The Storyteller of Marrakesh (12 page)

I was about to continue when I found myself interrupted. I have something to say, a feminine voice blurted out. May I have permission to speak? It might be important.

The matronly peasant who spoke these words flushed fiercely when she saw our faces turn towards her. She was dressed in a voluminous and somewhat faded
fouta
, the traditional scarlet-and-white-striped garment native to the women of the Rif mountains. She seemed out of place in the Jemaa, and I wondered what she could be doing here, especially this late at night.

My dear sister, I said, you are certainly very far from home. What brings you to the south?

A child's hot tears, she said. My son and daughter-in-law live in Marrakesh and they both work during the daytime. So I am here to take care of their first-born, my grandson. But that is not why I spoke up. I have something to share with you about that ill-fated night on the Jemaa.

You were there? I asked, taken aback.

Yes, yes, she affirmed, at the time I was employed in the hotel where they'd put up, across from the Koutoubia Mosque.

She spoke Tarifit, the language of the Rif region, rapidly, with a thick rural accent and in staccato bursts, as if her speech couldn't keep up with her memory and she was anxious to communicate all the details before she forgot them.

I was the night maid, she said. They were staying in room fourteen, on the second floor, which overlooks the boulevard. The faucet in their bathroom wasn't working, and the manager had sent me up with a bucket of water. I knocked on the door and they asked me to enter. The young lady was lying face down on the bed. She seemed out of sorts. I think she might have been crying. I tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, slipping into the bathroom with my bucket. That is the way it is with hotel work: you try to be invisible to the guests so that they are not disturbed by your presence. But even though the two of them spoke in low voices, I caught the gist of their conversation. They had had a disagreement and I gathered that it had to do with her wanting to return to the Jemaa that night and his being against it. They were both holding firm, neither one of them willing to compromise.

When I re-entered their room, preparing to leave, she was standing before the mirror and wiping off her mascara which had smeared. She looked unhappy but determined, and I had the sense that she wasn't used to having her wishes contradicted.

Well, you know, she was saying, what's the use of fear? Can't you hear the drums? They are calling out to us, and if we don't respond, it will be as a kiss that isn't returned. So I am going, and it's up to you whether you want to come with me. If you refuse, you're not a gentleman.

I must say that he was a true gentleman. He tipped me ten dirhams for my efforts, which was much more than I could have expected, and held the door open for me as I stepped out into the corridor.

As I walked away from their room, I reflected on how strange it had been to encounter them like that: two young, vibrant people caught between love and despair. And that is what I told the police when they came around looking for clues the next morning. They searched the room but, as one of them confessed to me, they themselves did not know what they should be looking for. By that time room fourteen had already stood vacant for many hours, like the plume of dust that remains on the desert horizon long after the caravan has vanished.

Gathering from her words that she had finished, I thanked her for having taken the initiative and asked if, by any chance, she had seen our friend Taoufiq's portrait of the woman in the room.

She nodded her head vigorously.

I was just about to tell you about it. I noticed it leaning against the mirror as I left the room. That's why I thought it important to speak up and establish the proper chronology of events.

The proper chronology of events? I repeated after her, bemused. That sounds quite technical. Did the police talk about that when they visited the hotel?

Oh no, they had nothing to do with it, she said, laughing. But I'm an avid watcher of the crime programmes on television, especially the Egyptian one featuring the middle-aged female detective. Every time it is like a window into human wickedness.

I regarded her simple Berber face, shining with enthusiasm, and had to admit to myself that, for once, I was at a loss for words.

A commotion from a distant corner of the square saved me from the need to respond. It came from the direction of the boulevard, past the Place Foucauld, where the Rue Moulay Ismail intersects with the Avenue el-Mouahidine. As we tried to make out what was going on, someone approached rapidly from that direction. We stopped him and asked what had happened.

There was an accident, he explained, a collision between a tour bus and a motorcycle. The driver of the motorcycle, a policeman, was killed instantly.

Did you catch his name? I asked.

Mokhtari, the man answered. He was a sergeant on the Jemaa beat. A real bastard, if you don't mind my slandering the dead, but I'm a trader in the souk and he made our lives miserable.

His revelation burned a hole in the night. We turned as one in Khadija's direction, but it was as we should have expected. She had left only moments before, her place was empty.

At this juncture, little Aisha, Azziza's daughter, interrupted the uneasy silence by asking the erstwhile hotel maid if she knew what had happened to Taoufiq's painting.

The old woman answered the question with her usual rushed enthusiasm.

Oh, the police took it with them, child. They wrapped it up with an air of triumph as if they had found the one who had disappeared instead of her mere image. After they'd left, I flung open the shutters and let in the light. In the street outside, life was going on as usual. I remember everything as if it were yesterday. A truck filled with fresh loaves had pulled up in front of the neighbouring bakery. A man was nearly run over crossing the street. And a little further down, the muezzin of the Koutoubia Mosque began calling the faithful to prayer.

She paused and regarded Aisha with humour.

Have I answered your question? she asked.

Aisha nodded vigorously, with an effervescent, toothy smile, while I stepped forward, ruffled her hair, and addressed my audience.

My middle brother, Ahmed, I said, is a
maalem
, a master craftsman of
zellij
, those inimitable mosaics of handmade enamel tiles. There is a discipline to his craft that is akin, in many ways, to storytelling. Perhaps that is why I am always reminded of him when I tell my stories. Watching him work, I have marvelled at the fact that all his designs are based around the same three patterns – geometric, epigraphic and floral – with the sole variation coming in the placement of the tiles. Rectangles fit together to constitute chequerboards; circles and semicircles interlace into rosettes and arabesques. It is a craft dedicated to symmetry and repetition, the aim being to preserve the mathematical integrity of the motif. Ahmed likens it to the harmony of body and spirit achieved through certain forms of Sufic meditation. Settling into a deep, rhythmic breathing pattern, he cuts the tiles with a steel hammer, often making the incision with a single sharp blow of uncanny accuracy.

Ahmed is the pragmatic one in the family, cautious but determined. Early on in life, he decided not to follow in Father's footsteps. The first time he told me, I refused to believe him. I was fourteen years old at the time, he was twelve. It was a bright, sunny day, filled with the sounds of birds and rushing mountain streams. The spring snows were melting. We had set out to visit our friend Jalal, who was tending sheep in the valley's upper reaches. By the time we reached the place, we were both winded. We paused to admire a laurel grove exuberant with pink blossoms. Carried away, Ahmed lay down on the damp ground, his face to the sky. Gazing at the sun with narrowed eyes, he told me he didn't want to be a storyteller, he wanted to be something else altogether.

What do you have in mind? I asked.

Oh, I don't know! he said impatiently. I just don't want to tell stories. You know how much I hate talking. I'd be miserable in that line of work.

You're too young to be thinking that far ahead, I said dismissively. Perhaps we ought to have this conversation in another year's time, but not right now.

He turned on his side and gazed at the pink and green chequerboard around him.

It's beautiful, isn't it? he said. So orderly, so restful to the eye. Doesn't it remind you of
zellij
tile-work?

It's very pretty, I agreed.

Do you think there's money to be made in
zellij
?

Do you mean as a
maalem
?

Yes.

Oh, I'm sure there is. It's a respectable trade.

He seemed to forget my presence for a moment, then sat up excitedly. That's it then! he exclaimed. I know what I want to do with my life. I'll teach myself how to make
zellijes
.

It takes years of training, I pointed out.

He examined his hands through half-closed eyes.

Do you think I can carry it off, Hassan? Do you think I can master the craft? In Marrakesh, I've heard the
maalems
talk about it. They have their own names for the patterns: inverted tears, hen's feet, heifer's eyes. It's like poetry, isn't it? – only better.

Gazing at the polychromatic mosaic of petals, he said, almost wistfully: No matter what, I want to work with my hands.

I stared at him, moved by his enthusiasm but not knowing what to say in reply.

We had a similar exchange six years later when, faced with his stubborn determination, my father and I found ourselves constrained to remind him that we were Berber tribesmen from the Atlas Mountains, and where we lived there was no native tradition of
zellij
tile-making. It was an aristocratic craft, a feature of the great northern palaces. Personally, I didn't care for it: I found it too busy, too ornate. And, as I tried to stress, it wasn't part of our culture. Even in our biggest city, Marrakesh, the emphasis was on much more spartan lime-based surfaces, whether of the rougher, pounded kind, or
dess
, or of the smoother sort, or
tadelakt
, used in wealthier residences. In other words, if he was serious about his ambition, he would have to leave us and go north, to Fès, the centre of
zellij
craftsmanship.

He listened to me with his bare feet sticking out of his trouser legs. All around him the heat of the sun reflected off whitewashed lime floors and walls. I praised the virtues of that kind of simplicity but he merely heard me out with indifference.

I suppose I'll just go to Fès then, he said, and that was that.

Father was apoplectic. You want to go and live among those gentrified Arabs! They're all about money; they have no culture!

Ahmed laughed. They have more culture than you could dream of, Father, and you know it.

He returned to his room, rolled up his belongings in a bundle, said goodbye to us, and walked out into the sunlight. A few steps behind him followed his dark, skinny dog.

Mother cried bitterly that night, bereft at losing her second son. My father went around stony-faced for days. In the evenings he'd turn up the volume on the wood-panelled radio but between bouts of reports on army exercises it spat only static. I placed a pot of mountain daisies in Ahmed's room, but they died soon after of inadequate light.

When Ahmed visited us a few months later, I asked him about his dog. I'd been fond of that little creature, sad to see her go.

The dog? he said ruefully. She ran away somewhere on the way to Fès. But I'll get another one soon enough, a pure-bred this time.

Years later, when we were older and both well settled, we would still carry on the discussion about our respective trades. By that time, Ahmed had not only worked his way through the various stages of apprenticeship, he'd made a name for himself as a reputable
maalem
, going so far as to receive an award for his expertise in laying the tile-work for the fountains in the giant mosque in Casablanca named after His Majesty the King. We were all proud of him, but I didn't know what to make of his need to praise his craft at the expense of mine.

In one of his letters to me, he wrote:

Storytelling is a cruel talent, haunted by ghosts and spirits. I would like to do something else with my life, something more realistic and meaningful.

I wrote back:

I reject your criticism because only love can grasp and fairly judge any form of art. You can be fair in your assessments only if you are committed to understanding without judging.

He replied immediately, in a lengthy telegram:

I would at least like to leave a mark that is permanent. People visit the places where I have laid
zellij
and admire my handiwork. I know that it will give pleasure for ages to come. I could never tell stories day after day and watch my words dissipate into thin air. Where is the satisfaction in that? Where is the necessary smell of fire and kiln and clay? Where is the glory of a victorious struggle over matter? Empty air is not an adequate substitute. Nor, for that matter, are echoes. It's the difference between reality and artifice. Your work is a mirage. That is the impossible truth. When a man lives out his entire life telling stories, reality disappears and something else appears in its place: a random collection of details reworked by the imagination.

I resisted the temptation to reply in a telegram. I couldn't afford the gesture, for one. But in the letter I sent him, I wrote: Even your work is a fiction, my dear brother, if only you would have the humility to admit it.

His response:

Where is the fiction in my work?

My answer:

Your belief in its permanence. The next time you are in Marrakesh, visit the rubble of the El Badi Palace, considered incomparable in its time, and recall the remark made by the court jester to his emperor that it would make a great ruin.

I waited for his reply, but it was several months before he retrieved the thread of our correspondence. During the interval, he'd moved from Fès to Meknès and set up his own business there. He became the first member of my family to live in a brick house. My parents visited him and, on his return, my father said, with more than a trace of irony: Prosperity has conquered my son.

In his next letter to me, in which he enclosed a photograph of his house, Ahmed wrote:

Do you remember what I said about
zellij
a long time ago? I compared it to poetry, but deemed it even better. Well, Hassan, that assessment still stands.

My reply:

Why compare, my brother? Poetry is everything that you find sublime. The sublime is what gives you pleasure. The rest is nothing but fleeting emotions. Be happy with your art, as I am with mine, and let us share in each other's happiness.

I agree wholeheartedly, he wrote in response, but then he felt the need to add: I've just added a third story to my house. Naturally, the floors and the walls are covered in
zellij
up to shoulder height. I ought not to be writing this, but it is some of my best work. There are places where the geometry of the panels gives rise to uncanny optical illusions. A friend of mine who teaches mathematics compares it to fractal patterns, even though I have no idea what that means. Amina, my wife, says it gives her headaches, but shows it off to her friends nevertheless. It feels as if we are living in a palace, Hassan. You should visit us sometime.

In a postscript, he added: Please give my regards to our brother Mustafa. Do you know what he plans to do with himself? Father has written to me complaining about his lack of direction. Tell Mustafa there will always be a place for him in my business if he would care to join me here.