The Storyteller of Marrakesh (16 page)

These were my thoughts during that ill-fated night on the Jemaa as I resumed my search for my brother. It was the first time in my life that I had cut short a storytelling session, but I felt I had no alternative. My continual distractedness had soon passed into an agitated state that so interfered with my concentration that, more than once, I found myself pausing because I simply could not remember what thread in the story to pick up, and why. Cursing my brother under my breath, I drew on all my reserves to remain calm and not get angry, for there is no catharsis to anger, only a self-defeating corrosiveness. And somehow I sensed that I would need all my wits about me that night.

On the square, things were far from calm. The rumours swirling around the two foreigners, especially those concerning the rare and dazzling beauty of the woman, had infused the air with an excitement uncommon even by the frenetic standards of the Jemaa. Of my brother, however, there was no sign, and as I made a quick circuit of the square, I began to feel more and more perturbed. It unsettled me, and I decided to seek out my friend the henna artist Dounia, who, along with her eight daughters, usually knows more than anyone else about the goings-on in the square.

Dounia was at her usual place, near the nut-roasting stalls at the northern end of the Jemaa, a location she preferred because it enabled her to work in the light of the massive braziers that lined the entrance to the adjacent potters' souk. We greeted each other, and she offered me some strong mint tea but gathered almost immediately from my troubled expression that something was amiss. When I explained that I was searching for my brother, one of her daughters immediately pointed me to the Qessabin Mosque where, she said, she had seen Mustafa enter about twenty minutes earlier.

My brother went into the mosque? I said, unable to believe my ears.

He ran there all the way from Mahi's ice-cream shop, she said excitedly. That was where I heard he'd had a run-in with a couple of foreigners.

How do you know that? I asked in wonder.

Because she applied henna on the woman's hand shortly afterwards, another of Dounia's daughters said with a laugh.

Yes, yes, I painted a fish on her left hand and an eye on her right to ward off evil spirits. You will recognize my marks. She was beautiful, and very kind. We talked while I worked, and she told me about what had happened at Labes. That brother of yours! He's mad.

Aren't my daughters wonderful? Dounia said with an indulgent laugh. Come to us for news of the world. We have eyes and ears everywhere.

I must go and find my brother now, I said, and got up to leave.

Give him my regards, Dounia called out after me. And tell him to get a hold of himself. There is a line between the infidels and our kind that must not be crossed. Besides, it's bad for business.

I acknowledged her advice with a wave of my hand.

The entrance to the mosque was a few paces from Dounia's stall, and I removed my footwear and went inside. The prospect of yet another argument with my pigheaded brother disconcerted me, especially in a place of worship, and even as I regretted the secular matter that had brought me here, I silently recited a prayer as I looked around and immediately felt calmer.

Alas, my brother was not in the mosque. Both disappointed and relieved, I slipped out and decided to rest for a moment and take stock of the situation. I sat down on a bench in the narrow alleyway behind the mosque. To my left, I could smell the meat cooking in the
tanjia
stalls; the glare from their acetylene lamps cast long shadows that fell just short of where I was. To the right, the alley was deserted and no longer suffused with the daytime banter of traders and artisans. I glanced in that direction and, as I did, I caught a fleeting glimpse of Mustafa moving towards the square. He seemed headed for the centre of the Jemaa, where a
rwai
ensemble from the Souss Valley had just commenced their performance around a bonfire. I heard the lively opening notes of their single-stringed fiddle, the
rabab
. The leader of the group, the
raïs
, was calling out for an audience in a high, piping and surprisingly penetrating voice. I saw people swarming there like ants. The
rabab
began playing the instrumental prelude, the
astara
.

By the time I reached the
rwai
, the
raïs
had begun singing the
amarg
, the poem that held the performance together, but I was no longer listening. I sought my brother, when my eyes fixed on the couple standing across from me with the reddish-yellow light of the bonfire illuminating their faces. I didn't need an introduction to know who they were. I couldn't take my gaze off the woman. That she was beautiful there could be no doubt. She was taller than I'd heard her described, with clear ivory skin and wavy, dark hair. There was a seriousness to her, an air of gravity, but also a vulnerability, a naivety, that took me aback. It was that quality of ingenuousness, of the child latent in the woman, that left an indelible impression on me. She stood motionless, taking no notice of her surroundings but looking straight ahead, her entire attention focused on the musicians.

The circle of listeners began to move to the infectious
rwai
rhythms. In no time at all, I found myself next to her. She smiled at me and went back to watching the performers. One of the musicians invited her to sit on a low chair, but she declined. The lutes came on, followed by the drums.

During a lull in the song, she turned to me and asked in Arabic if I could tell her what they were singing about. I cannot follow their language, she said. It must be a Berber tongue.

It is, I replied. They are singing in Tashilhait, a Berber dialect. The song is about Isli and Tisli, the legendary young lovers who were prevented from being together and filled up two lakes with their tears. The lakes do exist, I added, on a plateau north-east of Imilchil, high up in the Atlas Mountains. Every year, there's a marriage fair there. It's famous. You must go sometime.

Oh, but I am already married, she said, and laughed. Thank you anyway. I will mention it to my husband.

May I ask you your name, Madame?

It's Lucia, she said, but before she could say any more, the music interrupted her, the circle of onlookers began to move once again, and we were separated.

Soon afterwards, I found myself standing next to her husband. I studied him through the corners of my eyes. As if aware of my scrutiny, he glanced at me and nodded. He seemed a pleasant young man, dark-complexioned and relatively innocuous, and I tried hard to understand why he had affected my brother Mustafa the way he had. At that moment, he turned to gaze at his wife and his eyes lit up with a glow that startled me with their brilliance. It made his glasses seem like an affectation, as if by wearing them he sought to conceal a natural vivacity of spirit behind a mature, more sober façade.

Once again, there was a lull in the music, and I decided to take advantage of it to engage him in conversation. For one, I wanted to hear what his voice sounded like.

In my rudimentary English, I said: I hope you won't mind my asking, Monsieur, but are you Muslim?

His response was non-committal. Why do you ask? he said casually. Because of my beard?

Well, not entirely; as you may already have noticed, it is not the fashion in Morocco to wear beards, yet we are a Muslim nation.

I am not religious, he said shortly. I am a writer.

I laughed.

Indeed? So am I. I too make a living from telling stories.

That caught his attention. He turned to look at me directly. We held each other's gaze for a moment before he glanced away to where his wife was standing and gave an enigmatic smile.

Just then the music resumed, putting an end to our conversation.

Soon he stood across from me and that gave me time to study him further. Everything about him seemed to be in a low key. His clothes were simple, yet of impeccable taste, their very modesty enhancing their elegance. It led me to wonder if it was precisely that element of cool unobtrusiveness that made him impossible to define. At the same time, it became increasingly clear to me that he was oblivious to the danger in these surroundings.

The next time we were together, I reached over and grasped him by the arm. Speaking rapidly and urgently, but also lapsing into Arabic without realizing it, I said:

Monsieur, you shouldn't be here tonight and neither should your wife. You are serving as a magnet for the worst possible elements here. Please take her and leave this square before some mishap overtakes the two of you. That is the truth. I am frightened for you.

He freed his arm from my grasp and moved away with a shrug. It was then that I realized that I'd spoken in a language he couldn't understand. He walked over and stood next to his wife. I saw her look at him questioningly, and he tapped his forehead gently, twice.

What happened next was entirely predictable, but the rapidity of it took even me by surprise. A group of thuggish-looking men elbowed him aside and surrounded his wife. Before either one of them could react, an army of hands had reached forward to grasp at her. I glimpsed hands sliding across her breasts, cupping her hips, stroking her thighs. She froze, her eyes widening in shock and fear. Then she jerked away and stumbled towards her husband. It was a moment of shame. They staggered back from the crush.

Can shame be erased? Can it be expunged? Or does the memory live with us for the rest of our lives?

I raised these questions in a conversation with my closest friend, Nabil. At the time of my story, Nabil was the head waiter at the Argana, the famous restaurant which faces the square. He is a Berber from a village in the Tafilalt, in the Oued Ziz Valley, one of the most beautiful oases in the northern Sahara. What brought him to Marrakesh is a story in itself, and I will tell it later. But for now, in response to my questions, Nabil raised some of his own.

What is your first emotion upon encountering the Jemaa, Hassan? he asked. Isn't it excitement? An excitement of the senses? Come now, admit it. In other words, it appeals to your sensuality. But I will go even further and suggest that the Jemaa, especially at night, is all about unadulterated sensuality. It is the nature of the place. Why introduce shame into it?

I don't think it's as simple as you make it seem, I countered. It's more complicated.

Of course, it must seem more complicated to you, Nabil answered with a smile, but that's because you're a storyteller. You enhance reality with your own mythologies.

My own mythologies?

Yes, yes, mythologies. Have you ever asked yourself where your stories come from? They are nothing other than the result of your own preoccupations, obsessions, fantasies.

I will have to think about that, I said with a frown.

Take as much time as you need, he replied. Personally, I do not think the matter has a clear resolution, but I can well understand your fascination with the two foreigners, believe me. I myself have yet to come to terms with the full implications of my own meeting with them that evening.

The moment they walked in, Nabil said, I knew something was wrong. We'd closed the restaurant about twenty minutes earlier, but it was still brightly lit inside and the doors weren't locked so there was no way they could have known we weren't open. Indeed, two young busboys were just then rolling an empty barrel of olive oil towards the doorway so that they had to step aside to let them pass.

I hurried over to them, sensing from their ashen faces that they needed a sanctuary. The man was very correct, even in that situation. He must have intuited that we were closed, for he offered to leave if that was the case, but I reassured him.

In that case, he said, speaking with urgency, may we have a table as far away from the square as possible?

I led them to a table at the back of the restaurant, where they wouldn't be seen. I chose a narrow space that would protect them from the Jemaa's boundlessness. As I drew back her chair, I noticed that her hands were shaking violently. I looked away so as not to embarrass her and busied myself in pouring water. She drank, but some of the water spilt onto the tablecloth. He apologized on her behalf, and I sensed that it would be a while before she was able to attend to such niceties herself. For the moment, she simply sat there silently, with a shadow over her face. It was clear that they needed time to themselves, and I excused myself.

I hurried back to the front door and looked out at the Jemaa. The air had filled with the smell of burning leaves. There was a huge bonfire in the middle of the square. The smoke resembled a tinctured pitchfork undulating in the breeze. It swayed like some malevolence come to life, snapping out a long tail and lashing at the assembled crowds.

Far to the west, beyond a reef of crimson clouds, a red stroke of lightning blazed soundlessly. It made the shadows of the souks bang against the stones of the square. Closer by, I heard a drunken laugh and spotted a man taking a leak in front of the Argana. I told him to get lost and he slapped his thighs and laughed again. Red clouds, red moon, red laughter. I marvelled at the Jemaa's thousand guises and bolted the doors to the restaurant.

When I returned to the couple's table, the man rose to his feet and expressed his gratitude for my consideration in letting them stay.

Thank you for accommodating us, he said. It's clear you had closed for the night.

I said: Here on the Jemaa we open when we like and close when we like. It isn't like London or Paris; there are no fixed hours. The Jemaa has its own rhythms and they change from day to day. Nothing is set in stone and everything is open to negotiation. Otherwise what pleasure would there be to being here? So: welcome to the Argana, and I hope we can make up for whatever it was that you experienced on the square.

My words seemed to provoke a reaction from his motionless companion. She tilted her head to one side and stared at me for a long time without saying anything. Her smoke-coloured eyes shocked me with their intensity. It made me uncomfortable and, unable to hold her gaze, I looked away.

When she finally spoke, her voice was pitched so low that I had to ask her to repeat herself.

I had expected more of Maghrebin chivalry, if not hospitality, she said.

That struck close to the bone, and I flushed fiercely.

There are people out there on the square who are hopelessly confused, Madame. It causes them to act in shameful ways. I hope you will not see them as representative of our culture, which is very different.

She studied me closely. I could tell that she was making up her mind about whether or not to trust me. At length, she said:

What confuses them?

I mulled over an appropriate response, then decided to be blunt, if only to help her comprehend what had happened and thereby avoid a recurrence of the incident.

I said: What confuses them is your beauty. To them it is a temptation, but also terrifying.

Terrifying?

Yes, terrifying in its totality, its nakedness. Forgive me if I am too frank, but against the night you are
aryana
, as naked as the sun, and those who seek out the darkness will be attracted to you almost despite themselves.

Her face grew sad, then hard, with a bitter line to the mouth. A vertical furrow appeared between her brows.

That is elegantly put, she said, but it doesn't take away from what was done to me this evening. And it doesn't take away from the hundred pairs of eyes that were trained on us like guns, tracking our every move across the square.

She paused and, in a gentler voice, said:

Do you have anything more to add?

Nothing, Madame, except to caution you against visiting the Jemaa this late at night. Come back in the daytime. There, in the middle of the sun-drenched square, you can experience all the deep memories of the place, its magical gestures, simple and at the same time majestic, immemorial. But not after dark, never after dark.

She was silent for a while. Then she looked at me with composure and straightened her back.

That is unfortunate, she said calmly, because I do intend to return there tonight. The music moves me, and I want to hear it in its natural surroundings. It's why we are here. There is no equivalent in the daytime. So there you have it. We are going back.

I lowered my eyes and turned away. I feared for her safety and, clearly, it showed on my face. I also wondered if she sensed how beautiful I thought she was. For the first time in my life, I cursed the twisted nature of the Jemaa, its Janus face.

Her husband shifted in his chair, staring past us in the direction of the square. I followed his gaze. Quick shadows crossed the window panes. The Jemaa was speckled with bonfires and torches.

There was absolute silence inside the restaurant. Outside, we could hear the sounds of the drums, along with the usual medley of cheers, clapping, catcalls.

Her husband stirred and looked away from the windows.

Speaking almost to himself, he said: Sometimes one is grateful when a new crisis occurs; it takes the attention off the previous one, which may be preying unhealthily on the mind.

I couldn't tell if his words were addressed to me. I was about to ask, when he reached across the table and held his wife's hand. Slowly he stroked her long fingers, her palm, her wrist. This time quite clearly speaking to her, he said: When the big things in life seem out of control, then control over the smaller things assumes inordinate importance.

She looked calmly and steadily at him. Though she had her profile to me, I could see that her eyes and thick lashes were clouded with tears.

We must go back, I heard her say.

He drew her near him and continued to stroke her hand. She sat with her legs crossed, motionless, her head resting on his shoulder. They both gazed straight ahead of them at the darkness of the square. Their absorption was so complete that I had the sense they had forgotten my presence.

She snuggled closer to him.

How far is the desert from here? she asked.

Not far at all, my love. It's always present here, he said.

Some say it is fathomless, like the bottom of an ocean.

Desert sunrises and sunsets are the most beautiful in the world, or so I've heard, when the crimson light washes over the dunes, the white rock faces.

She gazed steadily at him.

It's certainly a temptation, isn't it?

He appeared to concur by inclining his head.

Perhaps over time one becomes part of the desert itself, he said, a mere shadow, without substance.

They continued to gaze out. He turned her wrist over and I glimpsed the angry weal of a scar across her veins.

At length, as if recalling that they were not alone, he glanced at me and smiled apologetically.

Thank you for caring about what becomes of us, he said. But don't worry, we are capable of taking care of ourselves. We'll be leaving in a moment.

I realized that I'd been dismissed. I bowed my head in acknowledgement and withdrew with sadness. My last sight of them was of their sitting at that table side by side, not as if they were two separate worlds but as if they were fused into a single entity, indivisible.