The Storyteller of Marrakesh (21 page)

In spite of myself, I had to concede that he was right. I admitted as much to him with irritation, embarrassment and a distinct sense of relief. He looked at me with sympathy.

Don't worry about it, he said brightly. I knew all along that you were lost. We'll get out of here tomorrow. It's as you said, between the two of us, we'll come up with something. But for now, can we just get some sleep?

I wanted to ask him how he could think of sleep at a time like this, but I kept my peace. Instead, I looked around and suggested a spot on the leeward side of the dune that we were on.

We made a small depression in the sand and sank down in it. The wind tiptoed around us, and it was freezing. It brought home to me the reality of our situation. Now that we'd borne the brunt of a sandstorm, we would have to contend with a new and equally malignant enemy, the chill of a desert night. It made me wonder if it wouldn't have been better for us to just keep walking – at least we'd have stayed warm. As I weighed our prospects, my teeth began to chatter.

I glanced up at the sky and saw that it was clearing. I could already make out the first constellations directly above us. Finally we had the map we needed! I turned to Mustafa to point that out to him, but he didn't stir. He was fast asleep. Deciding not to wake him, I wrapped my cloak around us. Immediately I felt the warmth of his body embrace me like a blanket. What a unique introduction to the desert, I thought, but even as I did, exhaustion overtook me and I fell asleep.

That night I dreamt of being swathed in long white sheets. The dream seemed both exotic and familiar, and I've often wondered at its meaning since. Were the sheets meant to represent the desert chill? Or were they meant to stand in for a funeral shroud, as my father later suggested, a sign of how close I'd come to dying? But there was neither fear in the dream nor any perception of threat. Rather, a feeling of the most languid luxury I'd never known. It was like something out of the
Book of the Thousand and One Nights
. Whatever the truth – if there is ever such a thing as a single truth in dreams – I look back on it now with no more sense of enlightenment than when I experienced it.

The fluting
kuit-al kuit-al
call of a desert bird woke us up. We couldn't see it, but the call was persistent and filled with life. Mustafa, who loves birds, said that it came from a crowned sandgrouse. He returned the call, and, to my surprise and delight, the bird called back.

We rubbed the sleep from our eyes and rose to a pink dawn. All around us, the night was dissipating, its shadowy walls drawing back. As we watched, the paling moon slipped down and the last stars dissolved.

In the grey light we were able to see more clearly the damage done to us by the sandstorm. Both of us were covered with bruises and abrasions, and Mustafa said that I had a nasty cut on my right cheek. I pointed out that we had survived and that was the most important thing.

Yes, of course, he said with laughter in his voice. What a story we'll have to share with everyone!

Well, there you are then, I said gently. It's the attitude that counts. With the right attitude we can conquer the world.

I felt a lump in my throat as I contemplated the day ahead of us and estimated our chances of survival. My greatest fear was to be caught in the open in the full glare of the sun, but I kept my apprehensions to myself. I merely nodded to my brother and we directed our footsteps towards the red glow on the horizon. The caramel dunes reminded me strangely of waves of the ocean.

After we'd walked for a while, Mustafa said:

Did you know that my friend Salah's father was lost in the desert?

No, I replied curtly, I had no idea.

It wasn't around here, but more to the east, near Merzouga. It was during the Paris-Dakar rally. He was a car mechanic and he'd gone there to help out one of the teams. I don't know the details, but it was in the papers. They searched for him for days but eventually gave up. Still and all, Salah's mother got a certificate from the rally's organizers as proof of his participation.

I gave him a withering glance.

Do you have any more stories to tell about people lost in the desert? I waited for his response, but my irony was lost on him. He thought for a moment and admitted that that was the only one.

Well, I'm glad, I replied.

You didn't like it? he asked, genuinely surprised.

Perhaps I would have liked it more had he been found, I answered.

He pulled a face. Oh well, he admitted, there is that, of course. I guess I see your point.

He was about to carry on when he stopped abruptly in mid-stride.

Look, he said softly, there's someone up ahead of us.

Where?

Right there, can't you see? By that arrow-shaped rock.

The desert's playing tricks on him, I thought, and scanned the area he'd indicated. I could make out the rock, but, as far as I could tell, there was nothing else there.

Mustafa had already begun to run in that direction. His heels kicked up little puffs of dust. I followed behind him and heard him call out: Hello there! Can you help us, please? We're lost.

He slowed down just as he neared the rock and I was able to catch up with him. He turned to me and his face was pale, his eyes narrow with caution. All of a sudden he moved off noiselessly to one side. From his expression I could tell that something was wrong.

Hassan, he said quietly, come here quick.

All right, I said, and began to advance reluctantly.

A putrid smell crept down to me and I noticed the buzzing swarms of flies. Even the air seemed heavier in the shadow of the rock. Mustafa sensed my uneasiness and raised his hand.

What is it? I whispered, and he pointed.

Someone was sitting very still on the other side of the rock.

It was a slender young woman clad in a gold-embroidered crimson dress. Motionless and emptied of life, she sat there with her frail frame leaning back against the rock. Her face was desiccated and black, her bleached eyes stared straight at the sun. In that pristine gaze was a profound and complete acceptance of her fate.

Mustafa, I whispered, I think we've found the runaway wife.

To my horror, he stepped forward and touched her face.

Come away! I said, shaken.

How long has she been dead, do you think?

I don't know. Come away!

Hold on, won't you!

He tugged gently at the silver ornaments in her hair.

So much thought must have gone into wearing these, he said, and I was startled by the tenderness in his voice.

With quick eyes he scanned her face.

This is so sad, he said in hushed tones. What do you think happened to her?

I have no idea.

Do you think she died of heartbreak?

It could be.

I would never want something like this to happen to us.

He reached down to touch her hand. At first I thought he was after the white butterfly that flitted away just as he brushed her fingers. But he ignored it and, instead, prised something loose from her grasp. It looked like a contoured red stone but turned out to be an inkwell in the shape of a lion. Staring at it, my brother said, in a peculiarly sombre voice: I love you, Hassan. If you are ever in trouble, I will give my life to save yours.

We'll save each other's lives, I said, correcting him.

Yes, but I will save yours first.

Thank you, I said, moved by his insistence. I'll keep that in mind.

To my surprise, he kissed the lion and slipped it into his pocket, which I found inexcusable.

What are you doing? I said indignantly. It belongs to her!

She's dead.

Put it back and don't argue! We're not thieves.

It's mine now, he said, his jaw setting in a familiarly stubborn line. Finders keepers, he added. It's the way of the world.

I wasn't going to debate the ways of the world with him. If he wanted the inkwell that badly, he could have it. All I desired now was to find my father and Ahmed before the sun became too strong.

Fine, I said shortly. If it matters that much to you, go ahead and steal from a corpse. I'm glad you're not superstitious.

It speaks to me. It's going to be my good-luck charm.

Much good it did her, I scoffed. Come on now. Let's go.

My legs felt unsteady as we set out once more. Our feet sank into the sand with every step we took but we soldiered on, orienting ourselves by the sun. Although it was still far from its full strength, it blazed down on us with fury. It hurt to look up at the sky. Our shadows began to melt. Even the banks of clouds on the horizon were almost too white. Gradually, inexorably, our eyes began to crust and our throats grew parched. The sand burned our feet. There was no shade for miles. When Mustafa complained that he was beginning to see multiple suns, I feared the worst. I reached out and grabbed him by the hand and pulled him along. Just as the heat was getting the better of me, I heard our names being called:

Hassan! Mustafa!

We raised our faces and cocked our heads. With wide eyes we traced the calls to their source. There, on top of a dune some considerable distance ahead of us, stood Father and Ahmed, each waving a bright-red blanket. Against all odds, we had found them. Mustafa broke into a jig with a shrill whoop of joy. As for me, I simply closed my eyes and sank down to my knees in relief.

My audience of one stirred when I'd finished.

The Sahara is indeed not to be trifled with, he said gravely. I am not a Berber, but I can understand its hold on your people.

He paused and gazed up at the ceiling where a fly was perched.

That dream you had was strange, he pronounced somewhat unexpectedly. Do you dream a lot?

I do sometimes.

I don't. If I did, I'd be a storyteller like you. Instead, I'm stuck in this pen with all sorts of criminals.

He became morose.

It all comes down to money. I've a large family to feed. With six children, you have no idea how much of a struggle it can be.

He stared at the ceiling again where the fly seemed to have taken his fancy.

Well, that was indeed an interesting story, he said at length. He drew my attention to the fact that during the time he'd been listening to me he had reduced the walnut twig that he had been chewing to shreds. That had never happened before, he confided as he cleared his throat and spit the fragments into a metal bucket.

Did you report finding the missing bride? he asked.

Yes, we did, but they couldn't find her.

Another unexplained disappearance?

I suppose.

Some wild animal or other must have carried her off, he suggested.

It could be.

What a terrible end to a life. And at that age, what's more.

Suddenly he broke off and peered around him in puzzlement.

I say, where did all this sand come from? I could have sworn the sweeper cleaned this place a couple of hours ago. That's strange.

He scraped the floor with the toe of his shoe and asked, a bit awkwardly, if he could see the inkwell.

So that's it? he said, eyeing it warily. I guess it didn't bring your brother any luck either. You should have insisted that he leave it behind. If I were you, I'd get rid of it, and fast.

Where is my brother? I asked.

He glanced at his watch and started. Looking at me apologetically, he excused himself in order to go and find out what was keeping Mustafa.

I'll bring him to you myself, he said. I won't be long.

As good as his word, he returned with Mustafa moments later.

I stared at my brother in dismay. It was wrenching to see him in prison clothes and shackles. His face was lined and careworn, there was a large purple bruise on his forehead, and he seemed to have aged at least twenty years overnight. All the same, there was a peculiar tranquillity to him. He sat down on the stool they had provided and gazed at me calmly through the intervening grille. I stared back at him, finding it impossible to come to terms with his drastically changed circumstances.

Oh, Mustafa, Mustafa! I burst out in despair. What have you done?

Hello, Hassan, he said.
S'bah l'khir
. Good morning.

He spoke softly and without any visible emotion. There was a sense of remoteness about him, and I attributed it to his situation. Indicating his bruise, I asked: Did they beat you?

He shrugged.

It's the way they do things here.

I glared at the constable and gestured pointedly at my brother's face. He flushed and avoided my eye from that moment on.

Mustafa kept gazing at me calmly. Then he noticed me holding his plastic bag.

I see they gave you my things, he said. I'm glad.

I held up the stone lion: Where did you get this?

I'll tell you in a moment, he said, glancing meaningfully in the direction of the constable.

Until today I have refrained from telling you how heavily your theft weighed on me at the time, I said. Now I can't help thinking it's brought us bad luck.

He shook his head.

My congenitally superstitious brother. When will you ever learn? He made a casual gesture, passing his hand through his hair.

This isn't very important, he said, but while we're on the subject of things, please give my collection of music cassettes, especially the ones by Khaled, Cheb Mami and DJ Da Cool, to my friend Omar in Essaouira. You know where you can find him. You visited his drum shop with me a few years ago.

Yes, of course, I answered, wondering why, of all things, we should be talking about some godforsaken music cassettes.

He must have intuited my thoughts because he gave me a wan smile, as if to say, Forgive me, I know they mean nothing to you, but they are of great value in my world.

What do you intend to do now? I asked, feeling rather foolish even as I voiced the question.

His answer left me speechless.

In a perfectly composed voice, he said: I intend to spend the rest of my life in solitude and repose. After a lifetime of indulgence, I hope to find peace in confinement. In keeping with the tenets of our faith, in which the space of the mosque is a foretaste of paradise, I plan to transform my cell into a sanctuary for prayer. I don't expect it to be too difficult. After all, there is no religion as elegant in its simplicity as Islam.

I stared at him, finding it difficult to believe what I'd just heard. Finally, I managed to speak up.

You have found religion?

My voice must have betrayed me because he smiled.

Why do you find that so hard to comprehend?

I don't know. It's just very sudden, that's all.

You'll come to terms with it, Hassan, just as I have. Give it a little time.

I thought your entire aspiration in life was to be an urban sophisticate.

That changed from the moment I set eyes on her.

I looked at him for a very long time, wondering how best to respond. It wasn't any use. I gave up and could only tell him that his actions were beyond my comprehension.

Why incomprehensible? he asked.

So disappointment in love has led you here?

I don't know if I would put it that way. I feel fulfilled and at peace with myself. Only true love justifies sacrifice, and I've sacrificed myself to the greatest love of all: that which is certain to remain unrequited. You see, I love her with all my heart, and when you love someone that much, you are prepared to give her up.

But she was never yours to begin with! I protested.

That's beside the point, he replied, and his voice was so matter-of-fact that I began to fear for his sanity. With a slight smile, he continued: Each one of us journeys in solitude to love, in solitude to faith and to death, but sometimes a beautiful moment can serve as the anteroom to paradise. I glimpsed eternity in the time that I spent with her. How can anything else compare to those moments of pure feeling? All I want now is to hold on to them.

So you plan to turn your back to the world? I asked, trying my best to stay calm.

I intend to take it one day at a time, he answered. I'm not going to think about the future; I'm not going to think about the past. Only the present matters, and my present will be lived in the realm of the spirit, where there is nothing but peace and quiet.

I could no longer control my impatience.

All right, I'm glad you've found your peace, I said. But what about the rest of us? What am I going to tell our parents, for instance, or Ahmed and his wife? Shall I tell them that you have gone from being a sybarite to a mystic overnight? And this in prison for a crime you didn't commit? Does that make sense to you? Please tell me because it certainly doesn't make any sense to me.

I don't know what to tell you, Hassan. I don't have the answers to your questions. They are your questions, not mine. All I know is that I have reached a very different place in my life. It may be difficult to comprehend from the perspective of the world you live in, but please understand that I have left that world behind.

I felt a rush of despair when faced with this perfectly inscrutable stranger who was my brother. I felt myself searching for words that wouldn't come. How could blood be so alien to blood?

Mustafa, I said, my world is falling to pieces.

Something must have touched him in my voice, because he moved close to the bars of the grille and pressed his face against them. His eyes looked even more mysterious to me, compassionate and filled with pensiveness.

Tell me how I can help you, he said, and I will try my best.

Look, I said, I don't believe for a moment that you had anything to do with the events on the square. At least tell me what you told the police. What's your story? What did you tell them to have yourself put behind bars?

Don't worry, Hassan, he said with a smile. You can rest your mind. I'm as good a storyteller as anyone in our family.

But why did you do it? You know that you are innocent!

Do you remember what I told you in the desert after the sandstorm? About giving up my life to save yours?

Yes, yes, of course I do. But what does that have to do with anything?

And do you remember how you used to tell me: All great creative acts are gestures of defiance? Well, here it is. Here's my gesture on your behalf. Listen to my story and tell me what you think.