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Now I surveyed my listeners with a look of sadness sparked by my recollections of my brother. I wanted to spare no details in the effort to help them understand the roots of Mustafa’s disaffection. But I checked myself because I didn’t want to depress them. More importantly, perhaps, I didn’t want to depress myself. So I began speaking about the Jemaa instead, returning my story to its nucleus.

I drew their attention to the juice stalls that cradle the northern end of the square. For me, those stalls are the essence of the Jemaa because of the shower of fresh fruit smells with which they inaugurate each day. The progression of the smells leaves an indelible mark on the hours that follow such that every hour has its own distinguishing fragrance, from the stimulating poetry of early morning to the sickly-sweet musk of night. In between lie many shades of happiness. Mustafa, on his first visit to the Jemaa at the age of four, counted six distinct fragrances and attributed colours to each. With his eyes closed, nose held to the air, he recited, in a sing-song voice: Bright golden – freshly peeled oranges at five in the morning; golden orange – the first jugs of juice at seven; yellow – flies dizzy with heat drowning in the juice at noon; brownish yellow – the pulp beginning to turn rancid in bins at two; brackish brown – the juice beginning to ferment at five; seaweed and salt – the spoilt juice thrown away at seven.

During the daytime, the Jemaa is a cross between a festive ground, a meeting place and a marketplace. In the past, any articles that could not be sold in the souks were traded here in the morning. Set areas of the square were apportioned off for livestock, produce, camels. Nowadays, it’s a free-for-all and, as the saying goes, what cannot be found in the Jemaa is not worth having.

By midday, the first bands begin to strike up music. In the whistling, droning, ever-changing sounds of the nai, lotar, rabab and nakous, the great ear of eternity manifests itself, and yet, in the shimmering heat of the sun, the silence is what seems most audible. Although the music forms a constant backdrop, I hear it as nothing more than a cacophony because, curiously enough for a Berber, the melodies that most appeal to me are the muted, plucked-string meditations of the Andalus. But I am the rare exception. For everyone else, it is the drums that constitute the essence of the Jemaa. In their presence, everything – the small mirrors glinting in the sunlight, the sky trembling at the sound, the white clouds descending as paper streamers on tables, the vendors’ booths dancing along the pavements, the horse-drawn calèches on the perimeters of the square – longs to join in.

In the afternoon, the entertainers arrive. Sluggish snakes and sad-faced monkeys strive to hold the attention of a fickle crowd. Many animals perish in their captors’ attempts to impress. They are casually discarded. There is no room for sentimentality in the Jemaa. Even as the earth is red and the sky blue, between the monkey and the snake squats death. It is a rule that does not, however, appear to extend to humans. Mule carts and motor scooters alike weave recklessly between the crowds, daring catastrophe. But the Jemaa has its own rhythms, and disaster is – nearly always – averted.

After sundown, the square alters character. Musicians, acrobats, trapeze artists, faith healers, water sellers, henna artists, juice vendors, snake charmers, belly dancers, glass eaters, lantern carriers, storytellers – all assume the quality of apparitions that are both dramatic and ageless. Unchanged in their essence for hundreds of years, they are the Jemaa’s enduring symbols, images of stability amid the ceaseless turmoil of the world. The moon comes out too: between the various stalls, iridescent white branches of light leap from table to table, illuminating faces, leaving traces. In the midst of the excitement, noiseless dancers swirl.

For the outsider, to come face to face with the knowledge that the impenetrable really exists and that it manifests itself in a form of life that has continued for centuries – this sentiment is at the heart of the Jemaa. After the initial moment of contact, which many describe as akin to a spiritual encounter, there is only one thing that matters: the relation between the individual and the Jemaa. As my father used to say, one experiences the Jemaa with a love analogous to that which one reads in a beloved’s smile. In this realm of passions and unleashed temptations, where sensuality is the highest form of expression, there is a peculiar harmony between nature and conscience. It is an order of things founded on spontaneity and confidence. One does not seek the truth from the Jemaa but one’s own nourishment.