The Storyteller of Marrakesh (4 page)

Mustafa stood his ground. He tapped the two badges on his chest.

Madame gave me these as a reward for being a good boy, he announced with pride.

When Father continued to close in, Mustafa faltered and began to retreat in his turn. He tapped the badges again, this time with an element of panic, in case Father hadn't noticed the first time around. I am now a servant of His Majesty the King, he said, his voice indignant and shrill. The soldier, Shouash, told me that. You can't hit me, Bba!

Father hesitated for the merest fraction of a second before resuming his advance. We'll see about that, he said grimly.

Ahmed had tipped off Mother by this time, and she ran pell-mell into the courtyard and pleaded with Father to desist.

Be quiet, Mabruka! This boy made a fool of me in front of strangers.

Mustafa now had his back to a wall. Trapped, he went down in a crouch as Father towered over him. It was of no use. With a deranged blow that reverberated through the air, Father sent him hurtling across practically the entire length of the courtyard.

I stepped forward inadvertently but Father stopped me with a glare.

Mustafa tottered to his feet, the imprint of Father's hand like a brand on his face. He coughed once or twice and shook his head in a daze. Blood welled out of his mouth. Mother let out a wail, but Father stepped in between. Trembling uncontrollably, my little brother made for the wooden gate and let himself out of the courtyard. When Mother attempted to follow him, Father stopped her with a curt command.

Let him be, he said. It will serve as a useful lesson.

We watched helplessly as Mustafa disappeared behind the line of boulders that ridged the nearest hill. Mother collapsed on her haunches and began to moan. My baby! Oh, my poor little baby!

As Father re-entered the house, Ahmed doubled over and threw up.

I held Mother by the shoulders, finding it difficult to breathe myself.

Mustafa didn't return until late in the evening, and even then he refused to speak to us for days. The red bruise on his face darkened to purple, and then to a mottled black.

That night in the Jemaa, as I watched Mustafa's rapidly disappearing back, I was reminded of that episode from a long time ago. Mustafa vanished into the shadows before I could stop him, and the manner of his departure weighed as heavily on me then as it had on that very different occasion when he was a little boy. I was afraid for him, and didn't feel up to the task of going on with my evening's worth of storytelling.

I surveyed the Jemaa and recalled the acrobat Saïd's warning. Left to myself, I would rather have pleaded inclement health, asked forgiveness from my circle of listeners, and abandoned the square. I might even have gone searching for my errant brother, determined to bring him to his senses.

But I did none of this. Heeding my obligation to my listeners, I willed myself instead to return to my storytelling. I ignored my conscience, which counselled attending to my brother, and became captive to my duties.

And so it was that I found myself talking about the Jemaa in unusually dark terms, portraying her as a woman of great charm, old beyond imagining, but with a young girl's voice and face, a fickle creature, sometimes given to nurturing her children – the inhabitants and itinerants who frequented her open spaces – and sometimes to bringing them great harm and grief.

She is dangerous, I said, but some women are like that: their dark mythology overwhelms them, vanquishing their beauty. Treat them with circumspection, for they are not to be trifled with.

One of my listeners asked me, with some indignation, what mythology I could be referring to. He said: I have come to the Jemaa from my village many times, and each time I've felt enthralled, uplifted. There is something in the air here that is like a tonic. It braces me and leaves me wanting more. So what lies behind this malignant portrait that you choose to paint of her?

I reminded him that until recently the square had been a place for public executions and hangings. Both the guilty and the innocent met their end here, some dying with cries of despair, others with a defiance born of hopelessness. If you listen closely enough, I said, you can still hear their cries echoing across the pavements.

That was a long time ago, he said dismissively. You talk like the government officials who wanted to build a car park here and for a while stopped all meetings and festivities. Go back to your village if you don't like it here. But if you're going to make your money off the Jemaa, at least have the decency to praise it.

I acknowledged his point.

I love the Jemaa as much as anyone else, I said quietly. And as a storyteller, I am more conscious than most of her beauty. Every evening at sunset I observe her as she turns her young girl's face to the setting sun and bathes in its radiance. But I am also aware of her dark side, her failings.

At that moment, I heard a chuckle from the circle of onlookers and beheld my plump friend Mohamed, who owns a fabric shop in the Souk Smarine.

My word, Hassan! he exclaimed. What is the matter with you tonight? You are uncharacteristically morbid. And tonight, especially, I can tell you that your mood is not fitting. For I have witnessed something truly exceptional.

What have you seen? I asked, when he offered no further explanation.

I have seen the two foreigners who have become the talk of the souks, he answered. I have seen them with my own eyes, and they are like angels, gentle and beguiling. So enough of this grim talk. It is time to praise our good fortune this evening.

With that, he stepped out of the crowd and, with a nod at my listeners, asked me if he could relate what he had seen.

Mohamed spoke simply, with a mixture of spontaneity, candour and a disarming naivety that compelled our attention.

What I have to tell you, he began, took place earlier this evening. It was during the quiet hour, when the shops in the souks shutter their stalls and the evening crowds have yet to congregate in the Jemaa. Silence was everywhere. The dust of the day had had time to settle. The last embers of the sun burned quietly.

I had shuttered my stall and was about to set out for the Qessabin Mosque. The neighbouring shops had already closed for the day. The alley was deserted. I put my keys in the pocket of my jellaba and turned to leave.

I had barely taken a step when I froze. There, like an incandescent spark, in a pool of light cast by an opening in the reed-mat roof of the gallery, stood the most wondrous woman I had ever seen. She was like a houri of legend, an angel, a peri. I drank in her luminous eyes, her black mane, her flowing limbs, her smile as fluid as a ripple of wind. My head swam as if under the influence of some intoxicant. I found it difficult to breathe. Stunned by her beauty, I drew back into the shadows and stood quite still.

I have no idea how long the moment lasted. She lingered in that shaft of sunlight like a butterfly, and from somewhere deep within me a voice began singing. I did not call out. I did not attempt to engage her in conversation. I did nothing.

I don't know when it was that a miserable old donkey limped into the alley. It had been savagely beaten: bloody wounds ran down its flanks, and its tethers were swollen. Even I, who am not ordinarily possessed of patience for these dumb beasts, was moved to pity. It swung its head from side to side, spittle flaking its lips, and, before I could react, lurched suddenly towards the peri.

I silently cursed its intrusion and was about to step out of my place of concealment to chase it away when, once again, a surprise arrested me. This child, more beautiful than a bird of paradise, with large, dark eyes and the gentlest of smiles, reached forward and stroked the animal on its wounds and, instead of rearing away, it turned its head towards her and nuzzled her hand.

I watched, lost in contemplation. Her touch was steeped in a tenderness as light as water. Its infinite solicitude moved me. I realized that I had just witnessed an act of compassion, unpremeditated and direct. It was an expression of love, and I saw no evidence of anything other than the impulse to heal. Surely there was nothing enigmatic in this behaviour. It was worthy of emulation. There was nothing there to foster superstition or mystery.

Presently, comforted by the girl's attentions, the animal moved on. She watched it leave, her eyes glistening with tears, then turned to her companion, whom I noticed for the first time. He was well built, his arms strong and muscular, his face thoughtful and genteel. He reached for her hand. I shared in their silence, which had the evanescent quality of a smile. Oblivious to my presence, they stood there for a while before walking away. I bade them a wordless farewell. A cat passed noiselessly across my line of sight. I emerged from the encounter as if from a dream.

Mohamed paused, his voice still full of the sweetness of his experience. He gazed at us one by one and said quietly, his lips scarcely moving: I carried their spell here. When I heard you speak, Hassan, I felt saddened, so I asked your leave to tell my story.

His grey eyes sparkled, and he went on in a louder voice:

Ah, you who are speechless now! Those two strangers are not of our kind, my friends. They are brighter beings. There's a rare innocence to them, a purity. It is through such encounters that the soul drinks its fill. Each of us carries a universe within us, but we must look outward to understand the world and our place in it.

Mohamed lifted his shoulders and looked past us into the square. After a moment's thought, he said: That is all I have to say to you this evening.

I remember how we were all silent that ill-omened evening after Mohamed's impassioned plea.

This memory illuminates the night, I'd acknowledged. It is beyond curiosity or desire. We perceive a stranger as someone different from us, and this woman is profoundly different – that much is clear.

Now I paused for a moment and turned to Mohamed, who was also present in my audience on this occasion, attentively listening to my recapitulation of his role from long ago.

Have I described your intervention that night as it happened? I asked.

He smiled and inclined his head in assent. Indeed you have, Hassan, he said. I couldn't have related it better myself. I was moved by their innocence, and it left me feeling immensely reassured and sanguine.

Very well then, I said, and was about to carry on when another graver, deeper voice interrupted me: It seems to me that you are quilting a story of contradictory instincts.

I turned towards the speaker. He was a Tuareg, one of the “blue men” from the south, his hands and face dyed from years of wearing the indigo weave. Aloof and serene, his demeanour showed that discipline of life which the Sahara requires of all who inhabit it.

With a natural elegance, he removed his
tagilmoust
, the black strip of cloth that, in the manner of his people, veiled his face.

Spreading his hands, he addressed Mohamed, his voice echoing with the sonority of vast desert spaces.

I am sorry to have to say this, my brother, but lovers always exert a strange fascination, and your account concealed as much as it revealed.

Mohamed bristled. What do you mean?

The man looked troubled.

Simply this, he answered. Sometimes our perceptions are twisted by encounters that are beyond our understanding. In listening to you, I must conclude that, moved as you were by their foreignness, you failed to realize the true implications of their presence. I too encountered the two strangers of whom you've spoken so eloquently. I'm afraid the woman made little impression on me, but the beautiful youth accompanying her wore the face of tragedy. Together, they reminded me of the abyss that is existence, and the only way that I can explain what I mean is through an analogy from my own experience.

I will use as my point of departure your comparison of the woman you encountered to a bird of paradise. To illustrate my point, I will speak of a different bird, though one equally resplendent, I think.

You are no doubt familiar with the bald ibis? It is a large bird, black, rather short-legged, with massive wings and a bright-red, down-curved bill. It is clumsy in flight, almost ungainly, and it is only when it is on the ground that its black plumage takes on a metallic purple sheen and gives it a strange kind of beauty. Perhaps that is why our marabout consider it sacred, and we are accustomed to the presence of these frequenters of barren terrain, which, though increasingly rare, are still easy to spot on the cliff sides lining wadis and creeks.

Last summer, a colony of these birds built their nests, as usual, on the sheer cliffs. It was during the time of the annual archery festival for which our village is well known. It is a
moussem
dedicated to the memory of a holy man who died long ago and was fabled for his gift of curing epilepsy. Since the creeks shelter the ibises during the daytime, the archery contests are held only after dark, when the birds return to their nesting grounds high up on the cliffs. Targets of smouldering wood are set up at regular intervals along the banks of the main creek. At a signal, bowmen from all over the Sahel try their skill with burning arrows, an innovation for which our
moussem
is famous.

As far as I am aware, there is no record of an ibis ever falling to a stray arrow. But last summer, things transpired differently. Archers from all over – from the far north, from Tetouan and Chefchaouen and the Rif, and also from the south, from Timbuktu and Oulata and Agadez – had already gathered for the contest when the presence of two dramatically different birds was reported in the ibis colony. They were also ibises – the family resemblance was clear – but much more slender than our resident birds, with longer necks and wings. Most exceptionally, they were bright scarlet from beak to tail, with glossy black wing tips. They left an indelible impression, and even the most hardened sceptics – the veterans of wars and so on – were moved to concede that our humble lives had been elevated by their beauty.

At first, no one knew where they had come from, but one of us, more lettered than the rest, investigated their provenance and declared that they were scarlet ibises, from a distant land across the ocean. Immediately we sensed that they posed a dangerous temptation for the visiting archers. To prevent mishap, we formed a squadron from the ranks of our youth to guard the cliff sides and keep an eye on the scarlet voyagers.

The first three days of the week-long festival passed without incident. Everyone monitored the birds. Even the toddlers rushed to their parents with hourly reports. On the fourth day, however, calamity struck. Only one of the two red birds could be seen. Horrified, we redoubled the contingent of guards and, after hours of deliberation, ordered a search of the contestants' tents. Outraged by what they saw as a flagrant breach of traditional hospitality, the entire contingent from Gourma-Rharous packed up and left. We didn't care. We were determined to protect the remaining scarlet ibis. Our squadron of youthful guards invented new ways to keep it under observation night and day. They patrolled both sides of the wadi, a considerable stream at that time of the year, and some of them even set up a night-long watch on the sand dunes that banked up against the yellow-grey cliffs.

By the penultimate day of the week, we began to relax our guard, for the bird had survived, even though the atmosphere of the archery festival felt compromised. The visiting bowmen were surly and contentious; they clearly resented the surveillance under which we'd placed them.

But it was all to no avail. Despite our precautions, and perhaps with a grim inevitability, the final day of the festival proved catastrophic. It dawned with a sandstorm the likes of which we had seldom experienced. It raged with fury the entire day, driving everyone, including the guards, indoors. One or two brave young souls attempted to venture out, but the lacerating sand defeated their vigilance. Resigned, but also filled with misgivings, we realized that we had no option but to wait out the storm.

Alas, when it died down in the evening to reveal a yellow sliver of moon, the precious bird had vanished. We scoured the rocky cliff sides and the banks of the creeks, but we couldn't find any traces of it. Not a single feather remained to offer a clue to its fate. The bird was gone as ineffably as if it had never existed.

We had no heart for the contest that final night, and the next morning the visiting archers abandoned our village with loud oaths and imprecations, vowing never to return. We watched listlessly as they left. None of us exhorted them to come back the next year. Our age-old festival would never regain its spirit.