‌Jamur

They were married, a voice spoke up with authority. I can attest to that. She wore a wedding ring, though she lacked the assurance that comes to most women with marriage. The oddly trusting manner with which she followed her husband’s every word was not the sign of an experienced woman. She was shy, as shy as the fire in a hollow in the sand. As to her appearance, I must disagree with Abdellah, whose integrity I otherwise respect: she was slender and of medium height, she had dark hair and dark eyes, though when the light caught her pupils they appeared a vivid green.

The speaker was Samir, a Berber merchant who was something of a celebrity in the Jemaa because his name, or rather the name of his village, near Tinzouline, was in The Guinness Book of World Records. The story is a miracle of fate – and determination. It happened like this. A few years ago, in an attempt to draw attention to the plight of their centuries-old kasbahs, subject to relentless erosion by wind and sand, the villagers banded together and sculpted a record number of sand angels. Everyone in the community took part, from infants who could barely walk to ninety-year-old matriarchs. The reward was a mention in the world-famous book, a television documentary and funds from the United Nations to restore the kasbahs and designate the village a World Heritage Site.

Samir claimed credit for the entire affair. He did not boast about it but simply stated it as an established fact. There being no one else from his village to dispute his claim, he was widely respected and admired in the Jemaa. Since then he had accomplished little but had nevertheless come to be regarded as a paragon of respectability, his deed inscribed in our people’s ledger of achievements.

Against the word of such a venerated man, even Abdellah, the son of a qa’id, fell silent. Perhaps you are right, he muttered with downcast eyes. Perhaps she did have dark hair and dark eyes.

Memory can be deceptive, my friend, Samir said benevolently. His voice was full and suave, with something bland about it.

Memory is certainly a fickle mistress, I assented. The most honourable men have been known to be taken in sometimes. But tell us your story, Samir. Where did you encounter them?

Where else but in my jewellery store off the Souk El Kebir.

He paused for effect and surveyed us. On his face was the intense look that comes with trying to recall an event from a long time ago.

It was mid-afternoon, he said, around three o’clock, on what had been a slow day. I had hardly made any sales and, resigned to fate, was just beginning to doze off.

So it was well before their appearance at the Hôtel Ali? I interrupted.

He spread the fingers of his right hand to indicate the rays of the sun.

Oh yes, it was in broad daylight. That’s why I remember her clearly. There was a quality to her that was touched with light.

He turned to Abdellah with a magnanimous smile.

Perhaps that is what deceived you into believing that she had golden hair.

But I saw her in the darkness, not in daylight, Abdellah demurred.

A mere detail, Si Abdellah, Samir said with a laugh.

She entered my shop first, he went on, her face aglow with vitality, and it was as if my eyes distrusted my own sight. Come in, come in, I managed to say to them. Bonjour, ça va? There’s no need to buy, you can just look around. What good fortune to have such a peri grace my humble portals. What will you accept for her? I joked with him. Ça coûte combien? I own a kasbah in El-Kelaa M’Gouna, on the eastern side of the mountains, with fine rooms, a stable and baths. Or if that isn’t good enough, I can take you to Imilchil, in the Middle Atlas Mountains, to the fabled marriage fair, where she will fetch you at least fifty camels. We can stay in my tent in the great valley between the two emerald lakes – Isli, “the fiancé”, and Tisli, “the fiancée” – and celebrate her betrothal to some rich Berber qa’id in the grand style, with dances and feasts such as you have never experienced.

The young man merely smiled drily and raised his companion’s left hand so that I could see her wedding ring, which was rather plain, in my opinion, and unworthy of her beauty, but I kept my thoughts to myself because I sensed some defensiveness on his part.

Well then, I said, appropriately businesslike, what are you interested in, my friends? Everything is for sale here. I have amulets from Egypt, gold jewellery from Timbuktu, silver bracelets from Nubia, even this ancient and dazzling necklace from Sudan. Or you might consider these delicate earrings made by our very own artisans in the old Jewish quarter, or these Berber anklets with bells and chimes, good to wear both at home or outdoors, at all times.

She was less distant than him. She smiled at me and slowly walked the length of the shop, studying everything with an avid gaze. She held herself very straight. They did not look at each other. I lit a cigarette and let them take their time.

When she finally spoke, her voice was like soft laughter.

How much is this? she asked.

I followed her gesture. She was pointing to an amber amulet with a fragile gold scarab embedded inside.

You have exquisite taste, Madame, I answered. That is from the Sahara, and it isn’t too expensive. In fact, I will give it to you below cost because you have astonished my eyes. For you, and only for you, I will part with it for a mere seven hundred dirhams.

She turned to him. He smiled thinly and said: Seventy dirhams.

I bowed my head and knew the game was on. We went back and forth in the accepted manner. I cited my reputation as a Berber of the Aït Morghad tribe, whose honesty was legend; he feigned interest in a silver jebana, a long-necked coffee vessel, and examined a basket filled with trinkets.

You will bankrupt me, M’sieur, I said with dignity, and offered him a final price, which seemed to set him thinking.

Why spend such a long time pondering? I urged. It’s barely a trifle for your beautiful bride. Even her smile is worth much more.

But he was already looking at something else, and with great attentiveness. After a while, he turned to her with an abrupt movement and spoke in a low voice. She raised her eyebrows, nodded, and glanced at me.

What is that object? she asked in French.

It is a jamur, madame, from a kasbah in a ksar – a fortified village – in the Drâa Valley, near Tinzouline, where I come from. It is an old piece and very precious. Jamurs are roof spikes, usually made of polished brass, like this one, and they consist of up to five globes of increasing size. They are sometimes surmounted, unlike this specimen, by our national emblem, the star inside the crescent. The most famous jamurs in Marrakesh are the ones atop the Koutoubia minaret.

They gazed at it for a long time, and then he said:

You could kill a man with it.

For once, I didn’t know how to respond.

To my surprise, he took out his wallet, counted out a number of notes, and gave me the last price I had asked for the amber amulet.

What about the jamur? I asked, but he waved my query aside. It belongs to someone with a house, he replied, and not a rootless wanderer.

I said: In the Maghreb, we believe that the first thing one should own is a house, and it is the last thing one should sell, for it is our tomb this side of paradise.

And how is your house? he asked, echoing the traditional Maghrebi greeting.

I smiled in acknowledgement of his courtesy.

It is a good one, I replied. It is near here, behind the Mouassine Mosque.

She interrupted us and began to thank him for the amulet, but he took her aside and said something in a quiet voice, which I couldn’t catch.

You’ve overtired yourself today, she said with concern.

He addressed me directly: Can you suggest a good place to view the night sky?

Any of the rooftops of the medina should serve that purpose, I replied, once again taken aback.

He nodded gravely, as if I had imparted some necessary piece of information.

If you want to see the stars, I volunteered, I would recommend the terraces of one of the riads outside the medina, where there is less light from the souks and the streets, and you can observe the progress of the moon through the palm fronds.

You are a poet, he said, and smiled.

Encouraged, I went on: I have a friend who has such a riad, the Villa Quieta, near the Palmeraie. He is a good host and would be glad to put you up for the night.

But what of the Jemaa el Fna? he persisted.

I laughed. You can certainly see the sky from the Jemaa, but there will be much else to distract you there at night.

Then we will go to the Jemaa, he remarked.

Puzzled, I stared at him. Then I shrugged and said: I will think of you when I watch the moon tonight.

He went down on his knees to examine the jamur one last time, and then he stood up and shook my hand.

Do you think I may need this in the Jemaa tonight? he asked.

Only if you are attacked, I answered, and the chances of that are very slim. There’s a police station right next to the square. They keep an eye on things.

They took their leave after that enigmatic exchange, and I found myself thinking, much like Abdellah, about my house, glad that I would be returning there that evening. I thought of the winter moon glistening on the asbestos rooftop, its bluish-white evanescence entering the rooms one by one, and I sensed that I would see the night in a new way as a result of this encounter.

Samir paused and drew the plume of his jellaba contemplatively through his stubby fingers.

Of course, he said, the moon wasn’t bluish white that night. There was nothing calming about it. It was crimson, bloodshot like an eye, and it filled me with disquiet.