‌Labyrinth

All through my narrative, since the early hours of the evening, Nabil had been listening to me with his face hidden beneath the shadow shaped by the hood of his jellaba. Now, at my invitation, he stepped forward with a diffident smile, though he still kept his head modestly bent under the triangle of the brown woven cloth so that I couldn’t tell if he was hiding his emotion or underlining it in that way. But as I contemplated him, he stood up straight, his cheeks slightly flushed, his sightless eyes musing.

Thank you, my dear Hassan, he said in his distinct, mellifluous voice. I recognize some of that introduction and am flattered by the rest. What manners are to the prince, the imperative to idealize is to the friend, or perhaps, as in this case, the friend who is a prince in his loyalty, but also a storyteller.

He made his way slowly through the ring of onlookers and came and stood next to me, his cloak giving off the dusty aroma of the desert. I felt a rush of affection, but also of protectiveness as I surveyed his erect carriage. With the self-effacing manner which had become second nature to him since his accident, he spoke to me in an undertone.

Which way are we facing, Hassan?

You are looking at the souks, with the Koutoubia behind you, I answered.

The Koutoubia, he repeated after me, and smiled. Does its minaret still rise like a golden brushstroke through the air, with the three great balls of copper crowning its summit?

Indeed, my friend, it does.

He smiled again. Good, then we are facing the Argana, where I used to work. On its terrace, I once saw the shadow of a horse with a steel-clad rider.

Turning to my audience, he addressed them, a faint ironic expression on his lean face.

As Hassan has already informed you, I come to Marrakesh once a year and time my visits to overlap with the night he talks about the disappearance. I continue to be intrigued by its consequences and like to indulge myself by eavesdropping on Hassan’s telling of it, which, remarkably, changes almost imperceptibly every time as he investigates new directions and explores novel alternatives. It is almost like a game we play, in which only he and I know the players involved and the stakes. What we are concerned with is the exploration of memory or, shall we say, more accurately, its approximation. We ask each other questions and, in so doing, challenge ourselves to reconstruct imaginatively what might have happened on that night of macabre interest to both of us. Call my own fascination the intellectual indulgence, if you will, of a blind man, but this storytelling is something I look forward to all year with great anticipation.

Is it merely an intellectual indulgence, Nabil? I interjected.

Well, yes, naturally, he said.

Then he paused and thought some more, before qualifying himself. No, he said, perhaps you’re right, it isn’t purely intellectual. I marvel that every time I myself listen to this story, I am moved anew. It speaks to me and serves as a reminder that my life is not yet over, and that, in itself, must be some kind of miracle.

The air was getting chilly, and he paused and adjusted his sheepskin cloak around his shoulders. His hood slid back from his head. The moon lit up his sightless eyes. As he stood there, with his head raised, I had the feeling that he could see the sky. It prompted me to move closer to him, link my arms with his, and stand shoulder to shoulder gazing up at the stars.

After a few minutes, he lowered his head and spoke to me in his soft baritone.

Why do you think those two came here, Hassan? Why did they come to the Maghreb, to Marrakesh, to the Jemaa? Were they seeking oblivion? There was certainly that element to them of wanting to forget. But to forget what exactly?

Perhaps the world they came from? I speculated. Modernity? The West? These are the things we will never know, I suppose, things to which there are no clear answers.

I wonder, he said, shaking his head slowly, but whether in agreement or disagreement I couldn’t tell. He seemed content to limit himself to that cryptic response.

What else could it be? I persisted. The Westerners are losing confidence in their ability to shape their futures, and they’ve been trickling down here in their tens and dozens looking for solutions to the dead end in which they find themselves. We see it every day. Their world carries within itself its lack of soul like a disease. And they are unable to purge it because it is inherent in the law that governs them. They’ve replaced spiritual values with material dross, and the result is the reign of nothingness. Theirs is not a world of faith, nor is it a world of scepticism. It is a world of bad faith, of dogmas sustained in the absence of genuine convictions.

I hear what you are saying, Hassan, and I think there is some truth to it, but I don’t think that that was their particular crisis. I think it was somewhat different.

What was it, then, in your opinion?

Turning in my direction and stroking his toothbrush moustache, he said: As much as you, I have thought long and hard about this, and it is my conjecture that the answer, if there is one, lies in the mystery of the effect the Jemaa had on them. I am convinced that somehow, during their time spent in and around the Jemaa, in the course of their many interactions, they experienced a slow but genuine and profound enlightenment. It took them a while to come to terms with it, but when they did, it was life-transforming in its impact on them. I think I witnessed some of it – albeit unknowingly at the time – when they were in the Argana. What was it, you may ask? Put simply, I think it was something along the lines of a liberation, a coming to terms with the immeasurable disproportion between the reality of their lives and the immensity of the universe. It lay in their realization that there are no certitudes in life apart from the absolute unimportance of what is known, compared to the greatness of the unknown, which is nevertheless the only thing that matters. In my opinion, this is the truth that is infinitely superior to any factual truth about their lives.

What would you call this truth?

I would call it fate; others have called it destiny. It’s the moment of the rediscovery of the wisdom that life is governed by everything that is unknown and that cannot be known. Man is part of an infinitely fluid and intangible whole, and the part can never comprehend or regulate the whole. The great error is to search for truth in temporal events, because time is both fleeting and irrecoverable. And the more you interrogate memory, which is nothing other than the search for certainty in time, the more you increase your dependence on chance. Do you understand now why I attach less importance than you to the specific equations of their individual lives than to the larger movement that carried them to the meeting with their fate?

I think I do, I replied, reassuring him with my concurrence. He appeared contented, but also tired.

By the way, Hassan, he said in a low voice, which way am I facing now? I’ve lost my bearings.

You are looking at the Koutoubia, I answered.

Excellent, he said, and smiled. Since the onset of my blindness, I’ve often browsed among the bookstalls that stand outside its walls.

I stared at him.

The manuscript market ceased to exist long before our lifetimes, Nabil, I pointed out.

Oh, I know, he replied serenely. It makes my browsing all the more worthwhile. You see, it is one of the peculiar advantages of my condition that I can live on the verge of the desert and still spend all my time here, in the environs of the Jemaa. After all, what else is this place but a vast library, where each person is like a book, if you will? I browse here to gather raw material for my thoughts, and when I return home I spend the rest of the year reading what I have collected.

Do you read me? I asked, intrigued.

He turned his perfectly white eyes in my direction.

All the time, he replied. I see the lamp of your body, I see many other lamps in the darkness. I see the presence of the dead manifesting themselves in any number of telling details. That is why, increasingly, I believe that it isn’t the reality that you see but the other kind that matters.

Do you fear what you see?

Why should I be afraid? Fear is a moment of solitude wasted. Besides, fear arises from an inordinate apprehension of death, and that has long ago ceased to hold any terror for me.

I reflected on his words and, during that interval, I also ruminated upon a theme that had long been on my mind. Giving voice to it, I asked: Why do you isolate yourself in the desert, Nabil? What demons have exiled you there?

He gave me a shy smile.

Isn’t it clear? There are no demons. Rather, I have finally found a place for myself.

And a companion as well?

He inclined his head in agreement. That too, he said.