I saw them both, he said. In fact, I spent some time with them.
He surveyed us with an air of triumph, pausing to let us digest his words. We did not know how to react, so we maintained an impassive silence. I wondered where he’d come from. I could not recall ever having seen him on the square.
Have you seen the movie Casablanca? he asked. They were like the stars of that movie, Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, only younger. He was smart, in a brown suit and fedora; she wore a lightweight plaid coat over a knee-length red dress. I wouldn’t call her beautiful, but she was certainly arresting. Her features were delicate but vigorous. She had long arms and legs. She let him do all the talking. She seemed withdrawn, but contented.
How do you know so much about them? someone asked.
It’s quite simple, really. I had the pleasure of painting her portrait. He commissioned me. And paid what I asked for. It was a privilege.
I took him in at a glance.
Where are you from, I asked. And what is your name?
He was silent for a moment; he flicked off a fly that had alighted on his forehead, then answered: My name is Taoufiq. I am an art student from Tangier. I come here from time to time because it amuses me to set up on the square. I’m not in it for the money. I only paint portraits.
Someone behind me muttered mockingly in Tashilhait, our local Berber tongue: Pretentious bastard. Casablanca wasn’t even filmed in Morocco but on a Hollywood back lot.
That raised a laugh, but I was curious to hear the art student’s story, so I gestured to him to get on with it.
He lit a cigarette, adjusted his scarf, examined his fingernails. With a quick, rather contemptuous smile, he flicked a glance across our circle. Oh, I don’t know if I should bother with this lot, he said. I should probably just leave.
Barakalaufik, the same voice behind me whispered in Tashilhait. Thank you kindly, and good riddance.
I suppressed a smile. Instead, in a preceptorial tone, I said: Either tell us what’s on your mind, or leave. The choice is up to you. But don’t take all night thinking about it.
So that’s how things are, he said. I should have known better than to open my mouth. Your rules are ridiculous. I’m not going to stay and be insulted.
Indeed? I said. Very well then. Have it your way.
He took out a large handkerchief and blew his nose. To my surprise, I saw his eyes filling with tears. He fussed with his cigarette, but made no move to leave, just as I’d anticipated.
I spread my hands in a conciliatory gesture.
I have no desire to humiliate you, I said. That is not the way we do things here. If you have something to tell us, please go ahead.
Clearing his throat, he remarked brusquely: All right, I’ll tell you, if only to honour their memory, given that everything else that I’ve heard here has been nothing more than abject fantasy and wish-fulfilment. You want the truth, don’t you? I’ll give it to you, despite the fact that, quite frankly, you don’t deserve it.
He paused to draw deeply on his cigarette. Blowing a ring of smoke into the air, he gazed around the square as if seeing it for the first time.
It’s strange to think that this is where she disappeared, he said. Right in the middle of a crowded square. And I was probably one of the last to see her.
So you’d like to believe, someone piped up derisively from the back.
Giving him time to compose himself, I interjected: Do not take offence at our rough-and-ready ways. You are an artist, and we do not mean to offend your sensibilities, the likes of which we don’t often encounter on the square. What draws us here tonight is a common endeavour, the sharing of a unique experience. In remembering that singular encounter, with all its drama and disorientations, each one of us reveals how rarely the sublime appears in this life. For beauty, like faith, is food for the soul. It ennobles us and we want to hold on to it because it arrests us in our depredatory course through life. Beauty transforms our desire – it doesn’t do away with desire but exalts it. After all, if we cannot imagine ourselves as different from what we are, wherein lies the promise of existence? Beauty gives us the capacity to reimagine our lives, and in so doing, to dignify ourselves.
The Professor
I had barely finished speaking when a mild-looking man raised his hand as if he were in a classroom. He was bespectacled and balding, with a round face and belly. Forgive me, he said apologetically, I probably don’t have any business speaking here, but my name is Larbi and I am a lecturer in rhetoric at Al Qarawiyin University. I’m studying traditional modes of storytelling, and your little discourse on beauty reminded me of an incident a few years ago involving a famous professor at our university. This professor, while addressing a large audience on the subject of beauty, asked that a piece of ambergris be passed from hand to hand until, by the time it reached the last person at the back of the massive hall, it had crumbled away to nothing. But the entire hall smelt of ambergris, and every person there had been touched by its essence. The professor concluded his lecture at that point, stating that he had nothing more to say on the nature of beauty.
And that, said the bashful rhetorician, sweating profusely, is all I have to say. I hope you will excuse my interruption.
I acknowledged his contribution with the dignity befitting such an illustrious person, from the oldest university in the world no less, and thanked him for his story.
The Portraitist
The art student, who had been listening in silence, now bowed his head. When he looked up again, it was to address us collectively. In a sombre voice, he said:
Forgive me, my brothers, if I came across as opinionated. I was clumsy. In reality, I am quite shy, and I try to make up for it by acting arrogant. I would like to ask your leave to introduce myself again. My name is Taoufiq Bouabid. I am from Tangier. I am a bona fide artist, and I specialize in miniature portrait painting in the Persian style, for which there is very little demand today. My colleagues mint money by catering to rich Westerners with a taste for large canvases in fake ethnic styles; I come to Marrakesh because it feels shameful to busk in the streets of Tangier after four years of training. I visit here once a month; I stay for a fortnight and work every day, though not always in the Jemaa. Sometimes I set up in front of the Saadian tombs, or you will find me in the narrow alleyway leading to the Jardin Majorelle, or next to the Dar Si Said or the Royal Palace. At night, I stay with a friend, a guide attached to the La Mamounia Hotel. He alerts me to where the tourist traffic is likely to be concentrated on any particular day, and that’s where I set off with my easel. Yes, I am a tourist whore, I suppose you could call me that, but they are the only ones who will pay for my art, alas, and that is the one thing in life that I will not compromise. I would rather starve – for the last two years I’ve often lived on one meal a day – because even a whore has his principles, and my art is my salvation.
Are you a good painter? someone called out.
The portraitist hesitated. He scanned the ring of onlookers to see who had spoken; then, with the shadow of a smile, he said: I am the best.
That raised a laugh, and the man who’d asked the question said: Then you will paint a portrait of my oldest daughter, who is engaged to be married in three months. And if you are really as good as you say, then I will spread the word among my friends, and you will be assured of customers in Marrakesh.
The art student raised a hand to his heart.
I will try not to disappoint you, he said.
What will you charge me for your services?
For you, nothing. The honour will suffice.
Perhaps you can offer him the hand of your middle daughter in exchange, Fouad, someone suggested to the man who’d made the offer, to a renewed outbreak of laughter.
How large will the painting be? the elderly Fouad said suspiciously, his native Marrakchi guile getting somewhat the better of his generosity.
Two inches by two inches, which is the standard size, the art student replied, before ad
ding that he would also include a cedar-wood frame, three inches wide on all sides, on which he would paint a traditional touriq design composed of interlacing floral, palmate and foliage patterns.
Your offer is generous, Taoufiq, I said with a smile. I am sure that Fouad will be more than satisfied. Now repay our hospitality by telling us what happened that night on the square.
The art student blushed deeply, nonplussed, it seemed, by both my curiosity and my forthrightness. All the same, as if in acknowledgement of his obligations, he launched immediately into his account with a quick, awkward declaration that it was the first time he had ever spoken about the encounter. He sat very straight as he took us through the events of that evening, speaking slowly and with frequent pauses, scrupulously careful of every word that passed his lips. It was clear that fidelity to the past was important to him; quite often he peered into the distance as if to glean from it half-remembered details, and, when he succeeded, his large, dark eyes widened in astonishment.
The Miniature
It was a winter evening, he began, much like this one. From a distance, everything looked hazy. A thick fog of woodsmoke had clogged up the square. From the food stalls came the scent of burning shavings. Out of the open windows of the Café de France floated green clouds of smoke from many cigarettes. The faces within gazed out at the vast darkness of the square as at a jungle, from a safe distance. There was an unmistakable excitement in the air, a sense of danger, of the sudden and the unexpected. It was night in the Jemaa el Fna, where anything is possible. From the numerous drum circles that punctuated the space, there emanated a deep and unsettling thunder, like a steadily reverberating roar. It was the signal that the Assembly of the Dead had sprung to life, its predators on the prowl. And I was sitting there in the midst of it all with my paintbrushes and my paints, well past the hour I normally frequented the place. I don’t know why I dallied that night. Sometimes things happen for reasons we don’t understand.
I’ve no idea where the two strangers came from. I saw him first: he was standing about ten paces away. He was impossibly elegant and, to my eyes, looked completely out of place. He reminded me of a younger, darker Cary Grant, who should have starred in Casablanca opposite Ingrid Bergman, in my opinion, instead of Bogart. He even wore an ascot, as if he were in the lobby of the luxurious La Mamounia Hotel rather than the most hazardous place after dark in Marrakesh. When he noticed me staring at him, he walked straight up to me with a smile.
But he surprised me by addressing someone else who was apparently standing behind me. I turned my head, and that’s when I saw her. She was looking over my shoulder at the samples of paintings arranged on my easel. She was slender and lithe, with long brown hair and a waist so slim that I could almost span it with my hands. Since she seemed interested, I ventured to explain my art to her. I told her that I painted miniatures in the Persian style. I showed her examples of the different schools, such as Shiraz, Tabriz and Herat, and pointed out that most of my miniatures were in the Safavid manner, after well-known painters of the fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth centuries such as Kamal ud-Din Behzad Herawi, Reza Abbasi, Mirak Nakkash and Shah Muzaffar. She listened attentively as I spoke and I noticed that one of my portraits, especially, seemed to catch her eye. It was a copy of a painting of a young princess admiring a rose, done by Mirza Ali in Tabriz around 1540. It was painted in shades of orange, blue and black, with a pale-blue frame on which lines of poetry were inscribed.
She picked it up and studied it for a while before turning to her companion and exchanging a few words which I couldn’t catch. Then he turned to me and asked, rapidly, in English, whether I would mind painting her in the manner of the portrait of the Persian princess. Since I didn’t know the language, I couldn’t follow him and had to ask for her help in translating. Of course, when she’d explained his request to me, I readily agreed. We negotiated a price – they proved surprisingly amenable – and she placed herself at my disposal.
I invited her to sit on a folding chair and positioned her hands and feet. I asked her to look me in the eye and, when she did, I was startled and nearly turned away because her gaze was so penetrating. I felt a little intimidated, my heart beating faster than usual. At the same time, recalling my obligation to capture her likeness, I forced myself to study her objectively. Avoiding her gaze, I took in her broad forehead, slightly elongated nose, delicately proportioned chin, full lips. She had a small scar above her right eye, a beauty mark on her right cheek. And yet, for all of that, she remained enigmatic. At length, with my eyes half-shut, I visualized her as the Persian princess. Observing her closely, I drew a trial sketch on a piece of paper, my drawing board resting on my knees. I took my time, suggesting changes to her pose as I worked. When I had finished, she asked to see the sketch and seemed pleased with it.
A moth had wandered into one of my paint jars. We spent some time freeing it, which established a connection between us. I gave her some mint tea. My teapot had an Arabic seal which she admired, and I told her where she could find one just like it. Then I selected a suitable piece of wood on which to paint, picked up my easel, and asked her to hold a pose for as long as it felt comfortable.
I painted swiftly, my eyes switching between my subject and the canvas. As I worked, a storyteller’s resonant voice – it could have been yours – echoed marvellously through the air. She asked me to interpret as I painted, and I did my best. The storyteller was telling the story of Layla and Majnun, the ill-fated Arabian lovers, and, even in my very rough rendering, it brought tears to her eyes.
Don’t move, I instructed her. Stay as motionless as you can.
She sat loose-limbed in the chair with her profile to me, her eyes slightly unfocused as she gazed down at the half-empty glass of mint tea that substituted for the rose in the painting. She made a superb subject, and I painted with quick strokes, filling in the details to capture the semblance to the Persian princess.
Meanwhile, her companion walked over to stand beside me and asked if I always worked as rapidly. Always, I replied, though as I grow older I find myself slowing down because I think I am gaining in understanding.
And that affects your technique?
It makes me attend more to matters of expression and personality. And that takes time.
He seemed satisfied with my response and did not ask any more questions, which was a relief, because I always find it difficult to talk while painting.
At last, after a few final touches, I put aside my paintbrush and easel. She thanked me and stretched her arms and back. The entire session had lasted a little more than forty minutes. I complimented her and told her that she made an excellent model. She smiled when she saw the painting.
Am I really so pretty? she asked.
Prettier, her companion offered gallantly.
I would let it dry overnight, I cautioned.
We’ll take it back to our hotel room right now, he assured me.
We’ll send you a photograph after we hang it, she said.
I smiled and didn’t reply. Over the years, many of my subjects have given me similar assurances, but I have yet to receive a single photograph. It is in the nature of things, I suppose, and I do not begrudge them for it: the gesture is well intended.
Perhaps we’ll return tomorrow for a companion portrait of my husband, she said in a playful tone of voice.
I am your servant, Madame, I said gravely.
Wouldn’t you like one? she asked him.
He merely stroked his beard and refrained from answering.
We dealt with practical matters; then they shook hands with me and took their leave. I felt sad as I watched them go, but then again, I am usually overcome by melancholia when I have to part with my work. It is in the nature of things. I followed them with my eyes as they walked towards the Avenue Mohammed V, and even took a couple of steps in that direction. But I came to my senses soon enough and returned to my place of work. As I put away my easel and box of paints, I contemplated the rough sket
ch that I’d made and felt pleased.
I tell you all this without shame, the portraitist said, and fail to understand how it could be otherwise. I liked them enormously and received the news of their disappearance with disbelief the next morning. The thought of them clung to me and kept me from working. My head was cluttered with their faces; they got between my work and my eyes. At times I was seized by the mad desire to drop everything and run away, but I reminded myself of the necessity that kept me here. I couldn’t let any distractions get in the way. So I stayed; I painted.
With that, he lowered his eyes and fell silent.
Khadija beckoned to me and drew me close. Lowering her smoky voice to an undertone, she said: There is someone here with an unclean conscience.
I cast a quick glance around.
I know, I replied.
She turned suddenly and addressed the portraitist.
Tell me something, young man, she asked. Is there anyone here whom you recognize from that evening?
The portraitist looked around, hesitated, and pointed to the man on the motorcycle. I saw him on the square that night, he said in a resolute voice.
The man on the motorcycle made his feelings clear:
Your words are as bogus as your stupid story.
The portraitist began moving towards him when Khadija held up her hand. Let him be, she said, if you know what’s good for you.
Who is he? the portraitist asked, coming to a standstill.
He is an undercover policeman, came the reply. The Jemaa is his beat.
The man on the motorcycle smiled humourlessly. He addressed the artist: Tomorrow you will show up at the police station next door at nine o’clock on the dot. We will talk about the minor matter of your permit, Mr Artist from Tangier.
Khadija intervened immediately.
There’s no need to be so drastic, Sergeant Mokhtari, she said. The boy was merely responding to a question I’d asked him. Perhaps he could reach some sort of an agreement?
The Storyteller of Marrakesh Page 10