In Arabian Nights

by Tahir Shah

  Fouad pointed out the tracks left by a thousand sand surfers.

  'They go to the high dunes,' he said angrily. 'These tracks will be here for ever.'

  I asked him about camels. I had seen very few.

  'The Tuareg aren't interested in them now,' he said.

  'Why?'

  'Because they don't have a clutch pedal.'

  An hour after leaving M'hamid we were adrift, sand all around. I quickly understood why the Bedouin call the desert sahel, 'sea'. To my eyes, each track was the same. But Fouad knew better. He said he could smell the dry salt lake.

  'But it's miles away.'

  'It rained a week ago.'

  'So?'

  'So I can smell the salt.'

  'What does it smell like?'

  'Like the ocean.'

  Another hour and we came to a kind of encampment. A low stockade had been crafted expertly from thorns and was guarded by a thirsty-looking dog. It went wild at the noise of the car and came running out, its legs a blur of movement. Its master called it to heel.

  We got down.

  Fouad said the place was a sacred spring.

  'Drink the water and you will remember.'

  'Remember what?'

  'Anything that ever happened to you.'

  'How much does it cost?'

  Fouad shot a line of words at the dog's owner. A mouth filled with big white teeth said a number.

  'Thirty dirhams.'

  'Give me a cup.'

  A home-made bucket was lowered down into the well. It was a long time before we caught the sound of wood touching water.

  'It's deep,' I said.

  'But the water is low. I have not seen it this low.'

  'Have you drunk it?'

  Fouad said he had.

  'Did you remember everything?'

  'Yes. Every detail.'

  The bucket was swung up and passed to me. Its water smelled of sewage.

  'How much do I have to drink?'

  'As much as you want.'

  I took a gulp and swilled it round my mouth. It tasted of sewage, too. I would have spat it out, but the Tuareg seemed proud of their sacred spring and I didn't want to upset them.

  Fouad leaned towards me.

  'What can you remember?'

  I thought back. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor playing with a little garage and a toy car, making the sound of the engine with my lips. How old was I . . . three, four? Then I was running through the woods, my hands filled with chestnuts, pricked by their shells. After that I was in a rose garden, riding my red bicycle between the flower beds.

  'I remember my childhood,' I said.

  'Drink some more of the water,' said Fouad.

  It tasted foul, but I forced down another gulp, closed my eyes and thought back. I was in Morocco, in the Sahara. My mother was knitting and my sisters were near by playing leapfrog in the sand. I looked around. My father was sitting by himself. He seemed sad. I went over. He picked up a fist of sand and let it drain through his fingers.

  'We are basket weavers,' he said. 'That's what we do, we weave baskets. My father weaved baskets before me and his father before him. Tahir Jan, take pride in the baskets you weave.'

  Fouad claimed the water had helped my memory.

  'I don't think it was the water,' I said.

  'It always works.'

  'No, these memories were already inside me.'

  We left the encampment, the sacred spring and the ferocious dog and drove on across the flat surface of sand. The recent rain had brought shoots and the odd patch of green. The only flourishing plants had succulent round green pods, the size of oranges. I asked Fouad if they were good to eat.

  'Touch them and you will go blind,' he said.

  Two more hours and we came to a vast salt pan. A white crust stretched as far as the eye could see. There was no water, although in the middle the salt was darker, no doubt moistened by the rain.

  'This is the lake,' said Fouad.

  'The salt! It's the salt I have to get!'

  I was overcome with a frail rally of emotion. I got down, fell to my knees and scooped up a handful of the salt crystals. There was a plastic bag in my pocket. I took it out and filled it half full.

  'Shall we go?' said Fouad.

  We looked at each other and then I scanned the desert. I could see from one horizon to the next. There wasn't another human in sight. I felt foolish. The journey from Casablanca had taken me to a distant destination, only to spend a moment there. I was as bad as the tourists I so disdain, who travel to India's Taj Mahal, to the Eiffel Tower or to Big Ben, snap a photo and leap back on to the tour bus.

  'You have the salt,' said Fouad. 'You can go back to Casablanca.'

  'I would rather spend a night in the desert,' I said.

  We drove a little further to a crested sand dune, with a clutch of thorn trees on its leeward side. It was early afternoon. The sun was extremely bright. I couldn't understand how the Tuareg went without sunglasses.

  Fouad laughed at the thought.

  'You people need much more than we do,' he said.

  'But sunglasses just make life more comfortable.'

  'Comfort . . . comfort is from your world,' said Fouad.

  He gathered some sticks and tossed them in a heap, ready for dusk. Then he joined me in the shade. I asked him how the Tuareg spent their time doing nothing. He didn't reply for a long time.

  'We listen to the sounds,' he said at length.

  'To the silence?'

  'There is never silence.'

  'But how can you stand having no books, no television, or Internet?'

  Fouad grinned. 'When life is too quiet, we talk.'

  'Do you tell stories?'

  'Sometimes.'

  'Can you tell me one?'

  'You like stories?'

  'I'm sort of collecting them,' I said.

  Fouad leaned back and the shadow of a gnarled branch fell over his face.

  'I can tell you the "Tale of Hatim Tai",' he said.

  I closed my eyes and the stage of my imagination was set.

  'Long ago in Arabia,' said Fouad, 'there lived a wise and powerful king. His name was Hatim Tai and he was loved by every man, woman and child in the land. In his stables were the finest stallions, and in his tents the very softest carpets were laid. Hatim Tai's name was called from the rooftops and tales of his generosity filled the teahouses. Everyone in the kingdom was content, well fed and proud.

  'Whenever they saw the king's cortege riding through the streets, the people bowed down. And if anyone needed to ask a favour they could do so and their great monarch always granted whatever they asked.

  'News of Hatim Tai's generosity spread far and wide and reached the ears of a neighbouring king. He was called Jaleel. One day, unable to take the stories any longer, he sent a messenger all dressed in black to the court of Hatim Tai. The messenger handed over a proclamation. It read: "O King Hatim Tai, I am master of a far greater land than yours, with a stronger army and far richer treasure store. I will descend upon your kingdom and kill every man, woman and child, unless you surrender immediately."

  'Hatim Tai's advisers all clustered around. "We will go to war with the evil Jaleel," said the grand vizier, "for every fighting man would gladly lay down their life for you." King Hatim Tai heard his vizier's words. Then he raised a hand. "Listen, my courtiers," he said. "I am the one Jaleel has demanded. I cannot allow my people to face such terror. So I shall allow him to take my kingdom."

  'Packing a few dates and nuts in a cloth, Hatim Tai set off to seek shelter in the mountains as a dervish. The very next day, the conquering warriors swept in, with Jaleel at their head.

  'The new king installed himself in the palace and offered a ransom for anyone who would bring him Hatim Tai dead or alive. "How could you trust a king who would run away like this," he shouted from the palace walls, "rather than stand and fight like a man?"

  'Hatim Tai wore the dress of a peasant and lived a simple existence
in the mountains, surviving on berries and wild honey.

  There was no one who would ever have turned him in to Jaleel's secret guard, for they loved him so.

  'Months passed and still there was no sign of Hatim Tai. Then one day Jaleel decided to hold a feast. At the festivities he doubled the ransom. He stood up and scorned the memory of Hatim Tai, declaring again that the generous king had run off rather than face battle. No sooner had he finished than a child stood up and shouted: "Evil King Jaleel, our good King Hatim Tai disappeared to the mountains rather than spill a drop of our blood." Jaleel fell into his chair. Even now he was a hermit, Hatim Tai was showing compassion.

  'Jaleel doubled the ransom for the wise king, declaring that anyone who could capture him would be buried in gold. At the same time, he raised taxes and forced all the young men into his army and many of the young women into his harem.

  'Hatim Tai was gathering berries in the mountains near the cave he had made his home when he saw an old man and his wife, gathering sticks. The old man said to his wife: "I wish Hatim Tai was still our king, because life under Jaleel is too hard. The tax, the price of goods in the market. It is all too much to bear." "If only we could find Hatim Tai," said his wife, "then we could end our days in luxury."

  'At that moment, Hatim Tai jumped out before them and pulled off his disguise. "I am your king," he said. "Take me to Jaleel and you will be rewarded with the ransom." The old couple fell to their knees. "Forgive my wife, great king," said the old man. "She never meant to say such a terrible thing."

  'Just then, the royal guards came upon the group and arrested them all. They found themselves in front of Jaleel in chains. "Who are these peasants?" he cried. "Your Highness," said the old man, "allow me to speak. I am a woodcutter and I was in the mountain forest with my wife. Seeing our poverty, King Hatim Tai revealed himself to us and ordered us to turn him in, in exchange for the ransom."

  'King Hatim Tai stood as tall as his chains would allow. "It is right," he said. "This old couple discovered me. Please reward them with the ransom as you promised you would."

  'King Jaleel could not believe the depth of Hatim Tai's generosity. He ordered the king to be unchained. Kneeling down before him, he gave back his throne and swore to protect him until the end of his days.'

  When Fouad had finished the story, he hunched his shoulders and stared at the fire's flames. It was almost dusk. The first star showed itself, glinting like an all-seeing eye above. On earth there was the call of a wild dog far away. Lying there on a blanket, cloaked in darkness, I understood how the Arabian Nights had come about. Campfire flames fuelled my imagination, as they had done throughout history for the desert tribes.

  Fouad pressed his right hand to his heart.

  'I love the story of Hatim Tai very much,' he said. 'On some nights when I am here alone, with a small fire to keep me warm, I tell myself that story. Each time I hear it, I feel a little more at peace.'

  He took a pinch of the salt I had collected and sprinkled it on the ground, to keep the jinns at bay.

  'When I have heard it,' he said, 'I sit here and think what a good man King Hatim Tai must have been.'

  'Do you think the story's true?'

  'Yes.'

  'Why?'

  'Because it is truth.'

  Four days after leaving the salt lake, I arrived back in the chaos of Casablanca.

  A dense winter fog tinged with pollution had engulfed the city. The result was gridlocked traffic and a great deal of bad feeling. At every crossing there was broken glass with at least one pair of enraged motorists shaking their fists. As my taxi slalomed between accidents, I felt a sense of pride. Casablanca had not changed in the few days I had been away, but I had. I had seen oceans of date palms and oases, dusty Berber villages, and had slept under the Saharan stars.

  At Dar Khalifa, the children huddled round and asked what I'd brought them. I fished a hand into my pocket and pulled out a thread of yellow fibre. I gave it to Ariane. She asked if it was a strand of a princess's hair.

  'Of course it is,' I said. 'And it is also an ant's rope and a piece of fibre from a cactus growing in the greatest desert on earth.'

  Timur pushed forward.

  'For me?' he said.

  I rooted about in my pocket a second time and pulled out something smooth black with a streak of grey running down the side.

  It was a pebble.

  'I've brought you this,' I said, kissing his cheek.

  'What is it, Baba?'

  'It's so many things.'

  That evening I telephoned Dr Mehdi. It was Saturday and I couldn't wait until the following Friday afternoon for our usual rendezvous. The doctor gave me the address of his house.

  'Have you got the salt?'

  'Yes!'

  'Please come at once,' he said.

  The doctor lived in a square prewar villa on a quiet street overlooking a row of derelict factories. He led me into the salon and apologized for the clutter. The place was like a museum, filled with orderly piles of books and French magazines, with wooden boxes, papers, maps rolled up, knickknacks, mementoes and lamps. Every inch of wall space was hung with paintings. Some were large, broad strokes of bright abstract colour; others, sombre and small.

  'You have so much art,' I said.

  'Where?'

  'On the walls.'

  Dr Mehdi pointed to a chair.

  'I don't see it,' he said.

  'How can you not see it?'

  'Because it is a part of me.'

  He apologized for the mess a second time, picked up a newspaper, and let it drop on top of a dirty plate.

  'My wife has gone to Fès to see her sister,' he said. 'And the maid has run away.'

  'I've brought the salt.'

  'Wait a moment,' said Dr Mehdi. 'First tell me about your journey.'

  'It was wonderful. I went right down into the Sahara. I slept in the desert. It's another world.'

  'Who did you meet?'

  'All sorts of people.'

  'Who?'

  'There was a carpet-seller and his son in Zagora, a man called Mustapha who made good lamb stew in Ouarzazate, a healer in Tamegroute, a man and his father in a village who gave me some bread, an American called Fox from Iowa, and a Tuareg called Fouad.'

  Dr Mehdi washed his hands together.

  'Excellent,' he said.

  'Look, look, I've got the salt.'

  'Wait a moment . . . tell me, what did you learn?'

  'Um, er . . . all kinds of things.'

  'Such as . . . ?'

  'I learned about a man called Jumar Khan and his magnificent horse, and about the generosity of Hatim Tai, and I learned about dates in the Draa Valley, and about the desert, and . . .'

  'And . . . ?'

  'And I learned about solitude,' I said.

  The doctor seemed pleased.

  'In a week you have seen so many things, met so many people,' he said. 'In the same time you may have stayed here in Casablanca and seen nothing new at all.'

  Dr Mehdi stood up and walked over to a bold modernist painting of a man with three hands and a single eye offset on his forehead.

  'I don't see this any more,' he said, 'or any of the others, because they are always here. My mind filters them out. The only way I would see them would be if they were gone.'

  He led me out into the garden. It was laid with rubbery African grass and had miniature lights hidden in the path.

  'Show me the salt,' he said.

  I opened my satchel and brought out the plastic bag. Dr Mehdi untied the knot and dug his fingers into the grey powder. He held it to his nose, felt the consistency, nodded.

  'The salt lake,' he said. 'I used to camp there as a child.'

  'Is there enough salt for the wedding?'

  The surgeon took a deep breath.

  'There is no wedding,' he said.

  'What?'

  'The favour I asked you was less of a favour to me and more of a favour to yourself.'

  'I don't underst
and.'

  'Think of the things you have seen, the people you have met and the stories you have heard,' he said, emptying the bag of salt on to the path. 'You are a different man than you were seven days ago.'

  EIGHTEEN

  Your medicine is in you, and you do not observe it.

  Your ailment is from yourself, and you do not register it.

  Hazrat Ali

  THE DOOR-TO-DOOR DENTIST ARRIVED IN THE BIDONVILLE AND set up a stall in the sun. He was fine-boned and fragile and looked like the kind of man who, in childhood, pulled the legs off spiders for amusement. His face was blotchy red, his neck slim and his teeth very rotten indeed. He laid out a moss-green cloth and placed upon it an assortment of instruments and prosthetic devices. His tools ranged in size and shape and were covered in varying degrees by rust.

  There were giant pairs of pliers, callipers and steel-tipped picks, lengths of bright-orange rubber hose, spittoons, tourniquets and clamps. Beside the impressive array was a miniature mountain of second-hand human teeth.

  I found Zohra hovering about at the stall. One of her molars had recently fallen out, the consequence of taking six sugar lumps in her tea. A tooth was selected from a mountain and placed on her palm.

  The dentist spat out a price.

  'B'saf! Too much!' snapped Zohra.

  Another figure was given.

  The maid weighed the tooth in her hand. The dentist passed her a mirror and she held it in place. She blushed.

  'Safi, yalla, all right then, let's go.'

  'Where's he going to fit it?'

  'In my house.'

  I walked down to the beach across dunes thick with marram grass and watched the waves. We live close by the ocean, but I don't go there very often, except to fly my kite. It seems too easy, as if I haven't earned such a tremendous sight. That afternoon, when I crossed the sand and strolled down to the water, I didn't do it for myself. I did it for the young man I had met, who dreamed of crossing the ocean, of going to America.