The Storyteller of Marrakesh (15 page)

I paused in the midst of telling my story and ran my hand over my beard, marking the moment with the gesture. With my mind still on Mustafa, I gazed at my listeners one by one, taking my time to register their faces. Some of them held my gaze; others, clearly uncomfortable, looked away. Some had distinctive features; some others, less memorable, merged with the shadows and I had difficulty remembering them. Quite appropriately, it was the latter that I found more interesting, for they challenged my abilities as a storyteller, holding my attention until I could fix on some quirk or other before moving on to the next face. And yet, in the end, all that emerged from this prolonged exercise in close observation was a simple conclusion, and it was this. There was nothing in any of them that I could draw on to remind me of Mustafa or highlight as a point of comparison. He was unique in every sense, an entity unto himself.

Mistaking my interminable silence for distractedness, someone in my audience interrupted my ruminations. This is not the time to fall asleep, Hassan! he cried. Go on, keep talking, the night is too cold for lengthy pauses.

Acknowledging his point with a smile, I resumed my story by giving voice to my thoughts. I made my memories visible – but I also went a little further. I articulated the astonishment that I felt every time I contemplated the extent of my brother's incomprehensibleness.

My brother Mustafa, I said, is the most handsome man I've ever met. Unusually fair-skinned for a Berber, tall, wide-shouldered, tousle-haired, with light-coloured eyes and a penetrating gaze, he was the envy of all the men in our village. Even as a child, his looks were legendary. The moment he appeared in public, he became the cynosure of all eyes. Once, when he was six years old or thereabouts, my father discovered him dressed as a pagan god being pulled along atop a narrow cart drawn by eight girls swathed in white sheets. At other times he would pose as a statue in the village square, the object of universal admiration on the part of the women and derision of the men.

By the time he reached puberty, Mustafa was spending so much time attending to his words, his expressions, his gestures, that it became a matter of jest in our family. But one day, when I caught him admiring himself in the mirror while smoking his first cigarette, Father decided that something had to be done. He asked me to accompany the two of them to Marrakesh, to the Jemaa, where he knew of a man from the Sahel, an itinerant Mauri healer, who could cure my brother of his vanity.

This man, whose name was Bassou, was immense, heavyset and entirely bald. He sat on his kilim like an impassive monument, smoking a hookah. After he had exchanged the usual greetings with Father, he summed up Mustafa at a glance. As much to him as to my father, he said: There are vapours in the air which contain impurities, and our bodies are like flypaper which attract and soak up these toxins. In past ages, my ancestors used to address these vapours as jinns and deal with them accordingly. But I am more scientific and believe in keeping up with the latest methods of diagnosis. At a single glance, I can tell you that your son is riddled with a number of complexes which have resulted in his attempting to mask an overriding sense of insecurity with excessive vanity. With your permission, I would like to prescribe a foot bath for him that will provide a thorough and painless purging of his – shall we say – malady. The foot bath will clean his organs, glands, arteries, nerves, muscles, tissues and joints, and remove, in the process, the body's toxins. It will do this by generating a war between good and evil spirits in which the forces of light will vanquish those of darkness by attaching themselves to the impurities and purging them through pores in the feet. I call the process osmosis. It is a scientific term, and you will find it in use in the best hospitals and clinics. Following my treatment, your son will experience a heightened sense of well-being, whose most obvious manifestation will be a healthier attitude towards life and also more energy.

After this impressive peroration, Bassou unrolled a scroll of paper on which were pasted numerous testimonials attesting to the benefits of his technique. They were from grateful patients from all over the Maghreb, and I read out some of them for my father, who was unlettered:

– The eczema on my neck and chest is gone after four baths.

– After years of riding camels, the pain in my scrotum was so bad that I cried every night. Now, after ten treatments, I am able to be a man again.

– My ninety-six-year-old mother had arthritis in both legs which crippled her. Now, after eleven foot baths under your tender care, she is back cooking in the kitchen and doing housework.

– My ten-year-old son is handling his work much better since he started his osmosis treatments. He is less sullen, smiles more often, and no longer complains when he has to wake up at dawn to help me around the farm.

– After two sessions, my wife no longer talks about running away. We are a happy family now and I will return to you when I want to get her pregnant.

Satisfied? Bassou asked Father with a smile.

Satisfied, said my father, highly impressed.

Then it will be twenty dirhams for half an hour's worth of treatment. The usual rate is forty, but for your son, my old friend, it is half price.

Father handed him the money, and we settled down to wait while the healer went to work on my brother. First, he ordered Mustafa to go and wash his feet in a nearby fountain.

Scrub them well, he instructed. I want them spotlessly clean.

Somewhat sulkily, my brother complied and, when he returned, Bassou immersed his feet in a white enamel basin filled with water.

This water has special cleansing properties, he said. It is from the purest mountain springs near Jbel Toubkal peak. I collect it myself when the winter snows melt. There is nothing else like it.

He watched carefully until my brother's feet were flecked with silvery bubbles. Apparently satisfied, he covered the basin with an impervious black tar cloth and turned his attention to some other patients who'd been waiting.

Exactly half an hour later, he returned to my brother and removed the tar cloth with a flourish. He directed our glances to the water in the basin. Father and I craned our necks to see. To our surprise, the water had turned a dirty green.

Your son, said Bassou to my father, has an excess of spleen. Green is the colour of bile, and it is floating around freely in the boy's system instead of being stored. It explains his attitude, and, if it isn't treated now, will lead to his becoming a poseur and an exhibitionist. It's an unusual problem, but I see it more and more in our youth. It must have something to do with the general corruption in the air: television, Western-style cinema and the like. I will give you some minerals in a bag. Use them in four foot baths and he will be cured.

To my brother, he said: After the session you will experience thirst, light-headedness, a slight headache, hunger and the need to rest. You may also experience loose motion for a couple of days. There's no need to worry: these are all normal responses to detoxification. Just make sure to relax, eat fresh food, drink plenty of water and be respectful to your parents. Do you understand?

He paused and gazed at my brother with a benevolent smile.

As if in response, Mustafa, who had been staring fixedly at the green water swilling around his feet, suddenly leant over his knees and vomited directly into the basin.

Merde!
the healer cried out in French, all dignity forgotten as he sprang to his feet with an alacrity I wouldn't have believed possible in a man of his bulk.

I fffeel wweak, Mustafa managed faintly.

A few years later, when I visited my brother in Essaouira, we recalled the incident and burst into laughter. At the time, Mustafa was living in a rented room in the working-class Chbanat district, near the Bab Doukkala entrance to the medina. It was a small room without windows, and with a door opening into the well of a gloomy courtyard. The furniture was spartan. The bed sagged in the middle, the sheets were patched and worn and, as far as I could tell, Mustafa possessed only two things of his own: his leather-craft tools – he was just beginning to make the lanterns and lamps that would form the basis of his future shop – and his handmade
bendir
drum. An inverted wooden crate next to the bed served as his work table.

One evening, Mustafa invited me to meet his friends who played in his drum circle. Their sessions were held in a tiny drum shop located below the battlements of the Sqala de la Ville, a cannon-lined sea bastion overlooking the Atlantic. It was already late in the evening when we arrived, and Mustafa introduced me to his friends one by one: Saad, Abdou, Farid, Mbarek, Khalid, Lahcen, Bouchaib, Abdeljalil. They were mostly young men his age, barring Omar, the owner of the shop, who was also the leader of the drum circle. The room, which was barely eight feet square, was lined with an impressive array of percussion instruments behind which the boys had taken up stations. There were
jembes
and tam-tams,
bendirs
and talking drums,
doumbecs
and
darbukas
,
tars
and
taarijas
,
guedras
from Goulimine and handheld Gnaoua
deffs
. Musical names, musical sounds. From hooks on the damp-stained walls hung an assortment of metal castanets,
karkabats
and various kinds of cymbals played with rods. I sat cross-legged on the floor in what appeared to be the only free corner of the room while my brother, to my surprise, placed a massive, deep-voiced
jembe
between his thighs and, at a signal from his leader, led the plunge into the first song.

Moments later, a foreigner arrived and, slipping back the hood of her jellaba, revealed herself to be a woman. I stared at her, scandalized, but it was in the middle of the song, and I didn't think it polite to interrupt, even when she seated herself next to me, forcing me to edge away as far as possible. I was still taking her in when two more foreigners entered. Once again they were both female, but dressed in Western clothes this time. Finally, a statuesque blonde in jeans and a battered sheepskin jacket entered, completing the ensemble and compounding my confusion. On the one hand, it was difficult to resist the hypnotic rhythms of the drums, and, on the other, the tiny room seemed to produce foreign women by the minute. I had never experienced anything like it.

Much to my chagrin, there was no pause between the songs, thereby giving me no time to speak to Mustafa. I simply sat there rooted to my spot. By the third song, the first girl – whose name was Xaviera and who I later learnt was French – and the blonde in jeans – who was Dutch – had both taken up drums, and I had to concede that they played as well as any of the men. The blonde, especially, thrust her
guedra
drum between her legs, and as her hands flew up and down, I noticed that they were red and callused from many years of playing. But she was oblivious to my gaze. As much as her neighbours, she'd lowered her head and was going at the drum as if in a frenzy. The very battlements seemed to throb.

At length, there was a pause in the music, and it allowed me to catch my brother's eye. We went outside, to the courtyard, where a thick mist was rolling in from the sea, and the air had taken on a brackish taste.

What's the matter, Hassan? Mustafa asked. They're bringing out the kif in there, and we're going to miss out. It's the very best quality; Omar gets it directly from his Spanish contacts in Melilla.

I was barely able to speak.

I have no intention of either smoking kif, I said, or going back inside. Have you lost your mind? Those women are stripping down to their T-shirts! I can see their bare shoulders, smell them sweating like swine. Have they no shame? Have you no shame? How could you bring me here?

Mustafa protested my accusations.

They are lost in the moment, Hassan, dwelling in the music. The last thing on their minds is their dress. Surely you, of all people, must know that kind of possession?

I know nothing of the kind, I retorted. Do you find me taking off my clothes when I tell my stories? I've never heard of anything so ridiculous!

Mustafa took a couple of steps back and measured me coolly with his eyes. My mortification seemed to have left him unmoved. We gazed at one another in silence until, at length, he spoke in a dangerously soft voice.

My poor provincial puritan, he said with a pitying smile. Wake up and smell the coffee.

I stared at him in bewilderment.

What is that supposed to mean? I asked.

It's an American saying. It means welcome to my world.

What world? I don't know what to say to you.

He held my gaze for a long moment, then suddenly seemed to lose patience.

Very well, have it your own way then, he said. You're proving yourself a narrow-minded misogynist incapable of understanding, let alone empathy. The music is what brings these women here, believe it or not; they are genuinely interested in drumming. But I will tell you what you want to hear. These women are not like the girls back home, that much must be obvious. They are here by choice, and they are – how do they themselves put it? – consenting adults. In other words, they know what they're doing. And I am not oblivious to their charms. For instance, the two Americans, Shania and Johanna, are sisters, and want to bed me; the French girl, Xaviera, wants to marry me; while the blonde from Amsterdam doesn't know what she wants. So which one do you fancy? Just tell me, and I'll set it up.

Repulsed, I lurched back and collided against the half-open door on which was pinned a colourful poster of some skinny black man with matted locks. In an attempt to regain my balance, I clutched at a corner of the poster and managed to rip it in half.

My God! Mustafa whispered as he gazed in horror at my handiwork. What have you done?

Why? I said savagely. Is this your new idol? Someone those hippies worship? Have you forgotten that you are Muslim?

You idiot! My religion has nothing to do with it. That's Bob Marley, the reggae king. Omar reveres him. Now he will have my hide!

As much as his sentiments, it was the crudity of his language that devastated me. I lost my head and replied in kind.

You called me an idiot! Have you no respect for the fact that I am, after all, your older brother? Where are your manners? Or have you forgotten them in that pigsty with your foreign whores?

Oh, screw you, Hassan! I am so sick of your ceaseless pontificating! If you can't accept the way I live, then why don't you just go back to where you came from?

We glared at each other with mutual loathing, though my own feelings were not unmixed with despair. I wanted to slap him across the face but managed not to, recognizing that it would simply make a bad situation worse. So we each paced around the circular courtyard until, with a shrug of his shoulders, Mustafa signalled that he was going back inside. I watched him leave without speaking. There was a bitter taste in my mouth. I lowered my eyes and walked away with a heavy heart, but not before my brother had remembered to dart back out and give me the key to his room.