The Storyteller of Marrakesh (14 page)

And so it was that I left for the red-walled city many years ago and grew into my father's robes. And Ahmed departed for Fès soon after and was able to provide for himself over time, just as I'd predicted. But Mustafa went in the opposite direction, as it were, and confirmed my father's worst fears. Something about him changed fundamentally after the death of my wife and child, and his irrepressible good humour gave way to long and frequent spells of anger, a trait quite alien to our family and one he seemed to relish stoking until it had hardened into a set feature of his personality. Ahmed, who had the misfortune of being at the receiving end of that temper on more than one occasion, once mourned to me the presence in our family of that stranger, our brother.

Once, when we were meeting at my uncle Mohand's house in Marrakesh, Mustafa made a remark to Ahmed of such unusual harshness that Father said gravely: I will not let you turn this meeting into a battleground. Ahmed is older than you and deserves your respect. Either apologize to him, or leave this instant.

Why must I respect him? Mustafa demanded.

Father turned pale with anger. Barely able to control himself, he said in measured tones: Because he is worthy of your respect. Because it is your obligation. Because he is doing something valuable with his life. Because I am telling you to.

I will not apologize to him, Mustafa said obdurately, rising to his feet.

At this stage, my uncle intervened. Speaking rapidly and in a voice pitched high with displeasure, he said: Does nothing matter to you, boy? Obey your father and let's be done with it.

Mustafa stalked out without a backward glance.

Father gazed at the open door through which his son had left and said, disconsolately: That boy was born under a black sun.

We learnt subsequently that Mustafa had walked all the way to the Supratours bus station in a rage, bought himself a ticket for Essaouira, and departed without a second thought. We next heard from him after four months, but only after my father had written to a mutual friend asking him if he knew anything about Mustafa's whereabouts.

Now I surveyed my listeners with a look of sadness sparked by my recollections of my brother. I wanted to spare no details in the effort to help them understand the roots of Mustafa's disaffection. But I checked myself because I didn't want to depress them. More importantly, perhaps, I didn't want to depress myself. So I began speaking about the Jemaa instead, returning my story to its nucleus.

I drew their attention to the juice stalls that cradle the northern end of the square. For me, those stalls are the essence of the Jemaa because of the shower of fresh fruit smells with which they inaugurate each day. The progression of the smells leaves an indelible mark on the hours that follow such that every hour has its own distinguishing fragrance, from the stimulating poetry of early morning to the sickly-sweet musk of night. In between lie many shades of happiness. Mustafa, on his first visit to the Jemaa at the age of four, counted six distinct fragrances and attributed colours to each. With his eyes closed, nose held to the air, he recited, in a sing-song voice: Bright golden – freshly peeled oranges at five in the morning; golden orange – the first jugs of juice at seven; yellow – flies dizzy with heat drowning in the juice at noon; brownish yellow – the pulp beginning to turn rancid in bins at two; brackish brown – the juice beginning to ferment at five; seaweed and salt – the spoilt juice thrown away at seven.

During the daytime, the Jemaa is a cross between a festive ground, a meeting place and a marketplace. In the past, any articles that could not be sold in the souks were traded here in the morning. Set areas of the square were apportioned off for livestock, produce, camels. Nowadays, it's a free-for-all and, as the saying goes, what cannot be found in the Jemaa is not worth having.

By midday, the first bands begin to strike up music. In the whistling, droning, ever-changing sounds of the
nai
,
lotar
,
rabab
and
nakous
, the great ear of eternity manifests itself, and yet, in the shimmering heat of the sun, the silence is what seems most audible. Although the music forms a constant backdrop, I hear it as nothing more than a cacophony because, curiously enough for a Berber, the melodies that most appeal to me are the muted, plucked-string meditations of the Andalus. But I am the rare exception. For everyone else, it is the drums that constitute the essence of the Jemaa. In their presence, everything – the small mirrors glinting in the sunlight, the sky trembling at the sound, the white clouds descending as paper streamers on tables, the vendors' booths dancing along the pavements, the horse-drawn calèches on the perimeters of the square – longs to join in.

In the afternoon, the entertainers arrive. Sluggish snakes and sad-faced monkeys strive to hold the attention of a fickle crowd. Many animals perish in their captors' attempts to impress. They are casually discarded. There is no room for sentimentality in the Jemaa. Even as the earth is red and the sky blue, between the monkey and the snake squats death. It is a rule that does not, however, appear to extend to humans. Mule carts and motor scooters alike weave recklessly between the crowds, daring catastrophe. But the Jemaa has its own rhythms, and disaster is – nearly always – averted.

After sundown, the square alters character. Musicians, acrobats, trapeze artists, faith healers, water sellers, henna artists, juice vendors, snake charmers, belly dancers, glass eaters, lantern carriers, storytellers – all assume the quality of apparitions that are both dramatic and ageless. Unchanged in their essence for hundreds of years, they are the Jemaa's enduring symbols, images of stability amid the ceaseless turmoil of the world. The moon comes out too: between the various stalls, iridescent white branches of light leap from table to table, illuminating faces, leaving traces. In the midst of the excitement, noiseless dancers swirl.

For the outsider, to come face to face with the knowledge that the impenetrable really exists and that it manifests itself in a form of life that has continued for centuries – this sentiment is at the heart of the Jemaa. After the initial moment of contact, which many describe as akin to a spiritual encounter, there is only one thing that matters: the relation between the individual and the Jemaa. As my father used to say, one experiences the Jemaa with a love analogous to that which one reads in a beloved's smile. In this realm of passions and unleashed temptations, where sensuality is the highest form of expression, there is a peculiar harmony between nature and conscience. It is an order of things founded on spontaneity and confidence. One does not seek the truth from the Jemaa but one's own nourishment.

The ascent of drums signals the advent of the night. It is a sound that can be heard for miles around the Jemaa, a black sound, throbbing like restless wings, sinuous, the darkness gathering around its edges. Invisible doors seem to open all over the Jemaa, signalling a new beginning. Inhibitions surrender in a speechless rite of passage, belts unbuckle, buttons unfasten, smiles appear and disappear, the innocence of laughter dies down, cut off as if by a knife, unprepared and bewildered in the face of this sudden coup. The moon descends onto the middle of the square. Woodsmoke drenches the pavements; it weaves, gleams, congeals into a fog. On any given night, the
bendir
, the
guedra
and the
deff
combine to create a seamless, shadowy mosaic that sets the heart racing and pierces straight to the soul. There is no other sound quite like it, and there is no resisting its seduction.

In the not-so-distant desert, the wind roars. It roars on the Atlas mountaintops and sweeps across the rocky islands off the Atlantic coast. But on the Jemaa el Fna, even the wind surrenders to the drums in the night.

On the Avenue Mohammed
V
, next to the Hotel Islane and across from the Koutoubia Mosque, where there is now the large and airy bookshop selling Qur'ans, there used to be a glass-walled, Western-style ice-cream parlour. Some of you may remember it. It was one of those regrettable innovations aimed at making a quick profit from the tourist traffic around the Jemaa. It was called Labes – “Hello” – and was open all night. Mahi, the youngest son of my friend Mahmoud, worked there. Mahmoud was originally from my village but settled in Marrakesh many years ago. Mahi was born and brought up here. A street-smart young Marrakchi, I doubt that he has ever been to his father's birthplace.

On the night that my brother Mustafa went looking for the two foreigners, Mahi was working the night shift at Labes. His co-worker had accidentally injured his hand and gone home early, so Mahi had the place to himself. Mahi told me about his meeting with my brother when, having finally given up all thought of carrying on with my storytelling and gone in search of Mustafa, I encountered him on the square. It was in the early hours of the morning, and Mahi was on his way back home from work.

He said that the two foreigners had come to the ice-cream parlour at around ten o'clock that night. They were speaking to each other in low voices and appeared to be having an argument. The man looked tired and distracted, and didn't once look at Mahi, but the woman seemed determined to take her time making her selection and eventually ordered two scoops of the “coffee to die” flavour, which she ate with obvious enjoyment.

Did you manage to overhear any of their conversation? I asked.

Only some of her remarks, Mahi said, and only when she spoke French. Once, I heard her say: I have very deep reserves and I am drawing on them. Another time, she said: Despair is a luxury I cannot afford.

Despair? I asked, surprised. Not fear? Are you certain?

Absolutely certain, Mahi said.

It was the man who paid me, he added, and she made him give me a tip even though I hadn't served them. They'd been standing next to the counter the entire time they were there.

And then they left? I asked, disappointed.

No, she was still eating when your brother walked in.

My brother Mustafa?

Yes, Mahi said.

And then what happened?

Your brother glanced at the woman and stopped in mid-stride, as if he'd been shot. His hands dropped by his sides and he grew so pale that I thought he was about to lose consciousness. Instead he made it to the counter somehow and asked me for water.

Mahi, he said in a voice that was at once thick and faint, give me some water, and make it quick.

When I handed him a glass, he drank half of it in a single gulp and threw the rest on his face. If the gesture was designed to draw attention it could not have succeeded better, for the two strangers immediately glanced at him, startled. Without missing a move, Mustafa wiped the water from his face and stepped forward. He addressed the woman directly, asking her her name, where she came from, how long she planned to be in Marrakesh – all in one breath. He seemed entirely oblivious to the presence of her husband, who looked on with a faint, ironic smile as if he'd had long experience in dealing with men instantly enamoured of his wife.

After exchanging a few polite words, the woman was about to turn away when Mustafa reached out suddenly and grasped her hand, gazing at her widening eyes with a smile of rapture.

Labes?
he asked her breathlessly. Are you happy?

Not entirely understanding his question, she removed her hand and said uncertainly:
Alhamdullilah
, by the grace of God, I am happy.

You speak Arabic?

I am studying to be an interpreter at the United Nations.

Perfect! Absolutely perfect! Mustafa exclaimed. He turned to her husband for the first time and said in a low and fervent voice:
Ssalamu 'lekum
. Your companion is beautiful. As beautiful as a rare gazelle. Those liquid eyes! They remind me of an oasis in which to parch my thirst.

At this point, Mahi made a sweeping gesture in imitation of my brother. With barely concealed excitement, he repeated Mustafa's next words. How much will you accept for her? my brother asked.

It was evident to me, Mahi said, that he was dead serious, but the woman, who was the only one who had understood the proposition, which he'd made in Arabic, just laughed as if conscious of nothing but its absurdity.

Still laughing, she translated for her husband's benefit while Mustafa listened with dilated eyes, drinking in every note of her voice. When she had finished speaking, her husband laughed in his turn. Though every bit as polite as his wife, his reply seemed fraught with condescension, as if Mustafa were no more than a minor irritant, and one barely tolerated at that.

Thank you, he said politely, but I must decline.

Mustafa turned red and his eyes glowed like embers.

I have a lamp shop in Essaouira, he said insistently. I have shares in a beachfront hotel. I will give you both in exchange for her. You won't regret it – they will bring you excellent profits.

The woman blushed as she translated, and her husband put a protective arm around her. This is preposterous! he said in clipped tones. We are flattered but must decline. Please leave us alone. Goodnight.

Later on, in his prison cell, Mustafa would tell me that he had watched that man with envy, wondering how he had acquired his air of casual superiority, and wondering too if he himself could ever attain the same elegance of manner, he to whom every word, every gesture and handshake seemed fraught with the potential to incite and insult.

When I sought to correct him by pointing out that he had no cause for envy given that he came from old Berber stock, he brushed aside my reminder with contempt. Instead, he said: If only you could have seen his impeccable behaviour and air of refinement, you would have realized that it instantly put to shame my own ill-bred shabbiness.

Why must you always run after Westerners? I asked, greatly pained. Why is your own heritage never good enough for you? We are Berbers, Imazighen, noble men and freeborn, we bow to no one. You have no cause for your sense of inferiority.

Mustafa's expression showed only that he was controlling himself with effort. We are Berbers, he repeated mockingly, and all that means is that our world is so small that it makes me want to laugh. Open your eyes, Hassan. Have you ever left the Maghreb? The limits of your existence are defined by the length and breadth of the Jemaa, and that leaves me speechless.

Speechless? I asked.

Yes, deprived of speech and gasping for air. On the Jemaa one always sees the same faces, the same dull and provincial countenances, and what inspires you leaves me feeling oppressed.

I replied with dignity that I begged to disagree. The Jemaa was a crucible of people and ideas. One only had to look at it with open eyes to see that it was a microcosm of the world and encapsulated all that was best in it.

You are welcome to your illusions, he said tersely. Now go away and leave me alone, please.

I complied, sadly, but as I left the prison I thought back on that long-distant midnight conversation with Mahi. He'd told me how, when the woman's husband had first asked Mustafa to leave, my brother had refused, as if blind and deaf to anything but the spell the woman had cast on him.

It was an awkward moment, Mahi said, and I was afraid that Mustafa would do something hasty. But the husband placed himself before his wife, and even though Mustafa tried to evade him, he stood his ground and dealt with the situation calmly.

I felt mortified by this account of my brother's behaviour and sympathized with the husband's predicament. Admiring his presence of mind, I asked Mahi what exactly the foreigner had said to make Mustafa leave.

Mahi thought for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing. Then he assumed the role of the husband, drawing back a little and straightening his back. Making his voice deep, he said firmly:

Please don't stand there and stare at my wife. It makes her uncomfortable.
Seer fhalek
, go away and leave us alone.
Bessalama
, goodbye.

Stung by the dismissal, Mahi went on, my brother had stalked out of the ice-cream parlour, but not before he'd cast a last, longing look at the woman he had so admiringly compared to a gazelle.

I thanked Mahi for his account and resumed the search for my brother with a bitter taste in my mouth. I felt ashamed for Mustafa – ashamed, more than anything else, at his inability to respect boundaries.

Many months later, when I had the chance to bring up the matter in the course of another prison visit, Mustafa responded with indignation and surprise. In every inflection of his voice I could detect that sense of aggrieved pride and denial of reality that was so much a part of his character.

She was made to be loved, Hassan, he insisted. And I could tell that she was unhappy with him… clearly dissatisfied. It was in the look in her eyes. The merest hint. It wasn't much, but it was all I had to go by, and it was enough.

She was married, I reminded him.

That's what I found out later, he replied, but I didn't see any signs on that first encounter. Believe me, Hassan, I'm not lying when I tell you that. She wasn't wearing a ring, and I should know, because I held her hand.

Listening to him, I had rested my elbow on the arm of the chair. I'd felt drained, exhausted by his obduracy. Now, embarrassed for him, I lowered my head. I wanted to tell him – clearly and categorically, so that there could be no mistaking my meaning – that I'd seen her wedding ring. It was made of gold and formed of intertwined snakes. But I realized that I didn't have the heart to contradict my poor brother when he was rotting away in prison with only his illusions to keep him company. So I kept my thoughts to myself and said nothing at all.