Mehdi hailed one of the older Tuaregs, who made for an impressive figure. Tall, with a weather-beaten face and piercing eyes, his veil—tagelmust—made him an imposing figure at the centre of a group of men with swords.
We went into a tent. Holmes surprised me by speaking brokenly but confidently in a local language, which he later told me was Tamasheq.6 He had picked it up over the past few weeks. Holmes had a great facility for languages. He later wrote a monograph about the secret language of the Inadan blacksmith Tuaregs, which seemed about as arcane a subject as I could imagine.7
Mehdi and Holmes convinced the Tuaregs to leave immediately. They worked out a plan. I had hoped to spend a few days in Morocco, but it was not to be.
6I was surprised to know that some Tuaregs preferred to be called Kel Tamasheq, meaning “those who speak Tamasheq’”
7He said he proposed to present a paper to the Royal Society and had received some agreeable comments, from the review committee, though I may reassure you that I did not make similar comments, having no interest in this eminently forgettable matter.
Holmes and the Tuaregs
Note by Dr. John Watson: I have recreated the scenes here after extensive interviews with Holmes, a Moroccan lawyer (now deceased), and Hasso Ag Akotey. I have preferred to use their voices. I showed each of them what I had written, and all agreed that I had captured their statements accurately.
In the voice of Sherlock Holmes
I, Father Andrzej Bąkiewicz, walked about the narrow streets of Tangier. The sun snaked its way in between the buildings. The breeze from the Mediterranean was cool and bracing. It was another perfect day.
“Never before have I had a student with such passion,” exclaimed Haji Bouabid. “You come every single day! You study for two hours! You ask questions, you push yourself, you work at home! You wish to learn calligraphy! We are now speaking in Arabic, not in French, in just five months! Wonderful! At this speed, you will soon be an Arabic scholar!”
“A grand and wonderful language, Haji! I wish I had learned it earlier. But never mind. Regret is pointless. There is so much to read and learn!” I skimmed the pages of another book—this time on the fundamentals of astronomy—that Haji Bouabid had retrieved for me. “When I return to Roma, I shall write a monograph on Arabic calligraphy.”8
That evening, after an enjoyable Arabic class with Haji Bouabid, I stopped at a café for a cup of coffee and to think. I had received a coded telegram from Lestrade on the nexus between Professor Moriarty and the Guardians. They had apprehended an intruder at the Royal Archives at Windsor Castle in London but he simply refused to talk, though he had alluded to some “Guardians” to whom he was duty-bound to deliver results. The issue seemed messy—frost between France and England on the issue of colonial designs in Africa. The Guardians were active in Europe, searching for the half-manuscript and me.
But I was not as perturbed by that as the fact that my sixth sense was telling me that Professor Moriarty was likely to connect various dots and conclude that I was in Tangier; it would need just one slip from my side. Like me, he too found guesswork and conjecture in all matters undesirable. Unless there is a basis, it is positively absurd to guess.
I imagined Professor Moriarty thinking in silence: What is Holmes’ current preoccupation?
The finding of a rare document of great value, about which I have been notified by my Moroccan comrades, the Guardians of the Letter.
Has his body been found?
No.
Then why are people talking about Holmes in the past tense?
Because they are fools who like excitement and do not stop to think. Like readers of crime fiction who want daggers, blood, and the revelation of secrets on every page instead of quiet intelligence.
What was he likely to have done had he wished to escape?
Head for safety in a direction opposite to Meirengen.
What was the country closest to Reichenbach?
Italy.
Which city made sense for someone like him to go to pursue his objective?
Venice.
Why had he disappeared so completely from sight in Europe?
Because he was no longer in Europe and had left the continent.
Where would he find safety?
Very likely in Morocco, right under the noses of the Guardians, who were busy focusing on Europe.
I had no doubt that this was likely to have been the train of thought in the mind of Professor Moriarty, though the last answer would probably emerge sooner rather than later. This was the possible reason for the unexpected arrival of Colonel Moran—first to meet the Guardians and then to initiate the search, using the relatively safe confines of the prefecture church. My disguise was good enough to pass muster, but not for very long. The average person is not as stupid as we think, and can actually apply his intelligence when asked to concentrate. I probably had, at best, a few months to finish my task. I had to find a way to travel to the Sankore Mosque in Timbuktu.
My attention was distracted by a commotion nearby.
Three French gendarmes were dragging a Tuareg man along the road. He seemed to have been beaten quite severely; blood poured from wounds on his head. His tagelmust had been torn off. Behind them, a few more gendarmes were keeping a small crowd of noisy Tuaregs at bay with guns. Many voices were raised. Everyone seated at the café fled inside, not wanting to get involved. I remained seated and watched the little procession pass by.
One of the gendarmes stopped by, momentarily, close to where I was seated on the pavement. I asked him what the problem was.
“We have just arrested someone for the murder of a Frenchman. A dirty Tuareg! Of course, he says he is innocent! Dogs!” He spat.
The angry gendarme walked on, holding back the small crowd of agitated men.
In a few minutes, the uproar abated and the crowd disappeared. The other customers who had fled inside the café came out cautiously. I tried to resume my coffee, but I no longer felt the need. I took out my pipe, filled it with tobacco and began smoking.
I was approached by one of the customers, an older Moroccan wearing western attire, who asked me politely in French if I could tell him what had happened.
I explained as best as I could.
He spoke, but now in English. “And what, sir, is Mr. Sherlock Holmes doing in a café in Tangier?”
I was quite taken aback.
“I beg your pardon?” I said, pretending to be puzzled.
“You are Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective. I am sure of it!” the man smiled. “My name is Said aṣ-Ṣabār9 and I am a lawyer here. Here is my card, sir. I travel often to London for certain legal matters and visit my colleagues at Lincoln’s Inn. How can a frequent visitor to London be unaware of Sherlock Holmes and his distinctive nose and pipe? You do look different, though. Perhaps you are in disguise. I quite understand and—”
The matter had gone too far in a very few sentences. I raised an eyebrow.
He was perceptive to understand that this was hardly a matter to be discussed at a roadside café, and stopped abruptly, his eyes suddenly expressionless.
“You are mistaken, sir. I am Father Andrzej Bąkiewicz from the Catholic Prefecture. I would be pleased if you dropped by for some tea at your convenience,” I said, bowing.
Mr. aṣ-Ṣabār understood and he too bowed. I walked back quickly to the prefecture, annoyed by the incident.
My friend, Dr. John Watson, interviewed Hasso Ag Akotey during the journey to Timbuktu and recreated the subsequent story. It is better that you read it without my interpretive bias.
In the voice of Hasso Ag Akotey
I am Hasso Ag Akotey, the chief of a group of Ahaggar Tuaregs.
We spend our lives in what you call the Sahara, and what we call the Tinariwen. The Tinariwen is sacred—it supports us, it gives us our culture, ou
r language, our music. We respect it. You see sand, you see heat, you see death, you see waste and desolation. What a pity. But we see life, we hear music, and we listen to the stories that the dead, whom we never name, sing from their graves. They sing stories of men and women who were born here, travelled across the desert, to Bamako, Timbuktu, Tindouf, Tamanrasset—oh, how fortunate we are, to travel, to move, to visit—and not to be tied to the earth!
And we travel on our camels to visit the grave of our great Queen, the Mother of us all, Tin Hanan, in the Ahaggar Mountains. It is sacred for us. She gave us life, she gave us our identity, she gave us our language, Kel Tamasheq.
It is difficult, Englishman, for you to understand us and our ways. Your people and the French think we are strange and savage. We, too, find it difficult to understand you and your odd customs. Yet a strong friendship has been created and we are happy, because of the goodness of your companion, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who we thought was a Christian priest for a long time.
Just as you have a king, we have an amenokal, whose name is Aytarel ag Muhammad Biskra. I meet him sometimes. I think he is presently somewhere near Abalessa. If we go there, we shall meet him.
No doubt you think that the veil we wear and the way we wear it are unusual. It is our tradition. It has practical use in the hot desert but also has cultural meaning and protects us from spirits. By the way Sherlock Holmes ties his tagelmust it seems that he was probably a Tuareg once upon a time. What? You do not believe in spirits? That is very strange indeed. Perhaps we shall soon convince you. Please believe me. There are many spirits in the Tinariwen. Some good, some bad.
Where are we actually from? I just told you. Our mother was Tin Hanan. She was originally from Morocco but now she lies in her grave in the Ahaggar Mountains, at Abalessa, not far from Tamanrasset. We remember her with great fondness and regard. I hope you, too, will visit her with us.
Yes, you wished to know why we have so much respect for Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The simple reason is that he saved my life. The act of saving my life also meant that the honour of my tribe was preserved. We are indebted to him.
Let me tell you what happened, though I am sure that he has told you the same story but from a different window, where the light shines in a different way.
Our usual camp is on the eastern outskirts of Tangier, which by itself is not a very large town. I was sitting outside my ahaket—tent—with Amedras, Wararni, and Amayas—yes, the same men you see sitting together next to the fire over there—talking to another friend, Hasso, who had just come from Rabat. Yes, we both have the same name. That was in fact the simple root of a much more serious problem.
“You have come alone. What has happened?” I asked Hasso.
“A Frenchman was found killed. Many people came to see the body lying in a ditch, including my friend Ziri and I. Some gendarmeries came to check. A Frenchman accused me of being the murderer. We became quite agitated. I escaped from the scene during the chaos and came here for safety. Had I been caught, I would have been killed for sure.”
Amayas shook his head “Yes, you would have been killed. They would pretend to have a trial since they think they are very civilized.”
“Of course. We are nothing to them.”
“I heard six of the Kel Owey were killed recently near Fez.”
“How dare the French treat the Amazighs like this? How long should we tolerate these foreigners?” Amayas was angry. He is hot-blooded and does not know when to hold back his words. Young men are invariably impractical and consumed by feelings of invulnerability.
“They have guns. We do not. It is simple,” I sighed.
As we discussed our plight, we heard some loud shouting from the edge of our camp. Men were shouting, women were screaming, and some guns were fired, too. We looked in the direction and saw a large group of armed French gendarmes burst into the camp.
“Who is Hasso?” shouted their leader, striding toward us, glaring.
I stood up. “I am Hasso,” I said. That was the truth.
He strode up and grabbed me roughly.
“Filthy Tuareg!” he yelled in French, which I understood. “Worthless scum! I am arresting you for the murder of Jacques Pétain in Rabat! This will be the end of you! Dog!”
He and some other gendarmes then hit and kicked me very brutally. I tried to protest but to no avail. I understood immediately that it was a case of mistaken identity, but in any case, it was my duty as their leader to protect my fellow Tuaregs.
I was soon bleeding from many wounds all over my body. I did try to stop them, but they were too many. Soon, I lost consciousness for a few minutes.
Someone splashed some water on my face. The gendarmes had torn away my tagelmust, a deeply insulting act for any Tuareg, as you know. They pulled me up and dragged me away, with the other gendarmes keeping my men at a distance. Then I was taken through a few roads of Tangier to their jail. I was thrown into a dark cell, where I once again lost consciousness.
I learned later that as I was being dragged to the jail, we passed a café where Mr. Sherlock Holmes, whom we called The Father, was seated, enjoying a cup of coffee. And so was a very important lawyer, Said aṣ-Ṣabār. I knew neither at that point.
God is great. He connected two important persons with me and with each other at just the right time.
When I awoke, I found myself with a terrible headache. I had many bruises and my ribs felt sore.
The next few days were unpleasant. The gendarmes delighted in insulting me and torturing me in many ways—look at my arm, this is where they used their cigarette butts. They wanted me to confess to the murder of a man I had never even seen. How could I do that? Would you have, Dr. Watson? We have learned how to withstand extreme pain.
Somehow, it seems that word spread about my detention. They could not have easily killed me, I suppose, because I was too well known and people had seen me being taken away and dragged through a road. In any case, there is a lot of tension here with the Frenchmen and they have to pretend to give the accused a trial because they claim they are civilized, while we are not. The French are everywhere now—in Mali, in Algeria, in Bornu.10 And everyone hates them. It is good you are not a Frenchman!
One morning, the jailor came to my cell with another man, who introduced himself as a lawyer. He was, in fact, the famous lawyer, Said aṣ-Ṣabār, who had seen the incident. He is also involved in the struggle for Morocco’s freedom against the colonial designs of France and Spain.11
The guard brought in a chair on which the man sat. I continued sitting on the floor. We conversed in Arabic, since Said aṣ-Ṣabār was not a Tuareg and could not speak Tamasheq fluently.
He introduced himself. “I am here to help you,” he said.
One must be suspicious of help that comes unasked.
“How will you do that? I think they are getting ready to execute me.”
“Tell me the truth. Then I shall think of a way.”
I told him what happened.
“So the other Hasso knows about it but you won’t give the gendarmes his name.”
“Yes,” I replied.
“They may guillotine you if they find you guilty. They say they have proof.”
“I do not know what happened. I was not there.”
“Can you find out?” he asked.
I refused. “No. I will not help the Frenchmen. I would rather die. I will not be a traitor.”
“They say that the Frenchman was buying vegetables at a market in Rabat when you attacked him.”
“I do not know since I was not in Rabat. What else do they say?”
“That you took away his horse and fled. You were identified by several witnesses. Your height and weight were described. The assailant was called Hasso.”
“I was not there. They are speaking of the other Hasso. But I cannot believe he committed the crime, either. The story is not c
omplete.”
Said aṣ-Ṣabār wrote down many things in a book he had brought with him.
He sat quietly for a while, thinking about the matter. Then he got up.
“I must think and I must consult someone else. Be brave. They cannot do anything now that I am your lawyer. I know this inspector and I shall ask him to be kind to you.”
“How did you become my lawyer? I am poor. I cannot pay you.”
“For us to become free of the French, all patriots must help each other and stop thinking of their tribes. I have chosen to assist those who are accused of crimes against the French.” He spoke with great sincerity.
“I belong to no country. You know that. The Tuaregs belong to the Tinariwen. We are from the Haggar Mountains, many weeks from here.”
He smiled. “I know,” he said. He then pressed my hand and left.
The gendarmes were no longer violent with me. I sat crouched in a dark corner of my filthy cell for long hours. The heat inside a closed room is much worse than the heat of the desert. So I suffered. There was no toilet, and very little water in a mud pot. I thought of my family, my tribe, my camels, my music, and the Tinariwen. I wondered if I had lost them forever.
Then two days later, abruptly, the inspector opened my cell. With him was Said aṣ-Ṣabār, who was smiling.
“You have been released.”
“Why so?” I was careful not to betray emotion.
“I shall tell you later. Come.”
I wound my tagelmust tightly and walked out.
***
The account of the Moroccan lawyer and freedom fighter Said aṣ-Ṣabār
I visited the Catholic prefecture church immediately after my interview with Hasso, and presented my card, requesting that I be allowed to meet Father Andrzej Bąkiewicz. I was soon escorted to his modest room by a suspicious servant.
“I wished to see you, Father Andrzej Bąkiewicz, on an important matter that I believe only you can resolve,” I said, bowing.
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 11
