The Storyteller of Marrakesh

by Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya

  For an instant, I saw myself as I appeared in my father’s eyes and realized that I couldn’t imagine playing a more challenging role. I gazed at his hands; I didn’t want to disappoint him, but I wasn’t sure what to say. Nevertheless, I found myself speaking:

  I see the sun. I see the sun on bright awnings, and open stalls steaming with scents, and the hazy blue smoke from many stoves rising into the air. The sky is filled with vendors’ voices. The oranges are especially fragrant today: I feel their juicy succulence on my tongue. It is a clear day, so you can see the mountains in the distance. On the other side of the mountains, in a lush green valley watered by cooling streams, there is a father testing his son on the art of storytelling inside a cave. The son’s footsteps are still visible in the air as he travels between the Jemaa el Fna and the cave, but there’s a brisk breeze blowing, and only the very faintest of imprints linger on the horizon. Inside the cave, a mirror reaches to the floor, and before it the father stands revealed as no other than the Storyteller of Marrakesh. Through the space of the mirror he views the familiar concourse of the Jemaa, but instead of seeing himself holding forth before his circle of listeners, he sees his son, Hassan, inventing this story, naming, describing, doubling the world just as if he himself were standing there.

  Father smiled. Almost confidentially, as between peers, he said: Fine, we’ll simply move on to the storytelling then. I’ll select a theme, you pick the setting, and we’ll proceed in the usual way.

  He took out his story sticks from their bag and was about to choose one when I interrupted him. Father, I said gently, is this really necessary?

  He stared at me. What do you mean?

  I mean that I have just lost my wife.

  Then how will I know that you are adequately prepared?

  Believe in me. I’ve accompanied you to Marrakesh for the better part of fourteen years. I know what to do. By the time I get to the Jemaa I’ll be in a different frame of mind. I won’t let you down.

  He bent his head. I could tell that he wasn’t satisfied, and with good reason, but took it as a measure of his love for me when he gave his assent, however reluctantly.

  There is something I would like from you, however, I added.

  What is it?

  Advice. Suggestions on how I can smooth the way.

  He gave a wan smile. You want tips on how to grease a story?

  I do, I said.

  Very well.

  He thought for a moment. Then:

  First, always remember that either a story carries love and mystery, or it carries nothing. Second, outside of the broad themes determined by the story sticks, the trick is to make up everything out of whole cloth. Third, a story must not have a clean resolution. That way you will keep your audience coming back for more. Finally – and this is the most important thing – our craft demands discipline and hard work; a fertile imagination is not enough.

  With a dignified expression, he added: You are about to enter a privileged profession, Hassan. Always remember that the fraternity of storytellers is a closely knit one, and the ties that hold us together exceed even those of family. If a fellow storyteller is ever in need of your assistance, offer it without reservations or regard for consequences. Is that clear?

  Yes, Father.

  In that case…

  He stopped suddenly. He looked tired and out of breath.

  What else can I tell you? he said. What else? Oh yes, there is one other thing. Never forget that the bond between the storyteller and his audience is based on good taste, mutual respect and manners. Never compromise on etiquette, Hassan. I mention this because the Jemaa can be an unsettling place. If hooligans intrude, be firm, stand your ground, don’t get intimidated.

  Rest your fears, Father. I have learnt from your example.

  He nodded and sat up straight. Then that is all I have to say now. Perhaps some other things will come to me later.

  Thank you, Father.

  He made as if to rise to his feet, and I was about to follow him when he gave a wordless exclamation and sat down again as if he’d just remembered something. With a sideways glance at me that was strangely diffident, he sighed and said: What I have to say next concerns you personally – or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it concerns your personal affairs – and although it might not strike you as appropriate just yet, our time together is short, and I have no option but to bring it up. And your mother agrees with me, by the way, he added.

  What is it, Father?

  It is this. Once we’ve all recovered from this tragedy, I’ll take up the search for a wife for you. He paused, then qualified delicately: A second wife.

  I didn’t reply, but turned and looked fixedly out of the mouth of the cave. The sky outside was a clear, bright blue, without a trace of clouds.

  After a few moments, I felt his hand on my arm.

  Is something the matter? he said.

  I have decided not to marry again, Father.

  But who will give us grandchildren? Who will continue our line?

  I looked calmly at him. I felt neither hurt nor anger at his questions but only a deep sadness.

  Why worry about that now? You have two other sons.

  That is not the issue here. Your mother and I seek your happiness.

  Then rest assured that, with time, I will be content.

  He leant forward and stared at me without blinking.

  Perhaps I didn’t explain myself clearly. We desire your marriage, Hassan. It is part of our tradition, our faith. You honour God by obeying your parents. Even when they are mistaken, a Muslim obeys them, for the trees must not be allowed to fall if the forest must stand.

  I had so much respect for him that I found it difficult to answer; and yet I felt obliged. I placed a hand on his wrist. You know how much I honour you, Father, but in this case I cannot obey, I said.

  Even before I’d finished speaking, I saw his shocked expression and felt ashamed. I looked away at once. He removed my hand from his wrist. I waited a moment before looking at him again.

  Hassan, he said.

  I gazed at him intently. His voice was not displeased, or disappointed, but apprehensive.

  You are caging yourself in a prison of your own making, he said.

  That is one way to look at it. The other is to believe that I am honouring my marriage vows to my wife.

  Life is not so stark, my son. You’re only nineteen. You have your whole existence ahead of you. Don’t condemn your future with a decision dictated by your present circumstances. A lifetime of nurturing pain is not a sound exchange for vitality.

  I gazed at his wrinkled features as he spoke, but my mind was elsewhere. I made an effort to reply: Father, must we talk about this now?

  He shivered slightly and closed his eyes. His hands rested on his thin knees. It’s cold here, he said. I’m an old man now and feel the cold.

  I watched him with tenderness and sympathy.

  He opened his eyes and rose slowly to his feet. He looked exhausted, and I felt the dull pain of regret. I stood up as well.

  I don’t want to disappoint you, Father, I said.

  He glanced at me; he seemed resigned and sad.

  I am sure you don’t, Hassan. You are a good son, and I’ve always felt a deep understanding between us even when we’ve had our disagreements. You could even say, especially during those times.

  He smiled, but it was a smile that wrung my heart. I could think of nothing to say. After an interval, he went on: But I worry about Mustafa. Not about Ahmed, but Mustafa. Ahmed will be fine, he knows the ways of the world. But Mustafa is a source of constant anxiety for your mother and me. He is far too impetuous and overconfident.

  Overconfident, yes, I said kindly, and he is rather emotional, but always with a lyrical note. I wouldn’t worry if I were you, Father. Mustafa knows how to take care of himself.

  I hope you are right. He is more intelligent than Ahmed, and his character is more attractive. But he eludes me. At times he is as
imprudent as a child.

  He hesitated for a moment, then:

  When do you intend to leave for Marrakesh?

  Perhaps two or three days from now, I said, before adding quickly, for I realized I had given him no room to answer: Or whenever you deem it best.

  May God in His wisdom be with you, Hassan.

  And the spirit of our ancestors, Father, I said with a smile.

  If you are ever in danger, take recourse to Allah, for He is mindful of those who believe in Him, and is filled with compassion and forgiveness whenever we stray from the straight path.

  I will, Father.

  And if it doesn’t work out for you in the city, come straight back here. Don’t hesitate. You know your home is here.

  I know, Father.

  ‌Black Sun

  And so it was that I left for the red-walled city many years ago and grew into my father’s robes. And Ahmed departed for Fès soon after and was able to provide for himself over time, just as I’d predicted. But Mustafa went in the opposite direction, as it were, and confirmed my father’s worst fears. Something about him changed fundamentally after the death of my wife and child, and his irrepressible good humour gave way to long and frequent spells of anger, a trait quite alien to our family and one he seemed to relish stoking until it had hardened into a set feature of his personality. Ahmed, who had the misfortune of being at the receiving end of that temper on more than one occasion, once mourned to me the presence in our family of that stranger, our brother.

  Once, when we were meeting at my uncle Mohand’s house in Marrakesh, Mustafa made a remark to Ahmed of such unusual harshness that Father said gravely: I will not let you turn this meeting into a battleground. Ahmed is older than you and deserves your respect. Either apologize to him, or leave this instant.

  Why must I respect him? Mustafa demanded.

  Father turned pale with anger. Barely able to control himself, he said in measured tones: Because he is worthy of your respect. Because it is your obligation. Because he is doing something valuable with his life. Because I am telling you to.

  I will not apologize to him, Mustafa said obdurately, rising to his feet.

  At this stage, my uncle intervened. Speaking rapidly and in a voice pitched high with displeasure, he said: Does nothing matter to you, boy? Obey your father and let’s be done with it.

  Mustafa stalked out without a backward glance.

  Father gazed at the open door through which his son had left and said, disconsolately: That boy was born under a black sun.

  We learnt subsequently that Mustafa had walked all the way to the Supratours bus station in a rage, bought himself a ticket for Essaouira, and departed without a second thought. We next heard from him after four months, but only after my father had written to a mutual friend asking him if he knew anything about Mustafa’s whereabouts.

  ‌Imdyazn

  Now I surveyed my listeners with a look of sadness sparked by my recollections of my brother. I wanted to spare no details in the effort to help them understand the roots of Mustafa’s disaffection. But I checked myself because I didn’t want to depress them. More importantly, perhaps, I didn’t want to depress myself. So I began speaking about the Jemaa instead, returning my story to its nucleus.

  I drew their attention to the juice stalls that cradle the northern end of the square. For me, those stalls are the essence of the Jemaa because of the shower of fresh fruit smells with which they inaugurate each day. The progression of the smells leaves an indelible mark on the hours that follow such that every hour has its own distinguishing fragrance, from the stimulating poetry of early morning to the sickly-sweet musk of night. In between lie many shades of happiness. Mustafa, on his first visit to the Jemaa at the age of four, counted six distinct fragrances and attributed colours to each. With his eyes closed, nose held to the air, he recited, in a sing-song voice: Bright golden – freshly peeled oranges at five in the morning; golden orange – the first jugs of juice at seven; yellow – flies dizzy with heat drowning in the juice at noon; brownish yellow – the pulp beginning to turn rancid in bins at two; brackish brown – the juice beginning to ferment at five; seaweed and salt – the spoilt juice thrown away at seven.

  During the daytime, the Jemaa is a cross between a festive ground, a meeting place and a marketplace. In the past, any articles that could not be sold in the souks were traded here in the morning. Set areas of the square were apportioned off for livestock, produce, camels. Nowadays, it’s a free-for-all and, as the saying goes, what cannot be found in the Jemaa is not worth having.

  By midday, the first bands begin to strike up music. In the whistling, droning, ever-changing sounds of the nai, lotar, rabab and nakous, the great ear of eternity manifests itself, and yet, in the shimmering heat of the sun, the silence is what seems most audible. Although the music forms a constant backdrop, I hear it as nothing more than a cacophony because, curiously enough for a Berber, the melodies that most appeal to me are the muted, plucked-string meditations of the Andalus. But I am the rare exception. For everyone else, it is the drums that constitute the essence of the Jemaa. In their presence, everything – the small mirrors glinting in the sunlight, the sky trembling at the sound, the white clouds descending as paper streamers on tables, the vendors’ booths dancing along the pavements, the horse-drawn calèches on the perimeters of the square – longs to join in.

  In the afternoon, the entertainers arrive. Sluggish snakes and sad-faced monkeys strive to hold the attention of a fickle crowd. Many animals perish in their captors’ attempts to impress. They are casually discarded. There is no room for sentimentality in the Jemaa. Even as the earth is red and the sky blue, between the monkey and the snake squats death. It is a rule that does not, however, appear to extend to humans. Mule carts and motor scooters alike weave recklessly between the crowds, daring catastrophe. But the Jemaa has its own rhythms, and disaster is – nearly always – averted.

  After sundown, the square alters character. Musicians, acrobats, trapeze artists, faith healers, water sellers, henna artists, juice vendors, snake charmers, belly dancers, glass eaters, lantern carriers, storytellers – all assume the quality of apparitions that are both dramatic and ageless. Unchanged in their essence for hundreds of years, they are the Jemaa’s enduring symbols, images of stability amid the ceaseless turmoil of the world. The moon comes out too: between the various stalls, iridescent white branches of light leap from table to table, illuminating faces, leaving traces. In the midst of the excitement, noiseless dancers swirl.

  For the outsider, to come face to face with the knowledge that the impenetrable really exists and that it manifests itself in a form of life that has continued for centuries – this sentiment is at the heart of the Jemaa. After the initial moment of contact, which many describe as akin to a spiritual encounter, there is only one thing that matters: the relation between the individual and the Jemaa. As my father used to say, one experiences the Jemaa with a love analogous to that which one reads in a beloved’s smile. In this realm of passions and unleashed temptations, where sensuality is the highest form of expression, there is a peculiar harmony between nature and conscience. It is an order of things founded on spontaneity and confidence. One does not seek the truth from the Jemaa but one’s own nourishment.

  ‌Drums in the Night

  The ascent of drums signals the advent of the night. It is a sound that can be heard for miles around the Jemaa, a black sound, throbbing like restless wings, sinuous, the darkness gathering around its edges. Invisible doors seem to open all over the Jemaa, signalling a new beginning. Inhibitions surrender in a speechless rite of passage, belts unbuckle, buttons unfasten, smiles appear and disappear, the innocence of laughter dies down, cut off as if by a knife, unprepared and bewildered in the face of this sudden coup. The moon descends onto the middle of the square. Woodsmoke drenches the pavements; it weaves, gleams, congeals into a fog. On any given night, the bendir, the guedra and the deff combine to create a seamless, shadowy mosaic that se
ts the heart racing and pierces straight to the soul. There is no other sound quite like it, and there is no resisting its seduction.

  In the not-so-distant desert, the wind roars. It roars on the Atlas mountaintops and sweeps across the rocky islands off the Atlantic coast. But on the Jemaa el Fna, even the wind surrenders to the drums in the night.

  ‌Coffee to Die

  On the Avenue Mohammed V, next to the Hotel Islane and across from the Koutoubia Mosque, where there is now the large and airy bookshop selling Qur’ans, there used to be a glass-walled, Western-style ice-cream parlour. Some of you may remember it. It was one of those regrettable innovations aimed at making a quick profit from the tourist traffic around the Jemaa. It was called Labes – “Hello” – and was open all night. Mahi, the youngest son of my friend Mahmoud, worked there. Mahmoud was originally from my village but settled in Marrakesh many years ago. Mahi was born and brought up here. A street-smart young Marrakchi, I doubt that he has ever been to his father’s birthplace.

  On the night that my brother Mustafa went looking for the two foreigners, Mahi was working the night shift at Labes. His co-worker had accidentally injured his hand and gone home early, so Mahi had the place to himself. Mahi told me about his meeting with my brother when, having finally given up all thought of carrying on with my storytelling and gone in search of Mustafa, I encountered him on the square. It was in the early hours of the morning, and Mahi was on his way back home from work.

  He said that the two foreigners had come to the ice-cream parlour at around ten o’clock that night. They were speaking to each other in low voices and appeared to be having an argument. The man looked tired and distracted, and didn’t once look at Mahi, but the woman seemed determined to take her time making her selection and eventually ordered two scoops of the “coffee to die” flavour, which she ate with obvious enjoyment.

  Did you manage to overhear any of their conversation? I asked.

  Only some of her remarks, Mahi said, and only when she spoke French. Once, I heard her say: I have very deep reserves and I am drawing on them. Another time, she said: Despair is a luxury I cannot afford.