by Tahir Shah
There were dried chameleons and ostrich eggs, lumps of charred black bark, red beetles, sulphur, mercury, and an assortment of mauve-coloured stones.
‘Look at him,’ Ghita grunted. ‘He’s more likely to kill you than cure you.’
‘And that said by the woman who went to a witch in the name of revenge.’
‘That was different. It was magic, real magic, the kind that works.’
As Blaine looked at the Tuareg’s ingredients, he got the feeling that someone was watching him.
He turned around quickly.
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know. I just feel kinda uncomfortable.’
‘It’s the thieves, they’re everywhere,’ Ghita said.
They made their way through hordes of people, past the food stalls that were being set up for the night, and into the gaping jaws of the medina.
From the first step inside its labyrinth, Blaine sensed a thousand layers of life, laid down through centuries.
Wherever he looked there were objects on sale – giant brass trays and ewers on ornate stands, rough woollen carpets from the Middle Atlas, boxes of fossils and little phials of perfume, saffron and antimony, plastic buckets, tortoises, and jars of mixed spice.
There were water-sellers, too, in flame-red shirts, and old men on crutches begging for alms, children selling chewing gum a stick at a time, fortune-tellers and donkey carts.
‘This is incredible,’ Blaine called out. ‘It’s just like Casablanca!’
Ghita rolled her eyes.
‘But this is no movie set,’ she said.
They stopped for a glass of tea at a café so small that there was only space for them. As they sipped the straw-coloured liquid, the owner’s little son played for them on his flute.
‘In the US we’d call this VIP treatment,’ Blaine said.
Ghita wasn’t listening. Her mind was on rooting out the go-between.
‘We have to find the house of the goldsmith,’ she said.
‘You’ve got the address, right?’
‘Yes, but this is Marrakech and things aren’t that simple. It’s a matter of bouncing through the maze until you get lucky.’
All of a sudden, Blaine reached out and touched Ghita’s arm.
‘Call me crazy, but I’m getting that feeling again.’
‘That you’re being watched?’
‘Yeah. It’s so strange. I can feel someone watching us.’
Leaving the café for another couple to enjoy, they strolled on through the labyrinth. Dodging oncoming obstacles and droves of bewildered tourists, they made slow progress.
From time to time Ghita would show the paper Saed had given her to a shopkeeper, and would be waved on a little further into the mayhem.
At a hammam to the right of the main thoroughfare, she was directed down a smaller street, then another.
‘This is more like it,’ said Blaine. ‘It’s as if all the people have been vaporized.’
Just as Ghita was about to reply, a figure stepped from the shadows of an arched doorway. In his hand was a knife, poised at waist-height.
As he moved into the light, Blaine caught sight of his face. Poised on a neckless head, it was emaciated and dark, his cheeks hollow, his front teeth missing.
‘Give me the papers!’ the man demanded in English.
‘What papers? You’ve got the wrong people!’ Blaine replied.
‘We’re tourists!’ Ghita cried.
‘No, you have come from Casablanca. I know who you are!’
‘Oh my God,’ said Blaine, his stomach knotting.
‘Give me the papers!’ the man ordered again.
He stepped forward and, as he did so, a donkey cart rattled past from the right. It was laden with firewood destined for the hammam.
Without thinking, Blaine seized a plank and struck the man with all his strength just below the shoulder.
Then, grabbing Ghita’s hand, he pulled her in the direction from which they had come.
They ran through the medina’s twisting streets.
Past carpenters’ workshops and tailors, and communal bakeries, down streets where boys were playing marbles in the dust, up slopes, and along the slenderest of passages.
‘They’ll find us,’ said Ghita, as they ran.
‘So what do we do? Go to the police?’
‘Hah!’
‘Then?’
‘We need to blend in with everyone else,’ Ghita said quickly, as she ducked into a clothes shop. Five minutes later she and Blaine emerged wearing jelabas, the hooded robes favoured by all Moroccans.
They slipped into a quiet alleyway to talk things over.
‘I don’t understand why they want me,’ said Blaine. ‘The Chinese guy didn’t give me anything.’
‘Are you sure he didn’t slip something into your bag?’
‘I’m positive.’ Weaving his fingers together, the American cracked his knuckles. ‘The only person who gave me anything was Saed.’
‘What?’
‘A little packet. More of an envelope, really. He asked me to keep it for a few days.’
‘Where is it?’
‘At the Mamounia.’
‘Even though he’s helping us, I never trusted that kid!’ Ghita said angrily. ‘Those boys are all the same.’
‘I’d defend him,’ Blaine replied. ‘But I’m the one who’s had my passport stolen.’
Ghita leaned forward and touched his hand.
‘I have a tiny confession to make.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Your passport...’
‘Huh?’
‘Your passport... it was I who took it.’
Ferreting a hand down into her underwear, she produced it.
The American’s face flushed with rage.
‘How dare you?!’
‘I’m sorry. I’m so incredibly sorry. It’s just that I needed you. I needed your help.’
Fuming, Blaine turned his back.
‘I’m going to Casablanca tonight,’ he said. ‘Gonna take the late train.’
Ghita took half a step towards him. She was very close.
‘I feel so alone,’ she said. ‘As though the world is lined up against me.’
‘Yeah, well, if you steal people’s passports you don’t deserve much better.’
Resting an arm on his shoulder, she coaxed him around.
‘Please forgive me,’ she said. ‘I don’t deserve it, but I am begging you, from the bottom of my heart.’
Blaine gritted his teeth. He tried to think of something hurtful to say, but nothing came. So instead, he took a step backwards, towards the wall.
‘I find myself liking you less and less,’ he told her, ‘which is quite impressive because I never liked you much at all.’
Ghita smiled, her smile erupting into a fit of laughter.
‘You’re so silly,’ she said.
An hour later, after clinging to the shadows, Blaine and Ghita were directed to a narrow doorway, a stone’s throw from Dar el Glaoui, one of the city’s great ancestral palaces.
On the ground floor a pair of young boys were learning their prayers. Their sister was doing her homework, huddled over a textbook, a blunt pencil in her hand.
Ghita asked where they might find the goldsmith.
The girl seemed uneasy at seeing strangers. Closing the book, she slipped into a back room, and spoke quietly to someone behind a curtain.
A man appeared.
He had a sympathetic face, a long brow, his grey-blue eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed frames. He must have been seventy but could have passed for someone much younger, the only tell-tale sign of age being a patch of grey hair at the side of his head.
‘As salam wa alaikum,’ he said, as soon as he saw them. ‘Peace be upon you.’
‘And peace upon you,’ Ghita replied. ‘We have come to meet El Hajj Abdelkarim Hamoudi, the goldsmith, sent here by a mutual friend.’
‘I am Abdelkarim,’ he said, holding sti
ll as though waiting for the name of the mutual contact.
Ghita took a step towards him. She wanted to whisper, and needed to be close.
‘I greet you in the name of Buraq,’ she said. ‘In the name of the Prophet’s steed.’
The goldsmith didn’t move. His expression was taut and unflinching, as though a pause button had been pressed.
It was a full minute before he moved.
Then, very slowly, he looked down at the floorboards, touched a hand to his mouth.
‘Come with me,’ he said.
Ninety
‘Do you understand the gravity of that name to me?’ the goldsmith said when he had prepared tea upstairs.
‘Yes I do,’ Ghita replied. ‘And, believe me, I would not utter it in anything more than the grimmest of circumstances.’
Abdelkarim Hamoudi removed his glasses and cleaned them on his cuff. Then he furled the stems around his ears, blinked once or twice.
‘Please tell me the nature of your situation,’ he asked.
Ghita leaned forward, her face catching the light.
‘I am here on a matter of life and death,’ she said. ‘It concerns my father.’
‘And who exactly is your father?’
‘His name is Hicham Omary and he...’
‘He was on the television,’ the goldsmith broke in.
‘Yes, that’s right. He was accused of a crime he certainly did not commit. I promise it with all my heart.’
The goldsmith poured a little more tea, inspecting its colour as he did so. He praised God, as if drawing strength from above.
‘And tell me what you need from me.’
‘As an only child it is my grave duty to come to my father’s aid. It is a matter of family honour, as I am sure you will understand.’
‘But what can I do?’ the goldsmith asked again.
‘I understand that your relative works in the prison where my father is being held,’ Ghita said.
The old man frowned. He sighed, took off his glasses and wiped a hand over his eyes.
‘By speaking the name of the Prophet’s steed you have activated an ancient duty, a duty that has rested on the shoulders of my entire family for generations. It is my duty, our duty to help you,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ Ghita whispered sombrely.
‘You must understand something though,’ he said. ‘If I help, it is not because of fraternity, but out of ancestral duty.’
‘Thank you...’ said Ghita softly. ‘Thank you from the bottom of my heart.’
The goldsmith looked away.
‘Return here just after dawn and I will give you your instructions,’ he said.
Ninety-one
Back in Casablanca, Rosario went shopping for fruit and veg at the Marché Central, as she did three mornings each week.
She liked it when the seasons brought new produce, relishing the sense of anticipation and expectation, as the fruit improved day after day until it was gone for another year.
Because she had lived in Casablanca for so long, no one gave her a second glance as she meandered through the market, or through the backstreets near to her home.
It was true that there were rumours about her – that she was a spy, or that she was somehow cursed to live a life in limbo, as neither quite a woman nor quite a man.
In front of the market she crossed the street, the smooth handle of a wicker basket tucked under her arm. She greeted the flower sellers as she entered, and they held up roses as they always did, hoping for an easy sale.
One of them even blew her a kiss.
Turning left, Rosario made her way over to the stalls where the fresh produce was on offer. It was all laid out in a great rolling carpet of wares. She made a beeline for a man who was threading shallots on a string. Slightly built and elderly, he had patchy grey hair, and a hint of moustache running the length of his upper lip.
In the middle of his forehead, nudged up against the hairline, was a small leathery blotch of skin, a zebiba. Resembling the side of a prune, it signified piety, a brow pressed down in prayer five times each day.
Spotting the Argentine pianist, he dropped the onions, reached out and kissed her hand.
‘If only my wife would leave the mortal world,’ he mumbled, ‘I would propose to you without wasting another moment.’
‘You are talking nonsense, Yasser, just as you always do.’
‘But see how my eyes well with tears for your love.’
‘The tears are from the onions and not from passion!’ Rosario snapped. ‘And you are a scoundrel, and you know it as well as I.’
The onion-seller wiped his brow with a thumb.
‘I pray as God has instructed,’ he said. ‘And this is a mark of that.’
The pianist bashed the onion-seller with the side of her basket as she passed him.
‘We both know very well that you have got that by cheating – by grinding pumice on your face at night.’
‘Shhhush!’ Yasser hissed. ‘The shadows have ears.’
Rosario laughed, a shrill girlish laugh. She bought a kilo of tangerines from the next stall, and wandered out through the market’s rear door.
Less than a minute later she was ambling down a side street on her way to the port. One of the fishermen there had promised her the pick of his catch. Glancing at her watch, she saw she was running late, and fishermen were particular about punctuality.
Quickening her step, she thought back to Dr. Burou and his sweet smile. In a strange way Rosario still felt him close by, even though he was gone – having perished twenty years before in a boating accident on the coast.
All of a sudden she heard a sound.
The sound of large feet pounding fast over stone.
She spun around, and found a knife pressed to her throat. The blade was short, haphazardly sharpened, held by a slender figure in a voluminous woollen jelaba, the kind worn by shepherds up in the Atlas.
‘Where’s the American, the one who came to see you?!’ he said, his voice hoarse with rage.
‘I don’t know!’ Rosario shrieked. ‘Leave me alone!’
‘Tell me, or I will sever your windpipe!’
The pianist leaned back. She felt the assailant move back with her, the blade rigid against her throat.
‘I’ll count to five,’ he said. ‘Then I’m going to kill you. One... two... three... four...’
Struggling for breath, Rosario managed half a step backwards.
Then she twisted her body to the right, catching her attacker off balance. In the same movement, she jolted the weapon from his fist and into her own hand.
Deftly, and without thinking, she thrust the blade in between his ribs, the sixth and the seventh – coaxing it in as deep as it would go.
In her mind she saw herself as a young uniformed officer in Buenos Aires, learning unarmed combat from a robust American marine.
Glancing left and right, Rosario wiped the blood off her hand with a square of lace, and hurried in the direction of home.
Ninety-two
As night descended over Marrakech, the great square of Jma al Fna came alive.
Arranged down one side, the food stalls were doing brisk business, with tourists and locals packed at the trestle tables, clouds of meaty smoke billowing up into the desert sky.
Against a backdrop of drums and iron castanets, they dined on sheep brains and boiled snails, on roasted chunks of fatty mutton, offal and shellfish.
Looking down at it all from the terrace of a good restaurant, Ghita and Blaine toasted the goldsmith with a bottle of dry local wine.
‘Can you hear the music?’ Ghita asked.
‘How can I not hear it?’
‘They’re Gnaoua. Descendants of slaves brought to Morocco centuries ago down the pilgrimage routes.’
‘Their music... it’s...’
‘Bewitching?’
‘Yes.’
‘It gets into your soul... and drives you mad.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Blaine.
Uneasily, Ghita traced the tip of her finger around the top of her glass.
‘When I was a child my parents used to bring me here,’ she said. ‘My father would say that this square was the navel of the world, that it was somehow connected to our ancestors, and to the beginning of time. I used to beg him to let me lie down on the ground right beside the Gnaoua.’
‘Why?’
‘Because only then can you soak up the vibrations. To understand their music you have to feel it in your bones.’
‘I can’t imagine you wanting to lie down out there... to get dirty.’
Ghita smiled.
‘One night when I was about twelve my father brought me down here after a dinner at La Mamounia. We watched the dancers and the drummers, and I began to feel dizzy, as though I were about to collapse. I lay down over there at the edge of the square.’
‘Were you alright?’
‘It’s so strange to think of it now. But it was as if something entered me. An invisible force. I went into a trance, my body trembling, my eyes rolled up into my head. My father shook me hard, calling my name over and over, but I couldn’t break free. I was completely under their spell.’
Ghita took a sip of wine, her gaze fixed on the square below.
‘For three days I was lost,’ she said. ‘A doctor was rushed down from Paris. He rubbed my body with ointment, injected me with drugs, and even did a scan of my brain. There was no hope. My parents resigned themselves to the fact that their daughter might never recover. But then Habiba suggested that they seek the help of the witches at Sidi Abdur Rahman.’
‘Where you had the curse put on your father?’
Ghita bit her lip.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said.
‘And so what happened?’
‘Well, a sehura, a witch, was brought to our home. As soon as she saw me she knew that my soul had been unhinged from my body, and that a Jinn had entered me. She said the only treatment was for a very special incense to be burned around me, while incantations were spoken.’
‘Did it work?’
‘It went on for three days and nights, the witch sucking the Jinn out from me a little at a time. Eventually, I was healed, but was so weakened that I had to rest in bed for weeks. Before she left, the sehura told my parents that the Jinn was so powerful it was impossible to exorcise it entirely.’