by Tahir Shah
A hooded figure had tucked the reins under the arm of his dusty brown jelaba. The animal was goaded forward until it stood in a puddle of melted tar. Its hooves were sticky and black, its head low and cautious. The figure pressed a palm to the donkey's brow, urged it to stop. He threaded his fingers together, seemed to flex them, then, bending down, he strained to lift the animal on to his back.
A chorus of wild frenzied braying followed, echoing to all corners of the square.
As someone who lives in the centre of a shantytown, I am not unused to the sound of donkeys. But the clamour of that creature held astride a man's shoulders was shrill enough to wake the dead. Within an instant a crowd had gathered – tourists and mendicants, orange-sellers, pickpockets, and day-trippers from the Atlas mountains. I staggered over and pushed my way to the front. The donkey's eyes were bulging, the back of the man's jelaba stained with sweat.
'What's going on?'
'He's about to start,' said a man.
'Start what?'
'The tale.'
Each night before they sleep, I read a bedtime story to Ariane and Timur. As I read, I glance up from the page and look into their eyes. I see the twinkle of wonder, the sense that magic is at work. Some of the stories I read were left to my two sisters and me by our father when he died, in a manuscript he entitled, at my demand, 'Tell Me a Story'. He had read the same tales to us as children, and had composed them from ancient sources in Arabia and Afghanistan. Since his death many of the stories have been published as illustrated books.
'We are a family of storytellers,' he would whisper before we slept. 'Don't forget it. We have this gift. Protect it and it will protect you.'
In the dozens of books he wrote, my father presented to the West many hundreds of traditional teaching stories, just like the ones I read to my children now. Such tales were developed by the Sufis, a fraternity of mystics found across the Muslim world and beyond. If asked about it, they say that their knowledge existed long before the rise of Islam, and that it can be received by anyone who is ready to absorb it. Sufis use teaching stories as a way to package ideas and information, making them palatable to the mind. As with a peach, they believe that the delicious flesh of the fruit is necessary to allow the seed to be passed on, to take root and be nurtured.
When I returned from Marrakech, I found the guardians and the maid huddled outside the front door of the Caliph's House. They were chattering away anxiously, but fell silent as soon as they saw my old Jeep rumbling down the lane. The Bear was standing with his back to the door, his arms out wide. It was as if he was trying to hide something from me. I got out and asked what was going on.
Osman looked at the ground and shook his head from side to side.
'Nothing, Monsieur Tahir,' he said. 'It's nothing at all.'
The maid, Zohra, slapped her hands together and tightened her headscarf. She was an intimidating woman, the kind who filled ordinary henpecked Moroccan men with terrible fear. We would have let her go long before, but neither Rachana nor I had the courage to ask her to leave.
'He's lying,' said Zohra coldly. 'He's lying because he's a coward.'
'He's frightened,' said Hamza. 'We are all frightened.'
'Frightened of what?'
The Bear moved slowly to one side, revealing a curious series of geometric shapes and numbers etched on the door in chalk.
'The children have been playing again,' I said. 'The bad boys out there do that stuff all the time.'
Hamza wiped the sweat from his scalp with his hand.
'This isn't the work of mischievous boys,' he said.
'This is the work of . . .'
'Of who?'
The guardians and the maid shut their mouths and swallowed hard.
'Who has scrawled all this?'
'A sehura,' said Osman, 'a sorceress.'
Each week I would visit the grave of Hicham Harass, which lay on a south-facing hillside at the edge of Casablanca. I would sit on the grass beside his tombstone and listen to the sound of the gulls swooping in the distance, and I would tell Hicham everything that had happened in the seven days before.
I have had many friends in Morocco, but none have matched Hicham Harass in their outright wisdom. He lived in a shack behind the small, whitewashed mosque in the shantytown, and collected postage stamps for a hobby. Every few days I would take a handful of used stamps to his shack and we would talk. We had the kind of conversations that only great friends can ever share.
They were touched with magic.
Hicham had a heart attack and was suddenly gone. His wife and their three-legged dog moved away from Casablanca and I was left feeling empty inside. I would think about the stories Hicham must have heard in his youth and I pictured him on his grandmother's knee, listening. Nothing was quite so important to him as the telling of a tale. He was a natural raconteur, a man who delighted in polished delivery. Once he told me that he felt like a puppeteer, that the power to manipulate an audience was in subtle movements, the pulling of the strings. His life was rooted in firm values, all transferred, he said, through the tales his grandmother told. Hicham Harass was the kind of man who liked to be one-on-one, the kind of man who scoffed at Egyptian TV.
One Sunday afternoon in the summer, I took Timur with me to sit by the grave. It was so hot that we were both sticky with sweat as we climbed the steep cemetery slope. Timur was moaning about the heat, begging to be carried. I glanced up to see how much further we had to go. A man was kneeling at Hicham's grave. He was dressed in a fine black jelaba, the hood pulled down over his head, his hands cupped upwards in prayer. I was surprised because I had never seen anyone there before. Hicham used to tell me that he had no friends, and he didn't know his real family, for they had given him away to a travelling scrap dealer as a child.
When the man had finished praying, he washed his hands over his face, turned and greeted us. 'As-salam wa alaikum,' he said in a careful voice. 'Peace be upon you.'
We sat down together at the foot of the grave and listened to the gulls. Timur pleaded for me to take him swimming, but I ignored him. After a few minutes, the other visitor asked how I had come to know Hicham. I told him that we would meet each week and have conversations paid for in postage stamps.
'He was a very wise man,' he said.
I agreed, and I asked him how he had known Hicham Harass, as I did not recognize him from the shantytown.
The man wove his fingers together and pressed them to his lips in thought. 'I owe everything I am to him,' he said. He fell silent, and I was just about to coax an explanation from him, when he said: 'Twenty years ago I used to be a drug addict. My life was all about kif. I would smoke all day, and every night I used to roam the streets searching for an open window. When I found one, I would crawl inside and run off with whatever I could carry away. I robbed rich homes and poor homes, and sold the loot to buy more and more kif.'
'But you don't look like a drug addict,' I said.
'I am not, and it's all because of the man whose body lies in this grave.'
'So what happened?'
'Well, one night,' said the man, 'I stole a car and drove to El Jadida. I had overheard one thief telling another that there were rich pickings there. Once night had fallen, I found a dark residential street and started looking for an open window. It wasn't long before I found one. I chose it because a chair had been left underneath. Looking back, it was almost as if the owner was inviting me inside.'
The man paused for a moment, pushed up the sleeves of his jelaba and said: 'I climbed up as quietly as I could. There wasn't a sound inside. I switched on my torch and looked for something to steal. I couldn't see much, except for a large leather-bound album open on the table. It was filled with postage stamps. Usually I went for silver and gold, but the album looked valuable, so I put it in my bag. At that moment, a figure moved across the room. He was little more than a shadow. I ran to the window, but the figure got there first. He slammed it shut. I shouted out, threatening to break his neck. Th
en the man did something very unexpected. He welcomed me to his home, introduced himself as Hicham the son of Hussein, and said he had been waiting for me.
'I sat down, half-expecting him to raise the alarm, and we began to talk. He asked my name and I told it. I am known as Ottoman. I told him about my addiction to kif, my need for easy money, and apologized for causing him any trouble. Instead of scolding me, Hicham listened quietly, served me mint tea and offered me a bed for the night.'
Again, Ottoman broke off. He leaned over, touched Timur's cheek and kissed his hand.
'The next morning Hicham made me a breakfast worthy of a king,' he said. 'In my mind I was ready for the police to burst in. But I was so touched by his generosity that I was unable to take flight. I stayed in his home all day and he sketched out a plan.'
'What kind of a plan?'
'A plan to change the course of my life.'
Ottoman went on to explain how Hicham had sent him to live with a trusted friend, who had weaned him off kif, and how he lent him the money to open a tailor's shop. Every week the two men would meet and talk.
'Hicham would urge me to set my goals high,' he said. 'He gave me confidence, and would say that I was as capable as anyone else. "To succeed," he said, "you must reach for the stars and let your imagination find its own path."'
I wondered aloud why I had not seen Ottoman before, either in the shantytown where Hicham lived or at the grave.
'My tailor's shop was successful,' he said, 'because Hicham charged me with energy every week. I worked fifteen hours a day and soon I had five shops in Casablanca, Marrakech and Fès. Three years later, I set up my first factory, making garments. And two years after that, I opened up plants in Thailand, then in countries across the Far East. Before I knew it, I was living outside Morocco most of the time.'
Ottoman stood to his feet. He seemed disconsolate.
'One day I lost touch with Hicham,' he said. 'He vanished from his El Jadida home. I searched everywhere for him, but no luck.'
'He was living in the shantytown near where we live,' I said.
'I know that now,' said Ottoman. 'It pains me to think of him living in poverty like that when he lost his home. After all, he helped me become rich.'
'How did he lose his home in El Jadida?'
Ottoman glanced down at the grave and replied, 'I heard he'd given all his money so that a man he hardly knew could have heart surgery.'
'Hicham was selfless,' I said.
'You are right,' said Ottoman. 'He didn't care for worldly goods. Nothing at all.'
'Nothing except his postage stamps.'
Settling into a new country is like getting used to a pair of shoes. At first they pinch a little, but you like the way they look, so you carry on. The longer you have them, the more comfortable they become. Until one day without realizing it you reach a glorious plateau. Wearing those shoes is like wearing no shoes at all. The more scuffed they get, the more you love them and the more you can't imagine life without them.
Our lives at Casablanca went through the same cycle. At first, the discomforts of the house, the trouble with the jinns, the headless cats we found in the garden, and the slaughter of exorcism, all took a toll. I used to think Rachana might walk out. She didn't appreciate the hardship in the same way that it appealed to me. But the months of anxiety brought us closer together. We were united in a desire for a new life. There was something so intoxicating about the Caliph's House that I never imagined giving up.
Now, after so many months, the idea of living anywhere else seems outrageous. I am at ease. I am content. But I am still confused. Most of all I am confused by Moroccan society.
On the surface, life seems quite understandable, a blend of culture and tradition. My family is from the East and I have grown up in the West. The equation helps me to decipher the riddles of the Arab world. Yet there is still so much to understand, like the business with the sieve.
During the summer Zohra, our maid, overheard me complaining how I am eaten alive by salesmen as I walk through Casablanca's vegetable market. Like most Moroccan women she is an expert on life and in the art of controlling men. And she is always ready to advise.
'Tsk! Tsk! Tsk!' she snapped. 'Of course the salesmen trouble you. It's because they think you are a tourist.'
'But there aren't any tourists in Casablanca.'
'Well, they don't know that!'
'So what am I supposed to do?'
Zohra motioned something with her hands. It was round, about the size of a dinner plate.
'You have to carry a sieve.'
'What?'
'No tourist would ever be carrying a sieve,' she said.
The Friday after I had met Ottoman at Hicham's grave, I strolled down to Café Mabrook for a little coffee and conversation. Dr Mehdi wasn't yet in his place, but his great friend Hakim was sitting at my usual table. He greeted me and grinned as I took my seat. Hakim the ancient plumber was one of the most sensitive men one would ever be likely to meet. He had a way of making you feel needed when he spoke, as if the future of the world depended on you. He was Dr Mehdi's best friend, but was happiest of all when the surgeon wasn't there. It meant he could talk about his favourite subject. Hakim had a fascination for black magic, a subject of which Dr Mehdi vehemently disapproved.
On the first occasion we met, he explained under his breath how he had been born a girl, how his gender had been altered by a sorceress from the Middle Atlas.
'When was that?' I asked.
The plumber pulled a tap from his pocket and used it to scratch the top of his head.
'Long ago,' he said.
'When?'
'When you were a glint in your mother's eye.'
Since we were alone, I asked him about the chalk writing the guardians had found scrawled over our front door.
Hakim asked for a second cup of coffee. Then he screwed up his face until his eyes were no more than slits. A thumbless hand slammed down the coffee and he said, 'It sounds as if there's a jinn.'
'That's quite impossible,' I replied. 'You see, we did have jinns but we held an exorcism and slaughtered a goat. The exorcists drenched every room in blood and in milk. They certified it squeaky clean.'
'When did the exorcism take place?'
'Six months ago.'
Hakim screwed up his face again.
'You will have to do it all again,' he said.
I thought of the upheaval the exorcists had caused. They had wrecked the house and terrified us all in a kind of Moroccan rendition of Ghostbusters. Cleaning up after them had taken weeks and Rachana was still far from forgiving me.
'Another exorcism is out of the question,' I said nervously.
The plumber raised a finger.
'There is another way,' he declared. 'It's unusual, but it works, I promise you, it works.'
'What do I have to do?'
'You must get a pot of honey from the forest of Bouskoura and paint it on all your doors, inside and out.'
Ariane came home from school and said she had learned the story of Robin Hood. She had drawn a picture of the folk hero in Sherwood Forest, with butterflies all round. She asked me if he was real.
'What do you mean, "real"?'
'Did Robin Hood have a mummy and a daddy?'
'I suppose that he did,' I said.
'What were their names?'
'Ariane, that's not important,' I said. 'You see, stories are not like the real world; they aren't held back by what we know is false or true. What's important is how a story makes you feel inside.'
'Baba, do you mean you can lie?'
'It's not lying; it's more like being fluid – fluid with the facts.'
Ariane squinted hard, pushed back her hair.
'Can I call them Henry and Isabelle, then?'
'Who?'
'Robin Hood's mummy and daddy.'
'Yes, of course you can.'
'Can I pretend they lived here in Casablanca?'
'Yes, I suppose you could do that, too.'
'Baba?'
'Yes Ariane?'
'Can I marry Robin Hood when I grow up?'
The next week I drove out towards Bouskoura in my battered old Korean-made Jeep. I had always heard stories of the forest there, perched on the southern edge of town. It spread out east from the highway in a great mantle of green. Zohra said the place was bewitched, that the trees had once been soldiers loyal to a malicious emperor from down in the Sahara. Fearing that Morocco was about to be conquered by his legions, a good-natured jinn had transformed the army into trees, she said. When I asked her about the honey, Zohra agreed it was good for spells, that it was especially useful in keeping bad spirits in their place. The guardians were equally pleased by the prescription. The prospect of having a fresh influx of jinns at Dar Khalifa had given them new energy. I suspected it was because it allowed them to spend all their time plotting against the forces of darkness.
Once at the forest, I drove down a long track framed in fir trees and came to a school where attack dogs were being trained. The trees were tight together, like soldiers on the march. The further I went, the more I found myself slipping into Zohra's fantasy, into what she claimed continually was the real world.
I hurried on until the track came to an abrupt end. Sitting there on a home-made bench was a wizened man wearing a thin cotton jelaba. It was fluorescent green. The colour was reflected in his face. I climbed out, greeted him and asked if he knew where I might buy some honey. He pointed to a hut encircled by a screen of conifers.
'Watch out for the bees,' he said.
The path to the hut was sprinkled with pine cones and looked like the one in 'Little Red Riding Hood'. On both sides of it were oversized white beehives arranged in clusters of six. The air was alive with their residents. I walked very slowly, as I had once been taught by a Shuar tribesman in the Amazon. Bees attack only when they sense death. They move at lightning speed, and so if you move in slow motion they assume you are just another tree swaying in the wind.
Once at the hut, I knocked.
The door opened inwards, and the same man in fluorescent green was standing in its frame. He grinned a big toothy grin and welcomed me inside, as I tried to work out how he had got there without my seeing.
