— 9 —
“Oh, Zahir is the most talented boy in his class. You should hear him play the nay. He could charm the prophet Muhammad himself. Zahir, come play your nay for our guests,” Zahir’s mother, Bula, asked.
Bula was hosting a tea party with six other women. Her husband, Orsoo, Zahir’s father, was quite a successful rug merchant who sold to the highest government officials and sheiks. Bula was, to be blunt, a woman of girth. Her buttocks barely fit into her cane chair, which seemed to be struggling to keep from breaking at the joints. But in truth, it was the largeness of her personality and her imposing voice that made men’s feet tremble in their sandals. She had a way of taking up all the space in the room—no matter the conversation, Bula twisted it around so that she was the main subject. Everyone within earshot was subjected to her point of view and her opinion—everything from how to slice an onion to foreign affairs with the King of France. However big her body and voice, it paled in comparison to the size of her narcissism. Although she was not, by any standards, an attractive woman, she fancied herself a raving beauty that captured men’s attentions wherever she went. Lately, she had her eye on a banker, who trembled at the sight of her and hid during her many appearances at his bank. Her flirtatiousness was neither subtle nor inviting. The banker, a mild-mannered and meek married man, shriveled at her overt sexual suggestions and barely smiled at her attempts at charm.
Zahir, rotund himself for a boy of twelve, appeared magically for the ladies with his nay in hand. While these Arabic flutes are typically made of cane, Zahir’s was made of teak by the finest craftsman in Casablanca and polished with palm oil. It was an instrument more fitting of a professional musician than a twelve-year-old boy.
The women all silenced themselves waiting for Zahir to play. He loved the attention—any attention—and gladly accommodated his mother’s friends.
However, the musical talent his mother thought lived within him was rooted more in her wild fantasies than in truth. The fact was, Zahir was awful. Actually, “awful” is too kind. He was probably the worst nay player in the history of nay players.
He spit and spat and gargled his way through a popular song from the time. At least, it may have been an attempt at the song, but nobody could be sure. If he hit a correct note, it was purely by accident.
After the three-minute recital, most of the women looked ready to throw themselves off the balcony into the streets below to escape the immeasurable torture to which they had just been subjected. The women applauded politely as Zahir gave them a bow and ran away, thoroughly pleased with himself. Down the hallway he ran, to the study, looking for his father, a man equally as enormous as his wife.
“Zahir my son, come sit in your father’s lap,” his father commanded.
Zahir eagerly obliged. Sitting in his father’s lap was one of his favorite pastimes, usually because it meant some sort of treat.
“What can you tell me of the earth my son?” his father asked him.
“I don’t know,” Zahir replied.
“The earth is Allah’s creation and the domain of man. It is our duty to command all plants and wildlife that preside on it. We are its master and every living thing is our slave. Do you understand?” his father asked.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Good, and what is the law of power?” his father asked.
“I don’t know,” Zahir again replied.
“Only the chosen few are permitted to rule. Only those born into royalty and a certain class of people have the necessary capacity to rule. Those chosen people have a responsibility to rule those beneath them with an iron fist. People only respect force. Do you understand?”
“Are we those people?” Zahir asked.
“Of course. That is why you are not allowed to play with the street urchins or the servants’ children. They are not your equals. You must play only with the children of our friends and those at your school.”
“I understand, Papa.”
“Good. Here is a gold coin, my son. You are very wise and will someday make an excellent leader.”
Zahir took the gold coin, leaped off his father’s lap, and ran to the streets below—never bothering to even say thank you.
Down below, Zahir walked confidently through his upper middle-class neighborhood. His family was not truly rich, as his father would have him believe, but they weren’t far off. Zahir’s father was a self-made man who had built up his wealth from nothing after having grown up in a poor neighborhood in Marrakesh. After Zahir’s grandfather died at an early age after working sixteen hours every day as a rug maker to support a family of seven, Zahir’s grandmother (who was forbidden to work by Islamic law), was forced to move her large brood in with her own parents. This was not an uncommon situation for the time, and thankfully, his grandparents were kind and looked after their grandchildren as their own.
Zahir’s father hated his childhood. Although his mother was a kind woman, as were his grandparents, he could not tolerate the taunts of the neighborhood children. He and his four brothers and sisters were undoubtedly poor; he had to drop out of school in the sixth grade to learn the craft of rug making to help support his family. He looked on in disgust at the other poor workers, who wore rags and worked for pennies. He vowed that when he was grown, his own family would never suffer such an indignity.
And thus arose a success story of sorts. It was true that Zahir’s father did rise out of the slums of Marrakesh and establish his own rug trading company. It was true that his wife never worked and his only son Zahir never went without anything. It was also true that he owned a very fine house in a superior neighborhood and had gained a certain amount of status. But all of this came at a high cost. Zahir’s father had long ago stopped talking to his siblings, who, in his high-minded opinion, he considered “a bunch of beggars and peasants.” He had turned into an unscrupulous businessman, ruining two business partners and several competitors along his path to glory. If he saw a potential customer, he could not stoop low enough to gain their favor. Customers, in his mind, were greater than Allah himself. They afforded him his lifestyle and there was nothing he would not do to earn their business. His God was not Allah, as he proclaimed as a Muslim, but the almighty dirham—the Moroccan currency. He never let an opportunity pass by to demonstrate his wealth, always buying the flashiest clothes and the gaudiest jewelry. His right pinky even displayed a diamond-encrusted ring made with stones from the mines of Zimbabwe.
Because of all this, Zahir had never known poverty or had wanted for anything. His father and mother ensured that he had the best of everything and would never know the pangs of hunger. They had even decided to just have one child so they could afford him the best of all things.
Walking the streets, Zahir did not see the beauty of his city. He did not notice the jujube trees and the flocks of Spanish sparrows diving for bugs in the red sky. The beauty of the Moroccan architecture was lost on him. Money, and things that cost money, were all that mattered to him. They were the only things he noticed.
He walked along until he came to a small betting stand. At this stand, the bookmaker accepted bets on all sorts of things, but mostly futbol games and camel races. The stand was also a haven for card and backgammon games. Most days, dozens of men sat across from one other, playing and screaming and exchanging money. Zahir had always been intrigued by the betting stand and spent countless hours watching the men bang down backgammon chips. Mostly, he liked the shiny coins they flashed. Money was constantly changing hands at the betting parlor, and from a young age that held a particular fascination for Zahir.
Zahir walked in and went straight up to the owner of the betting parlor, a young man of twenty-two who was now running the parlor for his father.
“I want to play,” Zahir said.
“This is no place for children, go home,” the owner replied.
“This place is for men. I’m busy, now go,” the man replied annoyingly.
“I have money, look!” Zahir said and flashed his gold coin.
The owner did a double take at the gold standard. It would take most men in the parlor a week to earn such a coin. Still, Zahir was a boy, and the owner wanted no business with a child.
“No, it is bad for me. I cannot take money from children. Allah would not be pleased. Now go, and take your money.”
“But I want to!” Zahir yelled and stomped down his feet, causing a couple of backgammon players to look up from their boards.
“Go bet with someone else,” the owner said, turning his back to Zahir and walking away.
Zahir’s face turned red and his cheeks puffed out. He was accustomed to getting his way with most everything and could not fathom a simple betting parlor owner turning him down. He stared at the backgammon players with furrowed brows and steely eyes, but nobody paid him any notice.
Except one.
He was older, perhaps fifty, with a skinny face, gray whiskers, and yellow teeth. He wore a black turban on his head and smelled of cod.
“My boy, I see you like to bet. I will bet with you,” the man said.
Zahir eyed the man suspiciously. He had never seen him before.
“What kind of game?” Zahir asked.
“A simple game—which you have an excellent chance of winning. I will place three cards face down. I will shuffle the cards, and you try and find the card with the diamond on it. Do you understand? Here, I’ll give you one for free,” the man said and shuffled the three cards easily.
Zahir watched the diamond card with the eye of a falcon. When the man stopped, he pointed to the middle card. The man flipped up the diamond card.
“Hey, you’re too good. I can’t play with you,” the man said and began to walk away.
“But you promised!” Zahir whined.
“No, no. I will lose all my money and my family must eat.”
“No, you said that would bet with me!” Zahir yelled and placed his gold coin on the table.
“You are right, little boy. I did promise, and a man must always keep his promises,” the man agreed and sat back down across from Zahir.
Again, he shuffled the cards in the same easy manner. Zahir followed the diamond card all the way. Finally, the man stopped.
“It is the card on the right,” Zahir yelled excitedly.
“Are you sure?” the man asked.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure,” Zahir giggled.
The man shrugged, flipped up the card on the right and—it was not the diamond, but the donkey card.
“I am sorry, my friend. Maybe next time,” the man said simply, pocketed the gold coin, and quickly exited.
Zahir sat stunned. His precious money was gone. Worse, a simple peasant man had beaten him. In his world, this was a travesty.
Zahir spied the owner in the back preparing some coffee.
“That man took my money,” Zahir told him.
“What man?” the owner asked.
“I don’t know. We played a card game. The first time I won easily, but the next time I couldn’t pick the diamond card and I lost.”
Zahir started to cry.
Usually with his parents, a few tears would reduce them to bidding any favor. But this man was not his parent. He cared not for Zahir’s troubles and he certainly wouldn’t reimburse such a handsome amount to a little boy.
“I told you not to gamble. It is your loss. Do not look at me, little boy. Now, go home. If I see you here again, I’ll make trouble for you,” the owner scolded.
Zahir cried harder and stomped his feet and his cheeks puffed out and turned red.
The men in the parlor looked at the boy throwing a tantrum and began to laugh. Even the shop owner could not contain himself and began to smirk at the petulant and spoiled Zahir.
“Go home now. I have work to do.”
Zahir went up and started kicking and hitting him. At first, the man was merely annoyed but Zahir caught him a good one in the shin and the man winced in pain. He grabbed Zahir by the collar and tossed him out of the parlor. Zahir landed on his stomach on the ground outside.
Walking back to his coffee, the parlor owner shook his head, wondering how someone could raise such a spoiled young boy. His wife, a pretty girl pregnant with their first child, came and sat next to her husband at the table.
“Who was that boy?” she asked.
“I don’t know. He lost his money to some swindler and now he’s whining about it. I told him not to bet around here. Serves him right.”
The girl looked at Zahir who returned her stare with a look of disdain.
As Zahir was dusting himself off, he continued to cry; only now his tears were tears of shame. He had never been treated in such a disrespectful manner. The servants and merchants around his house always treated him with a certain amount of pomp because of his father’s standing.
That night Zahir could not stop thinking of the gambling shop owner and the patrons laughing at him. He would plan his revenge on the shop owner if it took ten years.
It wouldn’t take ten years. It wouldn’t even take ten days.
Two nights later, Zahir wandered around his house during one of his father’s infamous parties. His father spared no expense for his parties, hiring the most expensive caterers and entertainers. Platefuls of delicacies and desserts lay stacked upon oversized tables. Zahir’s mother took delight in pointing out the cost of everything, from the wine to the drapes.
Zahir found his father talking with the Chief of Police on the patio.
“Zahir, my son, please let me introduce you to Hazzam Kabil. He is a very important man here in our city. You see, he is the Chief of Police,” Zahir’s father said.
“Hello, Zahir, and how are you this night?” Hazzam Kabil asked.
“Fine, thank you. How are you?”
“I am having a very pleasant time. This is a splendid party.”
“I know a secret,” Zahir said.
Hazzam Kabil and Zahir’s father looked at one another.
“What kind of secret, Zahir?” his father asked.
“Where the bad men are,” Zahir replied.
“What bad men?”
“The resistance bad men.”
Hazzam Kabil was about to take a drink of water when his arm stopped in midair.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“I know where the resistance men are hiding. They are bad men, right? Papa always said that resistance men were bad.”
Zahir’s father suddenly took notice of his only son. This was not a trifling matter. The resistance men were tribesmen dedicated to over-throwing the Moroccan government. For the most part, they were little more than a nuisance. But, lately they had gotten more organized and had gone about killing a few government officials.
“Where do you know of such men?” Hazzam Kabil asked.
“At the betting stand.”
“What betting stand?”
“The betting stand by the mosque with the wooden fountain out front. I was playing the other day and I heard four men sitting at a table talking about killing someone in the government. A minister or something.”
“This is no idle threat, young man. Are you sure?” Hazzam Kabil asked.
“Yes, I think the parlor owner was one of them. They kept talking because they thought I was just a stupid boy. They didn’t realize that I’m smart and could hear them.”
“What did they say?”
“They were talking about the police—about a man they did not like—and they were making a plan to ambush and kill him this weekend. Also, they talked about the security around a court house.”
“Could you point out the men?” the police chief asked Zahir.
“Of course,” Zahir said proudly.
“I would like you and your son to join me first thing in the morning,” said Hazzam Kabil to Zahir’s father. “He will take me to this gambling parlor and point out the men.”
“No problem at all. Zahir is a very smart and honest boy. If he said that the men were of the resistance, it is surely true.”
“Okay. Zahir, thank you,” Hazzam Kabil said before excusing himself.
Zahir’s father kneeled down to his son.
“Zahir, are you sure of what you say? This is a very serious matter,” his father emphasized.
“Yes, Papa. I heard it correctly,” Zahir replied in his most wholesome and honest voice.
“Well, you have been an excellent patriot to our country today. You will go far, my son,” his father said proudly. Secretly, he understood that turning in resistance fighters would gain him many favors within the police and the government.
Zahir nodded, kissed his father on the cheek, and returned to the party. His plan was not an elaborate one. It was, truthfully, very elementary and his lies could have been discovered with some basic questioning. Unknown to Zahir, his lie’s greatest strength was that it played upon a point of view held by both his father and the police chief; because of this, they assumed guilt rather than innocence without questioning Zahir further.
The next day Zahir, along with his father, a dozen policemen, and the Chief of Police, stood a block from the betting parlor.
“That is him. The one with the apron,” Zahir said, pointing out the young owner.
“Okay, you two. Please keep out of sight. If you are seen with us, it could put your family in danger. Men, arrest the owner and everyone else at the parlor for questioning. Follow me!” the police chief barked.
Zahir and his father hid behind a pillar as the police chief and his men marched to the parlor. Zahir kneeled down low so he wouldn’t be spotted by the owner.
The police chief was overzealous in his arrests. He threw the owner down by the throat and kicked him in the head. The policemen were equally as rough with the betting customers. One policeman broke a man’s wrist with his billy club when the man tried to resist. The owner’s wife came from behind and threw herself on her husband, proclaiming his innocence. The police chief just shoved her away.
After being rounded up, the betting customers and the shop owner had their hands tied behind their backs and were marched off. Hazzam Kabil and his men went about destroying the betting parlor, smashing chairs, overturning tables, and pocketing whatever money they found. The wife of the owner cried and screamed as she watched their livelihood being destroyed in front of her eyes. Zahir did not feel empathy for the owner and his wife. They were beneath him and yet had ridiculed him. He felt nothing but contempt.
A month later, Zahir asked his father about the betting parlor owner.
“Oh, he got what he deserved,” his father mumbled, irritated that his son interrupted his reading of the newspaper.
“What does that mean?” Zahir asked.
“It means he will no longer be running any betting parlors—or anything else, for that matter.”
Zahir understood immediately. Justice was swift and cruel in Morocco. The man had probably been tortured for days or even weeks. When he refused to provide information about the resistance, the police would have just killed him. It was interesting that the police chief never asked to see Zahir again. Not even for a moment. Perhaps the man had been a resistance fighter after all? Perhaps Zahir was a hero? This was how Zahir justified his crime in his head, as all criminals do.
Zahir couldn’t have known it, but the man did not die. He lay rotting in a prison cell, forgotten. His wife moved back in with her parents a shamed woman—her husband was now branded a traitor to the state. No facts were ever presented against the man. It was assumed he was guilty.
Word of Zahir’s action reached the highest levels of military and formed the beginnings of a relationship with the Sultan. That would be how Zahir would come into favor with Caid Ali Tamzali years later—by one little lie told by an angry child.