That left Father and Ahmed. Father stepped forward, reluctantly, but Mustafa cut in before him. Can I go again? he asked the doctor.
She smiled and ruffled his hair. You’re a brave little boy, but you only get one chance, I’m afraid.
I stood beside the wooden bench that held Mother’s clumps of mint in whitewashed tin cans and watched Father take his shot. Then Ahmed – who’d attempted unsuccessfully to conceal himself in the shadows where the red-and-white oleanders overhung the patio – was persuaded to come forward. He let out a blood-curdling yell when the needle slid in. As he backed away, biting his lips and holding his arm, Mustafa shot forward again like a jack-in-the-box.
Ana moajaba bik, he said adoringly, quite obviously unable to stay away from the doctor: I love you.
She gasped, her eyes widening as she gazed at his fine brown hair, almond-shaped eyes and chubby cheeks. Semehli, she said, I’m sorry, little one, but what did you say?
Mustafa repeated himself, louder this time, and with his hand clamped over his heart.
Oh, you dear baby! she exclaimed in delight. I love you too, habibi.
Glancing at Father, she said: You’ve a charming little child.
Father didn’t respond.
She smiled warmly at the rest of us. Is there anyone else in the household? she asked.
Mustafa hurried forward with Chakib, our orange tabby, squirming in his arms. The soldier laughed. The doctor smiled and said: It’s all right, my dear, you can let him go. He doesn’t need this vaccine.
Promptly dropping Chakib, Mustafa rushed back into the house and returned with the canary in its wicker cage. The lady doctor shook her head. No, not the bird either.
She turned to Father. Anyone else?
Father looked wan in the grey light. His small, deep-set eyes flicked over us, warning us to hold our tongues. There’s no one else, he said stolidly.
Are there no women in the household?
There are none.
Both Ahmed and I kept silent at this blatant untruth, but Mustafa couldn’t control himself. Suddenly darting forward and clutching the doctor’s hand, he said in a clear and high-pitched voice: That’s not true! There is someone else. Mother’s inside, making helba, and that’s the truth.
In the silence that followed, a brisk gust of wind swept through the courtyard, stirring the straw litter strewn across the earthen floor. Our donkey, Huda, flicked her tail.
Please go in and get your wife, the doctor said. Everyone must be inoculated against the flu.
Father refused to budge.
It’s against our taqlid, our tradition, he said firmly. Women must be excepted from your rules.
Nobody can be excepted in this case, I’m afraid, the doctor replied. I’m here on orders from the Ministry in Rabat.
It doesn’t matter, Father said. In the mountains we Berbers follow our own rules.
At that point, the soldier addressed Father, quite rudely, I thought.
What is your name? he rapped out.
Now the soldier’s going to get it, I thought, expecting an explosion of Father’s famous temper. Instead, to my surprise, Father shuffled his feet and said: Hamou.
Well then, Hamou, didn’t you hear the doctor? In the name of His Majesty the King, go and fetch your wife.
Father paused uncertainly as Ahmed and I exchanged amazed glances. In the name of His Majesty? Father asked.
Indeed.
To my astonishment, Father nodded wordlessly and went into the house.
He emerged moments later. She won’t come, he said, his eyes fixed on the ground.
If she won’t come on her own, the soldier said, then we’ll have to go in and get her.
Father started. His voice changed, falling to a pitch I’d never heard before. There’s no need for that, he said, sounding utterly vanquished, while Ahmed rolled his eyes, as embarrassed as I was at witnessing our formidable parent cut down to size. Looking like an old man with his greying beard and sunburnt face, Father went into the house again and we heard his voice rising in anger as he took out his frustration on Mother. It was then that I realized that gauging who has sulta, authority, in a particular situation, is the first step towards maturity.
Shortly after, Mother emerged behind Father in her best jellaba, brown with white-and-red stripes, with heavy silver bracelets on both wrists, and with the lower part of her face veiled with a black scarf which she held in place with the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were terrified, and when I rushed over to reassure her, she clutched my hand tightly.
I looked around for Father, but he’d retreated into the background, mortified and silent.
Mabrouk, the doctor’s assistant said to him with heavy irony. Congratulations on your ability to understand the rules quickly.
The doctor took Mother under her wing.
It’ll only take a moment, she said gently.
That’s right, Mmi, I said, you’ll hardly feel it and it’ll be over before you know it. It’s just like a mosquito bite.
It isn’t like a mosquito bite, Ahmed said dourly. It hurts like hell, and you know it.
It doesn’t hurt, Mustafa cut in. You’re a sissy, Ahmed!
I’m not! Hold your tongue, midget.
Distracted by her sons, Mother was about to admonish us when the doctor told her that she’d already injected her and that she could go.
Amazed, Mother simply stood there in disbelief before breaking into a girlish giggle of relief.
See, I told you, I said to her.
So did I, Mustafa chimed in. Don’t forget me!
May God grant you grace, Mother said to the doctor, before adding shyly, I’ve made sfinge. Will you have some, Madame?
Yes, she will, Mustafa said, answering for the doctor. Her doughnuts are the best in the valley, Madame. You must try them.
The doctor laughed. You have beautiful sons, she said to Mother.
No, you are beautiful, Mustafa interjected.
Hush, Mustafa, Mother said, scandalized. What’s come over you? Please excuse him, she said to the doctor. He’s so mischievous; constantly getting into trouble. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.
But it’s the truth, isn’t it? Mustafa asserted. You always tell me to speak the truth.
That’s enough, Mustafa, Mother scolded. You talk too much.
To me, she said: Bring our visitors some water to drink, Hassan.
I returned with water kept cold in goatskin bags.
Shukraan, the doctor said. Thank you.
Mother brought out the sfinge on our best terracotta platter.
She glanced shyly at Father. Will you try one and tell me if they’re all right?
Instead of answering, Father abruptly turned on his heels and disappeared into the house. To spare Mother further embarrassment, the doctor tasted a sfinge and answered in his stead.
Wonderful! she pronounced. What accounts for their delicate scent?
I flavour them with eucalyptus honey from Kenitra.
Your little boy was right. They’re the best I’ve ever tasted.
As Mother blushed deeply, the doctor asked Mustafa if he’d like to accompany them on their rounds for the rest of the morning. Struck speechless with delight, he could only look at Mother for permission. When she nodded fondly, her innate good nature getting the better of her annoyance with him, he let out a whoop and danced a frenzied jig around the perimeter of the courtyard, while Ahmed and I tried to conceal our envy with disdainful indifference.
With a smile, the doctor gave him her instrument case to hold. He gaped in awe at the privilege. This – this is for me to carry?
He could barely encircle it with his arms.
I’ll bring him back by noon, the doctor assured Mother.
We watched them leave in their medical van, with Mustafa sitting in the front seat between the soldier and the doctor’s assistant.
They dropped him off a little before noon, as promised.
Ahmed and I were playing chess in the shad
ed patio. The air was hot and thick; sheets of sunlight pierced through the slatted roof of the patio. We tried to ignore Mustafa as he bounded in through the gate.
Look! he yelled. I got two medals!
He pointed to the badges on his chest, one with a red cross against a white background, and the other with a star inside a crescent.
I nodded without interest, while Ahmed yawned.
Mustafa walked over to us. You’re jealous, he taunted.
Khain! Ahmed replied with scorn. Traitor! You made Father lose face and now he won’t speak to us.
Unfazed, Mustafa proceeded to tell us about his day, and, despite ourselves, we found ourselves listening. He said that even the f’qih in the Qur’an school, who’d cited the authority of the Hadiths in order to avoid being inoculated, had eventually been dragged out of the village mosque by the soldier and suffered the indignity of the needle in his arm.
He squirmed and squealed like a girl! Mustafa said with glee, and both Ahmed and I shared in his mirth, because the f’qih was a tyrant who bullied us unmercifully.
At that moment, Father emerged from the house, and our laughter dried up. Unable to stomach the loss of his authority, he’d spent the entire morning lying in bed with his face turned to the wall. Now he glared at Mustafa, the muscles of his face tight and drawn. There could be no mistaking his intentions as he headed purposefully towards his youngest son.
Mustafa stood his ground. He tapped the two badges on his chest.
Madame gave me these as a reward for being a good boy, he announced with pride.
When Father continued to close in, Mustafa faltered and began to retreat in his turn. He tapped the badges again, this time with an element of panic, in case Father hadn’t noticed the first time around. I am now a servant of His Majesty the King, he said, his voice indignant and shrill. The soldier, Shouash, told me that. You can’t hit me, Bba!
Father hesitated for the merest fraction of a second before resuming his advance. We’ll see about that, he said grimly.
Ahmed had tipped off Mother by this time, and she ran pell-mell into the courtyard and pleaded with Father to desist.
Be quiet, Mabruka! This boy made a fool of me in front of strangers.
Mustafa now had his back to a wall. Trapped, he went down in a crouch as Father towered over him. It was of no use. With a deranged blow that reverberated through the air, Father sent him hurtling across practically the entire length of the courtyard.
I stepped forward inadvertently but Father stopped me with a glare.
Mustafa tottered to his feet, the imprint of Father’s hand like a brand on his face. He coughed once or twice and shook his head in a daze. Blood welled out of his mouth. Mother let out a wail, but Father stepped in between. Trembling uncontrollably, my little brother made for the wooden gate and let himself out of the courtyard. When Mother attempted to follow him, Father stopped her with a curt command.
Let him be, he said. It will serve as a useful lesson.
We watched helplessly as Mustafa disappeared behind the line of boulders that ridged the nearest hill. Mother collapsed on her haunches and began to moan. My baby! Oh, my poor little baby!
As Father re-entered the house, Ahmed doubled over and threw up.
I held Mother by the shoulders, finding it difficult to breathe myself.
Mustafa didn’t return until late in the evening, and even then he refused to speak to us for days. The red bruise on his face darkened to purple, and then to a mottled black.
Malice
That night in the Jemaa, as I watched Mustafa’s rapidly disappearing back, I was reminded of that episode from a long time ago. Mustafa vanished into the shadows before I could stop him, and the manner of his departure weighed as heavily on me then as it had on that very different occasion when he was a little boy. I was afraid for him, and didn’t feel up to the task of going on with my evening’s worth of storytelling.
I surveyed the Jemaa and recalled the acrobat Saïd’s warning. Left to myself, I would rather have pleaded inclement health, asked forgiveness from my circle of listeners, and abandoned the square. I might even have gone searching for my errant brother, determined to bring him to his senses.
But I did none of this. Heeding my obligation to my listeners, I willed myself instead to return to my storytelling. I ignored my conscience, which counselled attending to my brother, and became captive to my duties.
And so it was that I found myself talking about the Jemaa in unusually dark terms, portraying her as a woman of great charm, old beyond imagining, but with a young girl’s voice and face, a fickle creature, sometimes given to nurturing her children – the inhabitants and itinerants who frequented her open spaces – and sometimes to bringing them great harm and grief.
She is dangerous, I said, but some women are like that: their dark mythology overwhelms them, vanquishing their beauty. Treat them with circumspection, for they are not to be trifled with.
One of my listeners asked me, with some indignation, what mythology I could be referring to. He said: I have come to the Jemaa from my village many times, and each time I’ve felt enthralled, uplifted. There is something in the air here that is like a tonic. It braces me and leaves me wanting more. So what lies behind this malignant portrait that you choose to paint of her?
I reminded him that until recently the square had been a place for public executions and hangings. Both the guilty and the innocent met their end here, some dying with cries of despair, others with a defiance born of hopelessness. If you listen closely enough, I said, you can still hear their cries echoing across the pavements.
That was a long time ago, he said dismissively. You talk like the government officials who wanted to build a car park here and for a while stopped all meetings and festivities. Go back to your village if you don’t like it here. But if you’re going to make your money off the Jemaa, at least have the decency to praise it.
I acknowledged his point.
I love the Jemaa as much as anyone else, I said quietly. And as a storyteller, I am more conscious than most of her beauty. Every evening at sunset I observe her as she turns her young girl’s face to the setting sun and bathes in its radiance. But I am also aware of her dark side, her failings.
At that moment, I heard a chuckle from the circle of onlookers and beheld my plump friend Mohamed, who owns a fabric shop in the Souk Smarine.
My word, Hassan! he exclaimed. What is the matter with you tonight? You are uncharacteristically morbid. And tonight, especially, I can tell you that your mood is not fitting. For I have witnessed something truly exceptional.
What have you seen? I asked, when he offered no further explanation.
I have seen the two foreigners who have become the talk of the souks, he answered. I have seen them with my own eyes, and they are like angels, gentle and beguiling. So enough of this grim talk. It is time to praise our good fortune this evening.
With that, he stepped out of the crowd and, with a nod at my listeners, asked me if he could relate what he had seen.
Angel
Mohamed spoke simply, with a mixture of spontaneity, candour and a disarming naivety that compelled our attention.
What I have to tell you, he began, took place earlier this evening. It was during the quiet hour, when the shops in the souks shutter their stalls and the evening crowds have yet to congregate in the Jemaa. Silence was everywhere. The dust of the day had had time to settle. The last embers of the sun burned quietly.
I had shuttered my stall and was about to set out for the Qessabin Mosque. The neighbouring shops had already closed for the day. The alley was deserted. I put my keys in the pocket of my jellaba and turned to leave.
I had barely taken a step when I froze. There, like an incandescent spark, in a pool of light cast by an opening in the reed-mat roof of the gallery, stood the most wondrous woman I had ever seen. She was like a houri of legend, an angel, a peri. I drank in her luminous eyes, her black mane, her flowing limbs, her smile as fluid
as a ripple of wind. My head swam as if under the influence of some intoxicant. I found it difficult to breathe. Stunned by her beauty, I drew back into the shadows and stood quite still.
I have no idea how long the moment lasted. She lingered in that shaft of sunlight like a butterfly, and from somewhere deep within me a voice began singing. I did not call out. I did not attempt to engage her in conversation. I did nothing.
I don’t know when it was that a miserable old donkey limped into the alley. It had been savagely beaten: bloody wounds ran down its flanks, and its tethers were swollen. Even I, who am not ordinarily possessed of patience for these dumb beasts, was moved to pity. It swung its head from side to side, spittle flaking its lips, and, before I could react, lurched suddenly towards the peri.
I silently cursed its intrusion and was about to step out of my place of concealment to chase it away when, once again, a surprise arrested me. This child, more beautiful than a bird of paradise, with large, dark eyes and the gentlest of smiles, reached forward and stroked the animal on its wounds and, instead of rearing away, it turned its head towards her and nuzzled her hand.
I watched, lost in contemplation. Her touch was steeped in a tenderness as light as water. Its infinite solicitude moved me. I realized that I had just witnessed an act of compassion, unpremeditated and direct. It was an expression of love, and I saw no evidence of anything other than the impulse to heal. Surely there was nothing enigmatic in this behaviour. It was worthy of emulation. There was nothing there to foster superstition or mystery.
Presently, comforted by the girl’s attentions, the animal moved on. She watched it leave, her eyes glistening with tears, then turned to her companion, whom I noticed for the first time. He was well built, his arms strong and muscular, his face thoughtful and genteel. He reached for her hand. I shared in their silence, which had the evanescent quality of a smile. Oblivious to my presence, they stood there for a while before walking away. I bade them a wordless farewell. A cat passed noiselessly across my line of sight. I emerged from the encounter as if from a dream.
The Storyteller of Marrakesh Page 3