The Storyteller of Marrakesh (13 page)

It is written in books that the great prides of Atlas lions died out in Roman times, reduced to half-starved captives in gladiatorial circuses. Ahmed once told me that the Roman ruins of Volubilis, near Meknès, are rumoured still to resound at night to the roars of the captured beasts as they fall victim to some power-mad proconsul's bloodlust. He said the locals avoid the place like plague after dark. Other books record the death in 1922 of the last Atlas lion, a magnificent beast with a reddish-black mane encircling its face like a beard. Yet both Abdulkhalek and Fathallah, shepherds in our village, insist that they have heard the roars of lions prowling the higher mountain slopes at night. They are reliable men, so there is no cause to doubt their word. And they are not the only ones. In the neighbouring villages, as well as in the pastures of the Jebel Sahrho region, we have heard of livestock carried away at night by marauding lions.

Sparked by these rumours, a team of zoologists from Rabat spent several months in our valley, interviewing shepherds and tracking alleged sightings. The government backed up their efforts, offering a sizeable reward. What they wanted was proof: body parts, skulls, bones, earthen casts of pugmarks, photographs. It caused considerable excitement in the villages. Numerous objects were brought in as evidence. A trader in the Dadès Valley produced a perfectly preserved pelt, but it turned out that he had stolen it from a
qa'id
who had purchased it in a caravanserai in Mauritania. Someone else in the Todra Valley presented a set of canine teeth, but they were found to be more than a hundred years old. The zoologists from Rabat eventually ended their search without reaching any definite conclusions, but the government's offer for a reward in exchange for evidence still stands.

My eleven-year-old brother Mustafa heard about the reward when a group of government officials passed through our village. One of them spoke of the matter to my father. It was a lot of money, and Mustafa was immediately entranced.

What is the Atlas lion? he asked.

Father laughed. It is the only large wild animal left in our mountains, he said. The rest have all been hunted out.

But what about the Atlas bear and the Atlas leopard? I asked.

They were killed off a long time ago, even longer back than the lion, Father replied.

How does one recognize this Atlas lion? Mustafa asked.

Father showed us the illustration in the booklet the officials had left behind.

Look at the heavy mane, he instructed. It is dark brown in colour, almost black, with a blond fringe around the face which creeps down the belly to the hind legs. It is the largest of the lions in Africa, he added with pride. Its closest living relations are the lions of India, but ours are bigger at the shoulder, with larger skulls and more luxuriant manes. They are truly magnificent beasts. The Romans had hundreds of them in captivity. They used them to kill the Nazarenes.

Mustafa fell silent, lost in thought. My father and I chatted for a while longer about the lions, then turned our attention to the more pressing matter of our forthcoming sojourn in Marrakesh. But Mustafa did not join in our conversation. My father winked at me and stroked his white moustache. We left Mustafa there, his chin propped in his hand, staring first at the picture of the Atlas lion and then into the distance where the mountains creased the horizon.

That night he confessed to me that the lions had fastened on his soul. I am intoxicated, Hassan, he said in a whisper so as to not wake our parents. I had a vision this afternoon while you and Father were talking. I saw a lion with a mane of flames instead of fur and, as I gazed, that lion was transformed into a man.

Did you recognize him? I asked with interest.

No, but I am convinced that the lions exist. I must find them, or at least their traces.

They are woodland creatures, I warned. They remain in the shadows and reveal their presence only after dark. Don't you think many others have tried and failed? They will not be easy to track down.

I will find them, Mustafa declared. And when I do, I will kill the biggest male and claim the reward. Give me your hand, Hassan, and wish me success. I'm off tomorrow to find the lion of the Atlas.

All right, I answered drowsily, not believing him for a moment. Now go to sleep.

He set out the next morning, at dawn, before the rest of the household had stirred. His absence was first noticed by my mother, and it took me all of my composure to tell my parents where I thought my brother had gone.

The entire village set off in search of him. It was the week after the spring harvest, and I think everyone needed an excuse to release their pent-up energies. It was like a picnic, really, and no one minded that it took us two days to catch up with my errant brother. And even when we did, on the high ridges near the
tizi
that led out of our valley, it was difficult to censure him because he was so crestfallen. Instead, we smiled at the motley collection of objects he'd gathered in the course of his lion hunt: a dented copper canteen; a folded red banner bleached by the sun; a desiccated elephant shrew, that peculiar mouse-like creature with a nose that extends into an oversized proboscis; an oak branch sculpted into a spear by the wind; an old dynamite fuse; a large, flat stone with vivid white scars that Mustafa insisted had been caused by a lion sharpening its claws.

I fastened on this last object as possible proof of the existence of lions in our valley in order to salvage my brother's dignity, but it wasn't enough. On the procession back to the village, some wag nicknamed Mustafa “the Lion of the Atlas”, and all of us, including my father, burst out laughing.

Later on, Mustafa would tell us about the small grey bird that had dropped out of the sky and died at his feet as he'd set out on his odyssey.

It was a bad omen, he said darkly. I should have known that nothing was going to come out of my search.

In an attempt to mollify him, Father said: What is important is the dream, not the trophy.

But Mustafa remained inconsolable.

My father was convinced that it was that signal humiliation that lay behind my brother's subsequent decision to leave the valley and his resolve never to return. But I knew better, because Mustafa himself told me the real reason. It was due to something else altogether, something that transpired a few years later and irredeemably altered the course of all our lives, for much the worse. I knew that my brother's departure had to do with his sense of helplessness when faced with the death of my beautiful young wife – whom he'd adored, like everyone else in my family – in childbirth.

Zahra had been named after the morning star, Venus. There was always a scent of lavender about her. She had the most infectious laugh. She was my chosen one, the heart of my hearts, the love of my life…

These were my scattered thoughts the evening we buried her with my stillborn son on the slope of the hill behind our house. The memory of that evening will never escape me: of the dust rising from the twin graves; of the hopelessness on the faces of those all around; of my own suffocating sense of desolation; of the night heedlessly lighting up with stars, and the one bright star suddenly snuffing out as if extinguished by a hidden hand.

Sleep was evanescent that night. Zahra's slippers stood by the bed as they always had. I arranged the blanket as I'd always in the past. I breathed her lavender scent on the pillows. I continued saying her name over and over again in my head as if that would bring her back.

Early the next morning I told Father I was going for a walk.

I left the house and, turning my back to the valley, headed for the mountains. Far below lay the cricket-sized houses of our village.

The day passed. Night came, then went. Then day again; night once more. I lost track of time. Meaningless days; sleepless nights. The stars shone, some white, some blue. Clouds trailed like smoke along the ground. The sun spiked fingers through wooded slopes. I watched an eagle soar into the air in spirals. The east wind, that messenger of love, stirred fallen leaves and dust.

A young girl herded sheep, life going on as usual.

In the village in the next valley they were celebrating the greengrocer's second marriage. The ululations of the women rose in joyous song. The slate-roofed dwellings vibrated with the pulse of drums. Past the village, the stone-strewn path shone white in the sun. All the land was covered with pastures, thick and endless, stopping short of the highest peaks in cliffs of rock. Tangled trees interrupted the pastures. A cooling breeze blew up in quick gusts. There was autumn in the air. Half the meadows were already golden.

I ascended a steep slope. The grassy meadows gave way to a broken landscape, half trees, half shrub. Rows of stunted pines stood about in aisles. I emerged from a bank of cedars onto a narrow ledge overhanging a ravine. Around me only bare cliffs gleamed sheer and stark. A stream was visible below, and in the distance, the snowy crown of Jbel Toubkal, remote and white.

The sun was in my face as I sat down. I leant my back against a boulder, resting in its shadow. I remained quite still and the embers of my life began to draw near. Only then did I become conscious of the silence of what was missing now that Zahra was gone.

When evening came, a fog crept over the rim of the mountains. A film of moisture covered my rocky perch. Rigid with cold, I watched a lavender pallor suffuse the sky and wash over the dark ramparts of the mountains. For an instant, it penetrated right through them and coloured the entire world. Moments later, with a rush of shadows, night descended.

Stars lit the sky; a crescent moon rose over the earth. From behind a high ridge, there floated a thick grey cloud which proceeded to envelop the ledge I was on, wholly obscuring my surroundings from view. The stars went dark, the sky black. And so I was left in the night, literally alone.

I took out Zahra's slippers from my pocket and flung them over the edge. I followed them down with my eyes, imagining what it would be like when my own body slammed into the rocks. I held on to the thought, conscious only of feeling entirely unlike myself, at a great remove from the world.

The sound of hastily indrawn breath encroached upon my stillness.

Turning my head, I saw Mustafa crouching in the haze, his eyes riveted on me. He looked grey, haggard, more desolate than I'd ever seen him. I felt an uncanny calm overtake me at that instant. I motioned him to sit down beside me and pulled myself back from the edge.

How did you find me here? I asked.

I've been following you ever since you left the house, he said huskily.

Then: Hassan, you've been gone three days!

Has it been that long? I asked.

He flung his arms around my shoulders and burst into tears.

I found my parents aged almost beyond recognition on my return.

Mother held on to me and trembled without cease. Father's thin, dark face was tense with insomnia. He said he could no longer carry on with the storytelling: his heart was not in it.

He said: Zahra is now beyond our world, but her spirit will always remain with us.

I said: Yes, Father.

But what about you, my son? We watch you, as from a distance, helpless. This sorrow is like a shadow in our hearts.

I said: Don't worry about me.

Everything is up to fate, Hassan, and death is nothing but the end that fate prescribes.

I said: I know, Father.

Mother said: Zahra is now in a much better place than this. She was too good for this world.

I said: I know, Mother.

She said: We grieve for you. We don't know what to do.

I said: Give it a little time, Mother.

We must leave it up to God, Father said. It is His will. Everything has a reason and a purpose.

What about my stillborn son, Father?

He lowered his head and remained silent.

Ten days after Zahra's death, I asked Father if I could take up his storyteller's mantle, since he was resolved to give it up. It took me a long time to convince him that I felt strong enough, but when I finally said that I needed to do it in order to lose myself in another world, he understood immediately and no longer resisted.

Come with me, he said, gathering up his story sticks in their bag.

We walked to the cave where he practised his craft every morning without fail. On our way there, he paused and said: I have never felt more tired than I do now, Hassan. I suppose old age is when you begin to feel the motion of time as a dead weight.

You're hardly that old, Father. This will pass.

I don't know, Hassan, but I hope that you are right.

We entered the cave and sat down on its cool grey stones. He didn't speak for a while, but merely looked around as if he were seeing the place for the first time. Finally, he drew a deep breath and said: This has been like a second home to me.

This, and not the Jemaa?

He smiled. When I'm in the Jemaa, I imagine that I am here. It suits me. I feel safe.

He turned to look at me; he had a strange expression, a mixture of joy and regret. My father brought me here as a child, he said. I was three or four, I don't remember. It hasn't changed a bit.

His eyes were bright.

Generations of our family honed their craft in this humble cave. These living stones have absorbed hundreds of stories. Countless flights of fancy. Countless. When I was young, I liked to press my ears to the walls and listen to what they had to tell.

I'll remember that when I'm in the Jemaa, I said gently.

He nodded. Don't worry. I'm not going to reminisce endlessly. I know we're here for a purpose. He wrapped his arms around his body as if he were cold.

I'm not worried, Father. I have plenty of time.

But we should begin, or else I'll do all the talking. It's time.

Opening his arms, he made a wide gesture embracing the cave.

Imagine that we are no longer here, but in the Jemaa, in Marrakesh, he said. He held out one hand horizontally before him and angled the other at a perpendicular to it. This is the Jemaa, he said, indicating the horizontal plane, and this other hand represents the minaret of the Koutoubia. Now: tell me what you see.

For an instant, I saw myself as I appeared in my father's eyes and realized that I couldn't imagine playing a more challenging role. I gazed at his hands; I didn't want to disappoint him, but I wasn't sure what to say. Nevertheless, I found myself speaking:

I see the sun. I see the sun on bright awnings, and open stalls steaming with scents, and the hazy blue smoke from many stoves rising into the air. The sky is filled with vendors' voices. The oranges are especially fragrant today: I feel their juicy succulence on my tongue. It is a clear day, so you can see the mountains in the distance. On the other side of the mountains, in a lush green valley watered by cooling streams, there is a father testing his son on the art of storytelling inside a cave. The son's footsteps are still visible in the air as he travels between the Jemaa el Fna and the cave, but there's a brisk breeze blowing, and only the very faintest of imprints linger on the horizon. Inside the cave, a mirror reaches to the floor, and before it the father stands revealed as no other than the Storyteller of Marrakesh. Through the space of the mirror he views the familiar concourse of the Jemaa, but instead of seeing himself holding forth before his circle of listeners, he sees his son, Hassan, inventing this story, naming, describing, doubling the world just as if he himself were standing there.

Father smiled. Almost confidentially, as between peers, he said: Fine, we'll simply move on to the storytelling then. I'll select a theme, you pick the setting, and we'll proceed in the usual way.

He took out his story sticks from their bag and was about to choose one when I interrupted him. Father, I said gently, is this really necessary?

He stared at me. What do you mean?

I mean that I have just lost my wife.

Then how will I know that you are adequately prepared?

Believe in me. I've accompanied you to Marrakesh for the better part of fourteen years. I know what to do. By the time I get to the Jemaa I'll be in a different frame of mind. I won't let you down.

He bent his head. I could tell that he wasn't satisfied, and with good reason, but took it as a measure of his love for me when he gave his assent, however reluctantly.

There is something I would like from you, however, I added.

What is it?

Advice. Suggestions on how I can smooth the way.

He gave a wan smile. You want tips on how to grease a story?

I do, I said.

Very well.

He thought for a moment. Then:

First, always remember that either a story carries love and mystery, or it carries nothing. Second, outside of the broad themes determined by the story sticks, the trick is to make up everything out of whole cloth. Third, a story must not have a clean resolution. That way you will keep your audience coming back for more. Finally – and this is the most important thing – our craft demands discipline and hard work; a fertile imagination is not enough.

With a dignified expression, he added: You are about to enter a privileged profession, Hassan. Always remember that the fraternity of storytellers is a closely knit one, and the ties that hold us together exceed even those of family. If a fellow storyteller is ever in need of your assistance, offer it without reservations or regard for consequences. Is that clear?

Yes, Father.

In that case…

He stopped suddenly. He looked tired and out of breath.

What else can I tell you? he said. What else? Oh yes, there is one other thing. Never forget that the bond between the storyteller and his audience is based on good taste, mutual respect and manners. Never compromise on etiquette, Hassan. I mention this because the Jemaa can be an unsettling place. If hooligans intrude, be firm, stand your ground, don't get intimidated.

Rest your fears, Father. I have learnt from your example.

He nodded and sat up straight. Then that is all I have to say now. Perhaps some other things will come to me later.

Thank you, Father.

He made as if to rise to his feet, and I was about to follow him when he gave a wordless exclamation and sat down again as if he'd just remembered something. With a sideways glance at me that was strangely diffident, he sighed and said: What I have to say next concerns you personally – or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it concerns your personal affairs – and although it might not strike you as appropriate just yet, our time together is short, and I have no option but to bring it up. And your mother agrees with me, by the way, he added.

What is it, Father?

It is this. Once we've all recovered from this tragedy, I'll take up the search for a wife for you. He paused, then qualified delicately: A second wife.

I didn't reply, but turned and looked fixedly out of the mouth of the cave. The sky outside was a clear, bright blue, without a trace of clouds.

After a few moments, I felt his hand on my arm.

Is something the matter? he said.

I have decided not to marry again, Father.

But who will give us grandchildren? Who will continue our line?

I looked calmly at him. I felt neither hurt nor anger at his questions but only a deep sadness.

Why worry about that now? You have two other sons.

That is not the issue here. Your mother and I seek your happiness.

Then rest assured that, with time, I will be content.

He leant forward and stared at me without blinking.

Perhaps I didn't explain myself clearly. We desire your marriage, Hassan. It is part of our tradition, our faith. You honour God by obeying your parents. Even when they are mistaken, a Muslim obeys them, for the trees must not be allowed to fall if the forest must stand.

I had so much respect for him that I found it difficult to answer; and yet I felt obliged. I placed a hand on his wrist. You know how much I honour you, Father, but in this case I cannot obey, I said.

Even before I'd finished speaking, I saw his shocked expression and felt ashamed. I looked away at once. He removed my hand from his wrist. I waited a moment before looking at him again.

Hassan, he said.

I gazed at him intently. His voice was not displeased, or disappointed, but apprehensive.

You are caging yourself in a prison of your own making, he said.

That is one way to look at it. The other is to believe that I am honouring my marriage vows to my wife.

Life is not so stark, my son. You're only nineteen. You have your whole existence ahead of you. Don't condemn your future with a decision dictated by your present circumstances. A lifetime of nurturing pain is not a sound exchange for vitality.

I gazed at his wrinkled features as he spoke, but my mind was elsewhere. I made an effort to reply: Father, must we talk about this now?

He shivered slightly and closed his eyes. His hands rested on his thin knees. It's cold here, he said. I'm an old man now and feel the cold.

I watched him with tenderness and sympathy.

He opened his eyes and rose slowly to his feet. He looked exhausted, and I felt the dull pain of regret. I stood up as well.

I don't want to disappoint you, Father, I said.

He glanced at me; he seemed resigned and sad.

I am sure you don't, Hassan. You are a good son, and I've always felt a deep understanding between us even when we've had our disagreements. You could even say, especially during those times.

He smiled, but it was a smile that wrung my heart. I could think of nothing to say. After an interval, he went on: But I worry about Mustafa. Not about Ahmed, but Mustafa. Ahmed will be fine, he knows the ways of the world. But Mustafa is a source of constant anxiety for your mother and me. He is far too impetuous and overconfident.

Overconfident, yes, I said kindly, and he is rather emotional, but always with a lyrical note. I wouldn't worry if I were you, Father. Mustafa knows how to take care of himself.

I hope you are right. He is more intelligent than Ahmed, and his character is more attractive. But he eludes me. At times he is as imprudent as a child.

He hesitated for a moment, then:

When do you intend to leave for Marrakesh?

Perhaps two or three days from now, I said, before adding quickly, for I realized I had given him no room to answer: Or whenever you deem it best.

May God in His wisdom be with you, Hassan.

And the spirit of our ancestors, Father, I said with a smile.

If you are ever in danger, take recourse to Allah, for He is mindful of those who believe in Him, and is filled with compassion and forgiveness whenever we stray from the straight path.

I will, Father.

And if it doesn't work out for you in the city, come straight back here. Don't hesitate. You know your home is here.

I know, Father.