The Storyteller of Marrakesh (24 page)

They were fishing, I said. They were corralling the fish in the shallow waters and chasing them down. You were lucky to have seen them.

Yes, it was beautiful. I thought you would understand.

I do understand. Thank you for sharing it with me.

Even though she probably couldn't see me, I pressed my hand to my heart.

She was silent for a moment.

There are things that you will understand, she said, and things that you won't. If I've held back from telling you the truth about my situation, it may be because you will find it implausible.

You must not think too highly of me if you can say that.

And you won't think less of me if I tell you?

No, I said.

I don't know…

Try, I prompted, scarcely daring to breathe.

She did not reply, but I sensed that she was gathering her courage to speak. She took a few steps around the room while I stood quite still, following her every movement, all my attention centred on her, my breath coming rapidly but fully.

She turned and stood before me. Her step was firm and determined, as if she had accepted the consequences of her decision. Speaking with a composure that aroused my admiration, she said:

The man I am with is not my husband. My real husband – whom I had the misfortune of marrying when I was too young to know better – is a powerful man of great wealth. My marriage to him died the night it was consummated. I cannot tell you more; it's too difficult and sad. Besides, there isn't time. Perhaps the only good that came out of it was to make me realize that there is nothing more precious than life and that it is so terribly short.

She paused, her shoulders stiffening a little and betraying the tension in her body, while my own posture conveyed nothing but the most sincere affection, my attitude both concerned and protective. She stared into the shadows, her silence taut with a sense of constraint, almost of shame. Then she shuddered, her shoulders sagging, and the ordeals she must have had to endure made my heart go out to her. Lowering her voice until I could hardly hear her, she fell to telling me the rest of her story.

Yes, life is precious, she said, and strange. Years later, when I met my beloved and had my faith in the world restored, I sought to leave my husband, but he wouldn't hear of it. He said it would compromise his position in society and insisted that I do as I was told. He encircled me with custodians, with lawyers and guardians; he refused to listen to my pleadings, he refused to let me go. Every day brought new humiliations, new degradations. Finally, after all our attempts to reason with him had failed, my lover and I saw no way out but to escape. It wasn't a decision that we took easily, but the alternative was a slow stifling to death. But my husband is a stubborn, angry man; he pursues us everywhere.

So those men on the square?…

They could have been his minions, though I am not certain. He's made it clear that he'll stop at nothing to get me back, and I fear for my beloved's safety. We've had several narrow escapes, and every time we've got away he's managed to track us down.

Is that why you've needed to pretend that your companion is your husband? To throw your pursuers off your tracks?

Only partly, yes. He is my husband in spirit.

But not in fact, I said, feeling the need to stress the distinction.

No, she conceded, but we've been through too much together for me to think of him in any other way. We are partners for life.

A pause followed, during which time she took a step back.

Realizing that I might have upset her, I said, very simply, that I understood – and also that I would hardly consider myself a stickler for convention – and it seemed to reassure her.

With a renewed note of confidence in her voice, she said:

Last year, after my lover had survived yet another mysterious accident, we confided our troubles to a friend. He's a writer, a very clever, ingenious man, and also kind-hearted. He came up with a solution to our quandary. It entailed our coming to Morocco, where neither of us had been before. It also entailed taking someone else – a friend of his – into our confidence. At first, the whole thing seemed far-fetched, but we had nothing to lose, so we agreed to chance it. And now we're nearly there, she said with a confidence I ought to have found touching, except that I could only confess to the most complete confusion.

I'm afraid I'm not following you, I said, trying to keep my voice level while not revealing how utterly bewildered I felt. Forgive me if this question offends, I went on, but are you faking a disappearance? Was the attack on the square staged?

She appeared genuinely distressed.

Oh, please, no more questions!

Her reaction told me all that I wanted to know.

But what if you're found out? I asked.

It's a risk, but one that we're prepared to take.

What is the plan? Where do you go from here?

Hopefully to a place where we can never be found.

I could not meet her gaze. I tried to smile in agreement, but my lips stayed tense. Every minute she was growing more and more of a stranger to me. I suddenly felt hurt, though she'd said nothing to provoke that response in me. And although I already knew what her answer would be even before I assayed the question, I offered, nonetheless, to help.

She responded with alarm.

No, no! she said. Please listen to me and try to understand. It's all been arranged.

Oh, very well, I answered, resigned to being relegated to the periphery.

But what do you think of it all? she asked. From the renewed note of affection to her voice, I could tell that her confession had made her feel lighter.

Do you know me better now? she said.

Yes, I do, I lied. And what about me?

I do not know you at all, but that is how it should be.

I was still so preoccupied with her story that I did not think of querying her further.

She looked at me with gleaming eyes.

I'm glad that you understand. And I hope you also understand that if I have not asked you for anything, it's because I haven't needed it.

I understand that as well, but only in part, I said.

She surprised me with her next action. She took off the scarf that she'd been wearing and gave it to me. The cloth was warm.

Find a woman for yourself, she said. She will gain by being with you.

I have found her, I said sadly.

I would like to believe that the affection you have offered me is akin to brotherly tenderness, she said.

That is hardly the same thing, I replied, and you know it.

She withdrew her hand from my arm. Go in peace, she said. And remember me as you do the ocean.

Think well of me, I replied in parting. I will be wherever you like it best.

Mustafa paused and regarded me with despondent eyes.

What else can I tell you, Hassan? My last sight was of her standing there in the middle of the darkened room, her white muslin dress clinging to the folds of her body, her head bare now that she'd given me her scarf.

I didn't know what to say to my brother. In telling me the story of his love, he had revealed an unexpectedly chivalrous side to him that I hadn't known existed. What was more, swayed by the extent of his distress, I was now only too ready to believe what he'd told me, and I murmured some vague remark that hardly did justice to my changed feelings. Never had I been more in sympathy with him.

Oblivious to my thoughts, he continued in a resigned tone:

You can probably surmise what happened next. Difficult as it was, I walked out of the door with the silent promise to her to respect her sentiments and not go back, regardless of my own feelings. Barely conscious of where I was going – all I registered was the dim glimmer of moonlight seeping through the overhead trellises – I wandered about the souks in a daze, trying to hold on to my resolve. But my concern for her well-being was paramount and I began to fret, all sorts of questions plaguing me and robbing me of my peace of mind. Was her lover able to find his way back to her through the maze of galleries, a difficult enough undertaking in broad daylight, let alone in the middle of
the night? And would they be able to make it out of there without losing their way and betraying their presence to those searching for them? Unable to ignore my presentiments – which were growing stronger by the minute – I began to fear the worst. I felt the need to respond, to move, to do something. And so it was with a vast sense of relief, not undiluted with guilt, that I found myself reversing my steps. I justified my breach of promise by telling myself that her safety warranted it. I began to run, and, as I did, I felt the surrounding galleries tilt towards me and embrace me with approbation. It was a heady, charged feeling, made all the more intense by the freedom of my
emotions. I felt invincible; I could have taken on an army just then. I ached to be of fuller use to her and for her to be the mirror of my actions.

Exhilarated, I rushed back to Karim's shop and burst into the back room, prepared to fall at her feet, only to find it deserted. An image of her swam fleetingly before my eyes, held still for a moment, then shattered into a million pieces. She was no longer there and, with her departure, the precariously poised edifice of my hopes came crashing down.

Oh, Hassan, he said, it was more than I could stand! The room was empty, like a void; not even a whiff of her perfume was left. I broke down and wept as I had never before in my life.

I felt a chill just listening to Mustafa. I could see the darkened room, the shadowy corners. I envisaged him standing there, his face streaming with tears, his gaze defeated. It was a harrowing vision.

A brother's anguish, I thought, yes, that is what I'm feeling.

Mustafa said: It was all an idle dream, unrealizable, premature, grotesque, but at the time it hurt so much. It hurt to be there when she was gone. I sat on the floor trying to go over my memories of her but my mind was in shock. It was as if my heart had been broken twice over, once when I found out that she was spoken for and then when I had to experience losing her all over again, this time with no possibility of reversal.

He rested his forehead against the bars.

It was hell, Hassan, pure hell! I felt as if life had ended for me. I was in a state of collapse.

What did you do next? I asked.

With his forehead still resting against the grille, Mustafa said:

I sat there in the room, distraught. I've no idea how long I remained there. Then the darkness got to me and, for the first time that night, I groped around and switched on the light. It took me a moment to adjust to the brightness, and as soon as I did, I held up the stone lion and reached my hasty conclusion about your part in the episode. Once again, I beg your forgiveness, Hassan. It simply did not cross my over-weary – and, I admit it – jealous mind that I was rushing to judgement.

I don't want you to think any more about it, I said firmly. It was a misunderstanding based on the facts at hand, and I've accepted your apology. That is all there is to it.

I glanced at the clock on the wall.

I don't know how much more time we have, I said, but I wouldn't want to leave without hearing the entire story. It would take a more astute listener than I am to piece together the path you have travelled between that dark room and your present residence and I certainly cannot do it without your help.

My irony was intentional and intended to be humorous, but Mustafa didn't smile. It was clear that he took my remark to heart, for his mouth drew down at the prospect of having to continue to recall his disappointment in love.

I felt for him, but my curiosity – that fatal weakness of every storyteller – triumphed over my discretion. When he remained silent, however, his face tense with emotion, I apprehended that perhaps he was forcing himself to come to terms with my selfishness.

I understand, he said quietly, intuiting my thoughts. Your storyteller's inquisitiveness – if one can call it that – is indeed all-consuming. To think that even here you can't manage to let go of it, to leave it behind!

His eyes dwelt on my face.

Well, I brought it upon myself, didn't I, with my bragging about being on a par with Father and you. I have only myself to blame.

He paused and turned away and his face grew sombre.

Hassan, he said in a low and earnest voice, what does it mean to be the ocean? I am haunted by what she said to me when we parted.

I thought about it for a while before venturing an answer.

I think it means to be in the one thing and in all things at the same time. I have heard it described in mystical terms as being the energy that flows through everything.

So to identify with the ocean – to be the ocean, as she described it – would mean a merging with that energy?

Certainly a merging, but more; it would imply being that energy, its oceanic tranquillity and calmness, as well as its depth and gravity. In that sense, it is probably synonymous with what we understand as truth.

Can one become the ocean?

One can certainly try.

He contemplated my answer, and then he said: It makes me wish I had some of that energy that night because by the time dawn glimmered on the horizon, I felt all done in.

He massaged his eyebrows with the tips of his fingers and smiled at me grimly. Don't worry, he said, I'll reconstruct that morning for you, though the onset of the new day did not bring light for me but a long winter's darkness instead.

The ocean was silent?

Completely.

I'm sorry, I said, and bowed my head.

What for? It's the way things are, isn't it? We sink, we swim, the ocean's indifferent. As for misery, there's no remedy for it. Or so I discovered when I left the room and wandered aimlessly around the souks, still hoping to turn a corner and find her there. But it wasn't to be. There was no miracle, and she didn't appear. At dawn, I admitted defeat and trudged like a beaten creature into the square. It hurt to be alive. I felt all alone. It hurt to be in the world with a broken heart. I don't really remember what followed.

He winced, and I caught on his face, like an echo from the past, a glimpse of the utter exhaustion with which he must have endured the darkest moments of his life. It induced in me a sudden nausea, as if I myself had lived through the experience.

Do you remember getting lashed by the sandstorm in the desert? he asked. That was nothing compared to the way I now felt. Once back in Essaouira, I went about trying to resume my former life but everything seemed aimless. I could no longer sleep, I had no desire to work, I lost interest in my friends. I tried reading books – on wisdom, on love, on immanence – but soon gave it up; unlike you, I was never a reader. Even the walks on the beach that had always sustained me no longer sufficed. It was like an apprenticeship in solitude, and, depending on your definition of success, I either failed miserably or surpassed the highest expectations. And all the while, I had endless conversations with
her in my head. I imagined that we were together, and it kept me
going. I went over every moment I'd spent with her, every word,
every nuance of gesture and expression. It filled my waking hours,
lent substance to my dreams. I visualized her always next to me, the corners of her lips poised in a smile. The imagination is a powerful thing.

You took it too far, Mustafa, I observed.

He made an evasive gesture as if to imply that that was no concern of mine. But he also fell silent, lost in thought, and I took the opportunity to ask him a question. I tried to pose it tactfully, but it still came out sounding indiscreet.

I asked: Can love be so separated from reality?

He looked at me obliquely, and I could tell that I had hurt him. My poor brother, captive to such a magnificent and hopeless obsession! How much he had in him of the valour and also of the blindness of those who are consumed by love and sacrifice themselves to it. I felt for him, and yet, more and more, I felt myself distancing from him. His passion was too extreme for my comfort – perhaps I am a little conservative when it comes to these things – and under different circumstances it might have been riveting, or even diverting, but for the fact that he was in prison as a result of it.

At length, conscious of my awaiting his answer, he shrugged his shoulders.

Perhaps I could answer you, he said, if I understood your meaning more clearly. As it is, all that I can tell you is that love is hardly the most logical thing in the world.

I refrained from looking at him. Speaking a bit brusquely, I said: I'm not going to argue with you about logic, Mustafa – even I'm not that obtuse. But I do believe that love must have some grounding in reality. It isn't some abstract idea to be gleaned from books. It's no wonder that the ones you tried reading had nothing to say to you. Love is touch, sound, taste, smell, sight – everything that makes the world what it is. Of course it may be based on an ideal, but it cannot survive solely on ideals. It needs something more tangible to sustain itself. Consider your own analogy of the ocean, for instance. You can be inspired by the ocean, you can admire it, but you cannot swim in a photograph of it, however pretty it may be. For that, you must have the real thing.

That's a tremendously biased analogy, Hassan! he protested. We're obviously not going to agree about this.

That may be, but it's hardly the most important thing, I replied. I couldn't care less about whether or not our ideas about love coincide, but you have to let go of her, Mustafa. You have to let go of her or you will find no peace.

Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Hassan! he exclaimed.

In his voice was a rare excitement. He leant through the bars and seized my hands. I was astonished by the suddenness of his transformation.

I cannot let go of her, he said animatedly, nor is there any need to. She is already in me. The ocean isn't something outside the self. It is the self. It gives it dimension, lends it meaning. Believe me, I know this for a fact. I've come through the most difficult phase of my life and what's kept me going has been my love for her. But here's the thing: I didn't actually do anything. One day I woke up and I was someone else. It's as simple as that. I cannot come up with a better explanation for it.

His cheerful, boyish laugh rang across the room.

It happened this way, he said. I was lying in bed early one morning when I heard the muezzin's call from the mosque nearby, and the next thing I knew, I felt myself falling up. It's the only way I can describe it. I was swept up in the cascade of that voice. It opened up my senses, and I became the ocean. I was so grateful; I felt such peace. I felt unconquerable. I went singing to work. On the way, the morning papers caught my eye. They were going on and on about the disappearance. I looked up and saw the seagulls flying. I said a silent prayer and made up my mind. It was clear to me what I had to do next.

He straightened up, stuck out his chin, and said:

I would eliminate any risk of the discovery of their plan by declaring them dead. I would claim that I had abducted and killed both of them. That would stop her husband in his tracks once and for all and permit them to get on with their lives – as they deserved to. And, having resolved this, in loving peace and harmony, I put it into effect. I freely confess to having lived out this dream.

I became the ocean, he said again, smiling.