In Arabian Nights

by Tahir Shah

  As soon as I stepped up to the shop, I saw that it specialized in the second type of furniture, the kind reserved for guests. There were finely tooled sofas, exquisite tables, cabinets and chairs, all of them inlaid with fragments of mother-of-pearl. At the front of the shop sat a large wooden chest. Its top was arched, its surfaces carved with the most intricate geometric design. Like everything else on sale, it was a work of art. But I was confused, for none of the furniture was in the Moroccan style. It was all Damascene, from Syria.

  I touched my hand to the wooden chest and caressed the tooled surface. Then I bent down and smelled the wood. It was cedar. My nose was pressed down on to the relief when I heard a voice.

  'The nose is a far worthier judge than the eye,' it said.

  I jolted upright. A man was standing beside me. He welcomed me. I took a step backwards. He was about sixty, with a square head on squared shoulders and glazed-over eyes. There was a gap between his two front teeth, a grey bristle pencil-line moustache and a carrot-coloured blotch of nicotine between the first two fingers on his right hand.

  'I am looking for Monsieur Reda,' I said.

  'At your service, sir.'

  Reda lit a cigarette and led the way back through the shop, shuffling in his tattered bedroom slippers, until we arrived at a small office. As we progressed deeper into the heart of the building, the fine decor and furnishings melted away, replaced by a line of trestle tables. Standing over each was a craftsman chiselling away at a great slab of beech.

  The office was dark and functional, the walls hung with sheets of geometric design and samples of wood. Monsieur Reda stubbed out his cigarette and lit another straight away.

  'Do you mind if I smoke?' he said in a gravelly voice.

  I said I did not.

  'It helps me to think,' he said.

  I told the carpenter about the box. 'I need it to be exceptional, for it will hold something very precious indeed.'

  'Jewellery?'

  'No, no, something far more valuable than jewellery,' I said.

  Monsieur Reda coughed, thumped a fist to his chest and coughed again.

  'Gold?'

  I shook my head. 'No, no,' I exclaimed. 'Much more valuable than jewellery or gold.'

  Reda thumped his chest again.

  'The box will hold a story, for my little daughter.'

  The carpenter stubbed out his cigarette and shook my hand. His palm was soft, a little sticky, and smelled of Gauloises.

  'I will create a masterpiece,' he said.

  During the first year we lived in Casablanca, I employed an assistant called Kamal. He had spent time in the United States, spoke good English and had a genius for fixing unfixable problems. Over the months he worked with me, his life became intertwined with my own. We spent almost every day together, from early morning until late at night. We became friends, but I always harboured a deep unspoken fear of Kamal. It was something about the way he looked at me, especially late at night, when I caught him off guard.

  There was hatred in his eyes.

  While in the United States, Kamal had been married to an American girl, a secret he kept from his family at home in Casablanca. He had been interrogated by the FBI and claimed to have been acquainted with Mohammed Atta, the leader of the 9/11 suicide squads. After the Twin Towers fell, his American wife left him and joined the US Army. He claimed she had been brainwashed against Arabs, turned against her own husband by the Feds.

  Late one night Kamal drove me out to the rocks near the lighthouse. He turned off the engine and told me to get out. He was very drunk, stumbling all over the place.

  'Where are we going?'

  'I'll show you,' he said.

  He led me up on to the rocks, until we were staring out at the black Atlantic waters. There was no sign of human life, not a light, nothing. I half wondered if Kamal had brought me there to kill me. It may sound dramatic, but he was the kind of man who was completely unconcerned with right and wrong. We sat on the rocks for a few minutes in silence. Then I asked Kamal what he wanted to show me.

  'If someone betrayed me,' he said, 'I would react.'

  There was anger in his voice, a kind of cold rage.

  'Has someone betrayed you?' I asked.

  Kamal stared out at the crests of white on black.

  'They are just about to,' he said.

  I wasn't quite sure what he meant, but I knew it was time for our paths to separate. I got to my feet and, keeping my weight low, moved over the rocks, back to the shore. Kamal was waiting for me at the car. I don't know how he got there so fast.

  We clambered in and slammed the doors shut. He was about to turn on the engine, when he swivelled round very slowly, the whites of his eyes leering at me. I could smell the drink on his breath.

  'I never forget,' he said calmly. 'Remember that, I never forget.'

  A week passed and I didn't see Kamal. I tried calling him, but as usual he didn't answer. Rachana begged me to draw the line, to step over it.

  'You must fire him,' she said.

  'But he'll kill me.'

  'Do you really believe that?'

  I looked at her, my face taut with fear.

  'Yes, I do.'

  The next morning Kamal arrived. He was dressed in a suit, charcoal grey with maroon trim around the cuffs. As ever, he was silent on why he hadn't answered my calls, or where he had been. We drove to Café Napoleon near the suburb of Oasis, where Reda the carpenter worked. We both ordered orange juice and scrambled eggs with toast. Kamal was in a good mood. He said his ex-wife had called him out of the blue.

  'Does she miss you?' I asked.

  Kamal gulped a mouthful of eggs.

  'More than she knows,' he said.

  A hawker was going from table to table selling lottery tickets and fake Gucci belts. When he came over to us Kamal bought five tickets.

  'Are you feeling lucky?'

  'I am on top of the world,' he said.

  I went to the toilet, splashed water on my face and vowed not to leave the café until I had severed our lives. Back at the table, we ordered more coffee. Kamal lit a Marlboro. I pushed up my sleeves.

  'I am ashamed,' I said. 'My cash hasn't come through. We have hardly enough money to eat. I feel terrible about this, but I think you'd better look for another job.'

  Kamal stared into space, the cigarette hanging from his top lip. He didn't say anything. Not a word. After breakfast, he hailed a taxi and drove away towards the coast.

  I took a deep breath and exhaled. Kamal was out of my life.

  The next Friday afternoon, I went to Café Mabrook for my weekly session with Dr Mehdi and the other regulars. Abdul Latif the waiter said the leak had been repaired, but no thanks to the plumber.

  'That man is the son of the devil,' he spat. 'He has no skill. I would strangle him if I could!' He glanced down at his thumbless hands and licked his lips. 'God is merciful,' he said.

  I took my usual seat, exchanged pleasantries and asked the surgeon when I ought to leave for the desert to fulfil his favour. He clicked his fingers.

  'When I am ready,' he said.

  'But isn't the wedding very soon?'

  Dr Mehdi rubbed his hands, as if he were trying to get warm.

  'Some things cannot be rushed,' he muttered in a low voice.

  'But you said it was urgent.'

  'It is.'

  We sat in silence, drinking our café noir, staring out towards the sea. In the Arab world silence is golden, something precious, something to be relished. As one who has come from the West, I found it fearful. I tapped my foot uneasily, hoping the doctor would speak. I struggled to start a new conversation. But like a seedling without water, it failed to take root.

  'Are you nervous?' Dr Mehdi asked after a long pause.

  'No.'

  'Then, what's the matter?'

  'The silence,' I said. 'I can't stand silence.'

  He narrowed his eyes.

  'Have you never known sadness?' he said.

  That eve
ning I met Osman down at the end of the garden. He was raking leaves near the ornamental well, which he and Hamza had made. They never admitted it, but we all knew it was designed as a dwelling for the jinns. I asked if he was coping at home. He touched a hand to his heart.

  'I am not a bad man, Monsieur Tahir,' he said.

  'I know, Osman.'

  'But, Monsieur Tahir, I do not want you to think badly of me now.'

  'I respect you greatly, Osman. Believe me.'

  The guardian clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

  'Tongues move,' he said.

  'Where?'

  'In the bidonville.'

  'What do they say?'

  'Bad things.'

  'What?'

  'That my wife is not like the rest of us.' He paused, lifted his head. 'You see, she is very beautiful.'

  'And?'

  'And they are jealous.'

  'Don't listen to them.'

  Osman sniffed. He wiped his nose with the side of his hand.

  'They say she is a bad woman,' he said again.

  'So don't listen.'

  'But they say she is a whore.'

  Ten days after meeting Reda the carpenter, I went back to his shop. He was sitting in the sunlight near the front, reading Le Matin, stroking a hand over the back of a large tabby cat. He eased himself from the chair when he saw me, stubbed out a cigarette and praised God.

  'May you always walk on rose petals,' he said.

  I thanked him and asked if business was good. He shook his head and fumbled through his pockets for the Gauloises.

  'No one wants this work,' he said dolefully. 'Morocco has been flooded with cheap furniture from China. There are mountains of it everywhere. The shopkeepers almost give it away.'

  'But the rich can afford your work,' I said.

  Reda gritted his teeth.

  'Of course they can,' he replied. 'But they are misers. The only time they buy from me is when their friends are watching. And even then they don't pay.'

  The carpenter poured a saucer of milk for his cat.

  'I will close this place down and make a nice little restaurant,' he said, leading me away from the sunlight, into the body of the shop. I followed him to the left, down steps into a kind of grotto. As I descended, I made out the sound of mallets striking chisels and the scent of freshly carved wood.

  'This is the workshop,' he said.

  There must have been half a dozen chambers down there, each one hollowed out from the yellow stone, filled with benches at which armies of carpenters were at work. The ceilings were so low that they toiled sitting down, or on their knees. Each one had a chisel in one hand, a small rounded mallet in the other.

  Monsieur Reda struck a match on the wall and lit a Gauloises.

  'But if you shut down, they would all be out of work,' I said.

  'They are adaptable,' he replied. 'I am sure they will learn to cook.'

  We edged sideways through a narrow passage and up to a small cavity, in which a lone carpenter knelt. A bare light bulb was suspended above him, throwing a shadow over the lower part of his face. The room looked like a confessional. We squeezed inside. In front of the carpenter was a special workbench, much narrower than the others. On it was a marquetry box. Crafted from rare woods, it was quite the most beautiful box. Inlaid along the top, in beige veneer, ran the words 'The Tale of Melon City'.

  Monsieur Reda led me back through the grotto, up the stairs and back into the sunlight. He wrapped the box carefully in his copy of Le Matin and inhaled on his cigarette.

  'Do you have five minutes?' he said.

  'Yes, of course.'

  'Then I should like to offer you some Syrian hospitality.'

  He shuffled past the tabby cat to a kitchen area, where he brewed a single glass of Arab coffee flavoured with cardamom. He placed it before me and urged me to lean back and kick off my shoes.

  'Close your eyes,' he whispered.

  I did as he asked.

  'Now I will tell you a tale,' he said. 'It was told to me on the day of my birth and given to me as an amulet, just like you are giving the story to your daughter.'

  'What is it called?'

  The carpenter exhaled.

  'It is the "Tale of the Sands",' he said.

  I felt myself drift off into another world and Reda the carpenter began.

  'Once there was a stream,' he said, 'a lovely cool, clear stream. It was created from melted snow in the high mountains and it flowed down through all kinds of rock, until one bright morning it reached the desert.

  'The stream was worried, but it knew that its destiny was to cross the sand. So it called out, "What am I to do?" And the desert answered, "Listen, O stream! The wind crosses my sands, and you can, too."

  'The stream didn't listen. He let his water roll forward. The first drops disappeared without trace.

  '"Desert! Desert!" he called. "You are sucking me up!" The desert was old and wise and grew angry at the foolish young stream. "Of course I am sucking you up," replied the desert, "because that is what deserts do. I can't change. Please listen to me and allow yourself to be absorbed into the wind."

  'The stream was far too hotheaded to listen. He had his pride and was happy being who he was. "I am a stream," he shouted, "and I want to stay a stream!" The sand, growing in impatience, replied again: "O foolish stream! You must throw yourself into the wind and you will fall as rain. Your droplets will cross mountains and oceans and you will be far greater than you are now. Please listen to my words!"

  'The stream did not believe the sand and cried, "Desert, desert, how can I be sure you speak the truth?" The desert rose up in a sandstorm and called, "Trust me, O young stream, and think back: surely you can recall being in another form." The stream thought hard, its waters swirling as its memory worked. Then, gradually, it did remember . . . it remembered a time when it was something else.

  '"Let yourself rise up!" cried the desert, "Up and up into the wind!" The stream did as the sands ordered and let himself rise in a curtain of mist, until he was absorbed in the wind. It felt wonderful, and right, as if it was meant to be.'

  Monsieur Reda thumped his chest and coughed.

  'And that is how the stream which is life continues,' he said, 'and why the tale of its great journey is written in the sands.'

  THIRTEEN

  Knowledge is better than wealth. You have to look after wealth, but knowledge looks after you.

  Hazrat Ali

  THE DAY BEFORE ARIANE'S FIFTH BIRTHDAY, I MET AN ENGLISHman called Ralph. He had found me through a friend of a friend and was eager for me to come in on his business venture. Ralph had one of those round pink faces, with a single wispy curl combed across his shiny head, a pair of fragile tortoiseshell glasses pushed back close to his eyes, and a double-barrelled name. He burped a great deal and, when he thought I wasn't looking, he shoved a finger up his nose and rooted about, as if digging for buried treasure.

  I am not good at business and steer clear of anyone trying to rope me into their fantastical schemes. The only time I gave in was when I handed over a whole book advance to an old school friend. He promised to double the money 'in a week, two weeks at tops', in a scheme selling rubber boots to Swaziland. He lost the money immediately and ran off to the Arctic, or the Antarctic. I can't remember which.

  So when Ralph asked me to stake everything I owned on a plan to search for diamonds in the Congo, I politely declined.

  'Are you sure I can't talk you into it, old boy?' he said.

  'Sorry, can't,' I said. 'Overstretched, you see.'

  Ralph brushed down his curl.

  'The stakes are high,' he said. 'You could be a millionaire by this time next year.'

  'I moved to Morocco to live a quiet life.'

  The Englishman sneered.

  'Where's your sense of adventure?'

  'It's all used up,' I said.

  Ralph unbuckled his briefcase and slid out a slim dossier, bound in crimson covers.

  'I wasn't goi
ng to mention this,' he said.

  I looked at the dossier. It was labelled SECRET in small blue type.

  'What is it?'

  'A goldmine,' he said.

  'Where is it this time?'

  Ralph gave me a sideways glance.

  'In Haiti.'

  'I'm broke, completely broke,' I said.

  I sensed that Ralph was not listening. I looked at his face. He had started sweating alarmingly, liquid pouring out of him, soaking his shirt. He tugged off his glasses and ran to the toilet. He was gone twenty minutes. When he came back, he apologized.

  'Sorry about that, old boy,' he said. 'It's something I picked up in West Africa. I was on the loo half the night. This morning at the hotel I went down for breakfast. Felt a movement coming on. Couldn't get to the bog in time.' He coughed, then blushed. 'Terrible mess,' he said.

  Ralph stood up and stuck out his hand. It was still wet.

  'Why don't you sleep on it?' he said.

  'I've already decided, though,' I replied. 'I told you, I'm flat broke.'

  Ralph spat on his hand and pressed down his curl.

  'You don't make it easy, do you?'

  At Dar Khalifa, Rachana was in the kitchen cooking an enormous pink cake. Ariane had insisted that it have a real Barbie doll poking out of the top, because her friend at school had had one like that. I arrived just in time to give Barbie a double amputation. Her torso was stabbed through the inch-thick pink icing. Ariane led me to the playroom, where Fatima the maid was standing with her bag. She was wearing her jelaba. I asked if everything was all right.

  'I am leaving, Monsieur,' said the maid.

  'Has Zohra offended you again?'

  Fatima kissed Ariane on the cheek.

  'No, it is not Zohra,' she said.

  'Then what?'

  'I am leaving because the room you give me is not good.'

  'Is it too cold?'

  'No.'

  'Then, what's the problem?'

  'The washbasin.'

  'Doesn't it work?'

  'Yes, it works, Monsieur.'

  'Well?'

  'That is the problem.'