The servants then took Tahar into a large room with a
bed and said they would come back at lunchtime. Tahar sat on the bed and looked
up at the chandelier that hung from the plastered ceiling. His thoughts soon
wandered back to the Koutoubia mosque. “I haven’t said a prayer for days,” he
thought with a sigh. He then looked at the blue tiles that made the walls look
like four beautiful tapestries and his mind flew to Mogador. “Would I get in a
few months what Smaïl got in more than ten years?” he thought. He looked at the
red carpet under his feet and at the vase at the side of the bed, and then his
mind flew to the wadi, and on to Zahiya. “What would Zahiya say if she knew I
am here?” he thought proudly. “Would Zina know? And Mweina? And Shama? I will
not forget Shama. I thought she had failed me, but no, she kept her word. But
you, did you keep your word? Didn’t Qadi Allal say that you had to remain true
to Zahiya? What would you call what you did with Mweina? Is that faithfulness?
How would you feel if any of those two men you saw with Zahiya laid his hand on
her thigh or on her lips? O God forgive me! O God help me turn from sin!...” Tahar’s
eyes fell on a rosary hung on a nail. He rushed forward and unhooked it. And he
kept saying his beads quietly until he heard a knock at the door. He then hid
the rosary under the pillow and jumped out of bed. He pushed the door open. Two
servants brought in a table stacked with dishes, and left.
Tahar sat down cross-legged close to
the table, which the servants had placed right in the middle of the room.
Tahar, who had been used to one-course meals, was in a muddle now that he faced
a table with no less than seven different dishes on it, some steaming hot, some
cold. “What should I begin with?” he thought with a smile. But as he started
eating, noticing that all the plates and cutlery were made either of silver or
high-quality glass, he felt a searing pain in the heart. It was not poison, or
anything like that, but just a feeling. He felt he did not deserve all that.
“What did I do to deserve all this care and all these attentions?” he thought,
his eyes beginning to water. “Is this a good thing that would be followed by a
bad thing? O God forbid it might be true! I should resume my prayers today.
I’ll ask them to let me go and pray in the mosque. I should be good if I want
God to be good towards me. O God help me!...” Tahar wiped his eyes and his heart
calmed down. So he ate with relish. When he had eaten he sat on the bed and
burst into song. In a low voice he sang songs he had sung for Zahiya, there
under the palm-tree by the riverbank, while Zahiya would sit on the other side
and listen quietly.
An hour later, the servants returned to
clear the table. And as they stepped out of the room in came a man in his
forties holding a number of books under his arm, and said, “I am the Writer of
the Prince.” The Writer made Tahar sit opposite him and explained how they
would work together. “You’ll be like a teacher giving a lecture and I’ll ghost
everything you say,” said the Writer, “then I’ll rewrite your version and read
it out to you so that you can add in anything you might have forgotten to
mention in your first version, right? But now let me give you an example of the
kind of story the Prince wants. The Prince wants a story like one of these
stories in this book, which is called, “The Arabian Nights”. These are similar
books: this one is called “Al Hilaliya” and this one is “Al Ântariya”. Tahar
listened in wonder as the Writer started a tale from The Arabian Nights. At
that moment he felt something he had never felt before, not even when he had
first seen Zina or Zahiya or even Shama! He simply fell in love with the story,
but that was a different love––a love which made no tear in the heart, a love
which brought no cares to the mind. It was a beautiful love. It was a peaceful
love. As the Writer was reading out the story, Tahar’s mind wandered around Marrakesh,
Mogador and all the places in between.
“This is the
kind of story the Prince would be happy with,” said the Writer suddenly,
looking gently at Tahar.
“It’s a really
good story,” Tahar replied with an engaging smile. “I envy you! It’s a pity I
can hardly read and write. But I’ll
certainly do everything I possibly can to learn how to read a book like this.”
“Now that you
have met the Prince you’ll certainly have enough money to do whatever you
please. It’ll remain only a question of will.”
“I have the
will! I pledge myself to do everything I possibly can to learn all that a man
my age could learn.”
“Good! But now
let’s start! Tell me your story!”
“What if you
asked the people here to grant me a visit round the town this afternoon? Such a
visit would certainly help me relate the story in the best possible way!”
“I can’t
promise you that. But I’ll see what to do about it.”
The Writer
absented himself for a while, then came back to tell Tahar that they could go
out to see the town.
“What do you
want to see?” asked the Writer, steering Tahar out of the Prince’s house.
“Well,” said
Tahar shyly, “I was born in a village by Oued Tensift. I had never been to a
town until months ago. I saw only Marrakesh and then Mogador.”
“Well, Safi
isn’t that different. It’s quite like Mogador. It’s a walled town, and it faces
the sea. Look, here we are in the main thoroughfare. It runs from here to Bab
Chaâba. We call it Zenkat Socco. Those are the main souks. Here’s the northern
wall of the town. That’s Bab Chaâba, it’s the main gate, as you see. And here’s
the Potters’ Quarter.”
“Where’s the
mosque?”
“It’s just
over yonder, just off the street.”
“I want to
pray in there.”
“Alright.
We’ll go there when we hear the muezzin. Now let’s move on.”
The Writer showed Tahar round other parts of
the town. He showed him the ruins of the church, which, the Writer said, had
been built by the Portuguese, who, the Writer said, could not stay in town more
than thirty-three years. Tahar, who had never heard of any such thing as the
Portuguese, wondered what they were like and what they had been doing here. The
Writer also told him about the Kechla, which he said, had been built by the
Saâdians. “Who were these Saâdians?” Tahar asked shyly. “They were kings who
ruled Morocco in the past,” said the Writer, sensing Tahar’s embarrassment.
“Look at those towers and green-tiled roofs! There’s a riyad in there, it’s
called Riyad El Bahia. Now we’ll move out of town. I’ll show you another place,
just outside these ramparts.”
That other place was Qasr El Bahr,
which the Writer said, was built by the Moors, and not by the Portuguese. And
from there Tahar could have a wonderful view of the sea, which reminded him of
the Skala in Mogador, and then the funduq, and then the palm-tree by the
riverbank, where he used to sit and play on his utar and wait for Zahiya to
turn up. “I wish she were with me,” he thought with a sigh, while the Writer
went on drawing his attention to everything that could be seen from there. “Do
you know why these fortified walls were built?” asked the Writer suddenly.
“No,” said Tahar shamefacedly. “I’ll tell you why,” said the Writer kindly.
“These walls were built to keep the Christians out of the country.” “I see,”
said Tahar, feeling small. “I have seen enough. Let’s go back!”
And they went back to town, whence came
the same noises of people and donkeys wandering around the Potters’ Quarter or
vanishing into the surrounding labyrinth of narrow alleyways. It was the same
smells again, the same colours. What was new this time was a piece of music the
kind of which Tahar had never heard before. The music was coming out of a white
house with blue windows.
“What’s this?”
Tahar asked in the same timid voice.
The Writer
laughed, and said:
“This is our
music! We call it Al-Âyta. I tell you what– the Prince is fond of this kind of music!”
“Oh, I see! I
have heard tell of Al-Âyta, but this is the first time I hear the music. What
do they say in their songs?”
“Well, they
sing of love, that sort of thing.”
“Here’s the
muezzin, I think!”
“Yes. Let’s go
to mosque!”
Tahar
performed his ablutions and ran to take a Koran from a small shelf near the
minbar. But he had read only a little when the imam rose to lead the faithful
in prayer.
Once out of the mosque, Tahar said to
his guide:
“Can you lend
me a Koran while I am in the Prince’s house?”
“Of course!
But now forget all about that! Now is the time for you to tell me your story.”
On their
return to the Prince’s house, a woman-servant came up to Tahar, and said:
“Can you tell
me your woman’s age and size?”
“You mean the
woman in my village?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she is
between eighteen and twenty. She’s neither short nor tall. She’s neither thin
nor fat. Is that enough?”
“Yes, I can
now visualize her!”
At the same
moment the Writer waved to a manservant to bring him tea.
And so Tahar and the Writer sat
opposite one another in that luxurious room and talked over tea. Tahar related
his story while the Writer scribbled it down. But Tahar could not help
digressing every now and then. The Writer seemed to tolerate that. He even
responded affably to Tahar’s comments and questions, helping himself to tea
after each answer. Tahar commented on the tea itself, which, he said, was a bit
different from that he used to drink at home. He commented on the inkwell, on
the quill, on the yellow paper (which the Writer was writing on), on the
chandelier above his head, on the Potters’ Quarter… “I like curious people,”
said the Writer at one time, “but curiosity in not always good.” Only then did
Tahar stop commenting.
The Writer and Tahar said their dusk-
and then evening-prayers together, they dined together, they read the Koran
together and resumed their story-telling by candlelight until Tahar said, “I’m
sorry I am tired now.” The Writer then picked up his writing materials and left
without raising an eyebrow.
But even when Tahar put out the light
and fell into bed exhausted he just could not sleep. He thought for a while of
the world of books. He thought of how he could one day become as learned as the
Writer, as wise as Qadi Allal, as intelligent as Smaïl. His mind travelled
round Marrakesh, Mogador, Kremat, but then landed at Zahiya’s village. “Why
not?” he thought. “Why couldn’t I have a beautiful house like Smaïl’s? The
Prince could give me or at least lend me some money to open up a shop in
Mogador, and then I could make enough money to buy or build a beautiful house
or two and then maybe purchase twenty khaddams or so of fertile land, and then
many of the village youths could work on my lands and pasture my cattle and
sheep. I could even marry one or two women besides Zahiya. Why not Shama?”
The Writer finished Tahar’s story and
read parts of it to the Prince in the presence of a select party of men, among
whom was Tahar himself.
“Your story is
a great delight,” said the Prince, looking kindly at Tahar. “I hope my reward
will be as delightful.”
“God Save the
Prince!” Tahar replied in a quavering voice.
The Prince’s reward was a small sum of
money and no less than seven dresses, two necklaces and a burnus. Tahar
returned to that sumptuous room and tears flowed down his cheeks as he saw the
dresses one by one. “Zahiya must be a blessed woman, really,” he thought
ruefully. “I should be equally blessed if I married her. Only Satan would make
me think of marrying another woman besides her. But does Zahiya think of me
still?”
The next morning Tahar was riding back
home under the wing of the Prince. On his arrival, he fell into his mother’s
arms and then the whole village came out to welcome him back. His father put up
two large tents for the guests. He slaughtered a large cow for them and served
them the best food he could afford.
Among those present were the village
youths. Tahar joined them and joked with them, then one of them said:
“Âouissa now
delights in Zina. It’s a pity, isn’t it?
“Looks aren’t
everything,” Tahar replied with a gulp, looking away from that one. Then, Tahar
felt as if something was going to burst his bosom, he felt it pushing him out.
He held out for a moment against that overwhelming desire to just go out and
then see what to do, but then he did get up, and after looking right and left
like a villager lost in a strange town, he just got out of the tent. He went
into his father’s home and changed his clothes and fetched his utar and took it
stealthily into the backyard and put it on the back wall. Then he left the
house by the front door and worked his way round towards where he had placed
the utar. He then looked in every direction and picked up the utar and stole
away towards the riverbank. He sat down under the palm-tree by the riverbank
and tuned up his utar and then began playing on it. And while he played he
thought, “I love her, so I have every right to see her, do I not? I don’t care
if they leave the tents and come up to me.” But then Zahiya came out running.
She stood out there, watching in surprise. Tahar dropped the utar and shucked
his jellaba and tightened his belt, then tore down the slope, and plunged into
the water and swam across to the other side. Zahiya stayed still until Tahar
stood up in front of her. She looked
longingly at him as he dried his face.
“Where have
you been all this time?” she said.
“I was far,
far away!” Tahar replied with a smile.
“What were you
doing there?”
“I was
cleansing my heart and mind of Zina.”
Zahiya blushed scarlet.
“Let’s sit
down!” she said, pointing at the trunk of a fallen tree.
As they sat
down there, Tahar said:
“I tell you
what– I met a prince!”
“A prince?”
“Yes! And this
prince has sent you a present!”
“Where is it?”
“I’ll give it
to you when the Qadi and I come to your home.”
“You still
haven’t told me where you were, have you?”
“Well, I was
in Âbda. I worked for the son of a qaïd there.
Then I met a prince!”
“And what are
you going to do now?”
“I think I’ll
go back to Mogador. I’ll try to set up shop as a tailor there. And when I marry
you, I’ll teach you embroidery so that you and I can work together and dream
together.”
“Do you really
want to marry me?”
“Of course!”
“Then give me
a pledge as I gave you a pledge!”
“I give you my
word for it. Don’t worry!”
“Now,” said
Zahiya, rising to her feet, “I must leave. See you soon!”
Tahar did not
speak a word. He only looked on as Zahiya walked away. He then realized that
some people were watching him from afar. His heart pounded. “Why should I
care?” he thought with a shrug. “The Qadi and I will be in their home tomorrow
or the day after Insha Allah. The problem now is with those people I left at
home. What would they think if they saw me in such a state? Oh! What a mess
your clothes are in, Tahar! What do you care? Just get up and go straight home
and let them say what they will!”
Some of those people were awaiting him
just on the other side of the river. “Where have you been?” they asked, raising
their eyebrows. “What were you doing out there?” but Tahar just gave smile
after smile as he moved on to pick up his jellaba, which he slung across his
shoulder. Then he took up his utar and pressed it to him and began to play on
it. He played a tune that some of those round him knew by heart. They all burst
out singing; they sang a song Tahar used to sing for Zina. And they went on
singing and clapping their hands as they walked on towards the tents. All the
people who had been sitting inside the tents rushed out and gathered round Tahar as he went on playing on his utar while
his fellow village youths sang and clapped their hands.
The next evening Tahar was in Kremat,
the Qadi’s village.
“I’m glad you
came back safe and sound,” said the Qadi with a broad smile. “But come in and
tell me what happened!”
It gave Tahar
a big thrill to enter the Qadi’s home; it was a thrill he had not felt even on
entering the Prince’s house in Safi. He also felt a peace he had only felt at
mosque.
And there Tahar told the Qadi what had
happened to him. When he had finished speaking, the Qadi said in his usual
kindly voice:
“Didn’t I say
that Zahiya would be a good deal better for you? Now you have got a new
profession. You know a prince who might help you make good use of your skills
and thus improve your situation. And on top of that you have got a girl who
thinks of you only. But still I fear for you. I fear you may become full of
yourself. I fear you may forget all about God.”
“Why do you
say that, Qadi?”
“Listen, my
son. I’ll tell you something. I have always been uneasy about what the youths
of your two villages have been doing. I know you do that under the watchful
eyes of your mothers. I know you just talk. I know you meet up there because
you love each other. I’m not against love. Far from it! And Islam is not
against love. But I fear that what you do might anger God, though. You know
what? God would very likely punish you each time you do something wrong. The
punishment might not be immediate. But that doesn’t mean it won’t come. And
what’s good about this, is that punishment can be a good sign sometimes. And a
good Muslim is often punished soon after the sin so that he’d be absolved from
that sin on Judgement Day and then go straight to Heaven. So when you got
shocked because of my ruling the other day, I got the right feeling that you
had a faithful’s heart in your chest. To tell you the truth, I saw in your
shock sort of God’s immediate retribution for any wrongdoing you might have
committed by then, knowing that, as I said, God could give you something good
afterwards. But then you had to fear God and be patient and never despair of
God’s mercy. You know, the fear of God is the surest way to success in both
lives, if you do want to be happy in both lives.”
The Qadi
seemed to have much more to say although Tahar was anything but ready for
preaching, but the Qadi’s son came in holding a tajeen in both hands.
“You’re
welcome, Tahar!” said the Qadi’s son, sitting down to table.
“Thank you!”
replied Tahar shyly.
“You look
distinctly better than when I last saw you,” said the Qadi’s son, dipping a
crumb of bread into the tajeen sauce.
“What’s the secret?”
Tahar gave no
more than a timid smile in response, but the Qadi said in a rather sarcastic
tone:
“The secret is
that he nearly fell in love with a woman whose beauty has not yet been known to
poets!”
Tahar’s mind
immediately went to Shama, but he could not see the link. He looked up at the
Qadi’s son, who was looking at him incredulously.
“Speak!” said the
Qadi suddenly, nudging Tahar. “Tell him where you were and what you saw and
whom you saw!”
Tahar was at a
loss. The Qadi’s son looked at him expectantly.
“Where?” said
the Qadi’s son impatiently.
“In Âbda,”
replied Tahar in a mumble, wondering why the Qadi’s son looked so eager to hear
from him.
“Let the man
eat in peace!” said the Qadi, scowling at his son. “He’ll tell you more when
you meet up outside. You’ll never change! You’ll always remain obsessed by
beauty– as if looks are everything in this world! What a pity!”
Embarrassed,
Tahar tried to change the topic.
“Qadi,” he
said hesitantly, “I would like to visit Zahiya in her home to give her the
dresses.”
“Right,” said
the Qadi laconically.
“You know,
Qadi,” said Tahar cautiously, “we’ll have to go over the bridge, so I think
I’ll have to come here first.”
“Yes,” said
the Qadi listlessly.
The next afternoon the Qadi was another
man. His face was bright. Tahar too was all smiles. He could hardly believe his
eyes as Zahiya sat opposite him. Beside her was her father, wearing a brown
jellaba. The Qadi, who was sitting on Tahar’s right, spared no good words to
sell him as the best groom in the world. Then came Tahar’s turn to speak. He
spoke to Zahiya direct. He showed her the things he had brought her from the
land where he had met the Prince.
“These are
seven fine lebsat,” he said. “This is a silk mansouria to be worn over a beige
muslin kmiss. This is a taffeta mansouria to be worn over a white muslin kmiss.
This is a golden satin kmiss to be worn beneath a gold lace tahtiya embroidered
with flowers. And here’s another kmiss. It’s a blue muslin kmiss to be worn
beneath a taffeta dfina. And this is a purple velvet gandoura wholly
embroidered with gold thread. This is a mlifa selham sfifa and berchmane style.
And this one is for townswomen. It’s a silk jabador and seroual with belt to be
worn beneath a muslin dfina. And these are three m’demmat. And this thing you
see here is a burnous. I saw the Prince’s wife wearing one like it. She wore it
on her head like this. And these are two necklaces. I hope you’ll like them!”
Tahar wished
he could remain in that position speaking dreamily and looking at Zahiya’s blue
eyes and glowing face, but he had nothing left to say. He had described all the
things he had brought with him. And Zahiya’s father seemed to have been waiting
for him to finish speaking.
“Is that my
daughter’s dowry?” he said, looking once at
Tahar then at the Qadi.
“This is the
Prince’s gift, isn’t it?” said the Qadi, glancing at Tahar.
“Yes, it is,”
said Tahar, wondering what else he could add.
“We came
today,” said the Qadi, “to show you our interest in your daughter.” Zahiya
looked down as the Qadi went on, “Tahar
wishes to marry Zahiya. I know it’s his parents who should be here today to say
this to you. But I’m sure his parents will do so one day. I am not speaking for
them. I am speaking for Tahar only. And as I said before today and repeat now,
Tahar really wishes to marry your daughter. So will you give him your daughter
in marriage?”
Tahar’s heart
throbbed as he heard those words.
“I shall marry
my daughter off to a man who I think will make her happy,” said Zahiya’s
father. “I have turned away many a man who have proposed to her. But I do trust
you, Qadi. And I know that you are a very special person to my daughter. So
I’ll take that into account.”
Tahar wished
he could speak. He wished he could say to Zahiya’s father, “Say yes or no,
don’t hedge!” But strangely enough, that elusive answer suddenly turned Zahiya
into something much more precious, something priceless, something to give one’s
life for. Her blue eyes became larger than the sea, her fair face brighter than
sunshine, her smile more glittering than gold. In the twinkle of an eye she had
turned into a princess.
And it was a
wrench when he saw her suddenly rise and get out of the room. The room then
became an oven. Tahar could no more stay in there. “I think we have stayed
enough,” he mumbled, looking at the Qadi.
