In Arabian Nights (26 page)

Zohra brought in a tea tray, stepped forward and shook Señor
Benito's hand firmly. He raised an eyebrow.

When she had gone, he produced a box of chocolates from his
bag.

'For your children,' he said.

Ariane and Timur, who had been watching from the security
of their playroom, were lured forward by the confectionery.
Ariane had a statue made from Lego in her hands. It was odd-shaped
and multicoloured. Señor Benito presented the
chocolates and asked Ariane what she had made.

'It's a dinosaur,' she said, 'and it's a princess as well.'

'If only adults had the imagination of children,' said Benito.
'Our world would be very different. We would be capable of
much, much more.'

Ariane dropped her dinosaur and the Lego smashed into
many pieces.

'What is it now?' asked Señor Benito.

'It's the sky filled with stars,' she said.

The Italian blew his nose on his fuchsia handkerchief.

'In Europe we are a little embarrassed by a child's imagination,'
he said. 'We see it as something at fault, something to be
corrected, like eyes that need reading glasses to see. And we forget
that it's inside us for a reason.'

'But we've built our world to suit adulthood,' I said.

'Well, if we could go back,' said Benito.

'Back where?'

'To the time before, when we thought like children . . .' He
glanced down at Timur, who was making a pattern out of chocolates
on the floor. 'Imagine what possibilities there would be.'

I poured more tea.

'The imagination of children,' he said. 'It's a kind of programming,
an original setting for humanity. It's inside us all,
asleep.'

If a gem falls into the mud it is still valuable.
If dust ascends to heaven, it remains valueless.

Saadi of Shiraz

THE FIRST NIGHT THAT SEÑOR BENITO STAYED, THE SOUND OF
dogs fighting in the
bidonville
kept us from sleep. Their frenzied
chorus only set off the donkeys, who feared an invisible terror in
the dark. The din was so tremendous that I got out of bed and
went down into the garden. I found Osman there on a ladder,
propped up on the wall. He was shouting ferociously into the
blackness.

'Osman! What's the matter?'

'The noise!' he hissed. 'It's not good.'

'I know, it's keeping us awake,' I said.

'No matter of you, Monsieur Tahir, but the stork . . . we fear
for the stork.'

The following morning, Zohra said dogs barking in the night
meant they had seen death, and donkeys braying was a sign that
the devil was there.

'Tsk! Tsk! Tsk! Tell me you did not hear dogs,' she said.

'But I told you, I did, and I'm sure you did, too.'

'What I hear with my ears is different,' she said.

'Why?'

'Because I can pretend it was a dream.'

Down at the stables, the guardians were calm. The stork had
been insufficiently frightened or insufficiently motivated to fly
away in the night.

'
Alhamdullilah
,' said the Bear. 'Thanks be to God.'

'The stork is already giving us good fortune,' said Marwan,
who was not normally as superstitious as the others.

'What proof is there?'

Osman held up a seed tray peppered with young green shoots.

'Because our seeds are flourishing,' he said.

'They've come up because of the rain,' I replied.

'No, no, Monsieur Tahir, that is not right,' said the Bear.

'Of course it is.'

The guardians fell into line and shook their heads.

'One day you will learn to see as we do,' said Osman.

Señor Benito came down from his room just before eleven. He
said he hadn't heard any sounds in the night.

'I sleep with a metronome beside the bed,' he said distantly.

'Whatever for?'

'It drowns out all noise,' he said.

'Doesn't it keep you awake?'

'On the contrary,' he replied. 'I have done it since childhood
and I would be unable to sleep without it.'

He asked if I would care to join him in the town.

'Where are you going?'

'To see my old friend.'

'Where does he live?'

'It's not a person, but a place,' he said.

We drove down the Corniche, past the palace of the Saudi
royal family, past the lighthouse and the Catholic cemetery, the
great mosque and the port, and turned right into the shadow
world of real Casablanca. The buildings may be dilapidated
beyond belief, but they have a sombre sophistication that's
impossible to match.

Benito suggested I park on Boulevard Mohammed V, the
main drag, built almost a century ago by the French. Back then
it was a showcase of Franco-colonial might and is still lined with
some of the very finest Art Deco buildings ever constructed. We
strolled past the Central Market, down walkways once fitted out
with the most opulent imports from Paris and arrived at a small
restaurant. It was tatty on the outside, not the kind of place one
would ever look at twice. A sign on the outside advertised its
name.

Benito straightened his already straight back.

'Let me introduce my old and very dear friend, Le Petit
Poucet,' he said.

We stepped inside. The ceiling was low, panelled with
painted glass, the windows hung with lace curtains, a time warp
of 1970s decor, when the place must last have been refurbished.
The chairs and tables were solid and plentiful, the clientele nonexistent.
At the back of the salon, a manager was combing a
single strand of hair across a curved expanse of baldness. As soon
as he saw us, he stowed the comb in his top pocket and made a
beeline for the door. He kissed Benito on the cheeks, shook my
hand and gestured to the dining room.

'Your usual table, Monsieur?' he said grandly.

We were led past a low trolley on which an assortment of tired
salad leaves had been artistically arranged and found ourselves at
a corner table, over which was hung a pen-and-ink sketch. The
manager pressed fingertips to the ends of his moustache and
cooed like a turtle dove.

'To see your face again gives me such joy,' he said, 'like the
taste of water on a parched man's lips.'

The Italian thanked him, ran a thumbnail down the list of
white wine and whispered: 'The Muscadet, please, Saad.'

'An excellent choice, Monsieur Benito.'

An instant later, the bottle was in a cooler on a stand. The
cork was removed and a little wine poured into the tasting glass
with much ceremony. Benito swilled the wine round the glass,
then round his mouth. He nodded. The manager filled the
glasses. They clouded with condensation. Benito lifted the stem
in the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, his malachite eyes
staring into mine.

'A toast,' he said. 'To the little pleasures in life.'

We clinked glasses.

'I thought this place shut down decades ago,' I said.

'You know it?'

'Only by reputation. A grocer once described a very fine meal
he had taken here. It's strange, because he suggested it was
closed.'

Benito ran the tip of his finger through the condensation on
the side of his glass.

'Perhaps the man had the power to see into the future,' he
said. 'I think I am the only customer now and I drop in only once
or twice a year.'

'How long have you been coming here?'

Señor Benito stared into his Muscadet.

'Since the glory days of Casablanca,' he said. 'The days when
that street out there was brilliant white and was the centre of the
French empire.' He took a swig of his wine and washed it round
his mouth. 'Back then this room was packed with the European
élite.'

'I heard Edith Piaf lived in Casa at one time,' I said. 'Do you
think she ever came here?'

'Edith: of course, she used to come in with her boyfriend, the
boxer Marcel Cerdan. She liked that table over there.' He
pointed to the back of the restaurant. 'She was one of many.
Albert Camus was a regular, too, and Saint-Exupéry.'

'The one who wrote
The Little Prince
?'

'Yes,
Le Petit Prince.
' He motioned to the wall behind my
head. 'That's a page from his notebook,' he said. 'It's just a photocopy
now, of course. The management sold the original to pay
for a hole in the roof.'

'It's all changed now,' I said.

'Oh, how sad!' exclaimed Benito. 'It makes me weep.'

'When did the glory days end?'

'With the episode of the penis.'

'Penis?'

'In the fifties there was a great deal of unrest, not only here in
Casa, but across Morocco. The French knew their time was
running out and they didn't like the thought of waving goodbye
to all this.'

'What was the episode . . . ?'

'Which?'

'With the penis?'

'Oh, yes, that,' said Benito. 'It was terrible.' He covered his
eyes with a hand and sniggered. 'There were riots and the bodies
were stacking up. We were all shocked because the glory days
were under threat. Then one night some students were eating
down here somewhere at a cheap-and-cheerful restaurant, a
hole-in-the-wall. They ordered the goulash, I think it was.
They'd all chewed their way through the meal, when, as he
was finishing, one of the boys realized that the meat on his
spoon was actually a human penis.'

'Oh my God.'

'I know, it was grotesque. The police raided the kitchens.'

'What did they find?'

'Pots full of human flesh.'

Señor Benito took the afternoon train back up to Tangier and I
went off to buy a bottle of Indian ink. I had found an old-fashioned
stationer's across from the cobbler's shop that stocked
the brand I have used for twenty years. Fortunately, the rather
strict
pied noir
who ran the stationer's appreciated the importance
of fine writing ink. He said that filling a fountain pen
with low-grade ink was like cheap wine – an abomination that
ought to be punishable by death.

As I came out with my bottle of ink, I saw Noureddine
standing outside his shop, the navy-blue hat pulled down
to his eyebrows. My eyes moved from his face, up to the tree and
into its naked branches. The small brown bird was gone. I
crossed, engaged in lengthy greetings and asked about the bird.

The cobbler looked to the sky.

'It flew away,' he said sorrowfully.

'When?'

'A week ago.'

I expressed condolence.

'Who am I to say why good and evil happens?' he said.

I told him about the stork. His eyes lit up and he tugged off
his hat.

'You are a blessed man, Monsieur Tahir!'

Just then I remembered his promise, to tell me his favourite
tale from the
Arabian Nights
. I reminded him.

'
Alf Layla wa Layla
,' he said, the façade of melancholy fading
a little.

'Do you have a moment to tell me the story?'

Noureddine pushed open the shop door and steered me
inside.

'My friend in the tree has flown away,' he said, 'but your visit
is like a hundred little birds singing to me!'

He went into the room behind, ferreted out a grubby old chair
patched with scraps of rubber soles and invited me to sit.

'"Maruf the Cobbler,"' he said. 'To hear it will wash away
your troubles and ease your mind. You will leave my shop
calm like a summer day. And to tell it, ten times the joy will be
showered on me.'

The ancient cobbler asked me if I was comfortable. I said
that I was. He crawled under the counter and locked the door
twice. I closed my eyes and the story began.

'Once upon a time there lived in Cairo a cobbler called Maruf.
He was a good man, God-fearing and honest, and he was
married to a crone, a woman named Fatima. She treated him
very badly and offered him no respect. From morning until
night she complained, scolding him for being a lowly repairer of
shoes.

'Unable to take any more of her unpleasant behaviour, he
fled from his home one morning and ran into the hills. Once
there, he fell into a fit of sadness, begging the higher forces to
save him from the horrifying woman who was his wife. After
ranting for some time, he sank to the ground, overcome
with fatigue.

'Suddenly, he found that a great creature was bearing over
him. It was what we call a Changed One.'

'A jinn?'

'Yes, a jinn,' said the cobbler. 'Seeing Maruf weeping, he cried
out: "I am the guardian of this place, and my name is Abdul
Makan. I am ready to fulfil your command." Hearing the
creature's homage, Maruf got to his feet. He explained his situation
and described his unhinged wife. The apparition ordered
him to climb upon his back. He did so and they flew up into the
sky.

'After many hours of flight, they descended to a magnificent
city. Maruf had no idea where they had put down. He had not
been away from Cairo before. As soon as their feet touched the
ground, the jinn vanished. Maruf realized that he was very far
from home, as all the people there looked Chinese.

'The cobbler's appearance was very different from the
inhabitants' of the town. Soon, a crowd gathered. They threw
stones at Maruf and jeered. He lay on the ground, weeping. But
just then a wealthy-looking man approached. He scolded the
crowd for not treating a stranger with respect, introduced himself
as Ali the son of Ali, and said he would do all he could to
help the impoverished Maruf.

'"This town is called Ikhtiyar," he said. "If you are rich
here, people treat you with respect, and if you are poor, everyone
will shun you. To go from poverty to wealth is almost impossible,
although I myself arrived here a pauper and I have
managed to turn rags to riches. I borrowed a little money from
the merchants in the bazaar, invested it and paid it back as
soon as I could. And I can help you to do the same as I have
done," he said.

'Maruf thanked God for sending Ali his way. Before he knew
it, his new friend had dressed him in the finery of a prince. So
well attired, it was easy for him to borrow money from the
merchants in the bazaar. When they asked why he was so well
dressed but so short of funds, he simply replied that his caravan
laden with riches was delayed en route to Ikhtiyar.

'The difference between Ali and the cobbler was that Maruf
had no understanding of trade. Worse still, the newcomer had
an insatiable streak of generosity. As soon as he had money in his
pocket, he handed it out to all the beggars who approached him.
As the months passed, he borrowed more and more money. And
the more he borrowed, the more he distributed to the poor
and the needy. The money-lenders were calmed by the prospect
of the treasure caravan and were impressed by the stranger's
charity. As they saw it, a man who could squander a sack of gold
on beggars must be worth many thousand times more.