‌Angel

Mohamed spoke simply, with a mixture of spontaneity, candour and a disarming naivety that compelled our attention.

What I have to tell you, he began, took place earlier this evening. It was during the quiet hour, when the shops in the souks shutter their stalls and the evening crowds have yet to congregate in the Jemaa. Silence was everywhere. The dust of the day had had time to settle. The last embers of the sun burned quietly.

I had shuttered my stall and was about to set out for the Qessabin Mosque. The neighbouring shops had already closed for the day. The alley was deserted. I put my keys in the pocket of my jellaba and turned to leave.

I had barely taken a step when I froze. There, like an incandescent spark, in a pool of light cast by an opening in the reed-mat roof of the gallery, stood the most wondrous woman I had ever seen. She was like a houri of legend, an angel, a peri. I drank in her luminous eyes, her black mane, her flowing limbs, her smile as fluid as a ripple of wind. My head swam as if under the influence of some intoxicant. I found it difficult to breathe. Stunned by her beauty, I drew back into the shadows and stood quite still.

I have no idea how long the moment lasted. She lingered in that shaft of sunlight like a butterfly, and from somewhere deep within me a voice began singing. I did not call out. I did not attempt to engage her in conversation. I did nothing.

I don’t know when it was that a miserable old donkey limped into the alley. It had been savagely beaten: bloody wounds ran down its flanks, and its tethers were swollen. Even I, who am not ordinarily possessed of patience for these dumb beasts, was moved to pity. It swung its head from side to side, spittle flaking its lips, and, before I could react, lurched suddenly towards the peri.

I silently cursed its intrusion and was about to step out of my place of concealment to chase it away when, once again, a surprise arrested me. This child, more beautiful than a bird of paradise, with large, dark eyes and the gentlest of smiles, reached forward and stroked the animal on its wounds and, instead of rearing away, it turned its head towards her and nuzzled her hand.

I watched, lost in contemplation. Her touch was steeped in a tenderness as light as water. Its infinite solicitude moved me. I realized that I had just witnessed an act of compassion, unpremeditated and direct. It was an expression of love, and I saw no evidence of anything other than the impulse to heal. Surely there was nothing enigmatic in this behaviour. It was worthy of emulation. There was nothing there to foster superstition or mystery.

Presently, comforted by the girl’s attentions, the animal moved on. She watched it leave, her eyes glistening with tears, then turned to her companion, whom I noticed for the first time. He was well built, his arms strong and muscular, his face thoughtful and genteel. He reached for her hand. I shared in their silence, which had the evanescent quality of a smile. Oblivious to my presence, they stood there for a while before walking away. I bade them a wordless farewell. A cat passed noiselessly across my line of sight. I emerged from the encounter as if from a dream.

Mohamed paused, his voice still full of the sweetness of his experience. He gazed at us one by one and said quietly, his lips scarcely moving: I carried their spell here. When I heard you speak, Hassan, I felt saddened, so I asked your leave to tell my story.

His grey eyes sparkled, and he went on in a louder voice:

Ah, you who are speechless now! Those two strangers are not of our kind, my friends. They are brighter beings. There’s a rare innocence to them, a purity. It is through such encounters that the soul drinks its fill. Each of us carries a universe within us, but we must look outward to understand the world and our place in it.

Mohamed lifted his shoulders and looked past us into the square. After a moment’s thought, he said: That is all I have to say to you this evening.