The Storyteller of Marrakesh (20 page)

When I came to, I was lying in a clean white bed in a room next to a garden. It was in a hospital in the Hivernage district. I was there for a day before I was released. I learnt that I had to report to the Jemaa police station the first thing the next morning.

At the police station, I was interrogated by two inspectors and a sergeant. They told me that both the foreigners had gone missing after the mêlée in the
rwai
. I answered their questions to the best of my ability, but they didn't seem terribly interested, and they let me go in less than an hour. I'd lost my bag of whirligigs and I filed a complaint, but was told that the chances of their being found were slim.

When I ventured out into the Jemaa it was in the dazzling sunlight and everything that had happened to me the past two days seemed like a hallucination. I returned to the place where I'd listened to the
rwai
and found a storyteller holding forth avidly on those two doomed lovers from the desert, Layla and Majnun. I listened to him for a while, but it all seemed unreal, and I left him with an acrid taste in my mouth. I decided to quit the square for the day and go home, and, on my way out, I picked up a rose that was lying on the ground but it sank a thorn into my thumb. Tears came to my eyes as I watched the blood oozing out. Even the flowers that morning had a sting.

Rachid stood for a moment looking into the shadows. There was scarcely a sound in our circle, save for the crackling of the fire. None of us moved.

Rachid fumbled in his pockets for something. He found it, took it out, and held it close to his face. It was a talisman, a filigreed Hand of Fatima on a silver chain. He touched it to his lips before slipping it back into his pocket.

It still bothers me that I didn't get to find out her name, he said, because names are keys.

You mustn't have been present here when I revealed her name, I said. It was Lucia. It means light.

Light, he said, and gave a faint smile. How appropriate.

Without another word, he returned to his place in the circle and sank down on his knees. He sat still for a moment, and then he lay down and curled up on his side, his head cradled in his arms.

Cover him with a blanket, I advised. He has suffered. Someone draped a
hanbel
over him.

The moon was gliding through the clouds in the west. The souks had gone black. The gardens behind the Koutoubia slumbered in the night. Beneath a flowering rosebush, an orange cat was licking his paws. Deep in the Mellah, in a dark room criss-crossed with silence, a one-eyed poet was putting the finishing touches to a song about sadness. The first line:

What is life, after all, but a passing fancy?

The moon, the cat, the poet, this circle of listeners – we all stand on the same page. Between the lip and the talisman, the throat and the voice, the heart and the hope, something is always trembling, something is always living and dying. Is it hope? Is it madness? Is it the sea?

It is love.

Look: there it goes, soundless, tremulous, a few timid glances, a fugitive gesture, a poem about kif, an evening's worth of delirium, and then, nothing.

It is love. It has five senses, seven sounds, nine skins, eleven illusions. It is soft. It is a flower that grows in the deepest oceans. It is a flickering candle, a sign in the snow, a beautiful country, desert ash. It is a call and a curse and a long-drawn-out incantation to be chanted in the evening. It is a photograph, a lament, a chronicle, a painting. It is in Pandora's box, in a sunlit park, in the Crow Tree. It is elation, confusion, loneliness, loss, dream. It is love.

It is that most beautiful of all birds.

Reports of what had happened that night varied wildly. It wasn't even clear who had disappeared. Some newspapers reported the missing woman, others that the man was missing, some claimed that both had vanished. They said the inconsolable husband was badgering the police and driving them to distraction; they said the wife had taken to sleeping on the steps of the police station in despair over her husband's disappearance; they said that a number of foreign consulates had gotten involved in the attempt to find out what had happened to their missing citizens. Official accounts were equally contradictory. First, we heard that the couple had been tracked down to Banana Beach, a surfers' paradise near Taghazout, but the woman there turned out to be Dutch, her partner was of Syrian origin, and after a week of rigorous questioning, they were released. Other reports announced sightings in Tangier, in Chefchaouan, in Paradise Valley, in Immouzer, and inside the Rialto cinema hall off the Avenue des FAR in Agadir. A number of foreigners were detained, mostly on the basis of their resemblance to the missing couple, though the case of the seventy-year-old Swedish architect and his teenage paramour was a little more controversial. Then, after the passage of a few days, news about the incident died down altogether. It was rumoured that the powerful Jemaa traders' guilds had lobbied to have the local authorities suppress the story because it was adversely affecting the morale of both vendors and tourists. Soon we ceased to hear anything and the incident seemed destined to become nothing more than one of the many legends of the Jemaa, albeit a particularly mysterious addition to its numerous myths. And yet questions remained, questions that seemed to beg answers. There were as many theories as there were puzzling aspects to that evening. Why, for instance, did no one investigate the Mercedes that had pulled away from the square during the fracas, its tyres screaming? They said it belonged to an Arab sheikh. Who was he, where had he come from, what had happened to him? Or what about the mysterious group of men with shrouded faces? From all accounts, there was something indubitably menacing about them, something corrupt and compromised. Who were they, were they questioned by the police, and, if so, what was their story? Some said that they'd heard hints of very powerful people being implicated in the incident; others said that the powers-that-be were disputing the existence of the couple altogether. But what about records in the Foreign Ministry, the Passport Controller's office, the Bureau of Strangers, the army?

Many performers claimed they could feel a baleful energy emanating from the square following the events of that evening and it led some of them to decide to quit the Jemaa altogether and move to Meknès or Fès or Tangier. Some even went so far as to make the hazardous journey across the Straits of Gibraltar to Europe; a troupe of Tazeroualt acrobats from the Ameln Valley, near Tighmi, now work in a circus in Madrid.

As I found out later from a cousin employed in the Jemaa police station, for the first three weeks following the disappearance it was a beehive of activity. The officers methodically divided the medina into a system of grids and proceeded to search every section. Nothing was spared, no place was deemed beyond suspicion, and everyone, Marrakchis and foreigners alike, had to endure the indignity of the search warrant. The police searched individual houses, they searched official buildings, they searched
riads
and hotels and brothels and palaces. They sent search teams into the
qaysarias
, the souks, the kasbah, the Mellah, the tanneries. I was told they even searched the
medersas
, the
hammams
and the ancient underground
khettaras
that had remained unused for centuries. But, in the end, despite their best efforts and despite the men and resources they'd put in, they could come up with nothing. It was as if the entire episode had been a figment of the collective imagination.

And then, at the end of the third week, on a bright and sunny morning, my brother Mustafa walked into the Jemaa police station and turned himself in.

This is what followed inside the station after the first few moments of incomprehension. The sergeants in attendance pounced on my brother and stripped him of his belongings. Every item was tagged and placed in the black plastic bag Mustafa had been carrying with him at the time. When I received the news of his arrest and rushed to the station, I was handed the bag without a word. Bewildered, I emptied it on my lap and found, among his things, a small inkwell such as scribes use, carved out of red soft stone in the shape of a lion. I sat there, clutching that little lion, my mouth dry, my mind blank. I turned that lion over and over in my hand, thinking about how strange life is, when all is said and done. We think that it is all about memories, chronicles, situations, testimonies, comprehensions and ostensible conclusions, and yet, at the end of it, we are left irredeemably ignorant.
Ya Allah!
I raged silently. Where is the meaning to anything? Is life nothing but illusions?

I gazed at the lion and felt my eyes fill with helpless tears.

The constable on duty looked at me curiously but also with sympathy. What's that? he said, pointing to the lion.

It's an inkwell, I replied.

More to distract myself while I waited to meet with Mustafa than for any other reason, I decided to tell the policeman the story of where the inkwell came from.

Wait a moment, he said, surprising me with a smile. First let me get you some mint tea to moisten your throat. Let it not be said that we are ignorant of basic notions of hospitality here.

The tea was piping hot and too sweet for my taste, but I thanked the constable for his consideration. He sat down across from me, crossing his legs and waiting expectantly, for my prowess as a storyteller was well known and, as he told me later, he liked to think of himself as something of an aficionado.

When we were young, I began, our father took us on our first trip to the Sahara. We went to the Hamada du Drâa, the forbiddingly arid plateau that runs along the southernmost boundary of Morocco and forms its border with Algeria. Father had a friend there who was a storyteller. He lived in the village of M'Hamid al-Ghizlan, M'hamid of the Gazelles, near the 'Irq al-Yehudi, the Dune of the Jews, on the edge of the Hamada. The fraternity of storytellers is a small and tightly knit one, and my father's friend lent us his camels to make the journey to Chigaga, where the dunes are at their highest and most impressive in the area.

We were beside ourselves with excitement at the prospect of finally encountering the desert. I have heard it described as akin to the emotion felt by a prince when he inherits his kingdom. As Father says, the Sahara is like a golden snake that swims through our blood.

I can still remember the seemingly endless banquet which Tayeb, my father's friend, set out for us on the evening of our departure. In the open courtyard of his house, beneath the starry sky, a huge fire of juniper logs provided the perfect accompaniment, as it were, to course after course of delectable lamb and chicken kebabs, quail stew, couscous made of the lightest semolina, pigeon pie, goat cheese, pastilla, dates, figs and the local delicacy of spiced watermelon sherbet. As my brother Ahmed, who has a keen eye for such things, remarked under his breath, for a storyteller Tayeb seemed to have done very well for himself. Unfortunately for Ahmed, Father overheard the comment. Equally under his breath, he leant over to his middle son and told him to keep his mouth shut if he wanted to enjoy the privilege of accompanying us. Ahmed bit back his retort, for the desert beckoned like a seductive vision from beyond the perimeters of the courtyard. Sated with food, we stretched out on our backs on the daybeds provided for the purpose, and listened to the breeze murmuring through the date palms. The auburn light wrapped around us and made the evening mellow.

We travelled at night to avoid the heat.

Father walked in front, leading the camels, while the three of us took turns riding them. On the way, we passed Tayeb's neighbour's house which was in darkness. The entire family was in mourning on account of the youngest son's new bride who had run away after giving birth to a stillborn child. She was a native of the Tafilalt, accustomed to its fertile green valleys, and it was rumoured that she'd been finding it difficult to take to the desert's barren vastness. I wanted to know more, but Father told me it was none of my business.

My brothers had other, less morbid thoughts on their minds. Both of them were fascinated by the plumes of dust sent up by the camel's hooves as they traversed the sand. Mustafa compared them to white-winged moths; Ahmed said they reminded him of the feathery white down with which the thrushes lined their nests in our backyard. Then Mustafa compared them to the foam which stretches along a beach when the waves fall back, while Ahmed said they were more like the foam when Mother cooked rice in a pot. They fell to bickering about whose analogies were more accurate, with Mustafa accusing his brother of being hopelessly banal; meanwhile, our tongues bumped against our teeth as our camels plodded along, making us all feel more than a little light-headed.

We reached Chigaga in the middle of the night and set up our tents in the shadow of a sand mountain. Branches of moonlight illuminated the sand. It was a white world, the earth a lighter colour than anything we had encountered before. The dunes shouldered their way through the endlessly undulating landscape, as smooth and majestic as an eagle's flight. The air was crystalline in its clarity, but when the wind ruffled the sand the dust that rose was like smoke across the face of the night.

Once the tents had been erected, Father gave me permission to go on a short walk. I rounded the nearest dune and followed its slope to the bottom where it came to rest in a narrow gully sheltered from the wind. Miniature cascades of sand grains accompanied my passage with a whispering sound. The air was sweet and still. I knelt down and pressed my palms to the ground, listening through my fingertips to the desert's voice. It was an ancient voice, more resolute than the mountains, and stronger than the ocean. That took me aback, for I hadn't expected such power, and I realized that I would have to revise my picture of the order of the natural world. It reminded me of something that Father had said before we'd set off on our journey: Until you have seen the Sahara, you have seen nothing.

I strolled along the bottom of the dune, following its contours until I could see its roots emerging from a plate of solid rock. On impulse, I stretched out on my stomach, caressing the roots with my hands, feeling them communicate to me in a peculiarly intimate language, as vast and remote as the desert night. It was a language I understood instantly, and it was humbling. Lost in wonder, I began to draw lines in the sand, tracing them so that they echoed the wavelike sounds I was hearing in my mind. There was a light breeze blowing, and it sent up little spirals of dust that followed in my tracks, randomly scooping up sand and interrupting my smooth furrows with miniature ridges and craters. Oblivious to its portent, I watched it for a while as one would a friend. It worked its way through the sand the way a net sifts through water and soon it had erased all my song lines. Slightly irked, I wondered whether I should carry on with my communing, when, from the top of the dune, I heard someone call out:

Hassan!

It was Mustafa. His voice carried in the stillness.

The wind has shifted, he cried out. Father says to come back!

By the time his voice had died down, he was already at my side. He laid his hand on my shoulder and stood there, panting.

How ridiculous! I thought. We've only just reached here. There's no sign of danger. I'm not yet ready to go back.

Mustafa noticed my hesitation because he pointed to the east.

It's coming from that direction and bearing down on us rapidly. Just listen!

He cupped his ear with his hand and stood motionless.

From the horizon there arose an eerily high-pitched sound. It made the hairs on the back of my neck prick up. The entire sky seemed to fill with its menace. There was a sharp sulphurous smell in the air.

The desert's on the move, Mustafa said. There's no time to lose.

I don't know how I could have been so oblivious, I muttered, annoyed at myself, but even more so at my eight-year-old brother's gumption in ordering me around.

Take my hand, he directed.

What are you talking about? I snapped. I can find my way back on my own! Come on.

He eyed me uncertainly.

What's the matter? I asked.

Why are you facing that way?

Because it's the way I came from!

No it isn't, Hassan. The camp is in the opposite direction.

The wind was beginning to pick up now, and we could see it cantering with big white hooves across the sand.

Well then? Mustafa said urgently. Shall we go?

It's this way, I said. Let's go.

It's the other way, Mustafa insisted. You're turned around.

I marched straight back the way I had come, but no sooner had I taken a few steps than I felt the sand begin to swirl around my legs. The slope of the dune began to ripple as if alive.

Look at the horizon if you don't believe me! Mustafa shouted.

There was no horizon. It was terrifying. Instead of a clean white line etched against the night I could see nothing but a billowing brown haze. A stinging wind slapped my face, making my eyes run.

Mustafa ran up to me, his eyes wide with apprehension.

Listen to me, won't you? he yelled. I know the way!

There's no time! I yelled back, reaching out and clamping down on his arm. We have to get out of this gully and reach that boulder above us. Do you see it? It's about ten paces to our right.

Hitching up our jellabas, we scrambled up towards the boulder. The surface of the desert was beginning to peel off like snakeskin. It crested into an immense wave and sped in our direction. The first sharp grains of sand began to buffet us just as we reached the rock. The dust in the air made it impossible to breathe.

Get down behind the rock! I screamed. Cover your face and hold on with all your strength!

We rammed the hoods of our jellabas over our heads. I whipped off my cloak and wound it around us as tightly as I could. I heard a rustle like hail, and then, with a deafening hiss, the sandstorm rushed down the dune and began breaking all around us. Its velocity was astonishing. It whipped through the air and over the ground and seemed to come at us from all sides at once. I clutched on to my brother and gripped him around the waist. We wedged our heads between our knees and pressed hard against the rock. The sand surged through our clothes and into the crevices between our bodies. I felt thousands of needles scrape the skin off my back. My eyes began to smart and stream. Mustafa was gasping and coughing by my side. A long-drawn muffled roar filled my ears. I began to choke and felt my brother's body sag against me. His hands slipped from my waist. Just when I thought it was all over for us, the storm died down. The sand stopped tearing at my clothes. The air suddenly seemed to grow lighter. I reached out tentatively into the darkness and felt nothing strike my arm.

We'd survived the full fury of the Sahara.

We had to dig ourselves out of the sand, which had buried us to our waists. I tottered to my feet and flung back the hood of my jellaba. A thick cloud of dust enveloped my face. I spit sand from my mouth. Mustafa was retching at my feet, and I pulled him up. His face was caked and he looked as if he was wearing a white mask. He cracked his mouth open and his lacerated lips welled with blood. I patted him gently, too shaken to speak.

Mother! he said softly in a sobbing voice.

Around us the landscape had altered completely. The dunes were no longer where they used to be. It was as if we were in a different place altogether. We looked around slowly and realized that neither one of us had any idea which way we needed to go to return to the camp. The sky was still cloaked with dust and we couldn't even orient ourselves by the stars. I began to think of the countless unfortunates who'd perished in the Sahara and felt a clammy terror. Then I thought of Father and Ahmed, who were perhaps dead, and I sank to my knees and buried my head in my arms. Waves of despair combined with uncertainty and a crushing sense of helplessness, but, more than anything else, the feeling that eclipsed all the others was that of guilt. To this day I am convinced that I myself caused the sandstorm by inadvertently overstepping the bounds of nature by communing as I had with the spirit of the desert. There must have been more to those song lines than I could ever have fathomed.

Naturally, at the time, I kept these thoughts to myself and refrained from sharing them with my brother who, given his tender years, could hardly have been expected to understand.

As if reading my mind, he broke the silence.

Hassan, he said in a small voice.

What?

I think we're lost.

I thanked him silently for stating the obvious.

Let me think for a moment, won't you? I said crossly.

I had a handful of almonds in the pocket of my jellaba and I fished them out and gave them to him to munch. I drew his attention to the fact that the wind could no longer be heard.

We were lucky that that was a minor storm, I said, speaking with a self-assurance that belied my utter ignorance of the facts. If that had been a major storm, I went on, we'd have been buried way down deep under the sand. So count your blessings and thank your stars.

Which one?

What do you mean, which one?

Which star should I thank? he said miserably. You told me to thank my stars but I don't know which ones are mine. In any case, I can't even see a single one through this haze.

I placed a reassuring arm around his shoulder.

Then you'll just have to wait until the dust settles down, I advised. In the meantime, stop chattering. I need to decide what to do next.

All of a sudden he shivered as if he'd been taken by a chill.

How quiet it is! he whispered. I'm scared, Hassan.

There's no need to be scared, I answered. Let's climb to the top of the dune. This might be a big desert, but between the two of us we'll find our way out of it.

All right, he agreed, obviously glad to be able to engage in any form of activity. I'm with you. We won't get lost.

We reached the crest of the dune, and the night opened out in all its stillness. Dust was suspended everywhere, and the air smelt acrid and sharp, like scorched plaster. In the distance, we could hear a whisper where the storm was still raging. But where we were, it was mercifully silent. As Mustafa later remarked, the desert was soundless, but the silence was profound.

I don't like it here, he said.

Don't worry, we're not staying. We're moving on.

I'm exhausted, Hassan.

I know, but we need to travel now, by night. By day the sun will finish us off.

Not if we start early enough, before the sun comes up.

Don't argue with me! I know what I'm doing.

I studied the horizon and made up my mind about which direction we should walk. I told Mustafa and was relieved when he didn't demur. We set off at an even pace, proceeding fairly quickly. Although there'd been no rain, the sand had congealed in clumps. I wondered if the sheer force of the wind could have done that.

At a certain point Mustafa said: You don't have to pretend.

Pretend about what? I asked without slowing down.

That you know where we're going.

I stopped and glared at him, nettled.

Do you really think I'd spend the night traipsing around just to entertain myself?

He gave a loud sigh.

That's your pride speaking, he replied. Be reasonable, Hassan. We need to rest. We can't walk around for ever. I think we should wait until the sun comes up. Or, at least, until the sky clears and we can see the stars.