1001 Nights Cast

We’re in a hotel room in Marrakech, opulent, fading. Outside, many floors down, the buses roar past. There’s a queue of horse-drawn cabriolets and taxis waiting to take the tourists to the souks, the palaces, the museums. The heat bakes our skin and draws our emotions tighter and tighter.

‘Let’s go get some dinner,’ I say to Rebecca, hoping for a smile.

‘I’m not hungry.’

We’ve been yelling at each other all afternoon, about who knows what. Her face is grey. We’ve been in Morocco for three weeks. Unable to communicate, we’ve been depending on each other. Our stomachs are, as usual, not good. We haven’t been eating much over the past few days. The lone taste of oversweet mint tea stays in our mouths, on our lips.

On the television CNN is displaying news from everywhere but Morocco. There’s a local station, in Arabic, so instead we stare at news from the Middle East relayed in American accents. Someone’s set off a bomb. I switch it off.

We arrived in Marrakech this afternoon, from a small village. The previous day, we stood looking at the early fading light as the sun slowly settled onto the teeth of the Atlas mountains that closed over the valley. The sun and the moon were bright and clear and full, hanging at opposite ends of the sky, saluting each other, the tiny earth sandwiched in between. Women and chickens had the run of the small auberge where we spent the night. After dinner, the men appeared and sang violently out-of-tune Berber songs, their throats straining. They laughed kindly at our incomprehension. We wanted wine, or beer, or anything, but the village was dry.

In the morning, before the pony ride down the mountain, the young boys took us around town. One of them was cheekily grinning at Rebecca as we slipped our way down the dirt path. They showed us the town mosque. Every few hours the call to prayer rang out, and no-one paid any attention. Not allowed to enter, we peeked inside from the doorway. The building was covered in the most delicate of patterned carvings in cream and emerald green. It was brand new, and almost empty.

And then the sun rose higher, and amidst the stink of pony sweat we came down to the minivan, to the highway, to the smell and confusion of this place.

Finally I get Rebecca out of the hotel and on the street. We walk the short distance down a noisy, polluted boulevard to the Djemma el Fna square. The hawkers are everywhere, selling charms, orange juice, monkeys, stupid hats. There are clutches of Italian retirees, their handbags and faces made of leather. As the sun sets the floodlights come on, and the place fills with energy. We remark how lively it is, and clutch our bags tighter to our sides.

We’re both, to our surprise, getting hungry. We briefly consider some of the food vendors in the square, the locals devouring plates of couscous and brochettes, tourists taking photos rather than eating, smiling and pointing at their plate like they’ve won a trophy. A single light bulb hanging above each stall gives glimpses of the tap-water they’re using for cooking. My stomach lurches.

Rebecca says, ‘I’m fed up with couscous anyway,’ and I agree. We find the most incongruously western building on the square, a French café with flower boxes and a chandelier, and take a table. Our waiter is dressed in crisp black and white, and has a small black moustache drawn tightly across his upper lip. He brings us a menu in English, French and German, not a trace of Arabic script. We watch the hurly-burly of the square through the curlicued window bars.

After we order our meal, there’s a commotion. We hear yelling, and our waiter looks at one of his counterparts sharply and runs to the entrance. No-one else is moving, though the leader of a German group in the corner is starting to look around nervously as the shouting increases and a crowd coalesces at the door. I look at Rebecca. We’re both wondering if this isn’t exactly the kind of place terrorists target, if there were to be terrorists. Everyone’s been mentioning the bombings in Casablanca, quietly, as if invoking them by name will bring them forth.

There are now six or seven waiters standing in a semi-circle, barring entrance. Outside, a much larger group of men are shouting, and the waiters are giving as good as they get, spitting violent words in Arabic. One of the men outside rushes towards the waiters and they repel him, then readjust their ties.

I stand up, no longer able to wait and listen. I’m angry at this intrusion, and at my fear. Rebecca puts out a hand to stop me but I push it away.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask the German tour leader. He’s a big man, maybe forty, with bright red cheeks and a limp grey fringe hanging down on his forehead like a dying leaf.

‘Some locals want to get in,’ he says in perfect English, ‘and the waiters aren’t letting them.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s the rule here. Just for tourists. Government policy.’

Finally the waiters hand something out—money? food?—and the group outside starts to leave. They walk away, still yelling at the waiters, breaking into twos and threes and wandering into the souks.

‘Ah, good,’ says the German tour guide. He heads back to his group and loudly announces the result in German. They clap politely.

I go back to our table. Rebecca is pale.

‘They’re gone,’ I say, redundantly. ‘Just a little diversion, a game.’

She looks at me, her blue eyes weary.

At this moment the waiter appears at the table with our Caesar salad and orange juice. We stare at the water glistening on the freshly washed lettuce, the ice in the glasses, and wonder if there’s harm in there, invisible and patient.