In Arabian Nights (32 page)

question and were exposed to a body of work rich in stimulation
and in storytelling. The Old Testament in particular was
drummed into young minds by preachers and vicars on both
sides of the Atlantic, stressing moral values and correct
behaviour, against a backdrop rich in symbolism.

Churchgoers on a Sunday morning learned how to dissect a
story and grasp its inner meaning, just as Arabs still do expertly
today. Sitting in their pews, Christians were surrounded by an
extraordinary tapestry of symbolic material. There were symbols
in the sermon, in the wall hangings and the stained glass, in the
carvings on the pulpit and in the wine and the wafer, the blood
and the body of Christ.

These days the young generation are enlightened in so many
ways, but symbols are something they hardly know, except in
computing. They have become separated from an ancient kind
of thinking, oblivious to symbolism in religion, in stories and in
art. The chain has been broken, so it's no wonder a young man
or woman may not understand what a wafer has to do with the
body of Christ, or what a sip of watered wine has to do with His
blood.

But all is not lost.

I am certain that symbolism can be taught again, that by reintroducing
a knowledge of how it works, Western society would learn once more how to
tap into layers of accumulated wisdom that form a backdrop to their lives.
It would be like teaching a language that has been forgotten so that an ancient
literature could be accessed again, or like learning a formula with the intention
of breaking a code.

Ariane finished her blue ice cream and licked the bowl with her
tongue. She said that when she was bigger she would live in a
house in Chefchaouen with a pink pet dinosaur called Floss. She
reminded me of myself. We had rumbled through the town
more than once on our travels as children. If I closed my eyes, I
could see us sitting in the square, wrapped up in tie-dye
sweaters, licking blue ice cream.

On one visit, my father got talking to a hippy who had
followed Jimi Hendrix to Morocco back in '69. He had been too
stoned ever to find his hero or to get back home. He was working
in a café on one of the back streets, a café that doubled as
hash den, and was trying to find a ride back to England. When
he saw our red Ford Cortina pull in, he ran out in a stoned
stupor and kissed the front licence plate.

My father used to say that hashish had rotted generations of
great Arab minds and was set to have the same effect in Europe
and beyond. He tried to warn the hippies of the scourge they
were facing. When he saw the tie-dyed waiter clutching the
front of our station wagon, he told him to give up the weed and
to think for himself.

'But I don't want to think for myself, man,' said the hippy
despondently.

'What?'

'I'm searching for a guru, man,' he said. 'He'll tell me what to
do.'

'You don't need a guru; you just need to regain control of your
own mind.'

The hippy stood up. He was swaying. He pulled a frail
grey kitten from his jacket pocket and touched its head to his
lips.

'But you don't understand,' he said.

'What don't I understand?'

'I have heard of a guy who can help me.'

My father rolled his eyes.

'Yeah,' said the hippy, swaying. 'He's in England.'

'Where does he live?'

'Not sure, man.'

'What's his name?'

The hippy stuffed the kitten back in his pocket. He thought
for a long time and looked as if he was about to pass out.

'He wrote some books. I've got 'em all, man.'

'But what's his name?'

'He's called . . .'

'What?'

'He's called Idries Shah.'

Back at the Caliph's House everything was quiet. The guardians
had taken to buying sardines from a bicycle that was pushed
through the shantytown twice a day. The crate tied to the back
was slithering with fish. The sardines were placed carefully on
the stork nest, in the hope of enticing the great bird to return.

When he saw my car approaching down the lane, Osman
leapt out of the garden door and smothered the children in
kisses. He seemed very happy. We went into the house. Zohra
fussed around us, grabbed Timur and forced a packet of chewing
gum down his throat. The Bear stood in the doorway and
asked politely if he might tell me something. I feared a resignation,
or news of a family crisis, or a wedding, the kind of thing
that tended to result in my parting with large amounts of cash.

'Is it that you are all moving to new apartments?'

'No, Monseiur Tahir,' said Marwan. 'The move has been
cancelled.'

'Then, why are you so happy?'

'It's Osman,' said the Bear.

'What about him?'

'His wife . . .'

'What now?'

'She has come back,' he said.

'And he accepted her?'

The Bear nodded.

I punched the air and went out to congratulate Osman.

In Moroccan society it is not fitting for a man to be too
familiar with another man's domestic arrangement, unless the
two men are married into the same family. Osman was washing
my car, sloshing water everywhere. I moved in to shake his hand.
He offered his wrist because it was dry.

'I am very happy for you,' I said.

Osman grinned so broadly that I glimpsed the back of his
throat.

'God has blessed me,' he said.

The two maids began a new war of attrition for Timur's
affection. It started with an offensive initiated by Fatima. She
presented my little son with a bow and arrow. I didn't want to
undermine her kindness and so I didn't confiscate the toy.
Timur took to stalking Zohra round the house, firing sucker
darts at her bottom. Anyone else would have scolded him, but
Zohra loved the attention. The next day when she turned up for
work, she gave Timur a gift – a soldier set: handcuffs,
bandoliers, revolvers and matching grenades. He seemed very
pleased, much more so than I, especially when I saw the brand
name: 'Osama Bin Laden', followed by the familiar phrase
'Made in China'.

Timur grabbed the weaponry and hurried upstairs. He said
he was a pirate and that his bedroom was Treasure Island. Then
he rounded up the guardians and shut them in the guest bathroom.
He said it was his prison and charged about on his tricycle,
firing sucker darts at anyone who got in the way. Ariane wasn't
impressed, especially when she was shot on the back of the head
by one of the darts. She came down, screaming. I confiscated the
weapons. But then Fatima rushed out and bought Timur a
plastic M-16 assault rifle, the cutting edge of the Osama Bin
Laden range. Fortunately, I managed to get my hands on the
gun before Timur had seen it. I was beginning to worry for his
safety.

'Don't you see that these toys are dangerous, Fatima?'

The maid put a hand to her mouth and giggled.

'He likes them,' she said.

'Of course he does, because he's a boy, but they're a bad influence.
You have to remember that he's not even three yet.'

Just then, Zohra stepped into the house. She was dragging a
black plastic bag. Something shiny and long was poking out of
the end. It looked like a length of plastic guttering pipe.

'It's for little Timur,' she said lovingly.

'What is it?'

She pulled back the plastic bag, revealing a terrifying weapon.

It was a toy bazooka.

Two weeks passed. Spring seemed to come and go in a day,
ushering us into an early summer. I bought two dozen cans of
paint and some brushes, and encouraged the guardians to work.
For once, they didn't resent me. The Bear even went as far as
thanking me.

'You are a good man, Monsieur Tahir,' he said. 'God has seen
your kindness.'

'He will remember it on Judgment Day,' said Marwan.

'Do you three want something from me?' I asked accusingly.

'No, no,' they replied, three voices as one.

'Then, why are you thanking me?'

'Because we love you, Monsieur Tahir.'

As it was Friday, I went to see Dr Mehdi and the other regulars
at Café Mabrook. I walked through the
bidonville
, greeting the
imam and some of the people we know who live there, down to
the Corniche and across to the café. But something was wrong,
very wrong. Café Mabrook was missing.

Where it had stood since the beginning of time there was now
a crater. Beside it was a sign. It said in French: 'The City of
Casablanca apologizes for any inconvenience.'

I stood there, staring at the hole and the sign, rocking back
and forth on my heels.

'Bastards!' I snarled to myself. 'How could this be allowed?'

Hafad sidled up and then Zohra's husband. A few minutes
later Dr Mehdi appeared.

'When did this happen?' I asked bitterly.

'Last night,' said Hafad.

'Where's Abdul Latif?'

'He's away from Casablanca, visiting his family in the Atlas.'

'He doesn't know about this?'

'Not yet,' said Hafad.

'We have to do something,' I said boldly.

'What?'

'Um, er, we could start an action committee,' I said.

Dr Mehdi put an arm round my shoulder.

'I've got another idea,' he said.

'What is it?'

'We could forget about Café Mabrook and go somewhere else
instead.'

There was a round of applause from the other regulars. They
sauntered off down the Corniche in search of a new haunt. I
stayed outside Café Mabrook for a few minutes, as if paying my
respects in private to a deceased friend.

Then I ran after the others.

When you arrive at the sea, you
Do not talk of the tributary.

Hakim Sanai

FROM TIME TO TIME LIFE SENDS YOU SOMEONE WHO IS SO
unexpected that you wonder how you ever lived without them.

In May, Rachana and the children went to India to visit my inlaws
and I felt free from all responsibility. I decided to travel
south on rough local transport and have another go at finding
the story in my heart. Until then I had been quite lackadaisical
in my search, but I felt it was now time to strive for real progress.

Over the years I have learned that real adventure can only
come about through zigzag travel. One of life's great sensations
is walking along a road without any idea where it leads or what
will happen next.

So I made my way south of Casablanca, on the road to
Marrakech. A truck carrying cement from Meknès picked me
up. It was so decrepit that the driver had to stop every half-hour
to pump air into the tyres. He said that once, long
before, the truck had been new and he had been young.

'Where did the years go?' he said, as he fed the wheel between
his callused hands. I asked him if he had a story in his heart.

'The only thing I have in my heart is a pain,' he said. 'It comes
every morning and every night. It's due to smoking too much
when I was a young man. It serves me right. Young men are
fools but it is old men who pay for their mistakes.'

The truck driver pulled the key from the ignition and let his
tired old vehicle slide to a graceful halt. We both jumped down
into the dust and choked until our faces were red.

'I think I'll stay here,' I said.

'You are young and foolish,' said the driver. 'Stay here and
you will choke to death on the dust.'

'I'll go to that café.'

'The coffee will kill you,' the driver grunted.

'Well, I may meet someone interesting.'

'There's never anyone interesting in places like this, just
thieves,' he said, forcing his weight down on to an ancient
foot-pump.

He paused to press his rough palm on to mine and I crossed
the road in search of coffee. The café had no name. It was the
kind of place frequented by drivers of worn-out cement trucks
from Meknès. The walls were bare, peeling lilac paint, dust and
broken chairs. I sat down. The waiter didn't come over at first,
as if he was too busy or didn't want the business. I spent five
minutes eagerly trying to catch his eye. It seemed absurd as I was
the only customer. Eventually he sauntered to my table with an
ashtray and a glass of water.

'The dust is very bad,' he said, choking. 'It drives a man mad.'

I commiserated, asked for coffee and sat back on the broken
chair, waiting for something to happen. In Africa the bleakest
outlook can be changed miraculously in a moment. It is a
question of maintaining faith, faith in the bizarre.

The coffee arrived, thick and bitter just as I like it. I took a sip,
then another, before wiping the dust from my face. Then I
looked up. The waiter was looming over me.

'I told you,' he said, smirking. 'The dust, it will drive you
mad.'

Just then, as I wondered how I might escape the waiter and
his obsession with dust, a well-dressed figure entered. He was six
foot two, broad-shouldered and moved with confidence. He
looked Moroccan, with an aquiline nose and black hair groomed
back with a touch of gel.

Outside I heard the rumble of a worn engine sparking fitfully
into life. I looked out of the window. The cement truck from
Meknès was pulling away in a cloud of diesel fumes. When I
turned back, the waiter was leading the suave man to my table.

'You have a connection,' he said.

'Do we?'

'Yes.'

'What is it?'

'You are both travellers.'

'So?'

'So you should sit together.'

He pulled out a chair and the man sat down. In an American
voice he said, 'Only in Morocco would two travellers be expected
to share a table in an empty café.'

We chatted for almost an hour and in that time I learned that
the man was named Yousef, but preferred to be called Joe. He
had lived in northern California since his teens, but had been
born in the medina at Marrakech. He returned each year to see
his family at their ancestral farm nearby.

He asked why I had broken my journey in such an uncelebrated
place. I explained my interest in the folklore of
Morocco and the Berber concept of searching for the tale within
your heart.

'This is as good a place as any to find it,' I said.

There was silence for a while. Then Joe glanced out of the
window.

'There are streams running under the ground,' he said.

I wondered if Joe was a madman, a well-dressed madman.
Rachana says that madmen can smell me. They always make a
beeline for me, usually pinning me to a wall at a party or into my
window seat on a long-haul flight.

'I don't follow you,' I said.

'In the south of Morocco people believe that there are streams
running under the ground.'

'They believe that everywhere, not just in southern Morocco.'

'No, no, it's you who doesn't understand,' he said politely.
'The streams don't run with water.' He tapped a finger to the
glass on the table. 'Not this,' he said.

'Then, what do they run with if it's not water?'

'With words,' he said.

I sensed my back growing warm, the feeling you get when
ideas connect, the spark, the moment of breakthrough.

Joe looked at me hard.

'The streams irrigate Morocco,' he said, 'like water on farmland,
they have allowed the civilization to grow, to thrive. Why
is Morocco what it is? Why does it mesmerize everyone who
comes here, with its colours, with its atmosphere?'

Joe paused for a moment, sipped his coffee.

'It's because of the streams,' he said.

The Sufis say that teaching stories belong to human society as a
whole and that, if tapped, their power is sufficient to unlock
man's entire potential. They say that until their minds are stirred
with stories, people are asleep. The stories are a kind of key, a
catalyst, a device to help humanity think in a certain way, to help
us wake up from the sleep.

The subterranean streams that Joe spoke of reminded me of
the Sufi idea, which was no coincidence. For Morocco has been
home to Sufis since the advent of Islam thirteen centuries ago.
The streams were reminiscent, too, of the Aboriginal 'Songlines',
invisible pathways linking the land with the history of a people
who lived upon it.

The more I thought about them, the more the waterless
streams made sense.

I had hoped that Joe would invite me back to his family's
farm. He had said it was no more than a stone's throw from the
café. But he didn't extend an invitation. Perhaps he thought
I
was the maniac. After two cups of coffee he stood up, thanked
me for the conversation and excused himself.

Over the following days, I travelled from one small community
to the next, struggling to make myself understood,
pleading for stories. Much of the time, the people I encountered
sent me on a little further to someone else, like the illiterate fool
in the story with a note he couldn't understand, a note that read
'Send the fool another mile'. Some of them did tell me tales.
Others did not. Frequently, I would be taken in, dusted down
and fed with a banquet by people who had almost nothing.

Zigzag travel has tremendous highs, but its lows can be
depressingly deep. The lowest point was waiting for a bus that
never came near a small town called Guisser, northeast of
Marrakech. I had spent almost all my money and hadn't found a
bank as I had hoped. It was getting dark. I didn't know what to
do. Then out of the twilight stepped a navy-blue uniform with a
matching cap. I braced myself for trouble, or at least to give an
explanation. I wished the policeman a good evening and told
him I was waiting for the night bus to Casablanca.

'There isn't a night bus,' he said. 'There's no bus from here.'

I felt my face fall.

'What will you do?' asked the officer.

'I suppose I'll sleep here,' I said.

He held up a hand.

'You will stay in my house,' he said, taking me by the arm and
leading me up the main street to a concrete apartment building.
We climbed stairs, more and more of them, until we were on the
uppermost floor.

Keys jingled and the front door swung open.

'I live here alone,' he said. 'My family are in Marrakech.'

The officer prepared a pot of mint tea and we sat together in
silence.

'Shouldn't you be on duty?' I asked.

'Oh no, the town's safe,' he said.

We went through the salvo of questions familiar to any
traveller: where are you from? Where are you going? Why are
you in our town?

I knocked back the replies in quick succession and said, 'I'm
here because I am searching for the story in my heart.'

The officer's face lit up.

'I have a story,' he said. 'It has been told and retold in my family
for a long time.'

'Would you tell it to me?'

'Of course, I will!' said the policeman, pouring more tea. 'I
will tell it to you at once.'

I sat back and the officer cleared his throat.

'In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful,' he
said. 'There was once a young man who was very restless. He
travelled from one village to the next, hoping to find a teacher
who could teach him something of value. People would see him
going from one place to another and treated him kindly, because
he was a good young man, very well-mannered. One day he met
a sage who was regarded as very wise indeed.

'The youth said to him, "I am very restless and I cannot stop
running from one place to another. It's the way I am and people
think it strange. I wish I could be happy and I wish I could settle
down." The wise man listened to the boy, thought for a while
and replied: "I understand your condition and I can help you.
But if you want me to be of help, you must not question the
remedy that I am going to prescribe." "O wise sage," he replied,
"of course I would not question your orders. I shall follow them
exactly even if it means I do nothing else in the remainder of my
days."

'The wise man then said: "You must take to the road and
travel far and wide. On your travels you must search for the
happiest man in the world. When you find him, you must ask
him for his shirt." It sounded like an unusual treatment, but the
young man had made a pledge to do as he was asked and so he
said farewell to the sage and took to the road.

'He travelled north, and he travelled south, and he travelled
east, and he travelled west, and he met all sorts of people. Some
of them were rich, others very poor. Some were brave and others
were cowards. And he asked them all if they knew where he
could find the happiest man in the world.

'The youth got many replies. Some people said to him: "I am
very happy, but there is someone much happier who lives over
that hill," and other people said: "Leave us alone or we will
knock you down." The young man searched throughout his own
kingdom and travelled to the next kingdom and the next. Days
became weeks, and weeks became months and then years. He
didn't rest for a moment. Until, quite exhausted by the search, he
stopped to rest under a tree on the edge of a great forest and
slipped off his shoes.

'As he sat there, he heard laughter. It was so loud that the
birds did not roost, but circled round and round. And it was so
thunderous that it caused the leaves to fall off the trees. Anyone
else would have been shocked by the sound, but the young man
– who by now was not quite so young – grew very excited. He
slipped his shoes back on and followed the sound of laughter.

'The forest was thick and dark. It would have been silent, too,
but for the rumbling sound of laughter coming from the
distance. The man followed the sound and, presently, he came to
a lake. On the lake there was an island, and on the island stood
a small house. The laughter seemed to be coming from the
house. The man could not see a boat and so he jumped into the
water and swam over to the island.

'Dripping and cold, he went up to the house and knocked on
the door. There was no answer, but the laughing did not stop. So,
plucking up his courage, the man pushed the door open. Inside,
on a carpet, sat an old man. On his head he wore a big turban,
the colour of strawberries. He was laughing so wildly that tears
were rolling down his cheeks. The seeker crept up, until he was
standing at the edge of the carpet. He said very quietly: "Excuse
me, Master, but I am from a kingdom far from here and I have
been sent to find the happiest man in the world. You look
remarkably happy to me. Please tell me, is there anyone happier
than you?"

'The laughing man pulled a handkerchief from up his sleeve
and blew his nose. "I am very happy," he said, howling with
laughter again, "and I can tell you that I certainly don't know
anyone as happy as I am. Hahahahaha!" "Then, sir, could I ask
you a favour?" "Yes. What?" "Would you take off your shirt and
please give it to me?"