by Tahir Shah
'But the dog said, "Bow-wow-wow!" which, in dog language, means, "No, I won't!"
'And the farmer's wife said, "You are a very naughty little dog!"
'Just then, the farmer's wife spotted a bee. And she said to the bee: "Bee, bee, sting the dog so that he chases the cat, so that she jumps at the bird, and he flies down the hole and fetches the apple for me."
'But the bee just said, "Bzz-bzz!" which, in bee language, means, "No, I won't!"
'And the farmer's wife said, "You really are a very naughty bee!"
'Then she looked around and she saw a beekeeper, and she said to the beekeeper: "Beekeeper, beekeeper, please go and tell the bee to sting the dog, to chase the cat, to jump at the bird, so that he flies down the hole and fetches the apple for me."
'And the beekeeper said, "No, I won't!"
'And the farmer's wife said, "Good gracious, what a naughty beekeeper you are!"
'And at that moment, the farmer's wife saw a length of rope lying on the ground. And she said to the rope: "Rope, rope, tie up the beekeeper, until he tells the bee to sting the dog, to chase the cat, to jump down the hole, to get the apple for me."
'The rope did not say anything at all. It just lay there on the ground. "Oh!" exclaimed the farmer's wife. "What a naughty, naughty rope you are!"
'Then the farmer's wife looked around and she saw a fire. She said to the fire: "Fire, fire, please burn the rope so that it ties up the beekeeper, so that he tells the bee to sting the dog, to chase the cat, to jump at the bird, to fetch the apple for me."
'The fire didn't say anything at all.
'"You are a very naughty little fire!" said the farmer's wife.
'She looked around again, wondering what to do, when she saw a puddle of water. So she said to the puddle: "Puddle, puddle, please put out the fire, because it won't burn the rope, because the rope won't tie up the beekeeper, because he won't tell the bee to sting the dog, to chase the cat, to jump at the bird, to get the apple for me."
'But the puddle of water took no notice at all. And the farmer's wife said, "My, oh my, what a naughty puddle you are!"
'And then she saw a cow. And she said to the cow: "Cow, cow, please drink up the puddle, so that it puts out the fire, and it burns the rope, and it ties up the beekeeper, and it tells the bee to sting the dog, to chase the cat, to jump at the bird, to fetch the apple for me."
'The cow said, "Moo, moo, moo!" which, in cow language, means, "No, I won't!" And the farmer's wife said, "Oh, good gracious, what a very naughty cow you are!"
'And then the farmer's wife looked around one last time and she saw the little bird sitting in the tree, the bird that had started all the problems in the first place. And she said to the bird: "Little bird, little bird, please would you peck the cow for me?" And the bird said, "All right then, I'll peck the cow but don't expect me to fetch the apple for you!" And the naughty little bird pecked the cow, and the cow started to drink up the puddle, and the puddle started to put out the fire, which began to burn the rope, which started to tie up the beekeeper, who started to tell the bee, and the bee started to sting the dog, who started to chase the cat, who started to jump up at the bird, who had pecked the cow.
'And then,' said my father, clearing his throat, 'the wind flew down the hole and brought back the apple for the farmer's wife.'
Ottoman telephoned me at the end of the week and asked if I had time to meet him. He said that he wanted to spend an hour or two with me, remembering our mutual friend Hicham Harass. The next evening, we met in a fish restaurant down at the port. The last trawlers were heading out into the black Atlantic waters for the night. On the quay the fishermen were gathering up nets, checking them for tears. Ottoman was already in the restaurant when I arrived. He shook my hand, placed it over his heart and thanked God for my safe return from Afghanistan.
'You must write a book to show the West there's more to the Arab world than Al-Qaeda and suicide bombers,' he said.
'Do you think they will listen to me?'
'They must listen,' said Ottoman.
'I see the East through one eye and the West through the other,' I said. 'I understand how they both feel, but I don't know how to tell one about the other.'
'There's a way to teach,' he replied; 'it's so subtle that the student doesn't realize he's being taught anything at all.'
'How does it work?'
'By silent teaching, a kind of sleight of hand,' he said. 'In the way that a teaching story seeps in and sows a grain of wisdom. You don't see it coming and don't know it's there until it's working for you.'
Ottoman broke a bread roll and smothered it with butter.
'We have used this method for centuries in the Arab world. You have been brought up with it – taught to use it – like the rest of us.'
'My father was obsessed with teaching stories,' I said.
'Of course he was,' Ottoman said. 'We are all obsessed with them. They are our culture, the way we learn.'
Right then, sitting there with Ottoman, I had an idea. What if I could start my own kind of College of Storytellers, like my father had kept going until just before his death, to promote teaching through stories as he had done?
An enormous platter of fresh fish was ushered to the table. Ottoman chose the finest fillet, squeezed lemon juice all over it and placed it on my plate. He could see his idea was soaking in. The waiter set a bottle of red Meknès wine on the table. I poured two glasses. We looked each other in the eye and clinked glasses.
'To our teachers,' said Ottoman.
The next day I took the train down to Fès. As we rumbled across the even brown fields of farmland, the House of the Storytellers occupied my thoughts. I am not a person who finds it easy to stick to a quiet life. I become preoccupied with things, with ideas and with dreams. The more I try to force them out of my head, the more they take root. The only remedy is to face the fantasy head-on, to dive into it.
I found myself thinking about my father and the extraordinary effect he had on people. He was almost incapable of having a normal relationship, for he touched people very deeply. I think part of it lay in the way he observed people. When he encountered someone, he would say certain things or act in a certain way and then watch what response his behaviour elicited.
Some people despised him as a result, or went crazy, just as Slipper Feet had done. Others listened to what he said and went off to apply his advice. Such people were the ones he held in the highest regard. Some became obsessed with him, or begged him to be a guru figure, something that went against everything he believed in.
A few people were touched by him, in ways that still fascinate me.
My parents always had someone to drive them around in England and abroad. A list of long-suffering gardeners ferried us back and forth from Tunbridge Wells to the furthest reaches of Morocco. As far as my father was concerned, being driven was the perfect arrangement. He got taken from A to B and was free to talk to the gardener all the way there and all the way back.
Then one day my mother took her driving test and passed. So as not to be humiliated, my father rushed out and signed up with a driving school himself. He was in his fifties. There began with the lessons a strange and sometimes comical relationship with Mr Slaughter, the driving instructor in Tunbridge Wells.
After many dozens of lessons and several failures at the test, my father passed. A party was held and celebrations continued through days and nights. The driving licence was tossed in a drawer and was never used once. It was a symbol of ability rather than a document for the roads.
Years passed.
My father continued to be driven about by my mother and, more increasingly, by me. We spent hundreds of hours crisscrossing London together in the hours before dawn, searching the capital's markets for Arabian antiques.
Then one afternoon an urgent message arrived. It was garbled and confused. Mr Slaughter the driving instructor was gravely ill. He was on his deathbed and was about to expire. But before he crossed into the next world, he
wanted to see one man again . . . a former pupil from Afghanistan.
My father rushed down to Tunbridge Wells, where he found Mr Slaughter attached to hospital tubes, barely clinging to life. He sat at the bedside and held his instructor's hand. They hardly exchanged words. The time for conversation had come to an end.
The next day Mr Slaughter died.
At Fès, I found Waleed sitting on a wall opposite Bab Er-Rsif. He was picking his teeth with a stick, memorizing a document about land tax.
'I do not know you well, Monsieur Tahir,' he said, 'but I have seen how you think.'
'How do I think?'
'Your head is like a billiard table and your thoughts are like the balls going in every direction,' he said.
'Dynamic?'
Waleed put away the document.
'Chaotic,' he replied.
We threaded our way through the maze, dodging a thousand carts heaped with little pink flowers, televisions and snails. I had asked Waleed to take me directly to the House of the Storytellers. Although he had been keen on the telephone, he wasn't so enthusiastic now that I was in town. He said the place was in bad shape, that there were problems with the neighbours, that it was too hot to explore the medina. I couldn't understand why he was stalling.
He stopped at a dim metal foundry and shouted a question to a man working a wrought-iron curl at the forge.
'What's the matter?'
'The house is locked up,' said Waleed.
'Can't we get the key?'
'Not until tomorrow.'
'Then, what can we do now?'
'We'll go and see Abdou.'
'Who?'
'My friend Abdou.'
'Where?'
'At Glaoui Palace.'
When we packed up and left England, I looked forward to living in a land where I could allow my delusions to run wild. I was lured by the idea of available parking, affordable restaurants, bright sunlight and the possibility of having my underwear ironed. But there was something more appealing than any other delusion – to drop by a palace for tea.
Waleed said the Glaoui dynasty had been one of the great survival stories of Morocco, until they were excommunicated after siding too closely with the French. I had read their story in Gavin Maxwell's fine book Lords of the Atlas, but had no idea there was anything left of their empire. Waleed stopped at an imposing yet plain double-fronted door, crafted from a sheet of rusted iron and peppered with studs. He slammed a hand to the metal and called out.
'No one's home,' I said.
Waleed banged the door again.
'Wait. It's a big place and Abdou doesn't move fast.'
Then the door opened. A figure was standing on the threshold. He wasn't what I expected. Indeed, he took me by such surprise that I stepped back into the road. Abdou had the look of a man who had escaped from our world – a world of the banal – into another far more fantastic realm. You could see it in his eyes. They were hollow and at the same time they were distended, a little maniacal, as if he had glimpsed a great secret. Abdou was average height, had an impressive crop of Afro hair, an emaciated body, and feet that seemed not to touch the ground but, rather, hover above it.
Waleed leaned forward and kissed Abdou's hand. A moment later, we were inside the palace, following Abdou as he hovered through the immense stark entranceway, down steps and into the Disneyland of his mind.
Moroccan mansions are all about surprise. They invite the visitor through an unassuming door, through a passage that, like an amuse bouche, seeks to heighten one's eagerness for the main plate. The entrance was large enough to receive visitors on horseback. It was dark, illuminated by miniature windows high up in the massive stone walls. At one time there had been birds, perhaps doves, kept in a cage there. But, like the other features, they had served their time and gone.
Abdou glided forward without emotion. He turned left and stepped down through doors. I followed him with Waleed and we found ourselves in a courtyard of tremendous size. Cloisters ran down opposite sides, lined with grand arches, one after another. In the middle of the great courtyard was a pool, edged in rusting fer forgé. The excessive heat had caused the water to evaporate, much to the distress of the twenty or so ducks attempting to get afloat on the slime. Near by, tethered by a chain, was one of the most ferocious and furriest dogs I have ever come across. The chain was long, but not quite long enough for the dog to savage the ducks. The animal's life was spent charging forward at full speed, until the chain snapped tight and choked it. The afternoon was so hot, and the dog's coat so thick, that it could only mount three or four rapid attempts to get the ducks before it was forced to seek refuge in a cardboard wigwam that Abdou had made.
The palace had once been one of the most opulent addresses in Fès, until, that is, the Glaouis' disgrace. Their lands and properties were confiscated. The leading members escaped into exile if they were lucky, or ended up dead or behind bars if they were not.
Abdou lived in the palace alone. He explained with some pride that his last name was Glaoui. I assumed he was a member of the family.
'He's not a real Glaoui,' Waleed said, reading my thoughts. 'He's one of the servants. They used to take their master's family name.'
We toured the palace, taking in the splendid mosaic walls and floors, the grandeur that was slipping easily from rack to ruin. Abdou had turned one of the great salons into his studio. He was an artist, painting cosmic fantasies on glass, behind which he installed miniature pink Christmas tree lights. He was a musician, too, as well as a sculptor, and had built a grotesque leering statue from musical instruments.
The great courtyard led to a kitchen of unsettling starkness and size, and through into another spacious courtyard.
Waleed said it had once been the harem.
'Don't you ever get frightened living here alone?' I asked Abdou.
He dug a hand into his Afro and pulled out a paintbrush.
'I have my work,' he said distantly.
'He seems a little psychotic,' I whispered to Waleed.
'He's a genius,' came the calm reply.
'I'm sure he is.'
'Genius is a tightrope,' said Waleed. 'It calls for perfect balance.'
I didn't quite understand what he meant, but it sounded profound.
'Does anyone ever buy his art?'
'Of course not,' said Waleed sternly. 'That proves what a genius he is.'
That evening, I went alone to the Restaurant Sherherazade in the new town. It was a Moroccan version of Fawlty Towers, packed with foreigners, all pretending they were enjoying the
inedible food. The swing doors flapped open. Robert Twigger burst in, scanned the room and swanned up to my table.
'Vile, isn't it?'
'What?'
'That gunk on your plate.'
'It's the coq au vin,' I said.
'Like hell it is.'
'How's the search for the dwarf race?'
Twigger pulled up a chair, sat down, and dipped a crust of bread in my sauce.
'A bit like the coq au vin,' he said.
'How's that?'
'The more you put up with it, the better you imagine it is.'
'Got any leads?'
'One or two.'
'Folklore?'
'Yeah.'
'Haven't you got to get up into the mountains sometime? After all, that's where lost little people are likely to be?'
Twigger picked a bone from my plate and stuck the end in his mouth.
'You're right,' he said. 'But I'm a sucker for what anthropologists call "imagined advancement".'
'What's that?'
'It's when you spend so long trying to progress at something where the odds against you succeeding are fifty billion to one that you lull yourself into a false sense of security.'
'You lie to yourself?'
'That's right. Everyone's struggling to keep the lie alive.'
'Like in "The Emperor's New Clothes"?'
'Exactly,' said Twigger, tossing the bone back on to my pla
te. 'Or like pretending to the waiter that the coq au vin didn't taste like grilled rat.'
That night, as I rested my head on the pillow, I had a flashback. I was in my early teens, walking with my father through the woods at our family home. He seemed to take great comfort in being surrounded by trees and would stop from time to time to pull a creeper away from a seedling, or to clear a clump of thick grass that was smothering a shoot.
'Only a few of these saplings will reach maturity and grow into trees,' he said. 'They all have the same chance, but some succeed while others, most of them, will fail.'
We walked on across a carpet of bluebells and down to where the woods met grassland. My father pointed to a young tree growing on the open grass.
'That oak was planted on the day you were born,' he said. 'An acorn was put in a pot and covered with a little light soil. Look at how well it's doing,' he said. 'There's great hope for that tree. But there's always a threat – it could be hit by blight, have its roots flooded, be struck by lightning. Do you see?'
'Yes, Baba.'
'Tahir Jan, we have passed on to you certain information,' he said. 'It may be dormant now, but with time it will wake up, take root and lead to growth.'
I didn't reply. At the time I felt a little swollen with pride that anyone would have bothered to nurture my development with such care. At the same time I felt a tinge of resentment that I couldn't be like all the other boys I knew – carefree.
It has been almost twenty years since I last saw the oak tree planted as an acorn on the day of my birth. I think about it sometimes, as if there's a strange bond between us, and I wonder if it now has seedlings of its own.
Over the years I have tried to allow the values to shape me, just as I have begun passing them on to Ariane and Timur. I have come to understand the real value locked in the teaching stories passed down by my father to me, and by fathers and mothers to their sons and daughters across Morocco and the Arab world.
It is the value of selflessness.