The Storyteller of Marrakesh (9 page)

The child must have come to me shortly after your encounter with her. She was pale and shaking like a leaf, the poor thing. You must have terrified her with your attentions. How can you know what it means to be a woman and to have to deal with the likes of you? You ought to be ashamed of yourself!

For the first time that evening, we heard a female voice, and it was stentorian. It belonged to the formidable Khadija, one of the oldest of the Jemaa's immense and enigmatic clan of fortune-tellers. She spoke bitingly, and it was clear that she viewed my nephew's rather provocative “confession” with grave disapprobation. To his credit, Brahim made no reply, but, subjected to her withering stare, he shrivelled.

Khadija was a Sanhaja Berber from the Western Sahara, from the region known as Saquiat Al-Hamra, the Red Canal, on account of the waterway that traverses it, even though it is dry for much of the year. It is also known as the Land of the Saints, a nomadic place of pilgrimage long reputed for its piety and learning. Khadija herself claimed direct descent from the Almoravid warrior monks of Aoudaghost, now a bleak ruin in the Chinguetti hinterlands, but once the fortress city from where they'd poured out and conquered the known world and founded Marrakesh. She was widely respected, even feared, and it was rumoured that she could alter a person's future with her predictions.

No one knew how she had come to be in the Jemaa. As far as we could tell, she had always been there. Some claimed that she was ageless, that she had been around during the time of the notoriously decadent Pasha of Marrakesh, T'hami El Glaoui, or perhaps even further back in time, more than a hundred years ago, when the profligate Sultans Moulay Hassan and Moulay Abdel Aziz had presided over the declining empire. What was without question was that no one doubted her great age. One sensed under the folds of her cloak the resilience of an ancient tree bole.

In the daytime, she could be found in the cramped square of the Rahba Kedima, in the shadow of the apothecaries' stalls, where she did a brisk trade selling herbal and animal potions for black magic and reading the callused palms of itinerant wool and sheep merchants.

At night, she relocated to the Jemaa el Fna, where she was known for taking out her glass eye before she commenced each session of fortune-telling. Some said it was the right eye that was made of glass; others insisted that it was the left and sought to prove their point by discoursing upon its steely glitter which they maintained was the hallmark of the finest flint glass. Perhaps both of her eyes were glass, perhaps neither. Either way, it lent her an allure that was part of the mythology of the Jemaa. Like everyone else, I was in awe of her mantic abilities, and I think she looked upon my storytelling endeavours with indulgence, having known both my father and my grandfather in their prime.

Now, having summarily vanquished poor Brahim, she surveyed my predominantly male audience with a jaundiced eye. We glanced away, blushed, and faithfully intimated contrition.

The poor child was terrified, she repeated with emphasis. She was shaking like a leaf, and I made her sit down. I drew her into the shade of my tent, offered her water infused with the essence of rose, and spoke to her in soothing tones. When I sensed that she felt more composed, I offered to read her palm, more as a distraction than anything else. She agreed and asked me where I was from.

I am from the desert, I replied. From the land known as Saquiat Al-Hamra, where the dunes are fathomless, like the depths of the ocean. There the sands wash over caravans as water over a raft.

And you? Where are you from? I asked.

I am a child of the plains, she answered modestly. I have never had my palm read before. This is my first time in Marrakesh.

Then welcome. Everyone is welcome here. People come to Marrakesh from all over the world, they are happy, and they never want to leave. Many buy houses in the medina. Or they wander into the desert and disappear. By the grace of God, I myself have read the palms of the citizens of one hundred and fifty-six countries. When I reach the magic figure, I will retire.

What is the magic figure? she asked.

I laughed. It is the total number of countries in the United Nations. Both democracies and dictatorships. Both infidels and believers. When I reach that magic number, which is one hundred and ninety-two, I will fold my tent and return to my desert home. But until that time, there are many palms waiting to be read, many fortunes to be made and unmade, much happiness and unhappiness to be deciphered and, perhaps, resolved.

She looked concerned. But there are one hundred and ninety-four countries in the world, she said. Why discriminate against the two that are not members of the United Nations?

I was aghast. Are you sure, my child? I asked.

Yes, I am quite certain. If you stick to your magic number, then you will have omitted both Taiwan and the Vatican.

Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim!
I exclaimed. In the name of God most Gracious, most Compassionate, you have added to my burden, my child. Two more nations!
Inshallah
, God willing, it shall be so.

I am sorry, she said, but I did not want the omissions to burden your conscience.

Her concern moved me. I reached forward and patted her hand. I said: There is no need for contrition. Please excuse the ignorance of an old Sahrawi woman. I was measuring my days against a false benchmark. Now, thanks to you, my mind is at rest. True knowledge adds to certainty, and certainty brings peace. You are a messenger of light, and for this I will not accept money from you to read your fortune.

Blushing a little, she demurely held out her hand.

I took out my glass eye. I made her palm flat. As always, that gently undulating plain at first seemed impossibly vast. I stroked her wrist with my fingertips. Her pulse began to quicken. The noise of the world died down.

Between her lifeline and her heartline, I noticed a fig tree, a lodestone and an armed galleon with many sails. Also a winged shadow flying over a desert filled with prickly pears.

These were difficult signs, so I decided to put her hand aside and interpret her zodiac first. I asked her for the usual details: her date of birth, her birthplace and the hour of her birth. She was born under the sign of the crab. I noted the rest of her responses. Then I listed her attributes one by one.

Your ascendant is in Sagittarius, I began. This means that you are outgoing, brave, you like to travel, and have an aptitude for poetry.

Your Jupiter is in the fifth house. This means that, like the desert lizard that lives under the sand, you are fond of children, family-oriented and faithful to your tribe.

Your Jupiter is in Taurus. This means that, like the purest Arabian thoroughbred mare, grace is manifest in your life, you attract wealth, you are accustomed to comfort, and you thrive in prosperous company.

Your Sun, Mercury and Venus are in the seventh house, all signs that, like the heavenly birds that reside in paradise, life is not complete for you without a partner.

Your Sun and Venus reside in Cancer, which indicates that, like the stork that nests atop the minaret, domestic life is key to your happiness, and you need its welfare and security.

Your Mercury is in Gemini, which means that, like the arrow of pollen that travels great distances, you are intelligent, curious and communicate with an ease that is lighter than air.

Your Moon is in the eighth house and in Leo, a sign that, like the fire that surges forth and fills the hearth, you are a creature of intense emotions. Impulsive, proud and dramatic, you love being admired and place yourself in situations where you are the centre of attention.

I concluded by telling her that she was energetic, possessed great willpower and creativity, and that she was a confident and ardent lover who easily captured men's hearts. At the same time, she was very sensitive about how she appeared to others. She was frank, disliked dissembling and preferred to be transparent in her behaviour, but she often tended to discount the environment and came across as being indiscreet. Stubborn, wilful and independent, she appreciated living life simply and in a straightforward manner, demanded the freedom to do as she chose and considered social niceties to be hindrances to communication.

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.

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.

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 standards 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.