‌Khadija

The child must have come to me shortly after your encounter with her. She was pale and shaking like a leaf, the poor thing. You must have terrified her with your attentions. How can you know what it means to be a woman and to have to deal with the likes of you? You ought to be ashamed of yourself!

For the first time that evening, we heard a female voice, and it was stentorian. It belonged to the formidable Khadija, one of the oldest of the Jemaa’s immense and enigmatic clan of fortune-tellers. She spoke bitingly, and it was clear that she viewed my nephew’s rather provocative “confession” with grave disapprobation. To his credit, Brahim made no reply, but, subjected to her withering stare, he shrivelled.

Khadija was a Sanhaja Berber from the Western Sahara, from the region known as Saquiat Al-Hamra, the Red Canal, on account of the waterway that traverses it, even though it is dry for much of the year. It is also known as the Land of the Saints, a nomadic place of pilgrimage long reputed for its piety and learning. Khadija herself claimed direct descent from the Almoravid warrior monks of Aoudaghost, now a bleak ruin in the Chinguetti hinterlands, but once the fortress city from where they’d poured out and conquered the known world and founded Marrakesh. She was widely respected, even feared, and it was rumoured that she could alter a person’s future with her predictions.

No one knew how she had come to be in the Jemaa. As far as we could tell, she had always been there. Some claimed that she was ageless, that she had been around during the time of the notoriously decadent Pasha of Marrakesh, T’hami El Glaoui, or perhaps even further back in time, more than a hundred years ago, when the profligate Sultans Moulay Hassan and Moulay Abdel Aziz had presided over the declining empire. What was without question was that no one doubted her great age. One sensed under the folds of her cloak the resilience of an ancient tree bole.

In the daytime, she could be found in the cramped square of the Rahba Kedima, in the shadow of the apothecaries’ stalls, where she did a brisk trade selling herbal and animal potions for black magic and reading the callused palms of itinerant wool and sheep merchants.

At night, she relocated to the Jemaa el Fna, where she was known for taking out her glass eye before she commenced each session of fortune-telling. Some said it was the right eye that was made of glass; others insisted that it was the left and sought to prove their point by discoursing upon its steely glitter which they maintained was the hallmark of the finest flint glass. Perhaps both of her eyes were glass, perhaps neither. Either way, it lent her an allure that was part of the mythology of the Jemaa. Like everyone else, I was in awe of her mantic abilities, and I think she looked upon my storytelling endeavours with indulgence, having known both my father and my grandfather in their prime.

Now, having summarily vanquished poor Brahim, she surveyed my predominantly male audience with a jaundiced eye. We glanced away, blushed, and faithfully intimated contrition.

The poor child was terrified, she repeated with emphasis. She was shaking like a leaf, and I made her sit down. I drew her into the shade of my tent, offered her water infused with the essence of rose, and spoke to her in soothing tones. When I sensed that she felt more composed, I offered to read her palm, more as a distraction than anything else. She agreed and asked me where I was from.

I am from the desert, I replied. From the land known as Saquiat Al-Hamra, where the dunes are fathomless, like the depths of the ocean. There the sands wash over caravans as water over a raft.

And you? Where are you from? I asked.

I am a child of the plains, she answered modestly. I have never had my palm read before. This is my first time in Marrakesh.

Then welcome. Everyone is welcome here. People come to Marrakesh from all over the world, they are happy, and they never want to leave. Many buy houses in the medina. Or they wander into the desert and disappear. By the grace of God, I myself have read the palms of the citizens of one hundred and fifty-six countries. When I reach the magic figure, I will retire.

What is the magic figure? she asked.

I laughed. It is the total number of countries in the United Nations. Both democracies and dictatorships. Both infidels and believers. When I reach that magic number, which is one hundred and ninety-two, I will fold my tent and return to my desert home. But until that time, there are many palms waiting to be read, many fortunes to be made and unmade, much happiness and unhappiness to be deciphered and, perhaps, resolved.

She looked concerned. But there are one hundred and ninety-four countries in the world, she said. Why discriminate against the two that are not members of the United Nations?

I was aghast. Are you sure, my child? I asked.

Yes, I am quite certain. If you stick to your magic number, then you will have omitted both Taiwan and the Vatican.

Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim! I exclaimed. In the name of God most Gracious, most Compassionate, you have added to my burden, my child. Two more nations! Inshallah, God willing, it shall be so.

I am sorry, she said, but I did not want the omissions to burden your conscience.

Her concern moved me. I reached forward and patted her hand. I said: There is no need for contrition. Please excuse the ignorance of an old Sahrawi woman. I was measuring my days against a false benchmark. Now, thanks to you, my mind is at rest. True knowledge adds to certainty, and certainty brings peace. You are a messenger of light, and for this I will not accept money from you to read your fortune.

Blushing a little, she demurely held out her hand.

I took out my glass eye. I made her palm flat. As always, that gently undulating plain at first seemed impossibly vast. I stroked her wrist with my fingertips. Her pulse began to quicken. The noise of the world died down.

Between her lifeline and her heartline, I noticed a fig tree, a lodestone and an armed galleon with many sails. Also a winged shadow flying over a desert filled with prickly pears.

These were difficult signs, so I decided to put her hand aside and interpret her zodiac first. I asked her for the usual details: her date of birth, her birthplace and the hour of her birth. She was born under the sign of the crab. I noted the rest of her responses. Then I listed her attributes one by one.

Your ascendant is in Sagittarius, I began. This means that you are outgoing, brave, you like to travel, and have an aptitude for poetry.

Your Jupiter is in the fifth house. This means that, like the desert lizard that lives under the sand, you are fond of children, family-oriented and faithful to your tribe.

Your Jupiter is in Taurus. This means that, like the purest Arabian thoroughbred mare, grace is manifest in your life, you attract wealth, you are accustomed to comfort, and you thrive in prosperous company.

Your Sun, Mercury and Venus are in the seventh house, all signs that, like the heavenly birds that reside in paradise, life is not complete for you without a partner.

Your Sun and Venus reside in Cancer, which indicates that, like the stork that nests atop the minaret, domestic life is key to your happiness, and you need its welfare and security.

Your Mercury is in Gemini, which means that, like the arrow of pollen that travels great distances, you are intelligent, curious and communicate with an ease that is lighter than air.

Your Moon is in the eighth house and in Leo, a sign that, like the fire that surges forth and fills the hearth, you are a creature of intense emotions. Impulsive, proud and dramatic, you love being admired and place yourself in situations where you are the centre of attention.

I concluded by telling her that she was energetic, possessed great willpower and creativity, and that she was a confident and ardent lover who easily captured men’s hearts. At the same time, she was very sensitive about how she appeared to others. She was frank, disliked dissembling and preferred to be transparent in her behaviour, but she often tended to discount the environment and came across as being indiscreet. Stubborn, wilful and independent, she appreciated living life simply and in a straightforward manner, demanded the freedom to do as she chose and considered social niceties to be hindrances to communication.

With that, I put away my notes, indicating that I was finished. But she smiled shyly and extended her hand to me, palm upwards, as a reminder that I had avoided telling her fortune.

I was reluctant, but a promise made is a promise that must be kept. I spread out her palm again and, ignoring the other signs, decided to single out the winged shadow because it was this, more than anything else, that troubled me.

This is the sign of Saturn, I said, and you must beware of it. Darkness has fallen on you. For the next few days, avoid the night. Try not to walk on black earth or dark sand. Stay away from surfaces that reflect the light of the moon. Avoid mirrors bleached by the sun. Do not trust anyone, prefer safe roads, and keep a watchful eye on your surroundings.

With that admittedly terse dispatch, I let go of her hand.

She blanched, and her eyes grew wide with distress.

I sought to reassure her, without making light of my warnings.

You have just had a frightening encounter, I said gravely, but you were able to escape it. I don’t know why, but you’ve been chosen to walk through fire – the signs are here, and here – and if your foot slips again, there is a danger that you will lose your life.

With that sombre pronouncement, Khadija made a sign in the air to indicate that she had finished speaking. We recalled her omens with wonder and speculated upon the meaning of the ones that remained unexplained: the fig tree, the lodestone and the galleon. But we knew better than to ask.