I went on in this manner for a while, adding all kinds of details to my descriptions so that my brother would know exactly what I had seen, such as the motionless cloud above the Koutoubia minaret that seemed to encapsulate all the colours of the universe, or the trail of kilims hanging in mid-air on a clothesline in the alleyway behind the police station, or the mellow winter sun that stood directly above the Jemaa as if on a pedestal.
That was wonderful, Hassan, Mustafa said with a dreamy glint in his eyes when I’d finished. Thank you for indulging me.
He gazed at me at length, as if seeing me for the first time, and I saw the gratitude in his look. I knew that he had forgiven me for my earlier obtuseness, and I experienced such intense compassion that tears came to my eyes. The thought that I could transport him out of his cell with a few simple words moved me so deeply that my breath caught at my throat. I felt unable to speak when he asked:
Do you remember how hot it used to be when we came down with Father during the summer? Sometimes it was so hot I saw double. There was so much heat. So much light.
He seemed to forget everything as he watched the dying rays of the sun through the window set high in the wall. I joined him in contemplation and had a sensation I hadn’t experienced in years: of seeing life through new eyes. In that half-light, the dingy room transformed into a space of tranquillity. Everything seemed boundless. In the immensity of that moment, my brother’s love was all that existed in the world, and it was all that mattered. I sat there in silence, refraining from interrupting the idyll, watching the sky turn from light to dark and wondering at the swiftness of the alteration. Only the horizon, with its thick mantle of clouds, remained bright and luminous. Then even that darkened, and an indigo aureole spread across the firmament.
Before leaving, I asked Mustafa if he needed anything from the outside world.
Nothing, he answered gently. Thank you, Hassan. You give me enough. You help me recall my beloved and engrave her memories ever deeper into my being. It’s the finest, most considerate gift anyone could ask for.
Truth and Beauty
In the years that followed his incarceration, I realized that even though I could not free my brother from prison, his act could help me learn about life. The essence of my lesson lay in a deceptively simple insight: that beauty is truth’s companion and, in much the same fashion, it provides the purest form of sustenance. Beauty must be contemplated as a mystery, accessible only by lightning strokes of intuition rather than any form of rational comprehension – because beauty of the first rank holds all the exceptionality of a miracle. That is why the experience of falling in love is akin to mystic conversion. It is a single and abrupt event – a falling upward, as my brother described it – and what results is the only thing that matters in the end: the meeting of a man and his soul. In true love, the soul envelops the body. It creates a world which can exist nowhere but within. From that aspect, my brother’s determined withdrawal from the world made perfect sense. In the solitude of his love, he was completely fulfilled. The more his imagination transcended fact, the more otherworldly it became, the more his sense of autonomy, and, hence, his dignity, was prolonged. To know that the unfathomable exists and that it manifests itself in beauty – this wisdom forms the core of genuine belief. The rest is nothing but the irresolvable disharmony between the individual and the world.
The Desert of Love
A voice now spoke up from the edge of the circle of listeners, a low voice, arising as if from out of the depths of a ruminative silence.
Have no opportunities ever arisen to save your brother?
I felt no surprise at having to address this query. I tried to make out who the questioner was, but it was quite dark in that part of the circle and I couldn’t bring myself to leave the warmth of the fire and walk over.
Of course there have been opportunities, I said, but none of them, save one, came anywhere near to achieving his freedom.
I waited for a response, or perhaps another query, but when there was none forthcoming, I decided to go ahead and tell the story. I narrowed my eyes in search of the right words to convey what I wanted to say, but my instinct warned me that it should remain largely hidden.
It happened like this, I said.
South of the mountains, past the border with Algeria, there is a wadi known to the locals as the place where camels go to die. Past this grim, skeleton-strewn landmark, the black stone deserts give way to the immense sandy expanse that is the first intimation of the Sahara proper, and it is here that a certain brand of foreigners – mostly from the West – bid farewell to their lives and set off into the desert. There is nothing left in their world for them. They are glad to leave it all behind. They walk into the desert and keep on walking until they collapse, usually from extreme thirst and heatstroke. A trail of litter marks their way. It’s as if they can’t wait to shed their skins. The first things to go are the wallets and the laminated bank cards, then the paper money and coins, followed by the identity papers and tags. They hold on to the photographs of their loved ones right up until the final stages, and then, in most cases, even these are surrendered. The desert has a way of claiming everything, and death is mercifully quick in the end. The sand washes over them, undresses them, bleaches their bones. If they are found before their flesh has decomposed, inevitably they have smiles on their faces. They have entered paradise, and it shows in whatever is left of their mortal traces. The local Sahrawis call this stretch the Desert of Love; they say that compassion marks this territory of the eternal embrace.
It was here, in this trackless, utterly desolate region, that an itinerant camel trader stumbled upon a tattered and faded Indian passport a few years ago. He brought it to the Wednesday souk in Smara, hoping to sell it for a few dirhams; I heard about it from my friend, Nabil, and we managed to procure the passport and turn it over to the Marrakesh police in an attempt to prove my brother’s innocence. But our endeavour proved unfortunate. Rather than interpret the evidence as proof that Mustafa had nothing to do with the disappearance, the police contended that it pointed precisely to his guilt, and my brother remains in his prison cell to this day.
A Man of Religion
This is all very interesting and highly romantic, a soft, suave voice suddenly spoke up, but it is hardly a salutary conclusion to a man’s life.
After a brief pause, the same voice added in a deeper, more sombre timbre: A Muslim life.
I glanced with curiosity in that direction and recognized the bearded cleric who’d interrogated me at the very onset of the evening. He held my gaze and smiled as he continued speaking.
I sought you out, he said, because I’d heard of your reputation as a clever and innovative storyteller. I was looking forward to an evening of entertainment and digression from the cares of the world. As you know, I arrived early so as not to miss a word. I was willing to keep an open mind, but I should have known from the moment you began that you would not deliver what you promised.
He paused meaningfully and scanned my face.
The art of storytelling, he resumed, is a subtle one, at least as it is practised among our people, and anyone who decides to devote an entire evening to a woman – and a foreigner at that – has already strayed very far from the ideal. I listened to you with a growing disbelief that soon turned to anger. Your story was not only not salubrious, it was a thoroughly misbegotten endeavour. There was nothing in it to emulate, no universal values or aspirations, nothing – nothing at all – worth salvaging. If there was any truth in it, it lay in its level of degradation, truly one of a kind.
I’d been listening attentively, but now I interrupted him.
Isn’t love a universal value? I asked. Isn’t true love an aspiration that applies to everyone without exception?
This “love” of which you are so enamoured can be directed only towards the divine, he replied. It is not manifested in the story of a man who dedicates himself to nurturing his own torment.
Is there nothing
divine in beauty?
Not if you elevate mere human attributes as you’ve identified them in a particular individual and ascribe to them divine status. I too was present the day the two outsiders visited the Jemaa, and I found nothing in them that merited the sort of attention you’ve devoted to their story.
That may be so, I said swiftly, but surely, as a man, you must have been moved at some point in your life to admire a beautiful woman?
That is hardly the most important thing!
Let’s not talk in generalities then, I suggested, and consider, instead, the particulars of my story. Why don’t you tell us, for instance, what the two strangers looked like?
He smiled at the transparency of my manoeuvre, and his reply was appropriately terse. They were graceless, he said, like all Westerners.
She possessed no grace whatsoever, in your eyes?
He gave an amused laugh.
I can hardly contend that I admired her. Rather, she aroused pity. Certainly she might have possessed an animal magnetism, but that’s all it was, at the level of beasts. Unlike you, he added pointedly, bare flesh does not excite my imagination, and her dress that day was hardly modest.
I haven’t heard it being described as immodest, either, I pointed out.
It doesn’t matter, he said smoothly, as if to infer the contrary. As your anecdotes have shown, she can scarcely be lauded for being pure and delicate in her thoughts and actions.
He went on to ridicule all the weaknesses he perceived in women from the West. He spoke with absolute assurance, his face constricted with distaste and contempt, his voice increasingly strident.
I have lived in London, that modern Gomorrah, he said. I know these creatures. They’re no better than qahba, whores. They lack all sense of the diffidence and dignity befitting their station in life.
I wondered if he was being parodic, given the extreme nature of his sentiments, but then I heard the strain in his voice and realized that he was dead serious. The absurdity of this tirade was heightened by the irony of a conservative cleric speaking in intimate detail on the topic of fallen women.
As for you, he continued, turning his attention to me, you are the perpetuator of a hotchpotch of dreams and inflamed imaginings. Why have you devoted an entire evening to nurturing an illusion? This woman may have been sweet and beautiful in your eyes, but she was corrupt by any standards. She was an immoral slut who abandoned her lawfully wedded husband, who was well within his rights to pursue her. Let her soul rot in hell! In turning her into a myth, you are perpetuating your brother’s fallacy – your unbelievably misguided brother, who, having fabricated a self-destructive fiction, has learnt to love his suffering, finding satisfaction in abasement. It’s all too obvious that the two of you enjoy speculating in titillations. The fascination that binds you is avid and disturbing. You have willingly embarked together on the same sick adventure.
He repeated this last sentence, the words sounding constricted, the tone more strident. His fury seemed excessive, his breathing coming faster and faster, and the only explanation I could fathom for the extent of his hostility was that my brother’s story must have touched some nerve in him.
As much as anyone else, I said coolly, my brother wants to live, to enjoy life. Under impossible circumstances he has succeeded in infusing his love with a heroic idealism and he is worthy of admiration for it, not condemnation.
What rubbish! he retorted. Does any woman exist such as you’ve described this one? My word! How she has ensnared you! If she had existed in reality as you’ve made her out to be, she couldn’t have made you more entirely her captives. In the absence of spirituality you have filled your empty lives with the basest carnal desires.
Not carnal, I replied calmly, but idealism incarnate. If my brother has learnt anything from his experience, it is to worship beauty. What is wrong with that? The art of remembering grace is a healing one.
Worship? he said in a soft, dangerous voice. I would advise you not to blaspheme within sight of a mosque. Take some time to sort out your thoughts.
Turning his back to me and addressing my audience with an irrepressible intensity, he said: You have all fallen under a kind of spell, a collective psychosis. You think you are giving voice to memories but all you are doing is embellishing falsehoods. You are flattered to listen to each other, admiring, as you do, the heights of your great passion. Your stories express gratitude and wonder when you should be feeling embarrassment. You were used, and yet you have constructed a legend out of your hazy recollections. Nor are your motives pure. You are driven by pride and the desire to possess. Children of Muslims, you are idolizing infidels! The West has branded you with its influence and you don’t even realize it!
A heavy silence followed his diatribe. I stared at him, nonplussed by his virulence. In my mind I could only contrast the turmoil this man of religion had brought into my circle with Mustafa’s calm sanguinity in the face of adversity.
Realizing that my comparison would only infuriate my interrogator, I asked him quietly where his bile came from.
He bared his teeth, his throat tight with anger.
Now you insult me? It’s a wonder I don’t strike you just as I would that depraved woman!
You advocate violence?
Certainly. It can be useful to bring people to their senses.
I must respectfully disagree. Our religion does not support your sentiments.
Are you the man of religion or am I?
You may be a man of religion but you are driven by rancour.
Do you blame me? In Muslim lands a war is raging, putting our people to the sword and to flight.
What does that have to do with my brother’s story? I protested. Mustafa is filled with love, and a love such as his knows no boundaries of race and creed. It simply is and must be accepted as such.
Perhaps recognizing that he was on shaky ground, my interrogator beat a hasty retreat. I’m not going to argue semantics with you! he snapped. This isn’t a theoretical question but a cry for common decency.
Love isn’t a matter of theory. That may be why you and I perceive the world with such different eyes.
I should say we do! You’ve been corrupted by dreams. Your eyes are blinded by lust.
At that point, I decided I’d had enough. I walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. In an amicable tone, I said: Leave. Now.
He stared at me. I haven’t finished, he replied.
It doesn’t matter, I said firmly, because I have, and this is why. As a cleric you have the power to make life better, to make people happier, but instead, I discern in you a malignancy, a hatred that stems from the frustration you must feel when faced with your helplessness concerning the state of our world. No matter. Your bitterness has nothing to do with the affair that has brought the rest of us here. You are an interloper, and as such, you have no place in our gathering.
He took a step back and raised his fist in a manner that ended all pretence of reasonableness. His reply, when he spoke again, was icy.
You consider an insult to our moral codes a trifle? Very well. I will say only this to you. I am not alone. There are others who think as I do. You can behave however you like, but we will deal with you as we see fit.
He spoke so coldly that the seriousness of his intention could not be doubted.
I bowed my head with extreme courtesy.
Casa Voyageurs
The fire in the centre of our circle had died down and, in the prolonged silence that followed the cleric’s departure, I added some kindling to it. It gave me time to collect my thoughts.
I stirred the roots of the fire and tufts of flame sprouted like stems. A blue column of smoke rose to the sky. The moon had slid right across its meridian, leaving behind the chalk mark of its trajectory.
The night is marvellously bright, isn’t it? a man said tentatively.
Still preoccupied by my altercation with the cleric, I didn’t answer or search for the speaker – I didn’t recognize the voice �
� but simply nodded in agreement.
He spoke again, and this time I turned to see who it was. He was a small man with thick, greying hair. He asked for permission to speak.
I have something to add to your story that might be of interest, he said.
I drank some water flavoured with mint leaves and signalled my assent, whereupon he got up, clearing his throat awkwardly and patting down his hair, his bashfulness evident in his every gesture.
I’ve never spoken in public, he said, so I hope you will forgive my incoherence. My name is Hamed. I’m a licensed porter at the Casa Voyageurs railway station in Casablanca, but I’m originally from the village of Aïn Leuh, south of Azrou, in the Middle Atlas Mountains. I went to Casablanca when I was eighteen, looking for work, and I’ve been a porter at the Voyageurs ever since.
I cleared my throat and looked at him impatiently.
After a brief pause, he raised his head and went on in a rush: So there I was in a bus on my way from Casablanca and I ran into these three strangers…
Dissatisfied, he paused and looked at me a bit helplessly.
Can I tell it again? he asked.
Go ahead, I replied.
He shuffled forward a couple of steps as if committing himself irreversibly to the endeavour. Then he resumed speaking, his voice gaining in confidence as my smiles and nods encouraged him.
I would like to tell you of a particular episode in my life, he said, that I think has some bearing on your story. It concerns my journey from Casablanca to my village in the mountains around the time of the disappearance that you’ve been talking about. My mother had fallen ill and, as the eldest son, I had my responsibilities. There were four of us on the bus bound for Aïn Leuh – myself and three strangers who kept their faces shrouded throughout the ride, which was six hours long, with a change in Meknès. Only one of the men spoke to me, in fluent Darija. He had a sonorous voice, a lot like yours, but the woman and the other man were altogether silent. But even the one who spoke was reticent and, beyond answering my query about their final destination – somewhere in the mountains, he said, without giving any details – they kept to themselves. It was only when they got off at Aïn Leuh that I overheard the woman saying something for the first time, and, from the manner in which she spoke Arabic, I realized that she, at least, was a foreigner. I could see only her eyes but even so, their beauty gave me the chills. They were large, golden green, lined with kohl, and they ensnared my imagination and made me want to know more. I found myself offering my brother’s services as a guide if they were willing to wait while I fetched him from his house, but they declined and went on their way. It was very odd: I have seldom encountered a group of people as uncommunicative. All the same, I would probably have forgotten about them except that a few days later, in the course of a conversation with my friend Talal, I learnt that the three strangers had hired him as a guide for part of the way. It appeared that the man was from far away, from Iran or India, while she was half French, half American. He appeared very protective of her, and every few minutes they would come together as if bound by an invisible thread. It was quite intriguing, Talal said, and it made him notice them more.
The Storyteller of Marrakesh Page 26