Years before Gavin Maxwell had told me that the only occasion when a foreigner must make himself invisible in Morocco was when a king died. The simultaneous loss of Sultan and spiritual leader turned 'the mob', or elements of it automatically upon Christians. The atmosphere in the hotel's patio was so peacefully philosophical as the proprietor, his son, the
Fassi
and myself stood about a transistor radio, that I must have ignored Gavin's advice, supposing it conceivably to hold true in respect of the present king. Drama there was. But it was the drama of waiting. Rabat Radio played western martial music, interrupted by announcements that announcements would be made. Subsequently, Tangier Radio was said to have broadcast the king as dead and the coup successful. But who, least of all in Tiznit, believes Tangier? The five-inch plastic transistor could pick up neither the BBC nor Voice of America. We listened to static and Rabat's music for several hours. I went to bed, Next morning there was still no certain news. I left Tiznit for Agadir on the early bus.
Hassan and I had made it out to the fig groves. Hassan walked barefoot across two kilometres of sharp stones, my camera bag bumping against his hip. I'd no sooner persuaded the skin diseased go-between-chaperon-Pandarus that his presence was spoiling the idyll (and paid him to march
back
and collect two large bottles of Coke) than I was pole-axed by sunstroke, shook, sweated, vomited in a ditch. Perhaps there was some western psychosomatic mechanism at work here. Hassan was most solicitous. There was dappled light beneath the trees, even water, albeit in a conduit. Shivering in 104 degrees' shade I focused on Hassan's incomparable irises. Click. Click. Click. He had tousled hair, neat ears, straight nose, a mouth that was tough in repose, dazzling when he smiled. The eyes were amber, heavy-lidded, thoughtful. His wrists and hands had the girlish slenderness of the Berber, which neither adolescence nor manhood would modify very much. He was thirteen.
My 'sunstroke' passed. Had it been sheer nervous tension? I like to think that had it not been for Hassan I might have remained in that place, bleached bones. But ware the shocks, the curious powers, the aberrant explosions perhaps of the southern sun.
How much it was
the magic of Tiznit, and how much a sense that I must deliver Hassan his photos the only practicable way, in person, which drew me back the following year, I don't know. Hassan was even more beautiful. But his big brother had got in on the act, deciding I was somehow big brothers passport to fabled cities. The mucus-dribbling go-between came into his own.
'Hassan says his brother's going to bash him if you speak, to him. But could you give me some money so that Hassan can go to the cinema?'
This is shortening the tale. The infatuation had been so euphoric that I'd gone as far as to negotiate a virtual three months' purchase of Hassan from his uncle, At least my proposal to mail 50 per cent of Hassan's wages weekly to uncle in Tiznit could have been interpreted like that. The
Fassi
had written a formal letter in Classical Arabic. He knew the situation and hadn't batted an eyelid. Sensibly declining dictation, he recomposed my simple message in, correct idiom. (I photographed the letter before sealing and delivering is: subsequently an Arabist told me it was a masterpiece.)
Hassan had long been keen on the deal. he spoke, read and wrote French in addition to Moghrebi. I'd explained his duties would be to instil possibly only the Arabic alphabet into a contemporary, the determinedly illiterate Meti.
A conference with uncle, alone in the hotel. Hassan was fatherless, his mother happy to be rid of him for the summer holidays and uncle, accepting of myself, agreed to the idea. But brother's jealousy produced a veto. Surely he was better than his little brother? Well, no! Nor was there any such person as Hassan. Not among the savage grandeur of the Draa valley. Not in the cedar forests of the Atlas. Not upon the thousands of acres of wild flowers and citrus orchards of the coastal plain. Nowhere within an empire that once stretched from Tunis to the Pyrenees. Or so it seemed to me at that moment, performing the bland courtesies of a host serving mint tea to Hassan's dignified uncle. And there was nothing to explain.
The first trip back from Tiznit, still without reliable news about the army dissidents' attack on the king's seaside residence at Skhirat, was grim. Road blocks, an ingenious unfolding lattice of fierce spikes, halted the bus every half hour. At one point a Second World War American tank guarded one side of the road; a modern Russian one the other. Truly this was the 'third world', Military boarded the bus with sub-machine-guns. Sometimes it was the police. We were five hours covering forty kilometres. The only
Nesrani
was nervous. With delightful Moroccan inconsistency my interrogation varied from the familiar, but nastier: 'For what newspapers did I write?'; through. 'Had I just come across the Sahara?' (improbable in July), to a courteous, supreme understatement: 'You must forgive us. There has perhaps been a little trouble somewhere in Morocco.'
At the sixth hour I signalled my intention of alighting by pulling the cord which jangled a little bell by the driver's ear. No one was disconcerted when, my case unlashed from the roof, I sat down beside it on the verge, lined here with Australian eucalyptus trees, inspirational importation of the French, The road ran due north, quite straight, without human, animal or habitation within sight, I lit my pipe,
An old man came along on a mule. Largely by sign (for congenitally, not as primitive punishment for lying, he had literally half a tongue) I asked him whether he knew where those things up there - Grrr . . . aeroplanes - came down to the ground. I had Sidi Harazem (bottled water from a sacred mineral spring) with me. He was pleased. Better, he was going vaguely towards where those things came down to the ground sometimes. And be enjoyed Ketami
kif
.
The mule took on my case. We both walked, Five or six hours later we arrived at the cattle-fence perimeter of Agadir airport. It remained only to find the entrance, park the mule - he wasn't allowed through the plate-glass doors, to the check-in desk - and unburden the faithful beast.
By a benign quirk of fate a Royal Air Inter Fokker Friendship left for Casablanca within the hour.
At the check-in a Belgian student said to me: 'They've killed my ambassador. Yours escaped.'
The kid's flipped on acid, I thought reprovingly.
In fact HM Ambassador to Morocco, present at the Skhirat party, sensibly took refuge in a lavatory. Or so the story goes. The dignified retreat says much for the self-preservation instinct learned at English schools.
The youth and I spoke little; but held close
Nsara
huddle, buying alternate rounds of fizzy lemonade.
Arrived in Casa, the facts became apparent. As I toyed with overcooked sole in a restaurant, the television news screened Moroccan officers being stood against a wall stripped of rank tabs, and shot. Live television. Dead men.
On the pavement outside a beautiful but hard-looking girl with high heels asked me for a light. The synchronized crack of twelve rifles was still audible from the telly. I left her apologetically, unconsumed as my sole.
Colonial rule bequeathed Morocco that two-edged European institution: the concierge. In Tangier this grim race, watchful in its glass loges, guardian of its tenants' keys and arbiter of their lives, is almost invariably Spanish. Consequently he or she is the
portero
or
portera
.
It's a rent-free occupation; indeed one I've sometimes thought to assume in order to modify and liberalize by example.
A tenant must understand that while he may own or rent his flat, the building, foyer, lift, stairs, and more critically the persons who may, and who may not visit his home are strictly without his control. Your flat doorbell rings. 'This girl
says
she's looking for you,' your
portera
announces grimly.
'Muchos
gracias
,
señora!
I'm expecting her to tea.' The doorbell again. 'Surely you don't want this little boy?' I do,
señora
.
He's working for me.'
At this point her mood alone dictates whether your grey-haired, black-robed
portera
smiles engagingly while you see her courteously into the lift (which may be kept waiting exclusively for her occasions), or whether she continues to look grim. The extraordinary thing about Tangier's
porteras
is the mercurial nature of their temperament. This is totally unpredictable, changing irrationally from hour to hour many times a day. Moreover one's own more guilty moments may be met with wreaths of approving smiles; one's most innocent wordlessly condemned. I've had my
portera
ring my doorbell minutes after the arrival of an elderly American in a suit and tie to check with her own eyes that he actually was with me rather than wandering loose and unaccounted for in her building.
This policing of course has its obvious rationale, It can also be unnerving. To Tangier's
porteras
I attribute
my inability to learn Spanish; and reluctance to utter or understand what little of an easy language I do know. This way I can play the stage Englishman. Outdoing the Spanish at both courtesy and phlegm is difficult. It's a game as much as a defence. In tight corners - and there have been some as disparate as Meti's sabotaging the lift in a tantrum and an acquaintance to whom I'd lent my flat filling the landing (and my bed) with prostitutes so blatant that they would drag at reefers on the stairs - I dissociate completely. I arbitrarily become
Jaques Tati as Monsieur Hulot or the late Fernandel. Doubtless no one is deceived except myself, But that's the person who needs saving. Self-therapy is necessary to survival. If the plight assumes psychotic dimension - well, the precipitating trauma is once more to be attributed to the Tangier concierge.
Good relations are vital. Establishing them is tricky. Exaggerated courtesy is obvious. Tips can trouble Spanish pride. The secret is to discover proper occasion. A bottle of Tio Pepe on Labour Day? A dozen
petits
fours
at Easter? I'd tried both, inevitably to discover that my
portera
's
family were not Republicans sensibly fled after the Spanish Civil War, but Jewish. So: a crisp English five-pound note at New Year. That must be acceptable since I was temporarily departing and they were guarding my keys. Only five months later it was handed back to me with the keys. 'But it was a
present
,'
I
said in actual Spanish. Thanks and delight. No - I understand Moroccans better.
And of course it's Moroccans other than accredited maidservants whom my
portera
is most dedicated to keeping out of her building. As Morocco has been independent for nearly twenty years this seems odd. I remarked as much to Cohen, the landlord's agent, who, being Moroccan though Jewish, was confounded.
The occasion was my arraignment before him. Or rather his before me. It was precipitated by the acquaintance to whom I'd lent the flat; and I touch upon the incident as perhaps justifying my
portera
's
and neighbour's suspicions of myself, The young man was a little unstable. I was in England. Not content with importing large numbers of visitors he went berserk. Fantasizing enemies of a cupboard door and the wash-basin he took a heavy instrument to them. Running out of money, he sold the butagas equipment, This of course was perfectly understandable behaviour for an Englishman in Tangier. It takes some of us that way. However upon departing the shambles he gave my keys not to the
portera
as requested but to a Moroccan hippie. My lawyer, with experience of Arabs, was puzzled that such an anomaly should flower in Islam, This one blossomed beyond the imaginings of his western counterparts. Superbly scruffy, bestubbled, in patched clothes, and the more sinister for high intelligence, he took possession of my flat and changed the lock to secure tenure. In England I was helpless. So were friends in Tangier. Deputations waited upon the hippie with pleas and bribes. He never answered the door. My Belgian neighbours must truly have supposed the revolution come. A naval officer friend said his frigate would shortly be putting in at Tangier. Indeed sending a gunboat seemed the only solution. His idea was to take two marines, let themselves in with my downstairs key at three o'clock in the morning, break the flat door, gently deposit hippie on the landing, fit a new lock and depart. I couldn't have agreed more promptly had I been Anthony Eden. For by now I'd received flat notice from Cohen that my tenancy was terminated for subletting in breach of contract! For obvious reasons the commando raid was not carried out. My solicitor wrote to protest. Cohen was persuaded to evict the squatter and fit new locks. My own eviction stood. I borrowed an airfare and flew out to argue.
By a freak mistake I'd initially given the Englishmen the wrong key to my flat. As a consequence he had had to explain himself to my (nice) French neighbours, and gain access to my flat through theirs, and over the wall dividing our terraces. A door key is particularly sacred in Moroccan law. I sensed salvation. I now told Cohen, truthfully enough, that I had never given my keys to anyone. It appeared entry had been freely accorded by the French. Whom obviously I didn't wish to embarrass. It worked, Very reluctantly, and after much argument my eviction was waived. On sufferance. Just how delicate this was I discovered next day. Cohen made an unprecedented personal call, No, I must go.
'But . . . I'
Apparently, that morning when I had been out, there had called someone whose appearance had horrified the
portera
.
Moreover he had been insulting to her. 'And,' said Cohen, clinching things, 'he had long hair.'
'
Tiens
!'
I
returned, profoundly shocked.
The description fitted an expatriate whose effeminacy verged on the transsexual; and than whom none could be more gentle. Doubtless, as a friend of the offending Englishman, he had come to inquire how things had worked out I could envisage him rather sweeping past the
portera
,
but never deliberately insulting her. The situation was ridiculous. I told Cohen that the appearance of anyone inquiring after me was scarcely my responsibility and none of his concern. Once more he backed down. I apologized on behalf of someone whose identity even I had only guessed at — to that all-important person: the
portera
.