The Storyteller of Marrakesh (6 page)

It took us two hours to haul Mustafa up the cliff. The storm caught up with us as we carried him home. Soaked to the skin, we lied at home about what had happened, of course.

A couple of days later, on a bright, sunny morning, I was keeping Mustafa company as he sat glumly on the patio with his plastered leg propped up, when Ahmed tore in through the courtyard gate on his bicycle and skidded up to us.

Hassan, he said, get off your arse! The girl that Father's arranged for you to be married to is walking down the northern road leading away from the village, and if you're quick enough, you can catch up with her and get a good look. Here: take my bicycle.

Are you sure it's her?

Yes, yes, it's Zahra, for God's sake. I'm one hundred per cent certain.

But she isn't from around here. What is she doing in our valley?

How do I know? Maybe she was visiting someone in the village. My friend Dehili tipped me off. He knows her brothers and recognized her as she was leaving the village. Do get a move on, won't you?

I shifted uneasily. Ahmed, I began, I don't know if I want to. After all, I trust Father's good judgement, and there's a certain order to the way these things proceed…

Mustafa gave me a shove. Hassan, don't be such a stick-in-the-mud! he said exasperatedly. Ahmed's right. Hurry up and go, and then come back and tell me what she's like.

I glanced at both of them. All of a sudden, to my own considerable surprise, I leapt with alacrity onto Ahmed's bicycle and took off, furiously pedalling down the uneven piste to the village.

She's wearing a bright green boubou, Ahmed yelled after me. You can't miss it.

He was right: I didn't, especially given that she was the only person on the road going north. I felt my mouth turn dry and my heart begin to pound.

Slowing down about twenty metres behind her, I sailed past before turning my head swiftly to take her in. By God, she was beautiful, like Scheherazade, with a triangular face, huge brown eyes and an exquisite green tattoo on her chin. She smiled when she saw me looking back, and, at that very instant, I lost control of the bicycle, going careering off the road and ending up on my backside with a resounding thump.

We were married four months later. Zahra had just turned sixteen. She was Ahmed's age, two years younger than me.

So that's the way it was with my brothers, I said, interrupting my narrative to look at my audience. Ahmed's still the same; he hasn't changed a bit. He still holds on to the tangible things in life, his belief implicit in the capacity of the world to satisfy his needs. As for Mustafa and his absolute faith in beauty, well, we'll just have to wait and see where our story leads us, won't we?

Glancing at my listeners again, I added after a lengthy pause:

But this much is certain. If one were to contemplate Mustafa's fate following his meeting with the two strangers in the square, then the Tuareg was uncannily perceptive in apprehending the hazard that beauty poses for those who encounter it – for my brother's life was indeed for ever transformed into a state of existence with neither satisfaction nor bliss.

A new voice now spoke up, slightly mocking and droll:

Oh, I don't know about that, Hassan. I didn't agree with that denizen of the desert when he spoke, and I can't say that I agree with you now. All this strikes me as rank pessimism.

Turning to locate the source of the voice, I recognized the slight figure of Youssef, the middle son of one of the orange merchants of the Jemaa. He was small and sallow and rumoured to be something of a skirt-chaser. He passed around a basket of sweet and bitter oranges.

I'm celebrating the birth of my third child, a boy, he announced with pride.

He gestured rather disdainfully in the direction in which the Tuareg had disappeared.

As a philosopher, he said, that man might have a lot to talk about, but that's not enough for me. He told me almost nothing about life that I didn't know already. Yes, things can sometimes be grim, but where's the surprise in that? Real life, on the other hand, rewards me constantly. It's always revealing something unique, something I've never seen before. That's why we're given eyes, and the faculties of sense and reason, so that we may use them to learn from our experiences, however negative. And love? That's the most rewarding thing of all. So there it is, my friends. Say “No” to pessimism! If there are auguries, they must be respected, but why tarnish happiness with the darkness of shadows and storms? Rather, tell yourselves: I am the board on which I play my life!

Turning to Mohamed, the shopkeeper, he said with sparkling eyes: In the name of my newborn son, I salute your good fortune in witnessing the foreigner's kindness to that humblest of beasts, the donkey. It was an act of genuine compassion. And I am envious of your eyes, for I too saw her, perhaps shortly after your own encounter, and though I was rather less impressed, your account has ennobled my own experience.

You had seen the strangers as well? someone asked, and Youssef laughed and said: Yes, yes, I saw them, these two persons around whom Hassan is spinning a tale such as only he can tell.

Pausing like a seasoned storyteller to gauge the effect of his words, he selected a particularly delectable orange and peeled it with ease. He spit out the seeds as he chewed so that there was soon a scattering of them about him.

My own encounter with them took place late in the afternoon, he said, but, lacking Hassan's facility with words, all I can say is that to me they merely seemed like two young, naive and extremely tired foreigners, exhausted perhaps by aimless meanderings around the medina. They had strayed into the courtyard of a house near the Qessabin Mosque. The house belongs to a friend of mine who was visiting his in-laws in Meknès, and, as is his custom whenever he goes away, he'd given me the keys so that I could keep an eye on things.

So it was that I was taking a siesta in the patio facing the courtyard when I overheard voices and, opening my eyes, was surprised to discover a young man and woman half-hidden in a corner of the garden amidst some flowering trees and bushes. Their dress, though modest, revealed them as foreigners. She was wearing faded blue jeans, flip-flops and a white T-shirt with “
I ♥ NY
” printed on the front. He carried a water bottle slung around his hip and a crumpled map of the medina to which he referred repeatedly. They were both grimy and sweat-stained, as is often the case with these Nasranis when they've been walking around in the sun for a while. As for their appearance, which has already been the subject of considerable discussion here, I would say that he was skinny and looked constipated, to be quite frank, while she was pretty in a cheap, fraudulent way, with the kind of make-up that can turn even unattractive women into mysterious, desirable creatures. In other words, there was nothing about either one of them that was remotely out of the ordinary, and my first instinct was to chase them away, but something about their haplessness arrested my intent. I noticed that she was crying soundlessly and that he was attempting, rather ineffectually but with obvious tenderness, to stem her tears with his hands. They seemed oblivious to the fact that they were trespassing. Indeed, it was as if the shrubbery within which they had taken shelter had been planted there just to offer them sanctuary.

Chewing on an orange, its juice dribbling down his chin, he continued: At length, the woman's tears ceased, and her companion, with evident relief, turned his attention to a worn leather wallet which he'd taken out of his pocket and now emptied of its contents, mostly coins and a few bills. He counted the money before turning to her and saying something which reduced her to tears again.

I was about to offer my help when I recalled my responsibilities as caretaker and realized I ought to be telling them to clear out instead. Believe me when I tell you that I wasn't looking forward to ordering them to leave. I detest confrontations, a shortcoming for which my father has often taken me to task. But Fortune was in my favour because, even before I could venture forth from the patio, they rose of their own volition and slipped out into the street.

Laughing softly, Youssef went on with a casual dismissiveness:

So there it is, my friends. A perfectly ordinary encounter, albeit pregnant with possibilities. They were tourists, plain and simple, obviously down on their luck, but to all purposes innocents abroad, and hardly justifying the dire attitude of our Tuareg friend.

Youssef's account seemed to have displeased Mohamed, the shopkeeper, even more than the Tuareg
inaden
's, because he stood up and left the circle sullenly and without a word. Meanwhile, Youssef seemed planted there, placidly chewing on his inexhaustible supply of oranges while darting quick glances here and there to gauge the effect of his contribution.

I gathered my wits about me. Preparing to return my story to its intended course, I found myself interrupted once again as someone directed a terse question at Youssef.

What did they look like?

I thought I'd already described them, Youssef said, partly with irritation and partly with surprise.

Give us details. Hair colour, eyes, height and so on.

The interjections came from a short, swarthy, powerfully built young man, his hands jammed into his pockets. He had the appearance of a professional bodybuilder, his face shiny with sweat as if he'd just been engaged in some strenuous exertion.

He planted himself in front of Youssef, who drew back a little.

Why do you want to know? Youssef asked in a reed-thin voice.

Because you only gave us the most general descriptions, the man answered.

The woman was tall and slightly overweight, Youssef said, somewhat defensively. He ran his tongue over his lips before continuing: She was taller than the man. She had scraggly brown hair, grimy feet. He had on a frayed brown jacket. He wore rimless glasses. He was fair and clean-shaven.

The bodybuilder grimaced and jammed his chin forward.

Well, I think that's nonsense, he spat out.

What do you mean? the orange merchant's son gasped.

Your depiction contradicts all of the others we've heard so far. I think you're making things up. You're a liar.

He pronounced the word
liarrr
, drawing it out as if to lend it additional emphasis.

Youssef flinched and rose to his feet. Beside the hefty youth, he seemed like a sprig of straw. His face drained of blood, his lips pale, he looked terrible.

You've got nerve questioning my veracity! he exclaimed. He glanced at me for reinforcement, but I was enjoying the show too much.

And I'm telling you that you're a piece of rubbish.

Well then, so is everyone else! Nobody remembers them clearly. My description is as good as any of the others!

I'm talking about you, not anyone else.

They glared at each other, Youssef seemingly impregnable, despite the odds. Then the bodybuilder leant forward. Planting a beefy fist against the orange vendor's chest, he exclaimed: Who wants to hear about your siestas and your well-off friend's in-laws? We're not here to listen to you prattle, you self-satisfied piece of nothing!

Tilting a pugnacious chin in my direction, he went on:

Let that man tell his story, won't you? I like his version better.

Youssef took a step back, his pallid face clearly betraying fear as much as indignation.

I'm not going anywhere, he said stubbornly. I won't have my reputation sullied.

At that, the bodybuilder lost patience.

Oh really? he yelled. Clear off now, or else I'll…

The unspoken threat had its desired effect, for Youssef backed away hastily from the ring of listeners, his retreating form shrinking to a black dot across the vast expanse of the square.

Well then, that's that, the bodybuilder announced with characteristic eloquence. He turned to me with a grin. I don't like my stories ruined. You can depend on me the next time you have killjoys. I'm Hocine, from Zagora, in the far south. I'm new here. I'm a weightlifter. I can do a hundred bench presses with one hand. I've set up my stall on the western edge of the square, in front of the Café de France.

I smiled, grateful for his swift and effective intervention. He had recognized the danger posed by Youssef and restored to my story its necessary mystery.

All of a sudden a young boy in a tattered smock came running up to Hocine and whispered something in his ear. He reacted as if struck by a whip.

Someone's made off with my barbells! he exclaimed, swivelling to scan the four corners of the Jemaa. I'm off!

He turned and followed on the heels of the young boy with all of the determination of a hound chasing hares. We watched him leave and I'm certain that I wasn't the only one in our circle to wonder if the culprit was the recently departed Youssef.

Hocine's rough-and-ready intrusion had acted like a tonic on my spirit. He'd spoken excitedly, artlessly, but straight from the heart, and his confidence in me gave me hope for the evening. I prepared to resume speaking, taking up the thread of the narrative from where Youssef had left off, but with a very different energy. I stroked my beard and surveyed my audience, my gaze lingering on their faces – now alert and intent, now dormant and secretive – and it was as if I could not feast my eyes enough on their countenances.

Their thoughts crowded the air. I could hear them, and I closed my eyes to listen so that I could decipher their meaning. That is the storyteller's way, and it has taken me a long time to train myself accordingly. It was easier in the village, where the silent quilt of air made listening simpler. All you had to do was to distinguish words from the surrounding sounds – the chirping of insects, the burbling of the streams, the whisper of the wind – and the rest came naturally. The stories formed themselves out of slow, slumbering daydreams.

It was different in the city. The sounds were louder, shriller, and the effort it took to separate the words from the surrounding cacophony made my head spin.

My first visit to Marrakesh was with my father. I was six, and he'd decided that I should accompany him from our village so that I could get my first taste of our trade by watching him tell his stories. We'd set up on the Jemaa in the late afternoon and remain there till well after midnight, when we'd leave to sleep in my uncle Mohand's shack in the Berrima quarter, outside the walls of the medina. I was allowed to sleep in most mornings while he left for the souks. On other days we'd take shelter from the blazing sun by visiting the cool and shadowy palaces in the medina. He seemed to know all the attendants, who respected him as a learned man, and we were often – though not always – allowed to enter without having to pay the usual fees.

The palaces contained many historical paintings and my father explained them to me with his usual patience. My favourites were the battle scenes, especially the spectacular painting in the Bahia Palace entitled
The Moors Invading Spain
. It depicted the Battle of Badajoz in which our Almoravid king, Youssef ben Tachfine, the founder of Marrakesh, routed the Christian forces. The painting, done in the European style, depicted the battle from the Spanish point of view. A brass plate at the bottom of the frame, translated into Arabic, explained that the painter had been influenced by someone called El Greco.

I was fascinated by that painting because the Spaniards, who occupied the foreground, had peculiarly elongated bodies and heads. They looked like weaklings – decidedly effeminate – and it didn't surprise me that they hadn't been able to stand up to our tough Moorish troops, who formed a disappointingly amorphous black mass on the horizon.

A few years later, when I was nine, I came across a tattered Spanish novel lying on the pavement in the Jemaa and the picture on the cover once again depicted a scandalously skinny Spanish knight charging some windmills. From that point on, for the rest of my childhood, I possessed a healthy contempt for Spaniards.

My father was a traditional storyteller, well versed in folklore, but he was also unusually erudite for someone raised in a mountain village without any formal education. He knew several Berber dialects, he spoke classical Arabic fluently, and he even used a few words from French and other foreign languages in his stories when it suited his purpose. He had a keen eye for physical detail and peopled his tales with unforgettable characters. His best stories were composed of a series of episodes where the promised closure stretched out for weeks before the hair-raising ending.

He was a tall man with close-cropped hair, courteous and reserved, but there was a dark energy about him. Every spring, with the melting of the snows, he would give in to black moods that would last for days during which we all kept away from him. It was rumoured that in his youth he had killed a woman who'd been unfaithful and that her spirit returned year after year to haunt him. One had only to be near him to sense the taut quality beneath his reticence, the knife edge of bitterness arising from that old betrayal. Looking back now, I realize that it was no wonder that his favourite theme was “longing”.

Outside of his storytelling sessions, he wasn't given to speaking much. Life's vicissitudes had carved a permanent ridge between his eyes so that he always looked troubled and aggrieved. Sometimes I wondered if his bitterness was exaggerated – an outlet for some other, unknown, malady – but I did not hold it against him. It gave him character, and I respected him for it. He was kind to me and exercised great patience when we came down to Marrakesh from the mountains.