Gretchen had one final question. ‘We could sleep in the Volks. Would you stay at the camping if you were us?’
‘To hell with the camping,’ the girl said. ‘One look at the Djemaá and you’ll know that this is where the action is. I’d go without meals in order to be near the scene.’
And so the couples parted, one toward Tangier and a resumption of their normal life in England and the United States, two toward Marrakech and the apotheosis of change.
It was late afternoon when they first saw the towering mountains that guarded Marrakech. They stood in ranges, one behind the other, and stretched so far north and south that they seemed a barrier which no man could pass. This was the High Atlas, home of the Berber and the sheep, and it provided a majestic backdrop for the city which nestled at its feet.
The mountains were visible for a good hour before there was any sign of Marrakech, but when the sun was beginning to show red upon the highest peaks, Cato spotted a tower rising from the plain. ‘Look!’ he cried, and as Joe drove south, the outlines of this remarkable structure became clearer. It was the Koutoubia, a massive square minaret over two hundred feet high, built sometime around 1150 and historically important as the archetype of the famous Giralda in Sevilla; although the same Muslim architect designed both, the Koutoubia is superior, and well worth the attention that has been bestowed upon it. For the next months it would be the permanent reference point for the travelers.
As it grew larger, vast groves of palm trees became visible, probably the most extensive concentration of such trees in the world, and while the passengers were admiring them, Joe jammed on the brakes and said, ‘There they are!’ and ahead lay the great red walls of Marrakech. They formed a tremendous square, miles on each side, and they were high and very thick. It is difficult to describe these walls to someone who has not seen them; I know, for I’ve tried, but you are not to think of a large wall that runs in a straight line for perhaps half a mile. You are to
visualize a wall of staggering size that runs for forty or fifty miles, twisting in and about, dull red and glowing in the sunlight, one of the most massive structures made by man. These are the walls of Marrakech.
The four young people entered the walls as strangers have always done in coming to this brick-red city, with quiet respect. For centuries armies and pilgrims had come to Marrakech, and always with apprehension when they saw these formidable barriers.
A representative incident occurred in this region some decades ago when a large army from Marrakech, fed up with dictation from the central government, marched north to sack the city of Fez at the same time than an army from Fez was marching south to discipline Marrakech. Scouts advised each general of the enemy’s approach, so the Marrakech army kept to the eastern valleys and roared unimpeded to Fez, where they wrecked havoc, while the Fez army kept to the western valleys and arrived unscathed at Marrakech, where they tore the place apart. Then the two armies retreated, each keeping to its own valley system, and the honor of everyone was satisfied. Of course, a lot of people were dead in both Fez and Marrakech, but they were civilians, and the walls that had been torn down in each city could be rebuilt.
‘Look at that!’ Cato cried as they breasted the Koutoubia. Tall and brutal and rugged, with its top crenelated like a fort, it was a stirring sight and a reassuring one, for whenever they came upon it unexpectedly, they knew that the Djemaá el Fna was just down the street.
Suddenly, there it was, an enormous rhomboidal expanse of macadam so vast it could accommodate a million people, hemmed in on three sides by low souks and crisscrossed by stalls at which all kinds of kabobs and baklavas and honeyed breads were sold. Joe parked the pop-top along an edge of the huge plaza, and they started to walk slowly toward the center, where large crowds were seated in various circles, but as they walked they were met by an extraordinary man. He was dressed like an elf from some distant mountain, with pointed hat, loose jacket studded with brass, tight knee breeches of green felt, handsome, heavy leather shoes. Over his shoulder he carried a goatskin bag to which were attached four small brass cups, but the mark of his trade was a leather pouch adorned with very old silver and gold coins. He immediately began pestering
the new arrivals, who could not understand what he was saying. Finally he squeezed his goatskin bag and sent a small jet of water into one of his cups and handed it to Monica. He was a water-seller, and the first purchase the four made in Marrakech was from him, but as they were drinking, Cato felt a tug at his left arm, and he looked down to see an urchin who was saying in good English, ‘You looking for a place to stay, pardner?’
‘Are you Jemail?’ Cato asked, and the boy drew back, as if afraid.
‘You know Jemail?’ he asked warily.
‘He’s my friend,’ Cato said, whereupon the boy fled.
And then they saw what must surely be Jemail. Coming toward them with an insinuating shuffle was an Arab boy of eleven or twelve dressed in a unique mixture of clothing obviously stolen from previous visitors: German leather pants cut down to size, a high-sheen rayon bowling jacket labeled
Mildred’s Diner
, army boots, and a Little League baseball cap from the Waco Tigers. He had an alert, foxlike face and he flashed an ingratiating smile as he addressed his prospective customers in a make-believe deep voice: ‘Hiya, buster! Come wiz me to ze casbah!’ Laughing at his own joke, he asked, ‘You like place to stay, eh? You got Volkswagen pop-top 1969 automatic shift. You could afford the best hotel if you liked. But you want to be near Djemaá, eh? I have just hotel you want, not too expensive. Rouen, very classy, you smoke marijuana in the lobby, you like.’
‘We’re looking for the Bordeaux,’ Gretchen said.
‘You won’t like it,’ Jemail warned her. ‘Fleas … very low type of people.’
‘You take us to the Bordeaux,’ Gretchen said.
Jemail stood back, stared at her, and said, ‘You so fucking goddamned smart, you find Bordeaux yourself.’
Joe took a hefty swipe at the boy, who had anticipated the move and had jumped back, whipping out a knife. ‘You lay a hand on me, you stinking draft dodger, I cut your balls off.’ He continued a vile outpouring of profanity, including much instruction as to what the two girls could do sexually, either with each other or with their goddamned nigger friend. When this explosion subsided, the boy calmly put away his knife and said, ‘Now we understand each other. I think Rouen is best for you … more class.’
‘We’re going to the Bordeaux,’ Gretchen repeated.
‘Okay. But when rats run over your face at night … nibble your tits … don’t scream for me.’
Cato said, ‘How’s the grass?’ and Jemail said, ‘My boy bring you four bags,’ and putting his fingers to his mouth, he gave a shrill whistle, at which the boy who had first spoken to them returned respectfully and listened as Jemail barked out a set of orders. When the boy had gone, Monica took Jemail aside and asked, ‘How about heroin?’ and he said, ‘The best. This I handle myself. I bring it to your room Rouen.’
‘Bordeaux,’ Monica corrected.
‘You let her order you about?’ he asked, jerking his thumb at Gretchen. ‘She a lesbian? Got you under her thumb?’
‘Let’s keep the discussion on the heroin,’ Monica said.
‘All right. Four dollars a packet, guaranteed not to be lactose.’
As Gretchen studied the child, wondering how a mere infant could have become so totally corrupted, he sidled up to her and said, ‘You look damned good. You ever want to earn some real money, let me know.’ Gretchen shook her head, but the boy, undaunted, continued his sales talk. ‘Respectable Europeans at Mamounia Hotel, fifty dollars. If they like you, even more. But black men other side of the mountains, you name your price.’
‘We’ll go to the hotel now,’ she said.
‘Rouen?’
‘Bordeaux.’
‘Find another boy, I not take a dog to the Bordeaux,’ and he stalked off, but when he saw them being approached by yet another boy, Jemail returned and drove him away. ‘Follow me,’ he said, and he led them across the Djemaá, explaining in various languages to passers-by the sexual habits and parentage of the four he had in tow.
They were a long time getting to the hotel, because when they reached the center of the Djemaá they found large circles of men and children gathered around storytellers who were giving them impassioned accounts of Moroccan history and such world events as the conquests of Alexander the Great and the landing on the moon. Some had acquired old music stands on which were hung large sheets of oilcloth containing a series of little squares depicting the adventures of Hercules, which the storyteller
would point to as he recounted the miracles. The most theatrical storytellers used tripods from which were suspended numerous sheets of painted oilcloth, one on top the other, so that as the narrator progressed, he could quickly flip the sheets over and illustrate each lurid incident.
How powerful the voices of the storytellers were when the hero was in danger, how dulcet in the love scenes. Blood was a feature of almost every painted scene, and there was so much depiction of death that history seemed an unbroken succession of treachery, ambuscade and strangulation; indeed, in these parts it had been.
Within other circles, acrobats performed, holy men expounded the Koran, clowns put on crazy acts, and three men from the hills who could have performed in any theater of the absurd in Paris or New York had as props a bicycle pump, a German saber, a baby carriage and one long-tailed black frock coat. By swiftly changing into and out of the coat and leaping into the baby carriage, and by using the saber and bicycle pump in a wild variety of ways, they created a half hour of hilarity, their faces grave and their personalities constantly affronted by what was happening to them. Every so often one of the members of the troop tried to swallow the saber, and actually got a substantial length of it down his esophagus when his two partners rammed the bicycle pump up his anus and blew so much air into him that the saber kept popping back out of his mouth.
At the conclusion of each segment of a performance, a brass bowl was passed through the crowd, and occasionally someone put in a small coin, but the large majority of the audience sat on the macadam and watched for nothing. Gretchen was so delighted with the sword-swallowing trio that she gave them two dirhams, whereupon the clown working the bicycle pump produced from it a fanfare that sounded like trumpets.
It was now well past sunset, and as darkness fell over the great square, kerosene tapers appeared in brass holders, giving the open-air theater a ghostly aspect, with caftaned Berbers moving silently from one circle to the other while wide-eyed newcomers from the southern deserts looked upon a metropolis for the first time. More than fifty circles were now operating: snake charmers, dancers, orchestras, balancing acts, haranguers, and always the enchanting
storytellers dragging their hundreds of listeners back into past ages, back to the glories of Islam.
‘You seen goddamned near everything,’ Jemail said impatiently. ‘That boy got your keef. I got your heroin. Now we go to Rouen.’
With a sudden movement, Joe grabbed the boy by the throat and said, ‘Listen, you punk, you stay away from us with your heroin. Now take us to the Bordeaux.’
‘I gonna castrate you yet, buster,’ the little Arab said, calmly pulling Joe’s fingers away.
He led them away from the Djemaá and into a dark alley that zigzagged its way through the most ancient part of Marrakech. They would have been afraid to go down this forbidding lane alone, for it was an evocation of every cheap film about the casbah.
And then, coming toward them out of the shadows, they saw a startling sight: a man of about three hundred and fifty pounds moving in slow rhythms, attended by three scrawny, long-haired types, one of whom could have been an adolescent girl. His heavy ankle-high boots of gigantic size were made of yak skin. For trousers he had a South Pacific lava-lava cut from finely woven gray-brown cloth. He wore an immense Nehru jacket, but no hat, for his beard and hair comprised an enormous circle which no headgear could encompass. The jacket was virtually covered with strings of beads, and above his left ear he wore a woman’s comb with a long, straight handle. As he talked rapidly with his disciples, the newcomers noticed that he moved with a delicate grace, lifting and dropping his immense feet in the competent way an elephant does when moving through high grass. Then, as he was upon them, his face clear of shadow, they saw that he was a Negro with a countenance of almost childlike simplicity.
‘That’s got to be Big Loomis,’ Joe said, moving forward to introduce himself.
At this moment, however, the Negro’s manner changed, for he spotted Jemail, and the two faced each other in the narrow passageway, screaming curses. With big swipes the huge Negro tried to cuff the little Arab, who deftly avoided the blows and returned infuriating epithets.
Jemail, taunting the fat man, screamed, ‘Motherfucking fat slob, why you don’t pay your bills, shit-heel, blubber-gut?’ to which the fat man shouted, at the very top of his voice, ‘Listen here, you miserable little cork in the asshole
of progress, if I get my hands on you I’ll barbecue you,’ whereupon the child screamed, ‘Bloody likely you get your hands on me. You find your own little boys.’ And here he descended to new depths of depravity, describing the fat man’s presumed sexual life.
It was a staggering performance, one that the young people frequently referred to when I met up with them later. Gretchen told me, ‘They stood there in the night, cursing each other, a great obese black man and a skinny little Arab boy, as if the elephant and the mouse we used to read about had come to Marrakech. The fat man accused the boy of trying to trick us for a few miserable dirhams into the Rouen, the vilest sink in town and no place for a lady. Here he bowed to Monica and me, a mountain of flesh and flowers bending in the middle. The boy countered with the charge that the fat man was trying to lure us to the Bordeaux so that he could make money by selling us drugs. There were more unprintable curses, then the black man moved majestically on, like an ocean liner steaming past a tug. I won’t repeat what the boy said of him as he disappeared. And that was our introduction to Big Loomis.’