‌Zellij

My middle brother, Ahmed, I said, is a maalem, a master craftsman of zellij, those inimitable mosaics of handmade enamel tiles. There is a discipline to his craft that is akin, in many ways, to storytelling. Perhaps that is why I am always reminded of him when I tell my stories. Watching him work, I have marvelled at the fact that all his designs are based around the same three patterns – geometric, epigraphic and floral – with the sole variation coming in the placement of the tiles. Rectangles fit together to constitute chequerboards; circles and semicircles interlace into rosettes and arabesques. It is a craft dedicated to symmetry and repetition, the aim being to preserve the mathematical integrity of the motif. Ahmed likens it to the harmony of body and spirit achieved through certain forms of Sufic meditation. Settling into a deep, rhythmic breathing pattern, he cuts the tiles with a steel hammer, often making the incision with a single sharp blow of uncanny accuracy.

Ahmed is the pragmatic one in the family, cautious but determined. Early on in life, he decided not to follow in Father’s footsteps. The first time he told me, I refused to believe him. I was fourteen years old at the time, he was twelve. It was a bright, sunny day, filled with the sounds of birds and rushing mountain streams. The spring snows were melting. We had set out to visit our friend Jalal, who was tending sheep in the valley’s upper reaches. By the time we reached the place, we were both winded. We paused to admire a laurel grove exuberant with pink blossoms. Carried away, Ahmed lay down on the damp ground, his face to the sky. Gazing at the sun with narrowed eyes, he told me he didn’t want to be a storyteller, he wanted to be something else altogether.

What do you have in mind? I asked.

Oh, I don’t know! he said impatiently. I just don’t want to tell stories. You know how much I hate talking. I’d be miserable in that line of work.

You’re too young to be thinking that far ahead, I said dismissively. Perhaps we ought to have this conversation in another year’s time, but not right now.

He turned on his side and gazed at the pink and green chequerboard around him.

It’s beautiful, isn’t it? he said. So orderly, so restful to the eye. Doesn’t it remind you of zellij tile-work?

It’s very pretty, I agreed.

Do you think there’s money to be made in zellij?

Do you mean as a maalem?

Yes.

Oh, I’m sure there is. It’s a respectable trade.

He seemed to forget my presence for a moment, then sat up excitedly. That’s it then! he exclaimed. I know what I want to do with my life. I’ll teach myself how to make zellijes.

It takes years of training, I pointed out.

He examined his hands through half-closed eyes.

Do you think I can carry it off, Hassan? Do you think I can master the craft? In Marrakesh, I’ve heard the maalems talk about it. They have their own names for the patterns: inverted tears, hen’s feet, heifer’s eyes. It’s like poetry, isn’t it? – only better.

Gazing at the polychromatic mosaic of petals, he said, almost wistfully: No matter what, I want to work with my hands.

I stared at him, moved by his enthusiasm but not knowing what to say in reply.

We had a similar exchange six years later when, faced with his stubborn determination, my father and I found ourselves constrained to remind him that we were Berber tribesmen from the Atlas Mountains, and where we lived there was no native tradition of zellij tile-making. It was an aristocratic craft, a feature of the great northern palaces. Personally, I didn’t care for it: I found it too busy, too ornate. And, as I tried to stress, it wasn’t part of our culture. Even in our biggest city, Marrakesh, the emphasis was on much more spartan lime-based surfaces, whether of the rougher, pounded kind, or dess, or of the smoother sort, or tadelakt, used in wealthier residences. In other words, if he was serious about his ambition, he would have to leave us and go north, to Fès, the centre of zellij craftsmanship.

He listened to me with his bare feet sticking out of his trouser legs. All around him the heat of the sun reflected off whitewashed lime floors and walls. I praised the virtues of that kind of simplicity but he merely heard me out with indifference.

I suppose I’ll just go to Fès then, he said, and that was that.

Father was apoplectic. You want to go and live among those gentrified Arabs! They’re all about money; they have no culture!

Ahmed laughed. They have more culture than you could dream of, Father, and you know it.

He returned to his room, rolled up his belongings in a bundle, said goodbye to us, and walked out into the sunlight. A few steps behind him followed his dark, skinny dog.

Mother cried bitterly that night, bereft at losing her second son. My father went around stony-faced for days. In the evenings he’d turn up the volume on the wood-panelled radio but between bouts of reports on army exercises it spat only static. I placed a pot of mountain daisies in Ahmed’s room, but they died soon after of inadequate light.

When Ahmed visited us a few months later, I asked him about his dog. I’d been fond of that little creature, sad to see her go.

The dog? he said ruefully. She ran away somewhere on the way to Fès. But I’ll get another one soon enough, a pure-bred this time.

Years later, when we were older and both well settled, we would still carry on the discussion about our respective trades. By that time, Ahmed had not only worked his way through the various stages of apprenticeship, he’d made a name for himself as a reputable maalem, going so far as to receive an award for his expertise in laying the tile-work for the fountains in the giant mosque in Casablanca named after His Majesty the King. We were all proud of him, but I didn’t know what to make of his need to praise his craft at the expense of mine.

In one of his letters to me, he wrote:

Storytelling is a cruel talent, haunted by ghosts and spirits. I would like to do something else with my life, something more realistic and meaningful.

I wrote back:

I reject your criticism because only love can grasp and fairly judge any form of art. You can be fair in your assessments only if you are committed to understanding without judging.

He replied immediately, in a lengthy telegram:

I would at least like to leave a mark that is permanent. People visit the places where I have laid zellij and admire my handiwork. I know that it will give pleasure for ages to come. I could never tell stories day after day and watch my words dissipate into thin air. Where is the satisfaction in that? Where is the necessary smell of fire and kiln and clay? Where is the glory of a victorious struggle over matter? Empty air is not an adequate substitute. Nor, for that matter, are echoes. It’s the difference between reality and artifice. Your work is a mirage. That is the impossible truth. When a man lives out his entire life telling stories, reality disappears and something else appears in its place: a random collection of details reworked by the imagination.

I resisted the temptation to reply in a telegram. I couldn’t afford the gesture, for one. But in the letter I sent him, I wrote: Even your work is a fiction, my dear brother, if only you would have the humility to admit it.

His response:

Where is the fiction in my work?

My answer:

Your belief in its permanence. The next time you are in Marrakesh, visit the rubble of the El Badi Palace, considered incomparable in its time, and recall the remark made by the court jester to his emperor that it would make a great ruin.

I waited for his reply, but it was several months before he retrieved the thread of our correspondence. During the interval, he’d moved from Fès to Meknès and set up his own business there. He became the first member of my family to live in a brick house. My parents visited him and, on his return, my father said, with more than a trace of irony: Prosperity has conquered my son.

In his next letter to me, in which he enclosed a photograph of his house, Ahmed wrote:

Do you remember what I said about zellij a long time ago? I compared it to poetry, but deemed it even better. Well, Hassan, that assessment still stands.

My reply:

Why compare, my brother? Poetry is everything that you find sublime. The sublime is what gives you pleasure. The rest is nothing but fleeting emotions. Be happy with your art, as I am with mine, and let us share in each other’s happiness.

I agree wholeheartedly, he wrote in response, but then he felt the need to add: I’ve just added a third story to my house. Naturally, the floors and the walls are covered in zellij up to shoulder height. I ought not to be writing this, but it is some of my best work. There are places where the geometry of the panels gives rise to uncanny optical illusions. A friend of mine who teaches mathematics compares it to fractal patterns, even though I have no idea what that means. Amina, my wife, says it gives her headaches, but shows it off to her friends nevertheless. It feels as if we are living in a palace, Hassan. You should visit us sometime.

In a postscript, he added: Please give my regards to our brother Mustafa. Do you know what he plans to do with himself? Father has written to me complaining about his lack of direction. Tell Mustafa there will always be a place for him in my business if he would care to join me here.