The Storyteller of Marrakesh (8 page)

They were married, a voice spoke up with authority. I can attest to that. She wore a wedding ring, though she lacked the assurance that comes to most women with marriage. The oddly trusting manner with which she followed her husband's every word was not the sign of an experienced woman. She was shy, as shy as the fire in a hollow in the sand. As to her appearance, I must disagree with Abdellah, whose integrity I otherwise respect: she was slender and of medium height, she had dark hair and dark eyes, though when the light caught her pupils they appeared a vivid green.

The speaker was Samir, a Berber merchant who was something of a celebrity in the Jemaa because his name, or rather the name of his village, near Tinzouline, was in
The Guinness Book of World Records
. The story is a miracle of fate – and determination. It happened like this. A few years ago, in an attempt to draw attention to the plight of their centuries-old kasbahs, subject to relentless erosion by wind and sand, the villagers banded together and sculpted a record number of sand angels. Everyone in the community took part, from infants who could barely walk to ninety-year-old matriarchs. The reward was a mention in the world-famous book, a television documentary and funds from the United Nations to restore the kasbahs and designate the village a World Heritage Site.

Samir claimed credit for the entire affair. He did not boast about it but simply stated it as an established fact. There being no one else from his village to dispute his claim, he was widely respected and admired in the Jemaa. Since then he had accomplished little but had nevertheless come to be regarded as a paragon of respectability, his deed inscribed in our people's ledger of achievements.

Against the word of such a venerated man, even Abdellah, the son of a
qa'id
, fell silent. Perhaps you are right, he muttered with downcast eyes. Perhaps she did have dark hair and dark eyes.

Memory can be deceptive, my friend, Samir said benevolently. His voice was full and suave, with something bland about it.

Memory is certainly a fickle mistress, I assented. The most honourable men have been known to be taken in sometimes. But tell us your story, Samir. Where did you encounter them?

Where else but in my jewellery store off the Souk El Kebir.

He paused for effect and surveyed us. On his face was the intense look that comes with trying to recall an event from a long time ago.

It was mid-afternoon, he said, around three o'clock, on what had been a slow day. I had hardly made any sales and, resigned to fate, was just beginning to doze off.

So it was well before their appearance at the Hôtel Ali? I interrupted.

He spread the fingers of his right hand to indicate the rays of the sun.

Oh yes, it was in broad daylight. That's why I remember her clearly. There was a quality to her that was touched with light.

He turned to Abdellah with a magnanimous smile.

Perhaps that is what deceived you into believing that she had golden hair.

But I saw her in the darkness, not in daylight, Abdellah demurred.

A mere detail, Si Abdellah, Samir said with a laugh.

She entered my shop first, he went on, her face aglow with vitality, and it was as if my eyes distrusted my own sight. Come in, come in, I managed to say to them.
Bonjour, ça va?
There's no need to buy, you can just look around. What good fortune to have such a peri grace my humble portals. What will you accept for her? I joked with him.
Ça coûte combien?
I own a kasbah in El-Kelaa M'Gouna, on the eastern side of the mountains, with fine rooms, a stable and baths. Or if that isn't good enough, I can take you to Imilchil, in the Middle Atlas Mountains, to the fabled marriage fair, where she will fetch you at least fifty camels. We can stay in my tent in the great valley between the two emerald lakes – Isli, “the fiancé”, and Tisli, “the fiancée” – and celebrate her betrothal to some rich Berber
qa'id
in the grand style, with dances and feasts such as you have never experienced.

The young man merely smiled drily and raised his companion's left hand so that I could see her wedding ring, which was rather plain, in my opinion, and unworthy of her beauty, but I kept my thoughts to myself because I sensed some defensiveness on his part.

Well then, I said, appropriately businesslike, what are you interested in, my friends? Everything is for sale here. I have amulets from Egypt, gold jewellery from Timbuktu, silver bracelets from Nubia, even this ancient and dazzling necklace from Sudan. Or you might consider these delicate earrings made by our very own artisans in the old Jewish quarter, or these Berber anklets with bells and chimes, good to wear both at home or outdoors, at all times.

She was less distant than him. She smiled at me and slowly walked the length of the shop, studying everything with an avid gaze. She held herself very straight. They did not look at each other. I lit a cigarette and let them take their time.

When she finally spoke, her voice was like soft laughter.

How much is this? she asked.

I followed her gesture. She was pointing to an amber amulet with a fragile gold scarab embedded inside.

You have exquisite taste, Madame, I answered. That is from the Sahara, and it isn't too expensive. In fact, I will give it to you below cost because you have astonished my eyes. For you, and only for you, I will part with it for a mere seven hundred dirhams.

She turned to him. He smiled thinly and said: Seventy dirhams.

I bowed my head and knew the game was on. We went back and forth in the accepted manner. I cited my reputation as a Berber of the Aït Morghad tribe, whose honesty was legend; he feigned interest in a silver
jebana
, a long-necked coffee vessel, and examined a basket filled with trinkets.

You will bankrupt me, M'sieur, I said with dignity, and offered him a final price, which seemed to set him thinking.

Why spend such a long time pondering? I urged. It's barely a trifle for your beautiful bride. Even her smile is worth much more.

But he was already looking at something else, and with great attentiveness. After a while, he turned to her with an abrupt movement and spoke in a low voice. She raised her eyebrows, nodded, and glanced at me.

What is that object? she asked in French.

It is a
jamur
, madame, from a kasbah in a
ksar
– a fortified village – in the Drâa Valley, near Tinzouline, where I come from. It is an old piece and very precious.
Jamurs
are roof spikes, usually made of polished brass, like this one, and they consist of up to five globes of increasing size. They are sometimes surmounted, unlike this specimen, by our national emblem, the star inside the crescent. The most famous
jamurs
in Marrakesh are the ones atop the Koutoubia minaret.

They gazed at it for a long time, and then he said:

You could kill a man with it.

For once, I didn't know how to respond.

To my surprise, he took out his wallet, counted out a number of notes, and gave me the last price I had asked for the amber amulet.

What about the
jamur
? I asked, but he waved my query aside. It belongs to someone with a house, he replied, and not a rootless wanderer.

I said: In the Maghreb, we believe that the first thing one should own is a house, and it is the last thing one should sell, for it is our tomb this side of paradise.

And how is your house? he asked, echoing the traditional Maghrebi greeting.

I smiled in acknowledgement of his courtesy.

It is a good one, I replied. It is near here, behind the Mouassine Mosque.

She interrupted us and began to thank him for the amulet, but he took her aside and said something in a quiet voice, which I couldn't catch.

You've overtired yourself today, she said with concern.

He addressed me directly: Can you suggest a good place to view the night sky?

Any of the rooftops of the medina should serve that purpose, I replied, once again taken aback.

He nodded gravely, as if I had imparted some necessary piece of information.

If you want to see the stars, I volunteered, I would recommend the terraces of one of the
riads
outside the medina, where there is less light from the souks and the streets, and you can observe the progress of the moon through the palm fronds.

You are a poet, he said, and smiled.

Encouraged, I went on: I have a friend who has such a
riad
, the Villa Quieta, near the Palmeraie. He is a good host and would be glad to put you up for the night.

But what of the Jemaa el Fna? he persisted.

I laughed. You can certainly see the sky from the Jemaa, but there will be much else to distract you there at night.

Then we will go to the Jemaa, he remarked.

Puzzled, I stared at him. Then I shrugged and said: I will think of you when I watch the moon tonight.

He went down on his knees to examine the
jamur
one last time, and then he stood up and shook my hand.

Do you think I may need this in the Jemaa tonight? he asked.

Only if you are attacked, I answered, and the chances of that are very slim. There's a police station right next to the square. They keep an eye on things.

They took their leave after that enigmatic exchange, and I found myself thinking, much like Abdellah, about my house, glad that I would be returning there that evening. I thought of the winter moon glistening on the asbestos rooftop, its bluish-white evanescence entering the rooms one by one, and I sensed that I would see the night in a new way as a result of this encounter.

Samir paused and drew the plume of his jellaba contemplatively through his stubby fingers.

Of course, he said, the moon wasn't bluish white that night. There was nothing calming about it. It was crimson, bloodshot like an eye, and it filled me with disquiet.

He sighed and looked at the sky, where the moon hung low over the horizon, solitary and majestic. His face was both pensive and shadowed with regret; the remembrance seemed to have cast a pall over his features.

He turned and gazed at me questioningly for some moments.

I straightened up. It is certainly safe inside a house, I agreed, but safer inside a story where everything connects, which is more than can be said of our story, where we cannot even seem to agree upon the most basic elements, such as what the two wanderers looked like. Perhaps it is because in retelling our various encounters, each one of us is intent on honesty, as well as the absolute commitment to memory that inspires what we storytellers, with our voracious appetite for physical detail, call the imagination. And so it transpires that even as we free ourselves from the bondage of time, we deliver ourselves into ever more subtle bonds of our own making. But then again, to rephrase a question I asked earlier, what is the truth? Do we speak the truth, or do various, often incompatible versions of the truth speak through us? Especially here, in the Jemaa, where what matters at any given moment is only that which is most significant. That which holds the attention. That which convinces. Now, and for the next several hours or years. That which is beautiful, above all, and forged of love, because truth is beauty's sister. Like the luminous young woman and her dark and taciturn companion, truth and beauty redeem each other.

Now a new voice made itself heard:

I have always wondered what the Angel of Death would look like if he were to show himself, if he were to manifest an earthly form. Would he, for instance, resemble that Indian, with his cold, hard profile, his wheat complexion, impossibly straight nose, and cloaked eyes? Would he, by some whim of character, reveal himself one day in the heart of an old Muslim medina, accompanying a young woman he had doomed to early extinction? How many of us can verify that he indeed existed, that she was not alone, that the person we saw beside her was nothing but our own fear of mortality when faced with beauty the like of which we had never seen? Indeed, how many of us would have the courage to confess that, driven by the small-mindedness and avarice intrinsic to man, we desired to possess her and, knowing that we could not, conjured up a dark companion who was forbiddingly silent, like the blind walls that surround our houses and render them more tomb than shelter?

These are my questions to you, because I too was unfortunate enough to witness her beauty, albeit fleetingly, and surprised myself with feelings I had not known existed in me, feelings that shaded into sadness once the moment was over, for much in the manner of the Tuareg youth in the tale of the scarlet ibis, I knew that my age of innocence was over.

My one-legged nephew Brahim, who spoke these grave and melancholic words, was a custodian at the Ali ben Youssef Medersa, which lay adjacent to the souks. Brahim was something of a prodigy. He was renowned in our family for his calligraphy, on which he spent many hours each day, a feat made remarkable by the fact that he was afflicted by a disease that made his hands tremble ceaselessly. He was a familiar figure in my afternoon circle, his quavery, bookish contributions lending credibility to my stories. In the sound of his voice I heard the polyphonous music of the
medersa
, its many melodies, and it reassured me, for it was as if my humble calling had divine blessings.

Brahim's most precious possession was the camel-skin journal in which he recorded, in the most minute script, the gradual perfection of his calligraphy. Once I asked him what he would do when he reached the end of the journal. He answered that he intended that moment to coincide with the zenith of his art.

And then? I'd persisted. What would follow thereafter?

His eyes had taken on a dreamlike aspect.

I would like to commence building my house, he'd answered. I would cover its walls with writing. It would be a house of poetry, with the finest inscriptions at the highest levels, so that the eye would perforce have to raise itself as if to contemplate the sky.

And when this house was completed and the walls entirely covered with inscriptions?

His laughing eyes had regarded me indulgently.

Why, Uncle, then my life would have come to its natural end. I would have met my fate, and with gladness welcomed the termination of this mortal coil.

So it was that I asked Brahim now:

Tell us about your encounter with the two strangers. Tell us how your loss of innocence came to transpire.

Brahim did not take long to respond to my query. But he did not answer it directly, which was contrary to his usual manner. Instead, he heaved a sigh, shrugged his shoulders as if to rid himself of a burden, and said:

Some would contend that beauty contains a poison seed, that it contaminates everything with which it comes into contact. I do not believe that to be the case because beauty, as you have pointed out, Hassan, is akin to truth, and truth is energy, and energy is always in motion. So even as I rue the day I glimpsed her, I feel that beauty is neither completely good nor evil; rather, as beholders, we respond to it in different ways because we are each in different stages of life.

He paused, and his face took on an indefinable cast of sadness.

As some of you may know, apart from my religious studies and my calligraphy, I tend to the narrow strip of garden between our mosque and the
medersa
. There is something common to flowers and calligraphy: they speak the same language. To seek inspiration, I study the rose and jasmine bushes, the oranges, the bamboos and the figs. But my favourites are the datura. The luminosity of these nightshades have always astonished me. They look translucent, as if shaped out of moonlight. Every moment that I spend with them is a moment spent meditating upon my art, and I like to think of that garden as bearing the charm of the eternal paradise depicted in the Qur'an. It is there that I find the most peace.

A space of silence followed. His hands resting on his lap, his face turned away from us, Brahim gazed pensively at the square. Then, speaking in a level, restrained tone, he said: And so it was that on the morning of the day that concerns us, I was tending a datura sapling when I looked up and found myself gazing at a slender young woman drinking from the fountain at the edge of the garden. She was dressed in traditional garb: black headscarf, ochre jellaba, brown
seroual
. Had it not been for her red-bearded companion, I would not have known that they were foreigners.

He had a red beard? I interjected, for this was a significant detail.

Brahim looked at me at length. His eyes were thoughtful.

There are some things which, by their tone or their tint, leave a lasting impress, he said. The man was wheat-complexioned, or, one might say, his skin was the colour of sand – but his beard was the hue of saffron.

The hue of saffron, I said with a smile. That's easy enough to remember.

With a familiar gesture, Brahim passed his hand over his head. I waited for him to continue. Staring straight ahead, he said: It was many years ago, Hassan. The details are unimportant as long as I remember the essence.

Of course, I hastened to agree with him, for I wanted to hear everything that he had to say. Please continue, I prompted.

He moistened his lips. Gazing into space and speaking softly, his brow furrowed yet strangely serene, he recaptured the moment for us.

At first, I could only see her profile, he said, as she bent over to drink from the fountain. Facing downwards, she was an image of serenity suitable for meditating upon. I gazed at her as I would at an inverted waterfall, I savoured the aromas of the garden that surrounded me, and I felt suffused with happiness. It was a joyful paralysis, like a siren's song, to which the flowers themselves seemed to respond, rising out of the dark soil with shining heads of light. I don't know how long the moment lasted, but I basked in its radiance.

He shook his head and coughed, and when he spoke again, his voice had changed perceptibly. It was thicker and choked with darkness.

Sometimes the world transforms in an instant, he said.

Listen to this, he said. We are still at the fountain. The woman is drinking like a gazelle, her lips are moist with water, the folds of her headscarf flecked with beads of spray.

He stood up and bent over to show us what he meant. We watched, intent. Suddenly he swung round. Stifling a sigh, he said: When she had drunk her fill, she straightened and turned in my direction, and I was dumbstruck by what I saw. For an instant, all sights and sounds disappeared. I felt myself plunge into an abyss, and when I emerged from my daze, I was appalled, for I realized that her beauty had, quite simply, turned my world upside down. It eclipsed anything I had ever seen or done, and the very essence of my soul, the source of my being, my lifelong love for my art – those countless hours spent contemplating the abstract perfection of calligraphy – would for ever be overshadowed by this contact with the world. I felt broken.

Drawn to her as if by some outward force, I left the garden. My wooden leg knocked on the cobblestones of the street, but my shoulders had grown wings. My heart raced, my breath quickened. I flew towards her. But as I did, I saw her bend towards her bearded companion and I heard him say: I love you. Then he smiled and walked away, leaving her alone in my presence.

Overcome with tenderness and despair, I shouted: My dear! What jinn has brought you here? You have ruined me for ever!

Startled, she swivelled her neck, exactly like a gazelle, and gazed in my direction. Her headscarf slid off, her brown hair glinted with gold. Trembling wildly, I raised my hands. I wanted to caress her face. What have you done? I yelled. That man is not worthy of you. Anyone who places the “I” before the “you” in speaking of love is misbegotten and cancels the intent of his words. Ah, you who are mesmerized! The self can never precede the object of its affections! That isn't love, it is self-love. Do you understand? I would say to you instead: You I love! You I love! You I love! But not “I love you”. Never “I love you”. My angel!

Mistaking my intent, she backed away with a look of alarm. Her eyes widened, her cheeks drained of colour. With a terrified cry, she broke into a run. I tried to chase after her, but, of course, she was faster than I was, with my single leg, and, even as I reached the fountain, she had turned the corner and disappeared from my sight. I rushed past the fountain and looked down the long expanse of the mosque, but she was nowhere to be seen. She must have run into one of the many narrow alleyways that riddle the medina.

I was crestfallen. I felt abandoned by fate. A burning sun coursed through my veins and, parched, I drank from the same fountain from which, moments earlier, she had refreshed herself. But the water did nothing to cool the burning inside me. It was a weak palliative, nothing more. Overcome by despair, I slumped beside the fountain.

When I looked up again, Red Beard was standing there. He was magnificent in his indifference: implacable and cold. He gazed down at me, but in his closed mouth I read neither empathy nor kindness. We stared at each other, his heavy-lidded eyes almost drowsy, until, intimidated by his immobility, I cast my glance down. I sensed him make a move and raised my hands to protect my face. A coin clattered beside me. I watched it roll into the gutter of the fountain. His footsteps receded.

Such is the overwhelming power of love that, despite my humiliation at being mistaken for a beggar, I decided to follow him, hoping he would lead me to her.

He crossed a shopfront with a mirror leaning against a chair. I glanced at the mirror just as he walked past it. He was not reflected in it. It was a large mirror; I had ample time to check.

Astonished, I glanced back at him, but he had vanished. One moment he was there, the next moment there was only the semblance of a shadow, and then even that disappeared. I felt as if I had nothing to hold on to, as if reality meant nothing.

Brahim smiled sadly and turned his face away.

Sometimes when I sit in my cramped room and reflect back on that day, fear overtakes me. I try to put it out with good thoughts. I do aimless things. I avoid the garden. I ask for forgetfulness. I call it resistance to death.

But that fear – it is red, like fire. It burns like pitch.

I can't put it out.

He said this very loudly. He stomped the ground with his peg leg. His fear was real. We looked away.

He smiled again, his despair palpable.

All of this is in my journal, he said, addressing me. How unfair is it that that which took days to write is recounted in a few seconds? And even then, it feels so incomplete, such an approximation of the real thing.

Before I could respond, he added:

But then again, isn't that true of life itself?

Isn't it? he repeated, staring pleadingly in my direction as if seeking reassurance. Then, abruptly, his gaze turned inwards. His voice dropped until we could barely hear him. For a while there was nothing but a secretive whispering. Once or twice he appeared about to speak, but nothing came of it. Finally, just as I was about to intervene, he opened his mouth wide as if to suck in air. We stared at that yawning mouth, fascinated. It was as if the entirety of the Jemaa was contained in its chasm.

He wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

With a slightly defiant smile, he said:

That night, when I heard about her disappearance, I was glad. It was as if the equilibrium of my life had been restored. I threw the windows of my room wide open and let in the fresh air. I heard the sound of many drums. I heard the clamour of police cars from the square. I decided to go down to my sanctuary, the garden. I watched a pack of stray dogs fight over a bone near the fountain. I fell asleep under a datura bush. What else is there to say? I could return to my art with relief again.

That is my confession.