Hammond Innes - The Strange Land

‘You want I show you souks?’ A young Arab boy was standing at our table, his dark eager eyes watching us hopefully. ‘You come. Jus’ look. No buy. Jus’ look.’

I glanced at Jan. ‘Would you like to see the markets?’

His eyes went momentarily to the tinted crystal of the mountains and then he nodded and got to his feet. A gleam of triumph showed in the little Arab’s eyes as he turned away towards the stairs. ‘Do we need him to guide us round?’ Jan asked.

‘Not necessarily,’ I said. ‘But these boys are good value. It’s getting late, too, and you can easily get lost.’ We went down the concrete steps and out into the roar of the Djemaa el Fna, skirting the crowds.

‘Philip!’

Jan had stopped, his head turned, staring towards the CTM bus terminal building. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Look!’ He pointed. ‘Do you see? That man.’ His tone was urgent.

I followed the line of his outstretched hand, but all I could see was the shifting pattern of the human tide. ‘What man?’

‘He’s gone now.’ He lowered his arm slowly.

‘Who was it?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it was the light. I thought for a moment it was Kostos.’

I laughed. ‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘Kostos is a Tangerois. There’s nothing for him in Marrakech.’

The boy tugged at my sleeve. ‘Quick, m’soor. Is late. You come quick.’

‘Come on,’ I said to Jan. ‘It’ll be dark soon. If you want to see the souks…’

He nodded and we plunged into the maelstrom that swirled around the dark mouth of the covered way that led down into the first of the souks. Here were dates and dried fruit and herbs and spices piled in little pyramids on open counters and Arab merchants squatting behind mountains of nuts in the gloom of their stalls. We went through the meat market and then we were in a long, narrow street thatched with palm fronds. The crowds were moving homewards from the souks now and we were fighting our way through a packed mass of people that flowed steadily towards the Djemaa el Fna. ‘What you want, eh?’ our guide asked, grinning up at us, eyes sparkling and his teeth showing white against the shadowed darkness of his small face. ‘You like Berber silver? I show you bracelets. All good work. Very cheap.’

‘You speak Arab, don’t you?’ Jan said. ‘Tell him we just want to have a quick look round.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘You tell him in English. I’m just going to be a tourist for once. Besides it’s not many boys of his age speak English.’

‘Ess, spik good English.’ The boy grinned at us. ‘I show you fine silver. Is not dear, m’soor. I fix.’

‘We don’t want to buy,’ I said. ‘We just want to look around.’

His mouth puckered sulkily and he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Okay. You look. I take you good leather shop. No cheat.’ We forged ahead slowly against the mass of people. There were only a few Europeans. Night was closing in and already the lights were on in the bigger shops, the shops that were marble-floored and had their walls covered with Moroccan rugs or finely stamped leather pouffes. ‘You like carpet? Real Persian. I fix good price for you.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Take us to the street of the silversmiths.’

‘You want silver, eh? Okay.’ His eyes brightened.

The crowds were thinning now. A bicycle flashed past us, its bell ringing furiously as the Berber boy with a woolly cap on his head weaved dexterously in and out amongst the people. We turned into the little street where men sat cross-legged in workshops no bigger than cubby-holes stamping out the intricate designs of the bracelets, pouring the inlay from little iron pots of molten metal. There were still a few plump Arab women there, well dressed in grey or brown gabardine djellabas with silk veils over nose and mouth and naughty little gold-embroidered slippers peeping from beneath their voluminous skirts. Some of them already wore an armload of gold and silver bracelets, but they still stood and stared with longing.

As we left the street of the silversmiths, we met five blind beggars weaving their way home through the crowds, loosely linked like a sightless chain gang. They had the tortured, cadaverous features of the crucified and they were singing tonelessly, bobbing along with their shaven heads drawn back as though they’d all been hanged by ropes battened under the chin. They were led by a man with a wooden bowl who had the pitiless eyes of the professional beggar. His five freaks, strung out behind him, were all of them mutilated by disease besides having the blank, staring eyes of the blind. I stopped to put money in the bowl. As I did so there was a cry of warning, the crowd opened out and a small donkey piled high with Moroccan rugs went trotting past. The crowd closed up and surged forward. I was pushed to the wall and when at last I could make headway, I couldn’t see Jan or our guide.

I hurried then, fighting my way through the crush and craning my neck to see ahead. But there wasn’t a sign of him. I couldn’t see a single European.

I began to get worried. He didn’t know the language and I wasn’t sure about the boy. It’s easy to get lost in the souks. The place is an absolute rabbit warren. I fought my way through the silk market to the point where the souks divided. A narrow alley forked right. It was the street of the shoe makers, a dark tunnel crammed with people. I turned back then. The boy must have led him off into one of the side markets. I cut through a wide souk where silks were displayed in the few shops that weren’t already shuttered and came out into the parallel street, where the makers of brass had their stalls. But it was impossible to find anybody in the brush of people going home.

For a while I rushed madly up every side alley, searching for him in the intermittent patches of lighting. But in the end I gave it up and made my way slowly back towards the centre of the city, moving with the steadily-flowing tide of humanity, the murmur of the great square acting as a guide. He couldn’t really get lost. He’d only to follow the crowd. It was annoying, that was all.

It was quite dark when I reached the Djemaa el Fna and the booths were lit by the smoking jets of a hundred acetylene flares. The whole place, with its milling thousands of tribesmen and its tented booths, had the appearance of an army encamped for the night. The hotel was opposite the Tazi cinema where harsh Arab music blared at the packed crowd waiting to see an American Western.

As I approached the alleyway leading to the hotel, the little Arab boy who had been our guide came out of it. He stopped at the sight of me and his eyes widened. He looked scared and I caught hold of his arm before he could run away. ‘Why didn’t you wait for me?’ I asked angrily, speaking to him in Arabic.

He stared at me with hurt brown eyes, shocked into immobility by the realisation that I spoke his language.

‘Allah ishet elik!’ I cried, shaking him. ‘Speak, boy. Why didn’t you wait for me?’

‘You no come, m’soor,’ he said, sticking obstinately to his English. ‘We look all souks, but no see. Is late, very late for souks.’ His voice sounded scared and his eyes searched the street as though looking for somebody to help him. ‘Is no good staying in souk.’ He suddenly jerked away from me, wriggling out of my grasp, and with one frightened look at my face, disappeared into the crowd across the road, a small, scampering figure in a brown djellaba and heel-less slippers.

I went straight up to the room we were sharing and found Jan sitting on the bed staring down at the suitcase full of clothes that he’d bought that afternoon. He looked up quickly at my entrance. ‘Oh, here you are. Thank God!’ His voice sounded nervous. ‘I was getting worried about you. Do you think that boy did it on purpose?’