The Storyteller of Marrakesh (19 page)

That is not the truth! It is a distortion of the truth!

A man stepped out of the ring of listeners. He was tall and thin, with high cheekbones and a bitter cast to his mouth. The lower part of his face was wrapped in a scarf that muffled his chin.

That is not the way I remember the events of that night, he announced. His voice had an acerbic tone as if he expected little of us.

Show us your face, my friend, I said. It isn't polite to conceal your features.

He unwrapped his scarf with an abrupt movement and I blanched in horror. His jaw was completely eaten away and disfigured. His eyes flashed contempt as he registered my reaction.

I used to be a guard in a penitentiary, he said. A prisoner threw acid.

He wrapped the scarf back around his face so that we could only see his eyes. They glittered, then seemed to darken. He surveyed us with a military bearing, his body held stiff and taut.

My name is Walid, he said. I am an ex-soldier and a bachelor. I live by myself in the Kasbah. I was in the circle watching the
rwai
that night. I went there for the music because I play the
lotar
myself now and then. It is an exacting instrument and a demanding art. I had no interest in the two strangers.

He looked at us fiercely as if daring us to contradict him. When no one uttered a word, he resumed speaking.

The
rwai
who played that night, he said, were Chleuh Berbers from a village near Taroudannt. They were a large group, with two
rababs
, two
lotars
, cymbal, and a battery of
bendirs
. The
raïs
was not the best I've heard, but he was energetic, and skilled in drawing crowds. His voice sowed the wind, while the music shaped images behind him. Images of rivers, meadows, star-shaped seeds, harrowed earth. The songs were joyful, and they brought back memories of good harvests. Every new song drew bigger crowds.

With his fingertip, the ex-soldier counted off the songs. Satisfied that he'd accounted for all of them, he held up his fingers and said:

They'd already performed four or five songs when the two foreigners appeared. They were rude from the beginning. They elbowed their way to the front of the circle and I found myself standing next to them. I did not care for the woman from the very first moment. There was a crazed look in her eyes. She turned to me and said something about the red moon. I do not like strange women speaking to me, so I did not reply. I found her very presence there, as a woman, at that time of the night, scandalous. I wasn't surprised when she began to draw stares.

In a while, she started moving to the music. I stepped back in distaste when I saw her undulating her hips. To my eyes, she lacked any sense of modesty. There was nothing demure or becoming in her movements. She was out-and-out provocative, a real hussy, like most Westerners. And that husband of hers was little more than a cipher, content to remain silent while she made a shameless spectacle of herself.

Watching her gyrate, it struck me how little these foreigners respect our culture. They import their mores and flaunt them before us, they exoticize us, to them we are the great unknown, a blank slate on which to impose their fantasies. And we encourage them, to our lasting shame.

When a woman thinks she can behave like that, what happens? Men's minds thicken. They begin to think primitive thoughts. They forget the words of the music and feel only the throbbing beats. Then even that turns into something else: a dull, burning pain. Their hearts sting, their faces turn black with heat and rage.

You can't blame the men for what happened next. A woman like that isn't worthy of respect. She was dancing like an animal in the dusty earth. She'd advanced into the middle of the circle by this time. Now she stopped a few times before some of the men as if challenging them. She was stoking their fire, taunting them to let themselves go.

But the men did not move. They were watching the red moon. There was a bitter smell to the air, like the odour of sap. The
raïs
was shrilling all around, but we scarcely heard his voice.

That was when she threw off her shoes and loosened her hair. We heard her bare feet scratching the ground. There are some animals that do that when they go to drink in the desert at night. It is a bestial, rutting sound, and it invites a swift response. With two quick movements, one of the men advanced and lifted her into the air. He was a basket weaver from Smara, and he was joined by someone else. They began to dance like bears while carrying her above their heads. Her husband raised his voice in protest, but the men ignored him and turned their backs. When he tried to free her from their grasp, a scuffle broke out, and I glimpsed something flash in the dark. Someone had struck him with a metal hook and stretched him out flat. He crawled away on his hands and knees. They hit him on the head, on the neck, on the shoulders and the arms. His wife began to scream and the men let go of her. She plunged to the ground. Then she fell silent and didn't utter a word. Her teeth were clenched, her mouth wet with saliva. I thought she was going to pass out.

Suddenly there was a sharp whistle. I saw silhouettes emerging from all sides of the square. The next thing we knew we were surrounded by dozens of policemen. They formed a cordon around us. Some of the men tried to escape, but they didn't make it. Everyone was running here and there, and then things calmed down. I didn't try to go anywhere myself; I was content to stand on the side and watch the fun. It was black work under a dark sky. Then the fog crept in, weighted with reddish shadows and cold, heavy air.

That's when we heard an unnerving cry. It cut through the stillness like some wild animal's scream. It was the woman, yelling in despair. What have you done with him? she shouted. You sons of bitches!

All around us there was silence when we heard that. The policemen fell back. No one knew what to say or how to react. We tried to make out where she was. The fog had wadded the Jemaa with thick grey tufts. The smell of fear was strong everywhere. The night had turned to lead.

They found her squatting on the ground with a bruise on her forehead. Her shirt was torn, her mouth striped with blood. One of the constables offered her a handkerchief but she flung it away.

They began searching for her husband, but he was nowhere to be found. No one knew where to look. They searched the square, the souks, the
qaysarias
. An impossible task. Time passed swiftly. The fog got in the way.

The last I saw her, she was lying on the ground, weeping. An officer was kneeling next to her, urging her to get up. From time to time, she would open her mouth wide as if to scream but nothing came out. After a while, she stopped crying and silently allowed herself to be led away. She reminded me of something, but it was a while before I realized what it was. It was a sheep being led to slaughter. She had the same look in her eyes, the same smell. I should have felt sorry for her, but I didn't. I felt nothing. Well, what did she expect?

The ex-soldier paused and stood back. He had spoken rapidly, and he paused to regain his breath. He lit a cigarette and stood silently for a while. On his ravaged, extraordinarily bitter face there appeared traces of fatigue. He gave me a long, hard look before he began speaking again.

I heard that for the first few years after her husband's disappearance she flew down to Marrakesh every winter to seek news of him. An acquaintance of mine once saw her on the square and said she appeared perfectly composed. She was wearing some typically inappropriate Western outfit and parading around. But then she stopped coming and, as far as I am aware, nothing has been heard of her since. I assume that she went back to wherever she'd come from.

Breaking with convention, I acknowledged his contribution in a manner that was barely polite. I gazed at him with distaste, and the malevolent line between his eyes grew even more marked as he said: That's the way it was, and it isn't my fault if you don't like it.

That isn't the way it was, I replied firmly, and you know it.

This made him so angry that he began to repeat his allegations, but I cut him off and the others in the circle supported me with their remarks. Seeing that the mood was clearly against him, he said with venom: I can see that you can't take the truth. His voice was even colder than his words.

There would be no point, I replied. No point at all in trying to reason with you or put you straight.

Is that so? he said, wearing that wrinkle between his eyes like a gash. You're on the side of the foreigners – so that's it then!

I am not going to be drawn into an argument with you. Cure yourself.

I will remember you. I won't forget this moment.

Is that a warning or a threat?

It's neither. I am not threatening you. I am speaking with disdain. As much as your brother Mustafa, you have sold your soul.

He drew aside his scarf and spat on the ground. Without waiting for a reply, he threw me a final, icy glance, bowed stiffly to the others, and made his way out of the circle with a contemptuous deliberateness. He'd advanced about a dozen steps when he stopped suddenly and shot me a glance over his shoulder. He found me staring intently at him and made a slight movement of recoil. I watched him dart into the shadows and then I couldn't see him any more.

I felt a hand touch me gently on the shoulder. I started and turned to see who it was. Then I realized my fists were clenched.

A young man stood behind me. He was swaying unsteadily. His pupils were dilated, his breath reeked of kif. He wore a dirty brown jellaba with the hood drawn back; he was pale, with a freckled face, and his greyish-yellow eyes hinted at mixed blood.

La bes darik
, he said, greeting me in Tashilhait. Hello.

La bes
, I replied.

That entire account you just heard was a lie, he said slowly. I was there that night. It was a very bad experience, but it was nothing like that man said it was.

You have a better version? I said drily.

It's a long story.

Let's hear it.

Well then… he said, and paused.

His eyes were heavy. He raised his hand before his face and peered through his fingers at the fire.

I controlled my impatience and asked him what the matter was.

Nothing, he replied.

Are you feeling ill?

No.

Then what is it?

Pointing to the middle of the square, he said:

God knows I am the last person who should be venturing an opinion on the truth. In fact, I'm not even sure I know what that means. But this much I can surmise. Perhaps only a single thread separates us from the truth, or perhaps an entire ream, but we will know for certain only when we look at the whole weave.

Who are you? I asked, without raising my voice.

My name is Rachid, he answered. I sell whirligigs on the square. You might have seen me around. I used to sell music cassettes next to the Café de France, but that didn't work out.

Whirligigs?

Yes, I make them myself out of thuja wood. I guarantee them for a lifetime. They are the best in the world.

I'll take your word for it.

You look at me as if I am mad, but I'm not. I'm perfectly sane. I've had a little kif, that's all. Just like I had that night, I will not deny it.

A little?

Yes, only a little, he said, drawing a deep breath. Without the kif there'd be a buzzing in my head and I'd be able to say nothing at all. I'll be the first to admit that I am perhaps not the most reliable of witnesses. But there were so many anomalies in the previous two accounts that I feel compelled to speak.

What do you mean, anomalies?

Just that.

Were they lying, according to you?

I'm not saying that. But it was remarkable, all right, the things they made up.

Then why don't you tell us about it once and for all?

Do you have a cigarette?

I don't smoke, I told him, but someone from the audience gave him a Gitane. He lit it, and his face lit up. As he smoked, without looking at anyone, the cigarette trembling in his hand, he began to speak softly, with many pauses, and I knew better than to interrupt.

She was wearing a bright-red beret that night, he said. I remember it because a week later I found it in a gutter in the potters' souk and handed it over to the police.

He drew deeply on his cigarette.

Like everyone else, I didn't like the look of the red moon that evening. When it faced the dying sun, it was as if there were two wounds in the sky. Everywhere you turned, the sky was bleeding. It was completely unnatural.

He drew on his cigarette again, nodding to himself a couple times, his voice gaining in assurance with every passing moment. His head tilted to one side, his eyes gazed past us as he spoke, and his expression grew increasingly contemplative.

No, I didn't like the look of that moon one bit that evening, he repeated. And I wasn't the only one. I recall someone shouting from the middle of the square: The end of the world has come! The end of the world has come! The words seemed to well up in the air until they were fit to burst. It was some doddering old Yehudi from the Mellah, half out of his mind. The police whisked him away, but looking at that sky you were almost persuaded he was on to something.

Then the lights of the stalls came on. The Jemaa el Fna at night. Everything in motion. Performing bears, music, acrobats, the Gnaoua's shiny brass instruments. The Place Foucauld had filled up with long black shadows and glowing cigarettes. Bicycles and motorcycles raced diagonally across the Avenue Mohammed V. The windows of the Café de France and the Restaurant Argana were like bared teeth in the darkness.

Smiling at the recollection, he began to dance slowly around the fire. Welcome to the circus, he sang. Where everything's an illusion.

Withdrawing to one side, he turned and placed a hand on his heart.

I'm a child of the sea, he said. I come from the west coast, from Akhfenir, and, to my eyes, the Jemaa that night resembled a storm-tossed ocean. Its lights and reflections imitated boats, rocks, waves. The woodsmoke was spray from the surf.

I crouched behind one of the food stalls and snacked on a plate of fish eyes. It was a gift from my friend Noureddine, who's from the coast, just like I am. Six, eight, ten – such a wealth of eyes, so very delectable, and, at the end, everything washed down with strong, hot tea – it's enough to make a man feel reinvigorated.

Satiated, happy, I stretched out on a bench and – well, why not admit it? – I carefully prepared a kif cigarette and shared it with Noureddine. We lay side by side, smoking in pleasurable silence, but then he wandered off somewhere and I was left with only the golden air as my companion.

The night sky was all shooting stars, black holes and the occasional aeroplane flickering like a will-o'-the-wisp from a child's fairy tale. I heard the strains of a
rwai
orchestra playing from somewhere in the square and hummed along. I sucked on the lemon that had accompanied the fish eyes and fell to wondering whether I'd be lucky enough to win the lottery that year. My thoughts were scattered, but they were gay, like laughter. A lovely haze threaded through them, lighting them up in bright colours. Through that haze I heard someone say good evening to me in French and I replied in kind. It was a woman's voice, and I didn't think too much of it. Everyone knows everyone else in the Jemaa. Good morning, good evening, whatever you please, I replied.

Then I sat up.

An unbelievably beautiful woman stood next to my bench. I thought I was dreaming, and it took me a moment to perceive that she was a foreigner because she was dressed like a native, in a
seroual
, kaftan, and with a striped
serdal
headscarf. The light from the food stalls glinted off the wreath of coins on her forehead. I wanted to say something gallant and poetic but could come up with nothing at all. So I decided to keep it simple and merely say Bonjour! but found myself soundlessly opening my mouth and closing it, in perfect imitation of a fish. My hand holding the spliff trembled. I lowered my eyes. The moment passed.

What are you smoking? she said with a smile.

I told her, and she asked me if I would share.

She sat down next to me and we smoked together. She leant back languidly and blew perfect rings in the air. I wanted to ask her where she was from, what had brought her to the Jemaa, how long she was going to be here, all kinds of questions; but, as it was, I was so overcome by shyness that I couldn't even stir up the courage to ask her her name. I simply sat there in a stupefied silence.

Looking back on it, I still can't comprehend what happened to me that night. I've thought about it many times. I'm not usually a demure person. We were sitting right next to each other, looking at the same stars, and yet she might as well have been on another planet. There's no explanation, no consolation. I really let myself down.

Finally, she stood up and thanked me for my company. More: she thanked me for my silence, for not bothering her with unnecessary questions.

To know when to be silent is the greatest gift of all, she said.

Making a pretence of understanding, I stammered and offered an inadequate reply. I managed to ask her for a
sigri
, my kif-thickened tongue wrapping around the word.

She looked at me in bafflement.

Sigri
, I mumbled. Can you spare a
sigri
?

She continued to stare at me for a couple of minutes until comprehension finally dawned and she shook her head and smiled.

I'm afraid I don't smoke cigarettes, she said.

She wished me a good night and a good year to come.

Don't go just yet! I pleaded silently. I don't know anything about you. My name is Rachid. It's too soon to part.

I glanced past her to where a shooting star was aiming for the Koutoubia's minaret. It was very swift, very bright. When I looked down again, she had left.

Of course, it was only then that I recovered my voice. I felt something burst inside me, and the dammed-up words came pouring out in a flood. All right, I heard myself say, enough of this nonsense about silence my name is Rachid what's yours I sell whirligigs what do you do where are you from I have three sisters my father has ten sheep will you marry me can we talk about paradise I'll build you a house with a garden we will have many children what do you think of my moustache can I touch your heart we'll grow all the kif you want… and so on and on…

…and on.

And all the while, out there in the middle of the square, the
rwai
were lighting sparks with their songs. The air was heating up. I unbuttoned my shirt. I lay down, sat up, lay down, sat up again. The
rwai
sang, drummed, sang, grew silent, then sang again. At length, giving up on trying to still my heart, I decided to walk over and join the circle watching the
rwai
perform. I didn't really want to go, but you know what it's like. Your feet start moving of their own accord, and then it's all you can do to keep up. I left my bench and made for the musicians but they were further away than I'd surmised. I lost my way and found myself on the opposite side of the square. Faces came and went like banners in the wind. I passed a tightrope walker holding up an umbrella in the air. A man was juggling knives next to a boy selling painted terracotta fruit from a basket. A bare-chested giant with his hair painted yellow was holding up a massive tree trunk. His wife walked around with a wooden bowl taking a collection. As I ducked out of her way and neared the
rwai
, the crowds began to thicken and I picked up snatches of conversation.

…her beauty is like a red rose.

…the fire itself seemed to pale beside her.

…her eyes are dense and blue; in them you can see the ocean.

…I had to leave, I couldn't take it any more; she left me breathless. I'll wager that a single kiss from her could teach you all you ever needed to know about love.

I didn't need to guess who they could be talking about. I quickened my pace and reached the
rwai
at a run.

The band had just launched into a
tamssust
, a lively song about love. The
raïs
was going at it as if life itself were at stake, and the onlookers were clapping along and egging him on. I looked around the circle, scanning the faces for a glimpse of her, and then I calmed down. She was sitting on a low chair next to the musicians. There was a slim, dark youth standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders. Her headscarf had slipped off and she had retied it like a bandanna around her neck. Instead of the scarf, she now wore a bright-red beret. I stared at her companion and my heart sank. From the way his hands rested on her shoulders it was clear that she belonged to him. I gazed at them in despair and the
raïs
sang my thoughts:

Girl of fire

Girl of fire

Made for my arms

Made for my desires

I have waited for you

I have waited so long

Now all is lost

Now all is shattered

Rachid's voice died down to a whisper.

My friends, my brothers, those were some of the worst moments of my life. The black sky closed over my head. The air smelt of my despair. I cursed the kif that had robbed me of my voice. I wanted to quit that place that very instant and crawl into a hole somewhere. It's better to leave, I thought to myself, and then I thought, It's better not to leave. I convinced myself to remain for a few minutes longer in her presence.

I don't know how long I tarried there. It was like being paralysed. Such anguish cannot be put into words. I wondered if I should leave her one of my whirligigs as a souvenir. I even took one out of my bag, but then I dropped it on the ground. How I suffered, my brothers! I willed my courage not to desert me as I prepared to leave her for ever.

He blushed awkwardly, nonplussed, it seemed, as much by the memory as by his continuing bashfulness and longing. There was a sense of resignation about him. He spoke slowly and without animation.

He said:

And then, imperceptibly, something changed, as if mirroring the state of my own heart. Everyone began to stare openly at the woman. The mood of the circle shifted. All our eyes undressed her. Even the music reflected it, the drums beginning to echo ominously. It might have had to do with the group of men who'd appeared from out of nowhere, their heads and faces shrouded. Or it might have been the outcome of the words with which the
raïs
ended his song:

Now you have hurt me

Now you have ruined me

What choice have you left me

But to stab you through the heart?

I turned irresolutely and began to edge my way out of the circle. My misery must have showed on my face because someone nudged me with his elbow and gave a mocking laugh. I was in no mood for jollity and attempted to squeeze past, but found my path blocked.

Oho! I heard a voice call out. Here's another one slain by the houri.

Furious at his affront, I raised my hand and was about to push him out of the way when pandemonium broke out. I heard a sharp whistle cut through the music. Someone began to shout madly and there was a terrified scream. I attempted to turn around to find out what was going on but tripped and fell headlong. As I struck the ground, I felt legs trample me as they rushed past. I tried to rise to my feet but fell back again. A hazy darkness began to close in and I raised my arms to fend it off. I felt myself sliding into an abyss, cold and black. The last thing I saw was the fragment of a dress, and then I lost consciousness.