on my knees. I took my time, suggesting changes to her pose as I worked. When I had finished, she asked to see the sketch and seemed pleased with it.

A moth had wandered into one of my paint jars. We spent some time freeing it, which established a connection between us. I gave her some mint tea. My teapot had an Arabic seal which she admired, and I told her where she could find one just like it. Then I selected a suitable piece of wood on which to paint, picked up my easel, and asked her to hold a pose for as long as it felt comfortable.

I painted swiftly, my eyes switching between my subject and the canvas. As I worked, a storyteller's resonant voice – it could have been yours – echoed marvellously through the air. She asked me to interpret as I painted, and I did my best. The storyteller was telling the story of Layla and Majnun, the ill-fated Arabian lovers, and, even in my very rough rendering, it brought tears to her eyes.

Don't move, I instructed her. Stay as motionless as you can.

She sat loose-limbed in the chair with her profile to me, her eyes slightly unfocused as she gazed down at the half-empty glass of mint tea that substituted for the rose in the painting. She made a superb subject, and I painted with quick strokes, filling in the details to capture the semblance to the Persian princess.

Meanwhile, her companion walked over to stand beside me and asked if I always worked as rapidly. Always, I replied, though as I grow older I find myself slowing down because I think I am gaining in understanding.

And that affects your technique?

It makes me attend more to matters of expression and personality. And that takes time.

He seemed satisfied with my response and did not ask any more questions, which was a relief, because I always find it difficult to talk while painting.

At last, after a few final touches, I put aside my paintbrush and easel. She thanked me and stretched her arms and back. The entire session had lasted a little more than forty minutes. I complimented her and told her that she made an excellent model. She smiled when she saw the painting.

Am I really so pretty? she asked.

Prettier, her companion offered gallantly.

I would let it dry overnight, I cautioned.

We'll take it back to our hotel room right now, he assured me.

We'll send you a photograph after we hang it, she said.

I smiled and didn't reply. Over the years, many of my subjects have given me similar assurances, but I have yet to receive a single photograph. It is in the nature of things, I suppose, and I do not begrudge them for it: the gesture is well intended.

Perhaps we'll return tomorrow for a companion portrait of my husband, she said in a playful tone of voice.

I am your servant, Madame, I said gravely.

Wouldn't you like one? she asked him.

He merely stroked his beard and refrained from answering.

We dealt with practical matters; then they shook hands with me and took their leave. I felt sad as I watched them go, but then again, I am usually overcome by melancholia when I have to part with my work. It is in the nature of things. I followed them with my eyes as they walked towards the Avenue Mohammed V, and even took a couple of steps in that direction. But I came to my senses soon enough and returned to my place of work. As I put away my easel and box of paints, I contemplated the rough sketch that I'd made and felt pleased.

I tell you all this without shame, the portraitist said, and fail to understand how it could be otherwise. I liked them enormously and received the news of their disappearance with disbelief the next morning. The thought of them clung to me and kept me from working. My head was cluttered with their faces; they got between my work and my eyes. At times I was seized by the mad desire to drop everything and run away, but I reminded myself of the necessity that kept me here. I couldn't let any distractions get in the way. So I stayed; I painted.

With that, he lowered his eyes and fell silent.

Khadija beckoned to me and drew me close. Lowering her smoky voice to an undertone, she said: There is someone here with an unclean conscience.

I cast a quick glance around.

I know, I replied.

She turned suddenly and addressed the portraitist.

Tell me something, young man, she asked. Is there anyone here whom you recognize from that evening?

The portraitist looked around, hesitated, and pointed to the man on the motorcycle. I saw him on the square that night, he said in a resolute voice.

The man on the motorcycle made his feelings clear:

Your words are as bogus as your stupid story.

The portraitist began moving towards him when Khadija held up her hand. Let him be, she said, if you know what's good for you.

Who is he? the portraitist asked, coming to a standstill.

He is an undercover policeman, came the reply. The Jemaa is his beat.

The man on the motorcycle smiled humourlessly. He addressed the artist: Tomorrow you will show up at the police station next door at nine o'clock on the dot. We will talk about the minor matter of your permit, Mr Artist from Tangier.

Khadija intervened immediately.

There's no need to be so drastic, Sergeant Mokhtari, she said. The boy was merely responding to a question I'd asked him. Perhaps he could reach some sort of an agreement?

The policeman smiled again, unpleasantly.

I don't want his bloody paintings, he said. Turning to address me, he said: I'm leaving now. Break this up at midnight. Is that clear?

He gunned his motorcycle. We watched him go in silence. When he was safely out of sight, the portraitist sighed and said in a crestfallen voice: That's it, I'm done for.

No you're not, came Khadija's surprising reply. She gazed in the direction in which the policeman had made his exit from the square.

That poor man, she said.

We stared at her, but she didn't elaborate. I began to ask her directly but she brushed my query aside and, instead, turned to Azziza, the beggar woman.

What is the name of your dog? she said, somewhat peremptorily.

Azziza started, uneasy at being the centre of attention again. Lucia, she replied falteringly. Lucia, which means light.

Who named her that? Khadija persisted.

Azziza's daughter, Aisha, pre-empted her mother's reply. A foreigner suggested it, she answered brightly. He was young. Dark-skinned. Handsome.

Bearded?

He had a curly, reddish-black beard, the child said. It encircled his face like a lion's mane.

Was he alone, or with someone?

He was with a very beautiful lady. Her voice was warm and soft. He didn't speak our language, so she interpreted for him. They listened to our story with sympathy.

Khadija turned to me. She said: You see?

A fat man sitting near me raised an objection:

But how do you know the child is talking about the same persons who concern us? There must be dozens of bearded foreigners with attractive companions passing through the Jemaa on a daily basis. How do you know it wasn't someone else altogether?

I
know
, Khadija said, speaking with conviction.

She addressed me again. Her voice was quietly triumphant.

What was the name of the girl who disappeared?

I smiled. Lucia, I answered.

And how do you know that? someone else called out.

My answer was simple.

Because I asked her, I said.

Khadija said: There are so many ways to tell a story, so few to do it well. There was no need for Azziza to be here. No need for her dream or her daughter. But the dog? That dog is another matter altogether. Her name provides a link to our story, and that is important.

But what is going to happen to me now? the art student said plaintively. I'm in danger of losing my livelihood, and all because I sought to answer your question.

Instead of responding to him directly, Khadija took out a handful of earth from a worn leather pouch and scattered it on the ground before her. As she studied the patterns, Bilal, the Gnaoua musician, murmured superstitiously. The rest of us, aware that she was practising geomancy, the art of divining the future from randomly thrown traces of earth, watched her in silence.

At length, she looked up from her endeavours and contemplated the portraitist. It was a while before she spoke, but when she did, it was to assure him that nothing was going to happen to him.

Go home and rest, she said. You can put your mind at ease.

But I don't understand how you can say that, he persisted, bewildered.

Take Khadija at her word, I observed, and don't dwell any more on the matter. She will take care of everything.

In the meantime, Khadija said, addressing the artist, I do have a bone to pick with you, and it is this. I did not care for the manner in which you characterized our Jemaa.

Oh God! he exclaimed, distraught. Now what have I said?

She smiled to show that he did not have anything to fear from her.

You earn your livelihood here, she said, but from your description it's clear that you don't know the first thing about your place of work. Now listen to my words carefully. The Jemaa is our sister and our mother; she attends to our needs and looks after us; she is the source of our sustenance and to depict her otherwise is to belittle her. You have to get used to her many faces. Sometimes she is young, sometimes old; sometimes she is full of energy, sometimes she is tired. At her worst, she isn't dangerous; she is capricious, and her caprices reflect the conditions of our society. But at her best, she is filled with joy and celebration, and people flock here because they seek to share in her happiness. Her fevered atmosphere – a fusion of many elements – is a creation of our own desires. We all have a share in shaping her magic, and it is this magic that is her life. It seizes you and doesn't let go, and its vitality and emotions are mesmerizing. Everything evolves, harmonizes and falls into patterns here, and beauty is born. That is how the Jemaa changes you, reshaping you in her own image. You have to look at her with the eyes of a child, and you will find yourself transformed. It is a matter of the soul – do you understand? – as much as it is of the senses. The Jemaa is a symbol, a meeting point of all the peoples who have passed through and continue to come through this part of the world. She is Maghrebin, Sahrawi, Mediterranean, Arab, Berber. Her winds encompass the
ruagh
, the khamsin, the simoom, the
leveche
, the zephyr. The music that results carries within it all of these melodies. Listen to that music: it is a mosaic that dovetails African, Middle Eastern, Jehudi, Andalusian, contemporary and medieval motifs. Dance to that music: you will learn much about yourself. When you are here, the centuries swim together, and you are beyond time. When you are here, the cultures meld their weaves, and you are elevated beyond your origins.

That is the magic of the Jemaa, Khadija said. She is a microcosm of our Maghreb. But she is also more than a mere meeting place and, if you were to encounter her in the early hours of the morning, when the first rays of the sun alight upon her skin, you would find that she can impart a sense of tranquillity difficult to find anywhere else in the universe. Bliss tinged with melancholy, the rarest of all pleasures: therein lies her mystique.

So you do see the Jemaa as a woman? someone called out.

I see her as a very beautiful woman, Khadija assented.

Perhaps even as beautiful as the woman who disappeared, I added, somewhat provocatively.

Then why don't you tell us about your meeting with her? the same voice said.

I laughed, finding my interrogator's zeal amusing. Very well, I answered, I will. Even though you are impatient, I will indulge you, because that is my role here.