# The Fire of Desert Folk/Chapter 19

AS WOMEN LIVE AND MEN DINE IN MAGHREB
THE following morning I was wakened very early and told that a man was awaiting me on the terrace. Dressing hurriedly, I went below to find a grave, sedate Arab, who greeted me eloquently in French and ended his formal salutation with an inquiry as to whether I would consent to visit with him the pantheon of the Saadite dynasty, which he described as the most romantic spot in Marrakesh and a memorial of ancient times that would make a deep impression upon me. Of course, I readily assented and, after taking coffee with my unusual guest, went with him into the town.
On our way my new friend told me much of Marrakesh and of the tribes living in the High Atlas. As Abu Abd es-Selam el-Magiri proved to be a learned man of deep reading, I profited much by this chance acquaintance and listened with rapt interest to his statement that Marrakesh possesses a soul that has come down through many lives, that she has collected here many diverse beliefs and creeds from far-away Senegal and northern Africa and that every stone, every rampart whispers infinite tales to those whose ears are attuned. The spirits of masters and ​wise men still wander here, figures in that history which has not yet been finished, but rather interrupted in the midst of the record, and is waiting for a chronicler who shall remove the dust from the ancient book and begin a new page.
Once my learnèd cicerone had led me within the walls of the neglected and depressing kasba of the Saadite dynasty, he showed further depth of feeling in his words:
"Sir, we are on the hallowed ground that has received the ashes of the great Saadite emirs, among them those of Ahmed the Golden, the conqueror of Timbuktu, the Sudan and Senegal. A curse followed this noble family, so that one of them rarely died a natural death. In blood and revenge they wandered this earth, ever the prey of disasters and crime. The anathema which had been pronounced by a vengeful kahina upon one of their distant ancestors followed them to their graves and only died with the last of the rulers. With the passing of power over Maghreb from their hands to those of the Alawites this place was walled in, and nobody ever dared to disturb the rest of the spirits—no one, as the new king feared the curse and strove to blot out even the memory of these earlier rulers, which ever lived in the grateful hearts of the men from the Atlas.
"But they did not succeed in that; for among the Draa tribe of mountaineers there were still families descended from the oldest Berbers, or Mesmudas, who knew that the mausoleum had already existed for three centuries. Some among them dug a branch from a nearby-by subterranean channel through which they passed under and into the kasba, thus enabling their most respected Marabouts ​to visit the tomb of their ancient masters before the feast of Bairam. In the Atlas there still exist families related to the sherifs of the Saadite dynasty, the youths from which continue to come to these sacred shrines of their ancestors and to fortify here their spirits.
As we entered the pantheon, shrouded deep in the veil of sadness and neglect, involuntarily I spoke aloud my thoughts to my Arab friend:
"One feels like offering prayers for the dead."
"God is One!" he whispered, as he bent his head.
Later, as we parted outside the entrance gate, once more Abu Abd es-Selam dropped his head and half spoke, half murmured, as though in apology for his show of feeling:
"The ashes of my forefathers rest here."
Throughout the whole day I was so dominated by the, depressing feeling left by this strange place that I failed to take my usual pleasure from the dinner in the cool and attractive garden of the rich Arabian merchant from Fez, Si Mahommed ben Chokrun, to which we had been invited through Monsieur Delarue. And yet this dinner was splendid, served, as it was, in the shadow of fruittrees in the garden, where the grass was covered with beautiful rugs and the many-cushioned divans which had been arranged for us. First, low tables with copper basins were set before us, and black slaves, silent and attentive, poured us water to wash our hands. Then we took our places on the comfortable, soft cushions, though again, strange as it seemed to us not of the Moslem world, not by the side of the host, who remained apart and, with eyes alert for everything, directed a whole company of ​serving slaves by the simplest sign of his hand. As he did not understand French, he conversed with us through Monsieur Delarue.
The dinner was excellent and gave me one more proof that the Moorish cuisine is distinguished by refinement and good taste. We were served pigeons cooked in oil with maize and other vegetables, boiled mutton with beans and olives, roast mutton with a sweet puree of squash, fried chicken, the ever-present kouskous, green peppers with an almond sauce and, as dessert, pomegranates.
After the slaves had cleared the tables and had brought us once more water for washing our hands, there followed the traditional tea with mint, which was prepared by the eldest son of the host, a pale, thin youth, very modest and well bred. Monsieur Delarue told us that the young man was a cause of great sadness in the life of his parents, as he was not attracted by the most beautiful of women and would not marry.
"A month ago," explained our host, "I found for him a slave with a beauty that far surpassed anything I could have believed was of this earth, and yet he would not even look at her but sent her off to the women's quarters without ado. Evidently it is not the wish of Allah, Whose Name be praised!"
While we drank our tea, the host and his son went off to eat their dinner with the men of the house, leaving one of his cousins to act for him. The etiquette and general features of this dinner were quite the same as those of the one described by my wife, as the customs are practically identical throughout all Maghreb. Here also we ​ate with the thumb and two fingers of the right hand, dipping pieces of bread or meat into the gravies and sauces to fish out the vegetables.
During the meal I explained to our companions that the manner of eating in Mongolia resembles that of Maghreb, save that it was even more direct and energetic. There they serve a whole sheep or immense lumps of cooked meat, upon which every one throws himself with a great, heavy knife, cutting off chunks of the meat and breaking the bones. During a feast the hostess moves around the circle and carefully observes the hands of the guests. If the fat runs down from these and off the elbows, then she is satisfied that her food is being appreciated. At an Arab meal one can well wear a dinnerjacket, given a bit of caution and deftness; but for a Mongolian feast the best costume were "naked to the waist," as the prevailing fashion in the country of Jenghiz Khan dictates that a diner should be covered with grease from the mouth to the belt to be certain of paying the proper compliment to his amiable hostess. At a "real social success" a man's companions, if they be also good trencher-men, will assist in bespattering him from the sides and from behind. Naturally no one wears "a smoking" in Mongolia, as a costume there after only a fraction of a social season becomes so encrusted that it is best suited for the manufacture of soap or the trying out of fat for other purposes.
It is very easy to understand that following such a plentiful dinner as the one given us by Si Mahommed ben Chokrun we had little desire to walk much and that, consequently, after strolling through the beautiful garden or, ​rather, the small forest of fruit-trees and date-palms, we accepted with pleasure the invitation of our host to rest in a half-darkened, cool room off one of the courts.
Meanwhile my wife was invited to visit the harem and went off with Madame Ducore and the host, full of enthusiasm for this peep into another world. As we reclined on the soft cushions, smoked and chatted, I finally dozed off for a moment, to be aroused by the distant strains of a violin. I had no doubt but that it was my wife playing, as I recognized her technique, though I could hear that only two strings were being used and consequently concluded that she must be playing on an Arab instrument. First there came some of the melodies which she had collected in Spain, Andalusian and Gipsy songs, and then others picked up in Tlemsen. I dozed again and slept a full hour, which was good for me after mutton with beans and squash and the rich kouskous and other tasty but very filling dishes. When my wife returned, we thanked our host and went back to the hotel, where Zofiette immediately sat down and wrote in her journal the impressions of her visit. I leave it to her to describe the part of the house which we men were not allowed to enter.
"Today we were invited to a midday dinner with a rich Arab in his suburban villa. The luncheon was served in the shade of the olives, where we were given places on soft cushions before beautifully inlaid low tables. The sky was a deep, rich blue and seemed to hang very low over the sun-bathed Geelliz mountains. After a very delicious and hearty meal the host invited Madame Ducore and me to visit the harem with him, a chance which I eagerly accepted.
​"We entered through a patio, with the customary marble fountain in the center, located well back in the serai, which was really only the temporary summer residence of our host. Coal-black, ugly Negro slaves with great thick lips and tight-curled hair awaited us on the steps of the terrace. As they raised a thin silk curtain, we entered a large room whose only light came in through two small windows with colored panes well up toward the ceiling and gave to the place a mysterious air of blending purple and orange hues. The intoxicating fragrance of rose, almond and jasmine mingled with the aroma of the cedar to give the atmosphere a quality appropriate to what we are wont to associate with the exclusive seraglio. As we were left alone to take our places on the comfortable, low divans, I had the impression that I had been borne off somewhere to live out one of my dreams.
"We were allowed to rest by ourselves for half an hour before any of the women of the harem appeared, each one entering alone, as though arriving thus to make a more distinct and greater impression. There were the two wives of our host, his three daughters and the wife of the younger son. All were overdressed, rouged and painted, with eyes elongated and blackened with kohl, with signs tattooed on cheek, chin and brow and with hair and hands dyed with henna. Their jewels were rich and numerous, counting immense gold chains, armlets and ankle bands, immense medallion-talismans, the so-called "hand of Fatma," great circular earrings set with rubies, emeralds, sapphires and garnets and massive bands around the head and forehead, adorned with pendants. Their hair was ​thick, almost orange-colored through the use of henna and plaited in small braids.
"As I observed them more closely, I noticed that they all had on several robes and, turning to Madame Ducore to satisfy my curiosity, I learned that the women in wealthy families usually wear seven such garments, one over the other—and this in Africa! Unhappy the husband who may happen to possess four wives and may be compelled to buy twenty-eight new dresses all at once, and fifty-six just to allow them a change of garment!
"These harem ladies, who had seen very little of European women, began gradually to get accustomed to us and could not hide their curiosity and their desire to question us. As we were nothing loath, the catechism began.
"'Is Lalla married and does she love her husband? Has she children and how many? … How old are they? Has she many slaves? … Does she go out alone in the street? Can she prepare kouskous? … Has her husband other wives and how many? From what kind of sheep has she wool? What kind of grapes does she like best? How much tea with mint and Moorish coffee can she drink? Has she ever drunk champagne? … Why doesn't she use henna and kohl, which would make her much more beautiful? Why has she such short dresses and why is she so lightly clad under them? Evidently her husband must be very close-fisted. … Why is she wearing no jewels? Did she receive no dowry or trousseau? … Is she not ashamed to go into the streets without a veil? …'
​"We replied to all these very patiently and indulgently, Madame Ducore speaking for me and for herself. In the meantime I watched them very closely. Both the wives of Mahommed were beautiful, especially the younger, who could not have been over sixteen years old. She had lovely, dreamy eyes, a small nose, teeth like pearls, a long neck and was exceedingly graceful in spite of her outfit of heavy robes; but I remarked that she was quite wild and soon learned that she was a woman from the Sous country, whose beauties are most prized. The older one, whom I took to be around thirty-five, had the appearance of a mild, good woman, was always smiling pleasantly and seemed to me to be more cultured than the others. She was from the Caucasus—probably bought and brought here as a slave—and had blue eyes, hair almost blonde and a much fairer complexion than the other women.
"Having, after some time, become accustomed to us, she ordered a slave to bring in her children, whom we found to be of quite another appearance, unlike that of either herself or Mohammed ben Chokrun. There were three of them, girls of ten, twelve and fourteen, and all very close to the Senegal type, with their kinky hair and their almost black skins. Seeing our badly suppressed astonishment, the senior wife, slightly confused, explained at great pains and at some length that, whenever the time for the birth of a child is approaching, she eats nothing and drinks only coffee, which is the reason for all of her children being so dark!
"At this point the eldest son of our host came in, he with the heart of stone. The youth proved, however, to ​have a love of music and went away to bring his violin, very patently desirous of exhibiting his skill before foreigners. The violin was a rather good one but had only two strings, tuned very low, and a bow that showed hard usage and was so curved that it did not promise much artistic delight. The African musician plays with the violin resting vertically on the knee in the same upright position that we play the 'cello, which changes the character of the sound and creates very definite difficulties of technique. At our request for some of his music the boy sat down on a low cushion and began to play, often out of key, a protracted, mournful melody, greatly overcharged with fioriture and very long.
"Madame Ducore, knowing my fondness for the violin, asked me in turn to play something for them. Consequently, when the young man had finished, I begged of him his instrument, much to the astonishment of the whole assembly, tuned it a quint higher and with great? difficulty at first, as the bow was curved and the instrument very strange with its limited equipment of strings, began to improvise some Eastern melodies, knowing that our European music would probably not appeal to them. The result was quite unexpected and astonishing, and they looked at me as though I were a specter from some other world or a mysterious djinn.
"One of the women came close to me and touched my hands and feet, but the most astonished of them all was my fellow-musician, who was surprised by everything he had seen and heard, by the unusual pose, the quick movements of the fingers and the purity of the tone. When I repeated the melody he had just played, harmonizing it ​a little better and as well as the two strings permitted, he suddenly gave vent to great emotion, pressed my hands and begged me to give him some instruction, which I gladly promised to do.
"Then they would not let us leave the harem, and I had to play without end. One of the girls fell to dancing and exhibited a very strong feeling for rhythm and real poetry in her movements, especially those of the hands and the shoulders. All of the ladies then gathered close around us, stroking our hair and our faces, which appealed to us as far from agreeable, though we could not but feel that it was the evidence of great sympathy. Slaves brought in tea with mint and quantities of sweets. Once I had emptied my cup, I had to play and play. When I stopped for a moment, there was a violent clapping of hands and such noisy protests that I recalled, in those very different surroundings, the story of a musician who fell into a wolf's den, as he was returning through a forest from a wedding. Beside himself with fright and awaiting certain death, he bethought him of his violin and played with such enchantment that the wolves sat listening around him and forgot to eat him.
"Though my harem ladies were in a way as voracious as the wolves, I was not afraid, for I had already sufficient evidence that they felt kindly toward me. A little later a slave came in to tell us that the gentlemen were waiting for us, so that we had at last to take our leave. The Arab women said good-bye to us with very evident regret and sadness, pressing our hands to their hearts and speaking with sincere feeling. I pitied them, I pity the ​young lives shut up in such a cage, though it all seems to have some fascination and charm—of course, when looked at from a distance,"
This same day we attended a second dinner at seven o'clock, which the French officials who had been invited with us assured us would not last more than two hours, and that we should then be able to return to the hotel and rest after so full a day. The invitation had come from two local notables, Si Mahommed Abdessalam el-Wazazi and Si Ali ben Mahommed el-Hassawi, relatives of the local Pasha, the powerful Prince Glawi. One of the French officials told me that both of them were old men, very proud and aristocratic and not given to talking with foreigners and that they were receiving us officially as proxies of the Pasha, who was for the moment in his kasba in the mountains. To make sure of my ground and to confirm or shatter the official's statement, I asked him if I might open conversation with them.
"You may try," he replied, "but you will not succeed, for the two old men will answer simply 'yes' or 'no' through the interpreter."
A few minutes past seven we approached a wall near the Jemaa el-Fna and knocked at a small, low and most unpretentious door, which was opened at once by a slave with lantern in hand, who led us along a tunnel-like passage under the house until we came into a beautiful court bordered with black cypresses that seemed aspiring to reach the stars and garnished with flowering shrubs about the murmuring fountain. In a richly furnished room, lighted with all the brilliance of day, we were met ​by our two hosts, the elder of whom, a thin, short man with pale face and piercing eyes, welcomed us very solemnly and found us our places.
During the dinner, which was served almost immediately after our arrival, I remarked little that was in any way different from those already described. When tea was finally served, I made my attempt to open conversation with the two Amphitryons through the intelligent thaleb who was acting as interpreter, but found that the old men really did not wish to talk. So I withdrew from the front line and went into a flanking movement by beginning to tell about the countries I had visited, about meetings and conversations with dignitaries of different cults and about my impressions regarding the various religions. This move broke down all reserve and acted in a magic fashion to make the conversation run smoothly, the more so as the interpreter, who had begun his official duties in a rather perfunctory manner, developed a keen appreciation of what was passing and aided us materially by his added zeal. In a little while formality and distance had been so thoroughly replaced by an intimate interest that the two old men quitted their divans and squatted on rugs with their feet tucked under them. I followed suit, not only to be one with them in all their customs but because, from long experience with men of the outdoors and of the world where chairs are infrequent or unknown, I have a strong desire to get down near the ground when I talk of things that really interest me.
Suddenly the old man with the keen and quizzical eyes asked:
​"Is it true that the Bolsheviks are just and good men?"
"Sidi," I answered, "I have seen these men face to face but I shall not speak of my own personal impressions regarding them, in order that I may avoid seeming too strongly prejudiced. I prefer to answer with the words of these 'just men,' who have themselves admitted, even boasted, that they have murdered a million men, among them six thousand ulema, one hundred Imams, nine thousand hakims, thirteen thousand of the richest men of their country and three hundred fifty-five thousand tholba"
"In the name of Allah, they are wicked men; and why do they praise themselves so loudly here?"
"But perhaps they are 'just,'" I continued. "Let me explain to you now what I should do, if I were a Bolshevik and had power here."
"In the name of the merciful and good God!" whispered one of the old men.
"Here in Maghreb I see walls and walls," I began, watching the curious faces of my hosts. "With these walls you surround your houses, your palm-groves, your gardens, your harems. Why do you do this?"
"We must protect our property," they answered in one voice, raising their arms in a gesture of palpable evidence.
"If I were a Bolshevik and had authority here, I should first of all destroy these walls. Dates, pomegranates, wine and olives would no longer be left to you, who have already too much of wealth, enough to condemn you to death, but would be given to your servants, to your slaves and to the beggars of the streets. With you gone, or if you happen to be left alive in penury, your wives might ​easily become the wives of the jugglers of Jemaa el-Fna, of the workers from the suks, of my driver or of the black slave who led the way with his lantern into your beautiful court and house, where your ancestors have long striven and builded for their descendants."
"May Allah defend us!" exclaimed the old men, and then fell to whispered consultation between themselves and the interpreter.
Along such lines and through many diverse ways the talk ran on, until it was eleven o'clock before we rose to take our leave. Pressing my hands and afterwards touching their lips with their fingers, they said to me:
"Enta mesit ou kwalbek khallit (Leaving us, you leave behind you sorrowing hearts)."
The next morning a slave brought to the hotel two letters, conveying to me in the all-too-flattering terms of Oriental politeness an appreciation of the information I had imparted to our hosts of the previous evening, who quite evidently had some knowledge of the doctrines and propaganda of the Soviets but who possessed far from the whole truth in the matter.