Shadows of Marrakech

by Tim Kindberg

  Chemchi had better leave. She felt faint, and weak with the thought of being confronted by her counterpart. It had been a mistake coming here, too dangerous, and for what? But at least she knew of this counterpart’s existence.

  “I feel a little better now. I’ll do that shopping.” She picked up her basket and walked out without saying goodbye to Ali, who watched her leave, open-mouthed. But he could hardly protest and look foolish in front of his guests.

  She headed for what she hoped would be the Criée Berbère, through the quiet alleys that led back to the souks, all the time wondering whether her counterpart, the girl who cleaned for Ali’s counterpart here, would appear round the corner on her way back from shopping.

  But she never saw her. The Criée Berbère was where it would be in Marrakech. She drew up to the dusty gap where she had found the carpet, and shone the pencil torch that Morchid had given her, against the wall. The velvet drape appeared just as in Marrakech. And the carpet was poking into the souks like a tongue. But Chemchi’s mind was clouded. She barely understood what she was doing. She dimly knew that she must go through; that there was a boy she had left behind.

  She pushed through. But the association between the carpet and her destination had disappeared into a fog. She found herself playing the torch on the twisting threads lurching from its weave, thus preventing it from capturing her at once. The dank smell of the chamber filling her nostrils was vaguely familiar. Her fatigue caused her to stumble but she scrambled up again and played the torch to keep the threads at bay.

  When all the way inside, she sat on a bench and switched off the torch. Her limbs seemed to belong to someone else. Thoughts of a place slunk into her mind. A place in the mountains. She had holidayed there, she thought, picnicking by a rushing river, the sun pressing down. And she thought of a life she must lead, getting up in the morning to make breakfast and shop in the souks, every day the same and every conversation about the same events and the same people: about the holidays they intended to take, the same as last year. Her mind began to switch backwards and forwards, repeating itself, like clockwork.

  And there was Ali to serve; chores to perform every day in a strict routine. While he drank his tea in the courtyard or sat chatting on the Rue Mouassine, she must ensure the riad was spotless, cleaning the rooms and the walkways so that the sunlight spilling from the cloudless sky revealed no dust or dirt where it landed, to spoil the guests’ tranquil stay.

  Why was she here in this chamber, with its smell of must and disuse, and its empty furniture, its shadows waving gently in the candlelight? She must return, to those gentlemen staying in the riad. She must sleep and clean. She must live a proper life for a girl like her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE PASSAGEWAY SMELLED of dust and bananas. The source of the sweet aroma were stacked in cardboard boxes by the old brick walls, leaving little room for Deobia and Akimbe to walk past them. The netting above was thick. They walked on in the relative cool of dappled shadows for a while but soon the netting disappeared and the sun blasted them. It had not moved since they arrived.

  Deobia turned another corner. The passage gave onto a square and beyond it the desert. It was quiet. One half of the square was sliced through diagonally, as if by a huge saw from the sky. Sand massed against the low edge but did not cross it. The desert continued as far as the eye could see along a valley between the dunes, dunes that raised themselves menacingly high. Blinding sunlight reflected off the crumbling white walls and the pale slabbed floor. Banks of hot air filled the space.

  At first the square appeared to be empty but there was an old woman squatting, a dot against the wall. Her head hung down almost at right angles to her neck. They greeted her but remained at some distance.

  “Why are we here?” said Akimbe.

  “I hoped Chemchi would be here,” whispered Deobia, “from what they said about where they’d spotted her.”

  “The enslavers? But Camel-breath didn’t know where she was: he wanted me to tell him.” Akimbe also kept his voice low, not knowing what to make of the old woman.

  “Camel-breath? Is that what you call him? It was a game he was playing with you. He knew you couldn’t know. It amused him.”

  “And now you’ve beaten him to a pulp. He’ll tell the others. He’ll tell Morchid.”

  “No. He knows I have something on him. That he’s plotting. He can’t risk that coming out.”

  “Maybe it’s you he’s been playing with, to lead you into a trap,” said Akimbe. “Maybe you don’t know as much as you say. Why would you listen to whatever he says, anyway? He’s about as trustworthy as everyone else seems to be.” He gave Deobia a meaningful look. “I don’t know on whose side anyone’s on.”

  They slumped against the wall, exhausted. Akimbe stroked Ibtissam, who lay on the hot paving beside him. The old woman remained motionless.

  “Tell me, what is this place?” Akimbe asked her.

  “Why don’t you ask him? He knows,” she said.

  Deobia looked down and said nothing.

  “What does she mean?” said Akimbe. “Tell us,” he asked the old woman. “Please, have you seen a girl here, a tall girl?”

  “Do you have some dirhams?” The woman put out a begging hand. But why beg here, with no one around? A bolt of hot desert air suddenly entered and she fanned what little could be seen of her wrinkled face with the other hand.

  “I’m afraid not. No, I have nothing.” He felt ashamed. Hunger was cramping his belly.

  “But your friend does.”

  Deobia got up to give her some coins, reluctantly as though he didn’t want to go near her. She didn’t thank him but watched him as far as she was able with her slumped head. He turned away and walked up to the edge of the desert with his back to them, a lost figure against the enormity of the ochre dunes beyond.

  “Now, please,” he asked the woman again. “He’s given you money so tell us. Have you seen a girl?”

  “She left a message for you.”

  “Did she? And how do you know it was for us?”

  “She didn’t mention him, it’s true.” She tilted her hanging head a fraction towards Deobia. “But she told me about you, said you have something, a bracelet. Show me.”

  Akimbe walked up and held it low in front of her.

  “Closer,” she said. “I need to see it.”

  Her head lolled down so far that he found himself almost placing it in front of her nose until she was finally able to cast her eye upon it. It occurred to him that the begging hand could suddenly grab it so he held it tight.

  “Is it your mother’s?”

  He suddenly felt unsure. “Yes,” he said.

  “Perhaps I have met her.”

  “Where? You must tell me.”

  “Not now, Akimbe,” Deobia had returned. “They’ll be here any minute. We can come back. The important thing now is to find your friend and leave. You will forget everything, as you did before.”

  “The enslavers are back in Marrakech and they are here too — does it really matter where we go? It’s only a matter of time until they capture me again.”

  “Look at this place.” Deobia looked out at the desert, at the suns blinking on and off in the sky. “Where would you rather be?”

  “Listen to him.” The woman gave a dry chuckle. “As though he doesn’t belong here.”

  “Enough,” said Deobia. “Where is she?”

  “She looked for where she left the other place.”

  “You mean in the chamber, in the Criée Berbère?” said Akimbe.

  She didn’t answer.

  “What do you know about him?” Akimbe said, nodding towards Deobia.

  “Stop.” Deobia said before she could open her mouth. Deobia towered between Akimbe and the old woman. “This isn’t helping us find the girl,” he said to Akimbe. “I’ll explain. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know when we’re back. I promise.”

  Akimbe looked out at the dunes. “Tell me,” he asked th
e old woman. “Over there. What do you see?”

  “I see the edge,” she said.

  “And what is beyond the edge?”

  “Nothing of any interest.”

  “Have you ever stepped beyond it?”

  She gave no answer.

  The pounding heat made his head ache. He would give anything for a glass of water.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  THEY WALKED BACK into the barely cooler interior. Everything looked needle sharp but was tinged with unreality. That sun, directly overhead so that your shadow fell only inches away from your feet, that sun was where it had been when they arrived hours ago. Night should be falling.

  Ibtissam continued to stay close and didn’t disappear as Akimbe had feared. Looking around her and sniffing and wondering about the similarities and differences between here and where they had come from, she seemed to be as perplexed as he was.

  They walked at a fair pace, stopping occasionally so that Akimbe could pretend to examine merchandise while Deobia swiftly and expertly looked to see if any enslavers were about.

  Finally they reached the corner by the Criée Berbère where, in real Marrakech, Akimbe had slipped into an unused stall to reach the chamber. At first they passed it, pretending to show no interest in the doors but snatching glances at them and looking to see if anyone was paying them any attention.

  But as soon as Ibtissam saw the doors she sprang into the gap. She squeezed herself through, her back legs scrambling, and disappeared inside.

  “Excuse me,” Deobia said to the nearby stallholder. “Our cat has just squeezed into that gap. Do you mind if we go in and find her?”

  “You’re new ones, aren’t you? At least he is.” He pointed to Akimbe. Why aren’t you with your mummy and daddy?”

  “We’ve lost them. There was an accident. We’re trying to find our way back and now we’ve lost our cat as well. Please help us.”

  “Well, that stall has nothing to do with me. I don’t know who it belongs to. If you can get in, help yourselves.”

  For a second, Akimbe found himself staring at the doors to the stall and not recognising this place, forgetting what he was doing standing there.

  “What’s the matter?” Deobia had noticed his blank stare. Akimbe stared back at him with the same vacant look. Deobia put his hand on his shoulder. “You’re forgetting. It’s started. Listen to me.” He moved his hand to Akimbe’s cheek. “You are Akimbe. We’re looking for Chemchi.” Deobia tried a gentle shake. “Look,” he pulled the bracelet out of Akimbe’s pouch and placed it in his hand. “Look. Look at this. It’s important to you.”

  Akimbe blinked. When he felt the metal of the bracelet in his hand he knew himself again. The face peering into his was Deobia’s. He remembered his mother and his father and his sister.

  “I started to dream,” he said. “About the man I stayed with here before.”

  “You go in first.” Deobia looked back at the stallholder, who was seeing to his customers. Everyone was a customer or a seller or a browser. No one had any interest in them. Akimbe pulled on one of the doors the way he had back in Marrakech. It yielded off its broken hinge in the same way. Deobia held it while Akimbe slipped in, then Akimbe pushed on it from inside while Deobia entered.

  They followed the musky passage in the close darkness. There was a faint light ahead. It was the light of the chamber, the same as in Marrakech, candlelight that wobbled when they walked up and then steadied again as they stood still.

  And the carpet lay before them. On it, a group of three shadows: their shadows, just as in Marrakech. The golden filaments were being worked around them slowly as they watched. And on the other side of the carpet, in a tangled mass, the fresh shadows of what looked like a gang of men. Enslavers.

  Akimbe felt his mind wince. This was the same place but a different place. And presumably the enslavers could be back any time.

  “Chemchi?” he said in a low voice that nonetheless sounded loud in the chamber. No one answered.

  “Chemchi? It’s Akimbe. And a friend, Deobia. The enslavers are looking for us. Chemchi?”

  “I’ve found a cat.” A ghost spoke behind them. It was Chemchi, tall and beautiful in the candlelight, her braid low over her eyes. “Do you want a girl and a cat? We could come and stay with you and serve you.” She walked up to Deobia, as though Akimbe were a stranger.

  “Chemchi what are you talking about? It’s me, Akimbe.” Her eyes were glassy. She stroked the purring Ibtissam in her arms.

  “I believe in nothing,” she said. “Tell me, what do you believe in?” Her voice was a whisper. It was impossible not to open up to her.

  “I used to believe only in knowledge. Now I believe in life. In good and bad. That I am free to choose between them,” Deobia said.

  “And you?” she turned to Akimbe.

  “I believe in my mother, my father and my sister. I believe there is an explanation for this place. I believe you should return to where you belong.”

  “Please, come with us,” Deobia approached her with his hand outstretched. She drew back.

  “No, let me.” Akimbe stroked the cat in her arms so that she could see that Ibtissam knew him. “I have missed you, Chem… Chem…”

  “It’s happening to you as well,” said Deobia. “Soon you’ll forget everything. You’ll become blind to the oddity of where you are. You won’t think it strange that the sun is always high in the sky. Always. You’ll shop or you’ll serve.”

  “The gates. Didn’t we come from the gates?” Akimbe felt confused but the person he was talking to was becoming familiar again.

  “This,” Deobia pointed at the carpet, “is the way back.”

  “And how do you know?”

  “Because it’s how I arrived in Marrakech.”

  “And how are we supposed to get through? Chemchi had to shine her torch. She pulled me back.”

  “I don’t know how she did it, but it must be that you were somewhere away from the carpet. If you lie down, just as in Marrakech, you’ll go through.”

  “Through to where? Another gate?”

  “No, through to the chamber you know. ”

  Akimbe looked at their three shadows, the gold stitching itself around them. “If we go back, they may be waiting for us.”

  “Just as this gang here,” Deobia pointed to the shadows at the other end, “will come here soon, to return. It’s better to try going back. We have a chance.”

  “And Camel-breath? He’ll have us killed.”

  “The man you call Camel-breath, he operates beyond Morchid’s bidding. He has his own fish to fry and we don’t know what he’s going to do. We are of some use to him.”

  “Yes, why did he bring the two of us together?”

  “He knew we’d find Chemchi.”

  “So we’ve led ourselves into a trap and Chemchi too! Plus you’ve beaten him up. Even if they don’t find us, he’ll tell Morchid about that.”

  “No, I told you. Morchid is not supposed to know what Camel-breath is up to. And whatever happens here, Morchid can learn about only second-hand. The carpet won’t take him.”

  “Morchid? Did you say Morchid?” Chemchi was cringing, her face was frozen in fear.

  “Trust me,” Akimbe said to her. “Lie on the carpet as I do, here. We’ll all three of us lie down together. And Ibtissam too.”

  As they lay on their own shadows, it was as though they met themselves. The carpet’s tiny tendrils grabbed at them and stretched and built a web over them until their eyes were covered and they could no longer see. Then there was an awful moment of stillness, like the peak of a roller-coaster ride, when the car is about to plummet.

  The experience, of rushing but being held fast at the same time, ended. The web dissolved thread by thread, until pixels of light began to appear and coalesced. Shapes formed, recognisable shapes. A lit candle. The tops of empty bookshelves and cabinets standing like silent witnesses around the chamber. They began
to struggle, to break out of the webbing like new born kittens pawing at their sacs.

  One by one they sat up and pushed themselves to their legs. They stood beside the carpet, Akimbe and Chemchi both bleary and rubbing their eyes but Deobia standing tall as though he were used to emerging from a carpet of magic threads. Their shadows had disappeared. The carpet was as before. The whole chamber was just like the place they had left.

  “Thank goodness!” Chemchi said to Akimbe.”Are we really back?” Ibtissam sprang into her arms. She dropped her torch. Deobia picked it up.

  “Give me that,” she said. “Whoever you are.”

  PART THREE

  Cracked

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAINED TOGETHER IN twos and threes, the captives were stretching as best they could after a long, god-forsaken journey in one of the white vans. They didn’t look at one another for fear of a beating. They whispered without moving their mouths, like ventriloquists.

  There was always a point at which their lives had gone horribly wrong. A point when men had come out of nowhere to grab them and hurl them in a van. Or when they realised they had been fooled: a promise of work from a friendly stranger had turned to betrayal: the first locked door, the first brutal look or word, and the first thump or slap for those brave enough to resist. It was usually a blow to the body, since it would show on the face. Their value to the customers in Marrakech or wherever else they were headed was the priority. Then there were the few who resisted too far, who thought they had some rights, that they were big enough. The gang made an example of those, beating them to within an inch of their live, sometimes even dispensing with that inch. Screw the price, it was better to let the others know not to try it.

  One of Morchid’s men talked to a customer. “This is a good batch, the best I’ve seen for a while. Go on, tell them to jump up and down. Look at their teeth. I promise you, they’re the best. Or if they’re not needed to work,” the man winked, “I mean, if you just need some company, then of course just choose the ones who look like your type.”