Mohamed paused, his voice still full of the sweetness of his experience. He gazed at us one by one and said quietly, his lips scarcely moving: I carried their spell here. When I heard you speak, Hassan, I felt saddened, so I asked your leave to tell my story.
His grey eyes sparkled, and he went on in a louder voice:
Ah, you who are speechless now! Those two strangers are not of our kind, my friends. They are brighter beings. There’s a rare innocence to them, a purity. It is through such encounters that the soul drinks its fill. Each of us carries a universe within us, but we must look outward to understand the world and our place in it.
Mohamed lifted his shoulders and looked past us into the square. After a moment’s thought, he said: That is all I have to say to you this evening.
The Scarlet Ibis
I remember how we were all silent that ill-omened evening after Mohamed’s impassioned plea.
This memory illuminates the night, I’d acknowledged. It is beyond curiosity or desire. We perceive a stranger as someone different from us, and this woman is profoundly different – that much is clear.
Now I paused for a moment and turned to Mohamed, who was also present in my audience on this occasion, attentively listening to my recapitulation of his role from long ago.
Have I described your intervention that night as it happened? I asked.
He smiled and inclined his head in assent. Indeed you have, Hassan, he said. I couldn’t have related it better myself. I was moved by their innocence, and it left me feeling immensely reassured and sanguine.
Very well then, I said, and was about to carry on when another graver, deeper voice interrupted me: It seems to me that you are quilting a story of contradictory instincts.
I turned towards the speaker. He was a Tuareg, one of the “blue men” from the south, his hands and face dyed from years of wearing the indigo weave. Aloof and serene, his demeanour showed that discipline of life which the Sahara requires of all who inhabit it.
With a natural elegance, he removed his tagilmoust, the black strip of cloth that, in the manner of his people, veiled his face.
Spreading his hands, he addressed Mohamed, his voice echoing with the sonority of vast desert spaces.
I am sorry to have to say this, my brother, but lovers always exert a strange fascination, and your account concealed as much as it revealed.
Mohamed bristled. What do you mean?
The man looked troubled.
Simply this, he answered. Sometimes our perceptions are twisted by encounters that are beyond our understanding. In listening to you, I must conclude that, moved as you were by their foreignness, you failed to realize the true implications of their presence. I too encountered the two strangers of whom you’ve spoken so eloquently. I’m afraid the woman made little impression on me, but the beautiful youth accompanying her wore the face of tragedy. Together, they reminded me of the abyss that is existence, and the only way that I can explain what I mean is through an analogy from my own experience.
I will use as my point of departure your comparison of the woman you encountered to a bird of paradise. To illustrate my point, I will speak of a different bird, though one equally resplendent, I think.
You are no doubt familiar with the bald ibis? It is a large bird, black, rather short-legged, with massive wings and a bright-red, down-curved bill. It is clumsy in flight, almost ungainly, and it is only when it is on the ground that its black plumage takes on a metallic purple sheen and gives it a strange kind of beauty. Perhaps that is why our marabout consider it sacred, and we are accustomed to the presence of these frequenters of barren terrain, which, though increasingly rare, are still easy to spot on the cliff sides lining wadis and creeks.
Last summer, a colony of these birds built their nests, as usual, on the sheer cliffs. It was during the time of the annual archery festival for which our village is well known. It is a moussem dedicated to the memory of a holy man who died long ago and was fabled for his gift of curing epilepsy. Since the creeks shelter the ibises during the daytime, the archery contests are held only after dark, when the birds return to their nesting grounds high up on the cliffs. Targets of smouldering wood are set up at regular intervals along the banks of the main creek. At a signal, bowmen from all over the Sahel try their skill with burning arrows, an innovation for which our moussem is famous.
As far as I am aware, there is no record of an ibis ever falling to a stray arrow. But last summer, things transpired differently. Archers from all over – from the far north, from Tetouan and Chefchaouen and the Rif, and also from the south, from Timbuktu and Oulata and Agadez – had already gathered for the contest when the presence of two dramatically different birds was reported in the ibis colony. They were also ibises – the family resemblance was clear – but much more slender than our resident birds, with longer necks and wings. Most exceptionally, they were bright scarlet from beak to tail, with glossy black wing tips. They left an indelible impression, and even the most hardened sceptics – the veterans of wars and so on – were moved to concede that our humble lives had been elevated by their beauty.
At first, no one knew where they had come from, but one of us, more lettered than the rest, investigated their provenance and declared that they were scarlet ibises, from a distant land across the ocean. Immediately we sensed that they posed a dangerous temptation for the visiting archers. To prevent mishap, we formed a squadron from the ranks of our youth to guard the cliff sides and keep an eye on the scarlet voyagers.
The first three days of the week-long festival passed without incident. Everyone monitored the birds. Even the toddlers rushed to their parents with hourly reports. On the fourth day, however, calamity struck. Only one of the two red birds could be seen. Horrified, we redoubled the contingent of guards and, after hours of deliberation, ordered a search of the contestants’ tents. Outraged by what they saw as a flagrant breach of traditional hospitality, the entire contingent from Gourma-Rharous packed up and left. We didn’t care. We were determined to protect the remaining scarlet ibis. Our squadron of youthful guards invented new ways to keep it under observation night and day. They patrolled both sides of the wadi, a considerable stream at that time of the year, and some of them even set up a night-long watch on the sand dunes that banked up against the yellow-grey cliffs.
By the penultimate day of the week, we began to relax our guard, for the bird had survived, even though the atmosphere of the archery festival felt compromised. The visiting bowmen were surly and contentious; they clearly resented the surveillance under which we’d placed them.
But it was all to no avail. Despite our precautions, and perhaps with a grim inevitability, the final day of the festival proved catastrophic. It dawned with a sandstorm the likes of which we had seldom experienced. It raged with fury the entire day, driving everyone, including the guards, indoors. One or two brave young souls attempted to venture out, but the lacerating sand defeated their vigilance. Resigned, but also filled with misgivings, we realized that we had no option but to wait out the storm.
Alas, when it died down in the evening to reveal a yellow sliver of moon, the precious bird had vanished. We scoured the rocky cliff sides and the banks of the creeks, but we couldn’t find any traces of it. Not a single feather remained to offer a clue to its fate. The bird was gone as ineffably as if it had never existed.
We had no heart for the contest that final night, and the next morning the visiting archers abandoned our village with loud oaths and imprecations, vowing never to return. We watched listlessly as they left. None of us exhorted them to come back the next year. Our age-old festival would never regain its spirit.
Medina
Now the Tuareg addressed me directly. He said:
Nine medieval gates pierce the ramparts encircling this city, and there is something to the warren of narrow streets within that lends itself to storytelling. I think of this whenever I let my imagination soar like a bird in order to contemplate the shadowy expanse of houses an
d streets unfolding towards the mountains. At my feet, on all sides of my airborne kilim, lie the low rooftops and perfumed gardens of the medina. In the far distance, barely visible in the mist, snow-capped peaks. The sun rises in the east from behind those peaks. It sets in the west amid foam-crested waves. In between, the music of Marrakesh, the Baghdad of the West, a city unthinkable without its square, the Jemaa, as integral to it as the crown of snow is to the mountain peak.
He paused and looked at me intently. His face was alert and contemplative.
Throughout his monologue, I had been content to remain silent, but when he paused, I said: You are yourself, quite obviously, an inaden, a weaver of stories.
Yes, I am, he said, and smiled.
What is your name, homme bleu? I asked him.
I’m called Jaouad.
I thanked him for his contribution and he smiled again.
Dust rises from the plains, he said. The heat of the day dissipates. And we both stand in the shadow of the Crow Tree, weaving.
In our shifting circle of onlookers were the usual impatient souls, eager to proceed with the story, and one of these now exclaimed: But what of the two strangers? What happened to them?
In reply, it was Jaouad who turned to one corner of the square, near the booths piled high with mounds of oranges, and gestured.
There they are now, still haunting the square, he said, although we saw nothing.
He shrugged, and there was mischief in his eyes.
They are as slippery as fish underwater, he added. Now you see them, now you don’t.
There was uneasy laughter on all sides, but my friend Mohamed, who had been brooding in silence, refused to participate in the merriment. Instead, he walked up to the Tuareg. Folding his arms, he addressed him coldly: You used the words “the abyss of existence”, if I recall correctly. Please explain your meaning.
Abyss
A lull followed Mohamed’s question. The Tuareg pursed his lips. The laughter disappeared from his eyes. Instead, his gaze conveyed a melancholic solemnity.
After an expectant silence, he said: It’s about possibilities. Things change when you care enough to give everything to what you love. Then you enter the abyss – dreamlike, certainly, but also a reality that, more often than not, is excruciating.
He paused and wrapped his indigo cloak around himself. His eyes weighed upon us. He cut a sombre figure in that convivial setting.
With a sideways glance at Mohamed, his speech precise and full of images, he continued:
Since it is the one human quality that is, strictly speaking, purely subjective, beauty usually triumphs over wisdom and rationality. The beholder, the privileged witness, lives the beautiful dream. He escapes reality through passionate identification with this dream. It is a mystic marriage, a union that embraces joy and light as much as despair and darkness. The one who has encountered such beauty is for ever transformed. His experience of the world will never be the same again. Rather, it will be sadly reduced. Such is the abyss, a state of existence without satisfaction or happiness.
He paused again to shape his thoughts. Somewhere the wheels of a cart squealed in the darkness. I now expected him to talk some more about the beautiful stranger who had captivated Mustafa. Instead, he introduced a different analogy.
Consider, he said, the gentle red glow of the ramparts of Marrakesh, the seductive shelter of their shade in the heat of the day, the temptation to rest in the shadows such that perhaps, with time, one may soak up their cooling impress and become formless oneself, without substance. That is the abyss.
Avoiding Mohamed’s eyes, he turned to me and said:
So our nature overcomes us. Its sand comes pouring through our doors. From deep inside us, desire rises like a storm. Faced with its might, all else – logic, virtue, circumspection – is useless.
No one spoke when he’d finished. As we contemplated his words, long threads of gossamer drifted across the square. I wondered where they had come from. Someone in the crowd, evidently a farmer, said: It will be a beautiful harvest.
Perhaps taken with the unintentional irony of the remark, the Tuareg smiled. He joined me in gazing at the two black pillars of the Crow Tree and the Koutoubia minaret. The full moon shone high in the sky. Holding up his middle finger so that it made a straight line with the minaret and the tree, he said quietly:
You and I have a cruel talent.
I knew what he meant. We storytellers regard the middle finger as the indicator of death.
I wish it could be different, he added. It is a heavy burden. It makes us less human.
Now he turned to Mohamed.
Farewell, he said, and raised his hand to his heart.
Mohamed did not acknowledge the gesture.
With a quick glance around, the Tuareg left the ring of onlookers. I watched him go with regret.
Fracture
But something about his discourse on beauty stayed with me and brought back memories of a conversation I’d once had with my brothers when we were in the prime of our youth and, each of us, in our own very different ways, incorrigibly idealistic.
We’d been perched on a ridge overlooking our valley, with the village at the very bottom, and our house at an elevation above it. There were rain clouds massing in the distance, and, in a while, we watched them break over the High Atlas peaks. The sky turned black, then an uncanny shade of purple, against which the snow-white mountains stood out like a jagged streak of lightning.
That’s beautiful! I exclaimed, with a low whistle of admiration.
I don’t know if I’d use that particular word, Mustafa cautioned. I usually reserve the term “beautiful” for members of the fairer sex.
You would, scoffed Ahmed. You’re obsessed with girls.
What’s wrong with that? I’ve a healthy curiosity. After all, I’m no spring chicken, I’m already fourteen.
I still maintain that the storm is beautiful, I said with equanimity. I lit a cigarette and offered another to Ahmed but not to Mustafa, who protested: Hello? What about me?
You have to earn the right to smoke, Ahmed said. It isn’t an automatic privilege when you come of age.
Fine, Mustafa said. How does one earn the right to smoke?
Ahmed chortled. By losing your virginity.
Oho, Mustafa replied, by that measure I ought to be the only one here with a cigarette.
We stared at him. Then Ahmed asked him if he was joking.
Why don’t you believe me?
Without a convincing counter, Ahmed could do no better than to fall silent.
Feeling the need to come to his rescue, I cleared my throat.
What’re you talking about, Mustafa? I asked.
What do you think?
We don’t believe you, Ahmed said. Then: Who’ve you done?
All of them, Mustafa said with a grin.
What? In the village?
Where else?
Ahmed! Mustafa! I reprimanded them. Behave yourselves.
Ahmed pressed on regardless. Names, please.
Mustafa began counting on his fingers. Let’s see, there’s Salima, Zubeida, Douja, Huda…
I interrupted him. What a load of rubbish!
So that’s what he does when he goes swanning about the village pond, Ahmed said with contempt.
Mustafa drew himself up with an air of injured dignity.
On the contrary, I don’t go “swanning” about the pond, I’ll have you know; I merely prefer the water temperature there as compared to our own frigid spring.
The waters of the pond warmed, no doubt, by your many admirers’ wildly beating hearts, I said with irony.
It could be, Mustafa said, lowering his eyes modestly.
You’re shameless, Ahmed said, and spat on the ground. I suppose you’ve also slept with Hayat, Shama and Zina, he added recklessly, naming some of the girls who were his own age.
Please! Mustafa said. Give me some credit for taste. Hayat is fat, Shama has a squint, while Zina’s growi
ng a beard from her chin.
You fool, Ahmed said, get your priorities straight. Hayat’s father has money, Shama’s father is the village moneylender, while Zina’s brothers own a taxi company in the Tafilalt. And that’s what matters in the end: money.
You can’t sleep with money, Mustafa said crudely.
But you can lie on it, Ahmed retorted, undeterred. He paused for a moment, then asked, with less assurance, naming a girl we knew he was attracted to: What about Mallika?
Don’t worry, Mustafa said. She’s all yours for when you’re ready.
Anyway, Ahmed said, returning to the attack, I don’t care for your taste in women, quite frankly. All the girls you named, especially Salima and Zubeida, wear bright-red lipstick that makes them look like whores; and I’ve nothing but scorn for girls who attempt to enhance their sex appeal by using such fripperies. But then again, I suppose that’s what attracted you to them in the first place.
As a matter of fact, no, my dear Ahmed, I was attracted by their beauty, but what would you know of that? You haven’t seen what I’ve seen.
Shut up. You’re such a braggart.
And this from the boy who confessed he slept without trousers the day he first saw his precious Mallika so that he could have better dreams?
At least I didn’t wear serwal, harem pants, as you once did!
All right, you two, I said sharply, cut it out.
They carried on as if they hadn’t heard me.
What’s wrong with wearing serwal to bed now and then? Mustafa said, before adding provocatively: They add to your dreams, and you know how much I love to fantasize, to conjure up moments of bare skin and silk. What’s better still, one can add to the erotic element the next day by setting fire to the serwal and watching it go up in smoke before starting all over again.
The Storyteller of Marrakesh Page 4