Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  ‘Tomorrow, Jim. Take a cab to the entrance to the Medina and I’ll meet you there. No suit, Jim.’

  ‘Okay. Is ten-ish fine?’

  ‘Ten’s fine.’

  The Djemaa El Fna square had a splendidly lazy atmosphere about it in the morning. Its wide open space seemed deserted compared to the thronging mass of the night. Here and there people crossed it in ones and twos, an occasional patrol cutting an orderly, rectilinear path across its space.

  The March sun began to warm the stone and earth, which turned from orange to fuchsia to pale pink. Stray dogs wandered in circles, sniffing the detritus of the night before. Men picked at wood and paper and left-overs from the night.

  Summerfield saw Wilding arrive in a calash and watched as the American paid and stepped down onto the compacted earth of the square. He noted that Wilding had heeded his advice and was wearing the casual clothing he probably wore in the field—beige slacks, ankle boots, a bush hat and a blue, canvas jacket. The trap pulled away and Wilding stood for some seconds, nonetheless obtrusive in his western clothes, searching for Summerfield. The American looked at his watch, took a few steps and turned round to search once more. Summerfield sensed a little nervousness in Wilding’s movements and smiled to himself, wondering whether his friend would notice him. As expected, Wilding’s presence soon acted as a magnet. A couple of men approached him, stopped to say a few words and continued when Wilding shook his head. Then the children, appearing as if from nowhere, tugging at Wilding’s clothes. However intensely Summerfield had been looking at his friend, Wilding had still failed to notice him. It was time to appear, thought Summerfield, observing Wilding’s growing irritation.

  Summerfield rose from his sitting position hardly ten yards away and walked over, shooing away the children. Wilding span round and gesticulated.

  ‘Go away, you.’

  ‘I just saved you from being pick-pocketed!’ said Summerfield in return. Wilding’s jaw dropped and Summerfield laughed. He moved closer. ‘Jim—it’s me—Harry.’

  ‘What in Christ’s name—’ began Wilding. ‘Have you seen yourself, Harry?’

  ‘I can’t, Jim—I’m invisible. I was sitting ten yards away.’

  ‘So you saw me being attacked, then, you crazy bastard.’

  ‘Attacked is a little strong, Jim. And I did eventually step in to help.’

  ‘You’re nuts,’ said Wilding, shaking his head.

  Summerfield guffawed. Maybe Jim was right. ‘Come on—let’s get going before a whole crowd turns up. Follow me—and remember: you’ve just hired me as your guide.’

  ‘Nuts,’ repeated Wilding, stepping behind Summerfield and lowering his voice. ‘You’ve gone native.’

  ‘It’s a defence mechanism, Jim. Camouflage. I do it so well now, that it takes a very shrewd local to find me out.’

  ‘It’ll get you into trouble, Harry.’

  ‘Already has—but funnily enough, not with these people.’ Wilding cocked his head, but Summerfield beckoned him on through a gateway and into the intricate alleyways of the souk. ‘This way, Jim. It’s a bit of a hike to my place and I still get lost in this maze. By the way, why not call me Hassan while we’re at it.’

  ‘Because your name’s Harry, Harry,’ replied Wilding, flatly.

  ‘Might save us some trouble, that’s all,’ returned Summerfield and then, sotto-voiced, ‘I wonder what would happen to me if they found out. Hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘Christ, you are nuts. You’re a danger to be with, Harry—sorry, Mustapha.’

  ‘Hassan,’ corrected Summerfield.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Hassan, then!’

  ‘Just Hassan will do, Jim.’

  Summerfield wound through the tightly packed streets and alleys, Wilding following closely behind. From time to time, Summerfield stopped to offer a few explanations. ‘And on our left, some say the oldest vestige in the city—thirteenth century—the equivalent of a chapel. And that,’ stopping before a chaotic, dazzling display of powders and roots, ‘is liquid soap. Incredible, is it not?’

  ‘You mean they put that muck on their skins?’

  ‘I agree the colour puts you off a bit—but it’s made from olives and very good for a healthy complexion. Just think if someone decided to commercialise that back home, Jim. Liquid soap!’

  ‘Wouldn’t work, Hassan,’ replied Wilding, playing the game. ‘It’s more slippery than slippery soap. How could you hold it when getting into the tub?’

  ‘You’ve got a point,’ said Summerfield, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Pity, though. And that,’ he continued excitedly, pointing at a pile of small, white, roughly stacked rectangles, ‘is jasmine. Bars of the stuff. And over there—powdered gazelle horn.’

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘They say it’s an aphrodisiac, but people also put it on wounds.’

  ‘And what about that black stuff?’ enquired Wilding, as if his eyes had just come alive. He prodded a woven basket with its pasty metal-grey content.

  ‘They pronounce it korl though I don’t know how it’s spelt.’

  ‘My guide in the desert had some around his eyes. First time in my life I saw a guy putting make-up on.’

  ‘Not make-up, Jim. It’s their way of protecting their eyes from the desert glare. They haven’t tinted glasses here. If they didn’t put that on they’d go blind.’

  ‘Hey—now that’s strange!’ Wilding had caught Summerfield’s mix of excitement and curiosity and couldn’t stop now. He delved into another basket and held aloft what appeared to be a small, prickly catapult tied in string.

  ‘No idea,’ shrugged Summerfield and glanced across at the merchant who picked one up, opened his mouth for Wilding to reveal a set of dark brown teeth and began to scrub. ‘A toothbrush!’ said Summerfield.

  ‘Obviously effective,’ laughed Wilding. ‘I’ll take one.’

  At last, after Summerfield had made a detour just to witness Wilding’s retching at the foul smelling chicken market, they resurfaced into the glare of the open streets.

  ‘This is the biggest garbage yard I’ve ever seen,’ said Wilding, squinting. He searched in his pocket for his sunglasses.

  ‘This is home, Jim. We’re nearly there.’

  ‘Charming,’ commented Wilding as they walked on. ‘No offence, Harry—Hassan—working in this mess is fine, but when it comes to living…’

  ‘You’ll be surprised, Jim. And Harry is fine, now. I should think everyone is used to seeing me around here by now.’

  ‘Well, at least that’s something. Tell me—how did they take to an Englishman wearing fancy dress?’

  Summerfield chuckled. ‘It’s really very practical clothing, Jim. You should try it.’

  Wilding smiled and shook his head. ‘No thank you, Harry. We’ve all got identities—I’m happy with the one I’ve got.’

  ‘And I’m happy with having several, Jim. D’you know—the kids have got into the habit of calling me Laurens! T.E. Lawrence—dunno how they learnt of him, but they liken me to Lawrence of Arabia!’

  ‘Another crazy Englishman, Harry.’

  Side by side now, the two men slowed their pace and sauntered along the outskirts of the medina and into the outlying residential spill, Summerfield pointing out the oddities—the little shops and houses with their cluttered shelves and makeshift windows and doors made from salvaged wood and glass. Occasionally, groups of boys passed noisily, saluting Summerfield. And Summerfield, using the Arabic he’d picked up, returned a few words which made them laugh.

  Wilding threw him a respectful glance. ‘I’m impressed, Harry.’

  Summerfield shrugged. ‘Maybe they’re just laughing at my accent. Imagine it, Jim—an Englishman, already an exotic item in these parts, speaking with the strangest accent they’ve ever heard, in a language which isn’t even their own.’

  ‘They’re Arabs, aren’t they?’ enquired Wilding.

  ‘That’s what I thought in the beginning too. In fact, we should remember that the Arabs inv
aded this country centuries ago, Jim. Most of these people speak two languages, even three if you count those who speak French. They call it the Tamazight language, the language of the Berber tribes.’

  ‘So you’re speaking to these kids in their dialect?’

  ‘Well—the language is dying in the big towns, but they’re still pretty proud of their origins. I speak some Arabic which is the lingua franca of North Africa. It’s like calling a Scot or a Welshman, a Saxon,’ continued Summerfield, returning to the former subject. ‘The Saxons and the Angles—the English—were invaders—’

  ‘Whoa!’ exhaled Wilding, slapping Summerfield on the shoulder. ‘Hold on, Harry. Now I understand why you get on so well here—you’re just as complex as them. Why you guys just can’t call yourselves British and be happy with that, I don’t know. In the States, we see the big picture—everyone’s an American, period.’

  ‘Maybe,’ answered Summerfield, ‘but scratch a little under the surface and you’ll come up with Irish, Italian, Mandarin, German, Swedish and I don’t know how many other affinities. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Where d’you get that information from, Harry?’

  ‘Books, Jim. Only books and words—but I imagine it’s true.’

  ‘Well maybe it is,’ conceded Wilding. ‘And you’re something of a bookworm, if I remember—a writer, right?’

  ‘A bad one, Jim. Phoney verses for phoney dreams. And then I let politics get in the way.’

  ‘Not anymore, Harry. You haven’t once mentioned all those ideals you held in Gibraltar. You’ve changed.’

  The two of them turned into Summerfield’s quarter and Summerfield pointed at the tree which marked the street in which he lived.

  ‘If you need a pee, go ahead,’ said Summerfield, ruefully. ‘The locals use it as a urinal.’ He glanced across at Wilding who raised his eyebrows, but remained silent. Perhaps the American was getting used to things. Before they arrived at the tree, Summerfield tugged on Wilding’s arm and they halted. ‘And we’ll get Mrs Oudjine No. 1 to cook us a meal.’

  ‘Number 1?’

  ‘Mr Oudjine has two wives, Jim. He’s quite well off for these parts. Come on—the butcher’s is just over there.’

  Farther on and squeezed between a hardware stand stuffed full of boxes of rusting bolts and nails and a weaver’s workshop dripping with spools of multicoloured thread, was the butcher’s. Summerfield felt Wilding falter and he turned. The expression on Wilding’s face was one of horrified incomprehension.

  ‘Harry—you can’t be serious. We’ll die of the plague if we eat that stuff.’ Summerfield frowned and followed Wilding’s regard. True—he was now looking through Jim’s eyes and noticed, as he had done that first time he’d set eyes upon the place, the grim display of heads and entrails on the rickety little stand in front of the shop. A swarm of fattened flies buzzed merrily from head to head, occasionally shooed away by the owner’s son brandishing a cluster of palm leaves.

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ murmured Summerfield, his voice sounding philosophical—‘Though I still haven’t figured out if the heads are actually for sale. I presume so.’

  ‘It’s—it’s unclean,’ spluttered Wilding.

  ‘Apparently not—the animal has been killed according to Islamic law,’ returned Summerfield. ‘In we go.’

  They walked passed the display of heads—two goats, two sheep and a cow sporting an extremely large pair of protuberant eyes which seemed to enquire questionably at them as they entered the little shop.

  ‘Salaam,’ said Summerfield, smiling at the owner who returned salutations. ‘Meat, please, Abdul—for Mrs Oudjine to cook,’ he finished in French.

  The butcher disappeared momentarily, leaving Summerfield and Wilding alone in the tiled room. It looked freshly washed but for the fact that Abdul seemed to have forgotten the skirting board and corners where a thick, black strip of grime had colonised the joints in the tiles. Wilding gave a worried frown and then froze. Summerfield glanced at him and the American nodded in the direction of a small window in the wall that gave out to a back yard. Summerfield grimaced. In the middle of the small, dim yard, was a five-foot pile of heads and carcasses, the gleaming white bones streaked with pinkish blood.

  ‘Sheer butchery,’ quipped Summerfield, lamely.

  ‘I think I’m gonna be sick, Harry.’

  ‘Not in here,’ returned Summerfield, ‘It’s unhygienic.’

  ‘For me or for the meat?’ gagged Wilding, mirroring Summerfield’s grimace.

  Abdul came back, holding a large flank of meat wrapped in a linen cloth and laid it out on his workbench. Wilding peered over—thankfully it looked spotless. ‘And will the family Oudjine be sharing the meal with you?’ asked the butcher, his curved knife skitting away a couple of stray flies.

  ‘No, but add a little on for the family, if you please.’ Abdul’s knife cut into the meat with a soft hiss and he smiled. ‘Mutton, Sidi Summerfield—a beautiful beast I slaughtered only this morning. May God provide Mrs Oudjine with the necessary respect and dexterity in her cooking.’

  ‘God is almighty,’ replied Summerfield, respectfully lowering his head.

  The day drew on and the sun blazed for two hours before commencing its descent into mid-afternoon. The odour rising up from his neighbour’s kitchen rose deliciously into the still air, filled Summerfield’s rooms and wafted up to the roof where they sat under a makeshift canopy Summerfield had rigged up.

  ‘Regal,’ commented Wilding, accepting a mug of freshly pressed orange juice. ‘I must say I prefer to be up here than down there, Harry. Thanks.’

  The two men sipped on their drinks and smoked under the shade. Summerfield briefly outlined the horizon with its minarets and rooftops and the conversation turned to work.

  It turned out that Wilding’s prospecting in Mauritania had proven fruitless. He had covered an area of desert almost the size of France, carrying out countless studies and boring countless holes. No oil, although he had discovered phosphate and magnesium deposits in some quantity. His job now was to return one last time to oversee the last bore holes and write a full report. Wilding said he intended to send it back to the States beginning of June. And then? He was hoping they’d send him home, but they could also order him farther south into sub-Saharan Africa and the west coast, maybe Portuguese Angola.

  ‘But before they do that,’ finished Wilding, his voice sounding determined, ‘I’ll put in for some vacation and come back to see you. How about taking a trip together towards Libya? They say it’s a great place for treasures and ruins.’

  Summerfield nodded. ‘Why not—good idea. It all depends on how things turn out in Europe, though. Libya could turn into a dangerous place—I don’t see Mussolini keeping quiet if Germany goes to war.’

  Wilding groaned. ‘Well—Algeria, then. At least the French will treat us well.’ Summerfield let out a laugh and Wilding glanced enquiringly. ‘Anything I said?’ Summerfield grinned and shook his head. ‘Well—tell me about your work then. How are you paying for this palace, Harry?’

  ‘I write, Jim,’ replied Summerfield.

  ‘Well, that’s damned good, Harry. It’s what you wanted to do, right? What’s the paper?’

  ‘The newspaper?’

  ‘I figure you do get paid for writing.’

  Summerfield nodded and added, evasively, ‘Oh, something local that’s all.’

  ‘Interesting. What sort of articles?’

  ‘Oh, this and that.’

  ‘This and that,’ echoed Wilding and remained silent a few seconds. ‘Hey, Harry—I can’t believe a guy isn’t hiding something when he says this and that! Either it’s top-level stuff and you’re showing that famous British modesty or it’s so lousy you’re ashamed to tell.’

  ‘It’s writing,’ answered Summerfield.

  Wilding leant forwards. ‘So tell me. I’m genuinely interested, Harry. Can’t pals ask questions anymore?’

  Summerfield felt himself reddening. ‘Love letters, Jim
. I write love letters.’

  Wilding looked at him, silent, and then guffawed. ‘Jesus! And they pay you for that? No, c’mon—I can’t take it any longer. Come up with the goods, Harry. What’s the real story?’

  ‘I’m being serious,’ said Summerfield, growing irritated. ‘Honest.’

  Another silence. Wilding looked apologetic.

  ‘So who for?’

  ‘A man.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, no…’ Summerfield shook his head. ‘Not that, Jim. A gentleman who happened to fall in love with a lady. By chance he overheard me speaking French and then, somehow or another, I ended up being offered a job writing.’

  ‘This is like a novel,’ chuckled Wilding.

  ‘Well,’ hummed Summerfield, ‘More than you probably think…’

  ‘God—you’re not—’

  Summerfield held up his hands as if to ward Wilding off. ‘Well, no—yes. You see, I don’t know her—haven’t even seen her, but—’

  ‘But you’ve fallen for her! Hell, this is a novel, Harry.’ Wilding sat back, rubbed his hands and lit another cigarette. ‘So tell me—why doesn’t this man do all the smooching himself?’

  ‘She’s French. And he’s a local. And locals aren’t allowed to mix with French women.’

  Wilding’s expression suddenly changed and he bowed his head. ‘Harry—this could land you in a hell of a lot of trouble. All these disguises, all this bizarre, illicit business.’

  ‘I’m just beginning to realise,’ answered Summerfield, acknowledging his friend was right. ‘In the beginning it was just a little money to keep me going.’

  ‘And if the authorities find out—’

  Summerfield sniffed. ‘And how could they? Everything’s done very carefully, Jim.’

  ‘Nothing ever remains secret for any amount of time—unless it’s locked up in the Tower of London and even then.’

  They were silent for a few moments. ‘He’s a merchant—a rich one,’ said Summerfield finally. ‘He must be influential and I think it’s probably thanks to him that the people around here accept me.’