The Storyteller of Marrakesh (3 page)

On the evening of the strangers' disappearance, I'd decided to use the colour red as the theme for my storytelling, for red was the shade of the ringed moon, as it is of fire and, of course, of blood and of sacrifice. Turning my face towards the Jemaa el Fna – which, in our tongue, has two meanings, “Assembly of the Dead” and “Mosque of Nothingness” – I spread out my kilim and prepared to begin. Surrounding me were the usual implements of my trade: the battered leather trunk that held my parchments, the mirror with which to reflect my listeners' faces, the knotted piece of thuja wood from which I derived inspiration, the dream symbols in the form of sheaves of wheat and carved wooden rattles and glossy black pebbles shaped like snake heads and porcupine quills. The kilim was a gift from my father. It had been in our family for generations, its faded red weave patterned with stars and bordered by black clouds of precisely configured geometry. I customarily sat in the centre and arranged my collection of story sticks in a half-circle in front of me. Each stick was carved out of ebony and notched with ivory rings. The sticks represented particular storylines and the rings stood for themes. I waited for dusk to see which stick the setting sun would light upon first and thereby determine the story I would be telling.

The Jemaa was especially crowded that evening. Busloads of villagers had arrived from the interior, from the mountains as well as from the desert as far south as Tan Tan and Tafraoute. Pilgrims are good for my line of business: they prefer the magic of make-believe to their own dreary reality. They go for epic tales, with plenty of digressions to postpone the return to the quotidian.

I usually wait until I have at least eight listeners. As a rule of thumb, the larger the audience, the greater their credulity. Then I begin to speak very softly so that my words, as if melting into the air, promise an unimaginably intoxicating voyage. To travel thus is to live a dream. My story forms the vortex, which, for the space of the evening, delivers the peasant, the sharecropper and the drover from their dull and cheerless existences. Gradually my voice rises to offset the noise of the Jemaa. I find my rhythm and settle into a steady cadence. By nightfall, my audience is mesmerized for the rest of the journey.

That evening, to my right, a father and his four sons had begun to pluck subtle Andalusian melodies on their ouds and violins. Farther away, a group of Gnaoua musicians had set up with their long-stemmed guitars and iron clanging hammers. They were accustomed to performing for hours on end, inducing in their listeners a trancelike state akin to ecstasy. Tonight they were accompanied by three fiery youths who danced in white-stockinged feet, gyrating their heads in time to fixed rhythms. After a brief interval, however, the Gnaoua moved to a better spot near the centre of the square, leaving me with the more appropriate stringed Andalusian accompaniment with which to launch my tales and sustain their mystery. The Andalus were from the north, near Tangier, and they played with superb finesse, their mournfully introspective tunes dissolving into the air, leaving no trace save the barest intimations of longing.

Inspired, I took out the customary piece of ambergris from my jellaba, filling the air with its fragrance. I slid off the hood of my cloak, tilted my head to one side, and strained to hear the voices that I knew would soon resound through me. My listeners gathered. I placed my collection box on the ground, the bejewelled hand of Fatima on its lid glinting its blessings. Studying my audience, I noted their faces – their eyes and gestures and expressions – to determine the level at which to pitch my story. Then I took a deep breath and commenced speaking.

My tale, I began, is entirely true, like life itself, and, therefore, entirely invented. Everything in it is imagined; nothing in it is imagined. Like all the best stories, it is not about conventions, plot or plausibility, but about the simple threads that bind us together as human beings…

With that relatively brief and straightforward prologue, I went on to talk about El Amara, the crimson city, crucible of so many dreams. I was just getting into my stride, my voice taking on the lilting stridency of the practised storyteller, when I noticed a restlessness on the part of my audience, many of whom were craning their necks to make out what was going on behind them on the northern edge of the square.

I followed their gazes.

That was the first time I saw them.

That was the first time I saw the two foreigners.

They had emerged into the open space of the Jemaa from the direction of the Rue Derb Dabachi, from within the souks, and their entrance instantly caused a lull in the commotion of the square. All eyes, including mine, swivelled in their direction. The more modest amongst us immediately cast down our glances, as if abashed. Others, more bold, continued to stare and to follow them hungrily with brazen eyes. There was something about the intrusiveness of our collective response that left me ashamed. It was as if we were already implicated in their story, as if it were part of our own biographies, and hardly in the most complimentary of ways.

Perhaps it had to do with the woman's beauty, which was the first thing that everyone noticed. It was unnatural, and it made us uneasy. It seemed to cast a glow as they made their way across the square, and, as if in homage, the crowds fell silent and parted before them. As my brother Mustafa later recalled, it was a beauty possessing the purest intimation of grace. My own sense was that such beauty was worthy of respect, but from a guarded distance. One had to have courage when faced with it. But one also had to have probity. Mustafa did not agree with me, and this discord would come to weigh heavily on my mind in judging his future actions.

Mustafa was not an inhabitant of Marrakesh. He lived in the small fishing port of Essaouira on the Atlantic coast. He owned a shop in the medina where he sold lanterns he'd made. Every month, on the fifteenth, he would supplement his earnings by taking the bus to Marrakesh to sell his wares and, flush with cash, visit the whores who waited for him. He was young and handsome – and incorrigibly hot-blooded. A stranger to despair, incapable of being a spectator in the game of life, he usually enacted his desires in the most impulsive and yet perfectly natural ways. His vision was energy, his poetry was genuine, and true poetry is all-consuming.

When he was young, I once saw him rising naked from the lake near our village, the water streaming off his back as he paraded before the girls who had gathered to admire him. He let them touch him one by one. I caught up with him on the outskirts of the village and gave him a hiding. It wasn't as if I was a puritan, but his vanity astounded me.

I didn't speak of the incident to our father, nor did either one of us refer to it again. But deep in my heart I knew that Mustafa would always hold it against me. I had injured his pride, and I think that he attributed my actions to jealousy. From that day onwards a wall descended between us, a mutual reserve. Until his departure from our village at the age of eighteen, I was determined to keep my peace and look the other way if such a thing should recur, but he was careful never to let me catch him in a compromising situation again.

When we first heard that he, a child of the mountains, had decided to settle in seaside Essaouira, far from his native environs, I took the initiative to reassure my parents about him. Let him be, I said with equanimity. The salt air will calm him. Meanwhile, you have two other sons who will look after you in your old age and tend to your needs.

A year later, Mustafa and I met in Marrakesh, and he informed me, with an air of defiance, that he was living with a woman but had decided not to marry. I didn't think it my place to comment but merely wished him happiness. At our next meeting, a few months later, he said with a smile, as if as an aside, that he'd left his companion, whose importunate demands on his time and affection had begun to annoy him. Instead, he was living on his own in the heart of the medina, where his bronzed skin, curly hair and easy-going ways had made him popular with the tourists. He'd taken up a sport called windsurfing. Some Frenchwoman named Sandrine had taught him. She lived on the beach; she was a free spirit like him. Once again, I refrained from commenting.

That's why, when I saw Mustafa rising to his feet from the edge of our circle that evening in the Jemaa, it attracted my attention. His face was a conversation without words: it betrayed the ardent and disconsolate thoughts that permeated it. His eyes glittered; they told a story where the strangers were already distillations of the desire barely contained within. It was as if, in a matter of seconds, my brother's lust had mastered him.

Mustafa! I cautioned, don't act in haste. Our religion is gentle. It does not permit transgressions and vice. It has strong conventions of hospitality. It emphasizes modesty.

He glanced at me with scorn. Scared of losing your tourist trade, Hassan? When I declined to dignify his accusation, he burst out: What is the point of my freedom if I hesitate to use it? There's nothing sordid about passion!

I must disagree, I said with gravity. Unbridled passion breeds anarchy.

Well then, he said heatedly, I must tell you that in your presence this wide-open square feels like a prison cell to me! But my heart is racing, and I must follow its call. What you see as surrender, I see as victory.

You are my brother, I said calmly, and your rashness will be your undoing.

You are my brother, he replied, and I find your timidity womanish. The first mark of a man is boldness, and I intend to exhibit it.

You reprobate! I retorted, finally losing patience. There is no more luminous pleasure than that which is muted. Animals rut. I expected more of you than this head rush that is clouding your judgement.

He laughed in response and left without answering.

Mustafa had not always been so impetuous when it came to women. Or perhaps he had. As his brother I suppose I'm too close to him and it's difficult for me to tell. Perhaps I should simply relate a story about him and leave it up to you to judge.

This happened many years ago. Mustafa was five years old at the time, I was ten, and my middle brother, Ahmed, was eight. Our village was visited by a medical team from Rabat as part of a nationwide flu prevention campaign. They arrived in our house first thing in the morning, even before the sun had come out. Initially, when we heard noises in the courtyard, we thought it was the postman bringing a letter from Mother's older brother, Uncle Mounés, who worked in a factory in Salé, and periodically wrote to us. But then we heard a woman's clearly educated voice asking if anyone was home, and we scrambled out of bed, all agog with curiosity. I was the first out, which was appropriate, since I was the oldest son, then Mustafa, followed by circumspect Ahmed bringing up the rear. Wiping the sleep from our eyes, we emerged into the dawn light to behold a young lady doctor in a pink silk headscarf and smart white medical coat. She was beautiful, tall, with full lips and high cheekbones, and her fair complexion was in striking contrast to the brown, weather-beaten women we were used to seeing. Confronted with this unexpected apparition, we halted uncertainly and gawked at her. Now that I think back on it, I realize we must have looked like a trio of village yokels with our sleep-tousled hair and our sooty woodsmoke-stained faces.

When Father emerged on our heels, tall and stern, with his
gandoura
hitched up to his knees, the doctor apologized for intruding at this early hour, before going on to explain that since ours was the most outlying house in the village, we were the first on her round of calls. In a pleasant but brisk and no-nonsense manner, she proceeded to introduce herself and her companions. The man on her right, unshaven and hard-faced, but also in a white medical coat, was her assistant, while the uniformed soldier with the raw shaven head was the driver of their medical van which was parked right in front of the rickety wooden gate that gave entrance to our courtyard.

Father didn't say anything at first, but I could tell that he was ill at ease at the prospect of dealing with a woman in a position of authority.

The doctor must have sensed his discomfort, because she immediately explained why they were there, on account of the flu raging through the region, and why it was necessary to inoculate us. She demonstrated the procedure on her arm and said that we'd all be done in a few minutes.

While she'd been speaking, her assistant had brought out a folding chair and a metal table from the van, on which he now arranged a medical kit bag, an instrument case, a siphon box, a metal pan, a metal tray with cotton wool and swabs and a few bottles.

Catching a glimpse of the row of shiny needles in their sealed plastic packets, Ahmed began to edge towards the house, but Mustafa overtook him and re-emerged moments later with a cushion which he plumped onto the doctor's chair.

This
glissa
is for you to sit on, he informed her.

Thank you, little one, she said, taken aback, her businesslike demeanour relaxing perceptibly.

It's my pleasure, he piped up, and extended his arm. May I go first?

Of course!

As the oldest son, I should have intervened at that point and asked to take precedence, but, for once, I was glad to hold back.

As she swabbed Mustafa's arm with alcohol, Father cleared his throat. In a tone of dignified rectitude, he asked if she were proposing to carry out the inoculations herself.

But of course, she said matter-of-factly. I'm the doctor here.

Yes, but still… Father began, before she cut him off. Don't worry, I've done this more times than I can remember.

Somewhat irresolutely, Father fell silent, but I could tell that he was confused by the situation. I also noticed that my usually loquacious little brother was uncharacteristically quiet, his eyes fixed on the doctor as he hung on her every word. When she instructed him to make his hand into a fist and slipped the needle into his arm, he didn't grimace a bit. She withdrew the needle and taped his arm with a sticky bandage and some cotton wool, and he made way for me, since both Father and Ahmed appeared reluctant to come forward. Fevered with uncertainty, I stood before her and extended my arm in imitation of Mustafa. The alcohol swab felt like ice on the skin, and the needle stung, but it was over sooner than I'd expected, just as she'd said it would be.

That left Father and Ahmed. Father stepped forward, reluctantly, but Mustafa cut in before him. Can I go again? he asked the doctor.

She smiled and ruffled his hair. You're a brave little boy, but you only get one chance, I'm afraid.

I stood beside the wooden bench that held Mother's clumps of mint in whitewashed tin cans and watched Father take his shot. Then Ahmed – who'd attempted unsuccessfully to conceal himself in the shadows where the red-and-white oleanders overhung the patio – was persuaded to come forward. He let out a blood-curdling yell when the needle slid in. As he backed away, biting his lips and holding his arm, Mustafa shot forward again like a jack-in-the-box.

Ana moajaba bik
, he said adoringly, quite obviously unable to stay away from the doctor: I love you.

She gasped, her eyes widening as she gazed at his fine brown hair, almond-shaped eyes and chubby cheeks.
Semehli
, she said, I'm sorry, little one, but what did you say?

Mustafa repeated himself, louder this time, and with his hand clamped over his heart.

Oh, you dear baby! she exclaimed in delight. I love you too,
habibi
.

Glancing at Father, she said: You've a charming little child.

Father didn't respond.

She smiled warmly at the rest of us. Is there anyone else in the household? she asked.

Mustafa hurried forward with Chakib, our orange tabby, squirming in his arms. The soldier laughed. The doctor smiled and said: It's all right, my dear, you can let him go. He doesn't need this vaccine.

Promptly dropping Chakib, Mustafa rushed back into the house and returned with the canary in its wicker cage. The lady doctor shook her head. No, not the bird either.

She turned to Father. Anyone else?

Father looked wan in the grey light. His small, deep-set eyes flicked over us, warning us to hold our tongues. There's no one else, he said stolidly.

Are there no women in the household?

There are none.

Both Ahmed and I kept silent at this blatant untruth, but Mustafa couldn't control himself. Suddenly darting forward and clutching the doctor's hand, he said in a clear and high-pitched voice: That's not true! There is someone else. Mother's inside, making
helba
, and that's the truth.

In the silence that followed, a brisk gust of wind swept through the courtyard, stirring the straw litter strewn across the earthen floor. Our donkey, Huda, flicked her tail.

Please go in and get your wife, the doctor said. Everyone must be inoculated against the flu.

Father refused to budge.

It's against our
taqlid
, our tradition, he said firmly. Women must be excepted from your rules.

Nobody can be excepted in this case, I'm afraid, the doctor replied. I'm here on orders from the Ministry in Rabat.

It doesn't matter, Father said. In the mountains we Berbers follow our own rules.

At that point, the soldier addressed Father, quite rudely, I thought.

What is your name? he rapped out.

Now the soldier's going to get it, I thought, expecting an explosion of Father's famous temper. Instead, to my surprise, Father shuffled his feet and said: Hamou.

Well then, Hamou, didn't you hear the doctor? In the name of His Majesty the King, go and fetch your wife.

Father paused uncertainly as Ahmed and I exchanged amazed glances. In the name of His Majesty? Father asked.

Indeed.

To my astonishment, Father nodded wordlessly and went into the house.

He emerged moments later. She won't come, he said, his eyes fixed on the ground.

If she won't come on her own, the soldier said, then we'll have to go in and get her.

Father started. His voice changed, falling to a pitch I'd never heard before. There's no need for that, he said, sounding utterly vanquished, while Ahmed rolled his eyes, as embarrassed as I was at witnessing our formidable parent cut down to size. Looking like an old man with his greying beard and sunburnt face, Father went into the house again and we heard his voice rising in anger as he took out his frustration on Mother. It was then that I realized that gauging who has
sulta
, authority, in a particular situation, is the first step towards maturity.

Shortly after, Mother emerged behind Father in her best jellaba, brown with white-and-red stripes, with heavy silver bracelets on both wrists, and with the lower part of her face veiled with a black scarf which she held in place with the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were terrified, and when I rushed over to reassure her, she clutched my hand tightly.

I looked around for Father, but he'd retreated into the background, mortified and silent.

Mabrouk
, the doctor's assistant said to him with heavy irony. Congratulations on your ability to understand the rules quickly.

The doctor took Mother under her wing.

It'll only take a moment, she said gently.

That's right, Mmi, I said, you'll hardly feel it and it'll be over before you know it. It's just like a mosquito bite.

It isn't like a mosquito bite, Ahmed said dourly. It hurts like hell, and you know it.

It doesn't hurt, Mustafa cut in. You're a sissy, Ahmed!

I'm not! Hold your tongue, midget.

Distracted by her sons, Mother was about to admonish us when the doctor told her that she'd already injected her and that she could go.

Amazed, Mother simply stood there in disbelief before breaking into a girlish giggle of relief.

See, I told you, I said to her.

So did I, Mustafa chimed in. Don't forget me!

May God grant you grace, Mother said to the doctor, before adding shyly, I've made
sfinge
. Will you have some, Madame?

Yes, she will, Mustafa said, answering for the doctor. Her doughnuts are the best in the valley, Madame. You must try them.

The doctor laughed. You have beautiful sons, she said to Mother.

No,
you
are beautiful, Mustafa interjected.

Hush, Mustafa, Mother said, scandalized. What's come over you? Please excuse him, she said to the doctor. He's so mischievous; constantly getting into trouble. He doesn't know what he's saying.

But it's the truth, isn't it? Mustafa asserted. You always tell me to speak the truth.

That's enough, Mustafa, Mother scolded. You talk too much.

To me, she said: Bring our visitors some water to drink, Hassan.

I returned with water kept cold in goatskin bags.

Shukraan
, the doctor said. Thank you.

Mother brought out the
sfinge
on our best terracotta platter.

She glanced shyly at Father. Will you try one and tell me if they're all right?

Instead of answering, Father abruptly turned on his heels and disappeared into the house. To spare Mother further embarrassment, the doctor tasted a
sfinge
and answered in his stead.

Wonderful! she pronounced. What accounts for their delicate scent?

I flavour them with eucalyptus honey from Kenitra.

Your little boy was right. They're the best I've ever tasted.

As Mother blushed deeply, the doctor asked Mustafa if he'd like to accompany them on their rounds for the rest of the morning. Struck speechless with delight, he could only look at Mother for permission. When she nodded fondly, her innate good nature getting the better of her annoyance with him, he let out a whoop and danced a frenzied jig around the perimeter of the courtyard, while Ahmed and I tried to conceal our envy with disdainful indifference.

With a smile, the doctor gave him her instrument case to hold. He gaped in awe at the privilege. This – this is for me to carry?

He could barely encircle it with his arms.

I'll bring him back by noon, the doctor assured Mother.

We watched them leave in their medical van, with Mustafa sitting in the front seat between the soldier and the doctor's assistant.

They dropped him off a little before noon, as promised.

Ahmed and I were playing chess in the shaded patio. The air was hot and thick; sheets of sunlight pierced through the slatted roof of the patio. We tried to ignore Mustafa as he bounded in through the gate.

Look! he yelled. I got two medals!

He pointed to the badges on his chest, one with a red cross against a white background, and the other with a star inside a crescent.

I nodded without interest, while Ahmed yawned.

Mustafa walked over to us. You're jealous, he taunted.

Khain!
Ahmed replied with scorn. Traitor! You made Father lose face and now he won't speak to us.

Unfazed, Mustafa proceeded to tell us about his day, and, despite ourselves, we found ourselves listening. He said that even the
f'qih
in the Qur'an school, who'd cited the authority of the Hadiths in order to avoid being inoculated, had eventually been dragged out of the village mosque by the soldier and suffered the indignity of the needle in his arm.

He squirmed and squealed like a girl! Mustafa said with glee, and both Ahmed and I shared in his mirth, because the
f'qih
was a tyrant who bullied us unmercifully.

At that moment, Father emerged from the house, and our laughter dried up. Unable to stomach the loss of his authority, he'd spent the entire morning lying in bed with his face turned to the wall. Now he glared at Mustafa, the muscles of his face tight and drawn. There could be no mistaking his intentions as he headed purposefully towards his youngest son.