In Arabian Nights

by Tahir Shah

I paused to digest the facts.

  'The washbasin works and that's why you are leaving?'

  The maid said that was right.

  'Am I missing something?' I asked.

  'She lives in the basin,' said Fatima.

  'Who does?'

  The maid shuffled her hands.

  'You know . . .'

  I looked at her hard.

  'No, I don't,' I said.

  Fatima picked up one of Ariane's crayons and wrote a name. She handed it to me.

  'Aisha Qandisha,' I said, reading the words.

  Fatima covered her ears.

  'You mustn't say that name aloud.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because the jinn will be summoned,' she said.

  Ariane's birthday was bright pink from beginning to end. An army of little girls trooped into the house, all dressed in pink tutus, waving pink magic wands. They gorged themselves on pink jelly, pink Barbie cake and fluorescent pink meringue.

  When the little girls had raced away, I took Ariane up for her bath. She put on her pink pyjamas, climbed into bed and asked me to read her a story.

  'Shall I get a book from the shelf, Baba?' she asked.

  'As it's your birthday, we will have a special tale tonight,' I said.

  Ariane beamed up at me, her eyes shimmering like stars. I pulled out a package from under her bed. She tore away the pink wrapping paper and stared at the wooden box. The marquetry letters caught the light.

  'Baba, it's so beautiful,' she said. 'It's a princess's box.'

  'Yes, it is beautiful,' I replied, 'but always remember that it is a box and a box is just a box. It has one job, to keep something very special very safe.'

  'Can I open it?'

  I nodded. 'Of course, it's yours.'

  Ariane's miniature fingers pulled back the lid. She fished out the papers.

  'What is this, Baba?' she asked.

  'It's a piece of treasure,' I explained, 'something so precious, so valuable, that it must always be kept safe. One day you will understand the value, but now you can lie back and let it enter your dreams.

  I read the 'Tale of Melon City'.

  Ariane kissed me on the cheek and put the story back in its box.

  'I will keep it very safe,' she said.

  I turned off the light. As I did so, I felt a tinge of great satisfaction.

  The baton was at last being passed on.

  A few days later, The Caliph's House was published. The book charted the trials and tribulations of our first year in Casablanca. The reviewers were kind and, very soon, e-mails started to arrive from readers. Some of them had questions, others had praise, or their own reminiscences of Casablanca long ago. A few of them wrote for another reason – to ask directions to Dar Khalifa.

  I reply to almost everyone who writes to me and believe there's nothing worse than an author who avoids his readers. I never imagined the day would come, though, when people would start tracking down our home.

  Dar Khalifa is so difficult to find that everyone gets lost the first half-dozen times. There are no landmarks nearby and a labyrinthine shantytown stands between us and the outside world.

  One bright morning in the last week of January, I received a long e-mail from a Californian called Burt. He had liked my book very much, he said, and had bought copies for his mother, his aunt and all his friends. But his enthusiasm for The Caliph's House didn't end with recommending the book to others. As his e-mail explained, he had printed out pictures of me from my website, had them framed and hung all over his home. Then he had located the house on Google Earth, bought a one-way ticket to Casablanca and made the journey across eight time zones. Burt had landed and was staying at a small hotel near the port.

  I broke the news to Rachana that a rogue Californian fan was out there, not far away, hunting us.

  'He'll never get through the bidonville,' she said confidently.

  'You don't think so?'

  'Of course not, because—'

  My wife's words were cut short by the doorbell. It was a long, persistent ring with three buzzes at the end.

  I opened the door. Before I saw the person standing there, my eyes focused on the makeshift map he was holding, a printout of Google Earth.

  'Hello,' said a frail voice. 'I am Burt.'

  The Bear spent all afternoon removing the washbasin in Fatima's room. After flooding the place in the process, he plugged up the pipes with wax seals and took the basin down to the stables. The maid looked round her room and put her bag on the bed. She was still perturbed, as if the idea of the Aisha Qandisha was at the front of her mind.

  'Fatima, tell me, who said a jinn was living in your basin?' I asked.

  She locked her eyes on one of the floor tiles.

  'No one,' she said.

  'Are you sure, Fatima?'

  She forced her lips tight shut and nodded. I asked her again. Her eyes widened and her mouth burst open.

  'Zohra told me,' she said.

  Ottoman returned from a long business trip and invited me to lunch at his home. He lived in a large villa, all painted white, down near the Art Deco Velodrome.

  A servant in white gloves, and wearing a maroon tarboosh, served us an assortment of Chinese dishes from matching silver salvers.

  Right at the start I broached the subject of Murad and filled Ottoman in on the sordid events.

  He winced. 'That's not good,' he said in a deep voice. 'Not good at all.'

  'It's amazing to me that such a young and attractive woman would fall for an old man like that,' I said.

  'And she loves him even though he is blind,' said Ottoman, motioning to his servant to clear our empty plates. 'Murad is a storyteller,' he said. 'You may not realize it, but that means he has a kind of power over us mortals.' He stood up and led the way through to the salon, a grand room hung with abstract art. 'I have seen it with my own eyes,' he said.

  'Seen what?'

  'An audience hypnotized. A few words from a master raconteur and they are overcome. You can't fight magic like that,' he said. 'That's what has happened to your guardian's wife.'

  'Can the spell be broken?'

  Ottoman tapped his watch.

  'With time all magic ends,' he said.

  The servant returned with a silver tray balanced between his hands, a pot of coffee balanced on the tray. He served us both. When he was gone, Ottoman added sugar and stirred a silver teaspoon round his cup.

  'You must think very carefully,' he said.

  'About what?'

  'Whether Murad did any favours for you while he was here.'

  I scrolled back in my mind to the time when I had first met Murad at the Marrakech barber's shop.

  'No, he never did any favours for me, nor for any of us,' I said.

  'Thank God,' said Ottoman.

  I asked why it mattered.

  'The favour network,' he replied.

  I frowned.

  'If Murad had done you a favour,' he said, 'then you would be responsible for repaying the favour, even though he had done something as wicked as taking away another man's wife.'

  You can't live in Morocco for long and not brush into the favour network. It's always there, a blurred backdrop to life. If you want to get something done or to climb socially, you pay into the system and wait for your return.

  I am always being asked for favours by people who must expect me to ask them for favours. I try to help if I can, but ask for nothing in return. My father drummed his motto into me: 'Never owe anyone anything.'

  Ottoman was equally scathing about people who played the favour game. He said it was like the abuse of credit cards in the West.

  'You start off borrowing a little, then a little more than you can afford,' he said. 'Before you know it, your life is collapsing, with a line of favour creditors hammering at the door. It can get wildly out of control.'

  'But what happens if you have to ask someone a favour?'

  'Then make sure you give a gift first. Pay into the system before you make
a withdrawal.'

  'What do you give?'

  'It depends on whom you're giving it to. Chocolates, aftershave or jewellery go down well. But the best kind of gift is something with sentimental value.'

  'Why?'

  'Because it touches the receiver's heart.'

  'What if they refuse the gift?'

  Ottoman looked shocked.

  'In Arab society refusing a gift is like a declaration of war,' he said. 'It almost never happens. You can be certain that once a payment has been made into the favour system, no one will ever forget. It's as if it's chalked up on an invisible board in the sky.'

  'So I give a gift of chocolates, a huge box of them, and ask a favour . . . some help with my paperwork.'

  'That's right.'

  'But won't that person see my ulterior motive straight away?'

  'Yes, of course,' he said, 'but the system tangles them up. They can't refuse the gift and, when they've accepted it, they're bound to reciprocate.'

  I thought of Dr Mehdi and the favour he had asked – for me to fetch some special salt from the Sahara. I told Ottoman about it. He smiled and broke into a laugh.

  'Do you think he will abuse my trust?' I asked.

  Ottoman stopped laughing.

  'I am sure you can trust him,' he said.

  'How do you know?'

  'I think you'll find out.'

  Burt was wearing a gold plastic raincoat and a matching hat. He moved very slowly and seemed extraordinarily fragile, almost like a porcelain figure. His skin was so pale it looked as if he had spent the last fifty years underground. His hair was white as talc, his voice shrill and his mannerisms decidedly strange. When he talked, he twitched his eyes; when he had nothing to say, he hummed the tune to 'Yankee Doodle Dandy'.

  'I found it,' he squeaked, pushing his way through the door. 'Bet you didn't expect me.'

  'No, we didn't,' I said.

  Burt shook my hand, then tugged off his coat and his matching hat and threw them over a chair.

  'I can't wait to get the full tour,' he said.

  'Tour?'

  The Californian opened a daypack and removed a large camera. He tested the flash twice, blinding me. The sound of the equipment recharging filled the sitting room.

  'Yup, ready,' he said. 'Where do we begin?'

  'Welcome to Morocco and to Dar Khalifa,' I said feebly. 'Thank you for coming and for buying my book. But there's something I ought to explain . . .'

  Burt's eyes twitched once, then again.

  'I know what it is,' he said.

  'Do you?'

  He nodded excitedly.

  'Oh, good,' I said.

  'You're shy, aren't you?'

  I gritted my teeth.

  'That's not it.'

  Burt lifted the camera, blinded me again and moved over to the fountain outside the children's playroom.

  'Oh, you wrote about this!' he exclaimed. 'It's beautiful. Just like you described it.'

  'Burt, I must stop you,' I said, faltering.

  'Am I too early?' he asked. 'I am, I know I'm too early. I can just sit on the couch and wait for the others.'

  I didn't know quite what to say. But one thing I did know was that Rachana wouldn't take kindly to having guided tours of the house. She had been supportive of my book, but secretly resented the way I had thrown a window open into our private lives. I cornered Burt at the fountain and urged him to put the camera down. Rachana was coming out of the kitchen and was about to find us.

  'You have to listen to me! We don't do guided tours. We aren't a theme park. This is our home!'

  The Californian pushed past me. He seemed shaken.

  'But your book,' he said.

  'What about it?'

  'Well, I loved it. I bought copies for all my friends.'

  I thanked him once and then a second time.

  'You don't get me,' he said.

  'I do and I'm grateful. I really am.'

  'No, you don't understand me.'

  'What don't I understand?'

  Burt held out his arms, as if he was about to give me a bear hug.

  'That I'm your number one fan!' he said.

  Each morning a chicken would flap over the wall and lay an egg in the wide hedge near the swimming pool. It was lured by the promise of safety and the idea that one day its chicks would run free with grass beneath their feet. The garden was a paradise compared with the mud in which the shantytown's chickens lived on the other side of the wall. While strolling over the lawn, I caught the guardians red-handed. They had grabbed the chicken and were about to break her neck and stew her for lunch. They strained hard to look submissive. I asked what was going on.

  'It's good for eating,' said the Bear. 'Look at the legs.'

  'Whose chicken is it?'

  'It comes from over there,' said Marwan, pointing to the other side of the wall. 'That means we can eat it.' He held up a sprig of parsley.

  'It's been coming in here and eating the worms, so it belongs to the house,' said the Bear.

  'We want to eat it,' said Osman.

  It was then that I heard the sound of chicks chirping.

  The chicken pecked herself free from Osman's clutches and ran to her offspring.

  'It's a mother,' I said. 'You can't slaughter an innocent mother with chicks!'

  The guardians lined up, saluted and agreed that it would be cruel to end the life of any mother.

  'What shall we do with her?' asked Marwan.

  'Keep them safe and show them a little hospitality,' I said.

  The next night I dreamt of the magic carpet again. It had been weeks since I was last lifted on its silk threads. I lay back, spreading my weight over the geometric patterns, and we soared over the sea, towards the distant kingdom. But this time we did not fly over the city, or pass the tower, the princess, or the gallows. Instead, we flew west until we came to a vast desert. It was still night and the sky was empty; not a star, not a sliver of light. I was freezing.

  Sensing my chill, the carpet reared up and wrapped me in its edge.

  We flew on and on, over a thousand miles of sand. Below there was nothing but dunes and the occasional silhouette of a Bedouin encampment. Above, the black was touched with gold, as the first rays of dawn pierced the horizon. The sun broke over the sand and I glimpsed the outline of a city, far more fabulous than the last – an endless panorama of domes, towering minarets, pools of glistening water and a palace encircled by an iron wall.

  The carpet banked to the left, swooped down over the palace defences and came to rest on a patch of grass near the royal stables. I could smell the horses and hear the grooms saddling up the king's prized mount for his morning ride. Because I was in a dream, I somehow knew about things that more normally I might not have known. I knew, for example, that the palace belonged to the great warrior-king Hassan bin Iqbal, who had recently conquered a land far to the east and had taken its own royal family prisoner. I knew, too, that the king had seven sons and that each one was the guardian of a piece of knowledge that, when united, would lead to a breakthrough in science that would change the world. But, when separated, the information had no value at all. The king had reached a higher plane of learning. He had spent years trying to get his sons to pool their resources, but the boys despised one another. Each one was plotting secretly to kill the others and to become the crown prince. The eldest, who was the crown prince, was about to poison his father.

  The carpet flicked up its corner, directing me to the last stable on the main block. I went over and found the door open. Inside, a groom was busy saddling a white mare. Holding the reins in his left hand, he turned to face the light. He froze. As soon as I saw his face, I did the same. He approached, almost in shock.

  I was looking at myself.

  Each day, another egg was laid by the chicken and, each day, another chick hatched. They followed their mother about the garden chirping, avoiding the pack of ferocious cats that vaulted the wall and bred in the long grass on the tennis court.
r />   The guardians gazed longingly at the hen, tasting the tender meat hanging off her thighs. Then, one afternoon, there was a loud knock at the garden door. A bristly, big-boned woman with a floral headscarf barged in. She growled something in Arabic and was taken to the bottom of the garden by the Bear. He pointed at the hedge, where the mother hen and her progeny were scratching for grubs. The woman pulled out a sizeable box that she had somehow been concealing under her jelaba, scooped up the chicken, her offspring and a pair of unhatched eggs and marched back to the garden door. Before she stepped out, back to her life in the bidonville, she glared at the guardians and me, for laying claim to her birds.

  Late the same afternoon, I drove up to Hay Hassani and parked outside the mattress shop. There were cries across the street. I looked over and saw a woman shouting. She was waving an empty purse, as if she had been robbed. Suddenly, she caught sight of the thief and ran into the road. But she didn't look. A van swerved to miss her and collided with a cart piled up with eggs. It tipped over, smashing most of the stock. A taxi swerved to miss the cart and hit an old man passing on his bicycle. He lay in the road, dazed. But no one took any notice of him. Instead, all the participants, including the taxi's passenger who had hurt her leg, formed a scrum, blaming one another for the accident.

  Sukayna ushered me inside and pulled the curtain down. I told her that I had seen myself living an entirely other life and that I needed to know more about the holy man who had taken refuge at the house.

  The astrologer lit a candle stub and mumbled a prayer under her breath.

  'We share the world with jinns,' she said.

  'I know . . . they live in animate objects, created from smokeless fire.'

  Sukayna pointed out to the street.

  'Did you see that accident?' she said.

  'Yes. People are so careless,' I said. 'The woman didn't look when she stepped into the road.'

  Sukayna clicked her tongue.

  'That wasn't the fault of people.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'It was a jinn.'

  'What?'

  She repeated herself.

  'I saw all that happen,' I said. 'I can explain it to you.'

  Sukayna shook her head and folded her arms.