With that, I put away my notes, indicating that I was finished. But she smiled shyly and extended her hand to me, palm upwards, as a reminder that I had avoided telling her fortune.
I was reluctant, but a promise made is a promise that must be kept. I spread out her palm again and, ignoring the other signs, decided to single out the winged shadow because it was this, more than anything else, that troubled me.
This is the sign of Saturn, I said, and you must beware of it. Darkness has fallen on you. For the next few days, avoid the night. Try not to walk on black earth or dark sand. Stay away from surfaces that reflect the light of the moon. Avoid mirrors bleached by the sun. Do not trust anyone, prefer safe roads, and keep a watchful eye on your surroundings.
With that admittedly terse dispatch, I let go of her hand.
She blanched, and her eyes grew wide with distress.
I sought to reassure her, without making light of my warnings.
You have just had a frightening encounter, I said gravely, but you were able to escape it. I don’t know why, but you’ve been chosen to walk through fire – the signs are here, and here – and if your foot slips again, there is a danger that you will lose your life.
With that sombre pronouncement, Khadija made a sign in the air to indicate that she had finished speaking. We recalled her omens with wonder and speculated upon the meaning of the ones that remained unexplained: the fig tree, the lodestone and the galleon. But we knew better than to ask.
Azziza
A black motorcycle pulled up just then at the edge of our circle. It was driven by a tall man clad entirely in black, his leather jacket held together by knotted strands of camel hair. There was an air of authority to him but also an unmistakable sense of menace. He parked his machine and seemed content to look on in silence.
In the meantime, encouraged by Khadija’s bold intercession, a beggar woman now stepped out of the circle. She wore a veil so that only her eyes showed. She thrust her young daughter forward. Have pity on my child, she pleaded. She has leprosy. Her father cast us into the streets, and now we have no succour but to trust in your beneficence. Have mercy on us, please, my brothers and my sisters. I am a respectable woman forced from my house into the night.
I stood up and walked over to her side.
Don’t worry, I said quietly. Your needs will be met here.
I addressed my listeners: Give her your money instead of giving it to me. Tonight the rules are different. Tonight I will not accept any money for this story.
The man on the motorcycle grimaced and gunned his engine.
Sentimentalist, he said.
You are not welcome here, I replied.
He smiled without humour, but he did not leave.
I passed the collection plate around. When it came back to me, I handed the proceeds to the beggar woman without a word.
She began to thank me brokenly when Khadija interrupted her.
Tell them about your dream, she commanded.
The beggar woman started and gazed at Khadija in fear.
How do you know about my dream? she asked faintly.
Because I am Khadija, and I know everything, the redoubtable fortune-teller answered.
But I don’t think it is pertinent! I don’t even remember it clearly.
It does not matter what you think. That dream was not addressed to you. You are not in a position to judge its pertinence.
The beggar woman turned to me for help.
Although this same night that surrounds us is the sky over my dream, she said, it has no place here. It has nothing to do with the disappearance that is the basis for your story. It is not even meaningful.
In reply, I asked her what her name was.
I am Azziza, and my daughter is called Aisha. My father, Abolaziz Belkassem, is a respectable potter in Safi.
I smiled at her reassuringly.
Then you may speak, Azziza, and tell us about your dream. Perhaps it will come into my story. Perhaps my story will go on without it. It does not matter. We will not look to your dream for illumination. Nor will we scour its darkness for meaning.
Now speak, Khadija said.
The Ten Thousand Horsemen
Azziza leant on her daughter’s shoulder for support. She closed her eyes and composed herself. Throughout her narration, she would keep her eyes closed, as if better to recall the dream.
It was a night when the moon was very bright, she began nervously. Nights like that are easy to remember. They hold the darkness at bay. We had taken refuge deep in the heart of the souks, under the shadow of a shopfront awning. Aisha was fast asleep beside me. The moon cast its beams through the slatted rooftop trellises. It reflected the passage of clouds on our blankets. The awning shone like white stone. It was quiet in the galleries.
Azziza paused for breath, and when she spoke again, her voice had gained in strength.
That day Aisha had adopted a puppy. At first I tried to prevent her from keeping it. Then I realized how much it meant to her. It was only a few weeks old. It was helpless, a wisp of a thing. Aisha slept with it pressed to her breast.
She made a gesture with her hands to show us how her daughter slept. She was about to go on when she was interrupted. Enough of this nonsense about puppies! a man called out brusquely. What about your dream?
Azziza flinched, her fragile confidence shattered.
My dream was simple, my master, she said falteringly. Biting her lips, she turned to me. Do you want me to continue?
Don’t mind the hecklers, I said, just carry on speaking.
Where was I? I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten…
You were in the souk with Aisha, I said encouragingly.
Perhaps I should go directly to the dream? she ventured, and paused, waiting for my assent. Then she said: What can I tell you, my masters? It was as if I had just woken from sleep. I was no longer in the souk, but in the middle of the Jemaa. I was alone; Aisha was no longer with me. I saw the Jemaa as a moonlit field. A vast silence cloaked everything. Never before had the medina appeared so empty. It was as if all life had drained out of it.
Filled with unease, I began to cross the square slowly. I sought the familiar shelter of the souks, but when I was less than a hundred paces away, a line of gravediggers walked out into the open. Clods of dirt fell from their shovels. One or two of them kicked at the clods and spat, but no sound escaped their lips and no one acknowledged my presence. Terrified, I watched as they filed past towards the tombs of the Saadi kings, my fear rendering me incapable of movement.
An eternity later, ten thousand horsemen entered the Jemaa. They came from the direction of the palace of Ahmed the Victorious. They were fearsome and magnificent, their flags filled with shadows, their armour shining like scales. I watched as they began to circle the Jemaa, at first trotting with great deliberation, then whipping their steeds to a frenzied pace until all that could be seen was a moving, glinting wall of black and steel.
One by one, they began to shoot arrows into the air. The arrows caught fire, they arched through the night like torches, and one of them pierced my chest. My eyesight blurred, and the Jemaa seemed to bend and curl out from beneath me in the shape of a woman. She was beautiful and imperious, with large black eyes that were lined with kohl, and a crown of desert winds. She rose into the air and walked away, and when I called out to her for help, she turned and put her fingers through my eyes and blinded me. I knew then that she was a jinn, an evil spirit. I woke from my dream with my fear choking me like a noose.
Azziza took a deep breath and adjusted the folds of her burnous with a shaky hand. She ran her eyes up and down the square before speaking again, her voice almost inaudible under the burden of her recollections.
Oh, my masters, only a couple of days later, I dreamt about those horsemen again! I dreamt that I was back in the Jemaa seeing those terrifying soldiers rise into the air, the strangest of sights! From the darkness of the square my eyes followed them as they rode through the sky, their st
andards streaming behind them. They straddled the horizon like mountains. I kept up with them until they came to a bridge between two banks of clouds, and that was when I knew I would have to lower my eyes and leave them to their crossing. I was glad for them, for who amongst us would not have liked to be in their place, on the threshold of paradise?
Azziza paused again, and I could not tell if she had finished or there was more to come. With her eyes closed and her head slightly raised, she stood alone in the centre of the circle and we had the impression that she had become one with her dream.
Finally, she opened her eyes.
That is all I have to tell you, she said, her voice trembling with emotion. I hope I have not disappointed you, my masters and mistresses.
It was Khadija who broke the silence.
On the contrary, child, she said in her deep and sonorous voice, you were able to convey the shape of your dream, its texture, its scenes and its manifold branches quite perfectly.
Azziza lowered her head and I sensed her smile sadly beneath her veil. I gazed at her demure form, covered from head to toe, and was moved to rise to my feet and greet her as an equal.
You narrated your dream beautifully, I said. You led us through that most difficult night, that most difficult dream, with grace and dignity. You did well.
She should take your place, Hassan, someone quipped.
Indeed, she should, I replied with a smile.
Azziza raised her hand to her head in a gesture of remorse.
But I wasn’t there the night the foreigners disappeared, she said.
I was not there that night, she repeated. I still had a life, a house, a husband, a small garden. I was not forced to seek shelter from the night. That night I was not in the square.
But I was, a man’s voice said.
Hendrix
I was there that night. I was on the square.
We turned to the speaker. He was a Gnaoua musician, his bright white finery stark against the night, his drum slung across his shoulder and resting against his waist. Sitting very still, he cut a flamboyant figure in that setting, pride in every line of his bearing. His drum seemed an intrinsic part of him: he caressed its head as if to glean from it secret meanings only he could sense.
He raised his dark visage so that it merged with the night.
My name is Bilal, he said. I was one of those drumming that evening, but I did not see her, and I did not see him, and yet I dreamt about her a few days after her disappearance. I do not know why I was visited with that dream. It has left me with all sorts of questions.
He laughed, showing brilliant teeth.
I am a simple man, he said. I like the simple things in life. I am not like you. I do not like difficult questions. I play music for a living because it makes me happy. I like to be happy, so the music plays me. My group comes here every year from Amizmiz. There we practise all year round in a large orchard attached to a foundouk. It is the only green space in our arid township. We play and we play, we play our hearts out, we play ourselves into a sweat, and we are happy. We believe that there is no meaning in life other than this happiness. It banishes the heat, makes the hours quiver, and sets everyone’s feet dancing.
He raised his callused hands.
One day I would like to play with that man Hendrix, who was here many years ago, and I have heard still visits occasionally. I would like to greet him as my brother and accompany his guitar with my deff. We will have a good time. There will be no secrets between us. He will go away filled with joy. Of this I am convinced.
He laughed again and regarded me wistfully.
But that is an altogether different matter from my dream. And it is the dream that is like a bird in my head. I cannot get it out, and I would like to get it out. I would like that very much indeed because, until I do, it is getting in the way of my music.
He drummed out a quick tattoo on his deff.
But what do you want from me? I said.
He rested the drum on his knees and reflected for a moment. His head was bowed, his eyes on the ground. Suddenly, with a gentle, boyish smile, he spread his hands wide. Only this, he said, an answer to a question. How is it possible to feel nostalgia for a woman I never met?
I gazed bemusedly at him. There was something appealing in the naivety with which he’d asked his question.
What we think in life echoes in our dreams, I said.
But I didn’t even know her!
You knew of her. Men talked about her, and incessantly. The entire city was abuzz with the news of her disappearance. The legend was enough to send your mind spinning. So one night you dreamt about her. It’s as simple as that.
Is that why dreams are the last things to die in a body?
They are roads only, I answered. Signposts to be deciphered.
Then where did my dream take me? Where did that road lead? Tell me, because I understand nothing.
I cannot tell you unless I know what you dreamt.
He did not answer. Instead, he turned to two of his fellow musicians who had joined our circle and said: Brothers, we should start a fire because the night is turning cold.
They had wood with them. We started a fire.
Bilal opened his shoulders to receive its warmth.
Beyond him, all over the square, companion fires were springing up. Their winking luminescence mirrored the stars. Only the lightest veil of woodsmoke separated the Jemaa from the sky.
With a weary sigh, Bilal propped his head in his hands and gazed at the fire. Where I’m from the spirit of the desert is everywhere, he said. It is our father and our mother. It permeates everything. It laps at our feet like the ocean. Its dust colours our breath.
He took off his sandals and held them to the fire. They were warped by the desert sun, creased by its sands.
In my dream I was travelling from Tetouan to the camel souk in Goulimine, he said. I do not know why I was bound for Goulimine; I have no interest in camels. And I have never been to Tetouan. But such is the logic of dreams. I was part of a slave caravan. We were traversing endless dunes, following time-worn trails, journeying from oasis to oasis. I had no music with me; a chain bound me by my neck to my companions. If I felt the frequent lashes on my back, I said nothing. The hunger and the thirst that filled my being made all other feelings redundant. Above the closed sack of days only the hope of a quick death sustained me in that hell.
One night our caravan stopped beside a red wadi; the horses and camels were browsing in its shadowy depths. The wind blew across the sand and I knew, from its damp fragrance, that we were not too distant from the ocean. When the first drops of rain struck my back, I didn’t know what was happening. I had never known rain. I curled up like a terrified animal. I thought the raindrops were whiplashes. But as my hair and clothes began to get drenched, I felt a strange and delirious happiness. I burst into laughter. It was as if I had died and ascended to heaven.
Moments later – how many moments? – I felt her hands drumming on my back. I tensed and tried to get up, but her weight rested on my hips and made movement impossible. One, two, three – one, two, three, four – I began to breathe in time to her rhythms. She was good, her hands lightly leaping from shoulder to shoulder as she played with practised ease, using the heels of her hands and her fingertips. And, all the while, she planted shapes on my back – large, wet bouquets of geraniums, showers of lilies, moist almond blossoms such as those that grace the most exquisite gardens. In the depths of that wintry desert, spring rain!
Soon I was running with that rain on my back. She urged me on with small, sharp cries. My happiness lent me wings. I covered great distances. Behind me, time had stopped; before me, I glimpsed the ocean of eternity. The desert sped by in clouds of dust, then fell away. I shouted out in triumph. Her drumming hands had released me from my enslavement.
He lowered his dark eyes. We waited in suspense.
And then I woke up, he said.
An audible sigh of disappointment went up from our circle.<
br />
He shrugged, disconcerted by our reaction.
What can I say? I felt as you did. My heart felt lighter than my head. My back was still vibrating. I sprang out from my bed. There was an owl hooting outside my window. It described frantic circles in the air. I watched it for a while, and then I turned away. The sudden end of my dream was painful. I would have liked to have at least said farewell.
From the edge of the circle, my nephew Brahim spoke up, with more than a trace of jealousy in his voice.
Did she say anything to you at all? he asked.
Only this. Right at the end. She said: Enviably, this is the way.
I asked, very gently: How did you know her identity?
Oh, I knew who she was, he said. Dreams are like that.
Then I must disappoint you, I said. I don’t know what your dream signifies. At the most elemental level, I could tell you that women represent the forces of life. But apart from that, your dream is beyond my capacity to interpret.
He took off his cap and fanned himself. He gazed at us one by one and pursed his lips when no one offered to help.
Is that it? he asked, and his tone was heavy.
That is it, I said.
Then why did I dream about her? he asked insistently. Why did she visit me even though I wasn’t one of those she’d met? I was there that night, he repeated, performing on the square. I remember the crimson moon, the long black limousine, the evening’s haze. The police were out in force. There were rumours of a visiting Arab sheikh. But I did not know who she was. And I did not see her on the square.
But I did, a man’s voice interjected.
I was on the square that night, and I met her there.
Casablanca
The speaker was a slim young man in a threadbare suit. He wore a red rose in his buttonhole and a cheap wool scarf around his neck. His tone was cool and fastidious.
The Storyteller of Marrakesh Page 9