“I can’t believe there’s no air conditioning.”
“Seriously, this is ridiculous.”
“The hotels by the station looked modern.”
“They’re also tourist traps.”
“Yeah, but we could at least sit in the lobby—this is disgusting!”
He heard the voices coming up the stairwell from his cushion on the terrace, and hoped the people wouldn’t follow.
They did.
Two young men, one tall and one stubby, stepped into the Moroccan sun with a young lady, shielding their eyes.
“It’s so bright,” the girl whined.
“Yeah, but it’s cooler. Let’s go in the shade.”
As they walked his direction, Alex Kilbourne poured another cup of mint tea and stamped out his spliff. The tobacco was fresh with the hash like incense.
“What’s that smell?”
Her question came just as they stepped into the shade of the awning and saw him sitting in the comer, right leg up and foot flat on the seat beside him. They sat at the table farthest away.
“Do you think someone will come to us?”
“I didn’t see anyone when we walked up.”
“You think we have to order downstairs?”
“I’m gonna take a look around.”
The tall one stood up and locked eyes with Alex as he walked into the sun to explore the terrace. The others sat in silence.
“So what brings you to Marrakech?”
They jumped. His voice was warm, but commanded an answer.
“We’re here with the Peace Corps.”
Alex burst into laughter. The sound must have startled the tall guy, because he looked concerned when he returned to the shade.
“Hey, do you know if someone will come by with iced tea or anything?”
Still chuckling, Alex refocused.
“Take a seat, my friend, she’ll be right back. Only no iced tea. You want something hot. Raise your core temperature. That’s how we cool off around here,” he raised a steaming glass of sweet mint tea, “Moroccan whiskey,” offered a wink, and sat back smiling behind his beard.
On the table in front of him sat a silver pot of tea with a cloth wrapped around the handle to keep his hand from burning, a small blue glass, folded bag of tobacco, rolling papers, matches, and a clean-cut triangle of hash that looked like a piece of candy.
He spent every day the same way: smoking spliffs on the terrace of the hotel and waiting out the heat with the travelers passing through, chatting them up until nightfall. Like all of Marrakech, that’s what he lived for—the acrobats and dancers, magicians, medicine men, drums, flutes, tales by gaslight, and sweat with the smoke of lamb in the air—the call to prayer drew him nightly to the Djemaa el Fna to feel the fire of a city alive.
It was nothing like life in the States.
Different types of ghosts visit everyone. His were American. He left to forget, but came here to remember. This was where it all started. They came here on their honeymoon. Then the Congo. Kenya. Colombia. El Salvador. Iran. Iraq. In all their peace-work and travel, it was a walk home from a subway in Brooklyn that killed her. He couldn’t imagine people here doing the sort of things that happened to her that night.
It was his day off, so Abdul slept in and came lumbering up the stairs during the second call to prayer. Alex was lying in the same corner he sat in earlier, with his legs stretched out on the cushions encircling the terrace.
“Well don’t you look stressed?”
“I never get tired of it.”
“I’ll tell you what I’m tired of.” Abdul sat down, grabbing the tobacco and papers off the table in front of his friend. “Wet sheets. It’s hotter than a witch’s titty out here, mate!”
“It’s beautiful. Listen.”
“To what?” Abdul paused. The muezzin’s voice filled the air with a rhythm that made them both yawn. “That bloody geeza’s going to put me back to sleep.” He finished rolling his cigarette and lit it with a match as he continued. “So, how are our new flatmates? I heard them stomping around all bloody morning.”
When the prayer ended, Alex answered the question. “They’re Peace Corps,” and the two shared a laugh as a breeze blew across the rooftop.
“Now that’s nice,” Abdul added as he sat forward and tapped the ash off his cigarette.
“Yes it is.”
They sat there in silence until Tayri came slowly up the stairs.
“Good morning, my lady,” Abdul sat forward and smiled.
“Little late for morning.” She winked, lifting the teapot with a shake. “More tea?”
“Yes, please,” Alex replied with his head back.
“And if you don’t mind, might you take a look and see if you have any more bread and jam, my lady? You know, for breakfast?”
“I’ll have a look.” She dragged her left side with her hand on her hip as she turned the corner to the kitchen, and Alex sat up, folding his hands together on the table.
“Did you hear Casablanca was hit again this morning?”
“What the bloody—” The calm in the question took a moment to register. “You’ve got to be joking.” Abdul looked to his wrist for the watch he wasn’t wearing. “It’s only been two weeks.”
“It happened around nine o’clock. Pretty intricate stuff. They hit two hotels, two restaurants, and a community center, mostly Jewish and American owned.”
“Bloody Hell.”
“Right. Makes you wonder where the Peace Corps was, huh?” Alex chuckled and Abdul tried to smile. “Fucking pussies.”
“Here you are,” Taryi brought two pots of mint tea. The smell was divine.
“Wonderful.” Finishing his glass, Alex poured his next from a foot above, stretching a trail of tea in the air between.
“And here, for you,” she added, placing a plate in front of Abdul with half a baguette beside small dishes of fresh olive oil, butter, and jam.
“You’re brilliant, Taryi. Brilliant, I tell you.”
“Enjoy.”
As she went down the stairs, Alex continued, “Seriously though, I’ve been thinking about how to use it. People are tired of this. They want to do something, but they don’t know what.”
“What are you saying they ought to do, then?” Abdul asked as he tore off a piece of bread and smeared it with butter.
“Focus.” Alex picked up the hash and put the lighter to it. “I don’t know, but we’re getting somewhere. I can feel it.”
“The crowds keep getting bigger.” Mouth full, Abdul’s eyes followed his friend’s hands. “Mind rolling me one of those, mate?”
“Not at all. It’s just that, all this talk about the States, money, the war—I’m tired of it.” Hash crumbled before him, he picked out a paper and a pinch of tobacco. “Sure, it felt good at first—getting fired up—but I’m tired of defending my country .”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Explanation is the truest defense, critique is justified laziness. I want action, you know? Correction. Realization. I want to relate.”
Abdul put down his breakfast.
“What are you saying?”
Setting aside the spliff, Alex picked out another paper and pinch of tobacco.
“What I’m saying is that people are dying, and I’m just flapping my jaw. I came here to put shit behind me, and it’s clogging up the drain again. I don’t know how much longer I can do it.”
Abdul shook his head with a laugh and a piece of bread fell from his mouth. It clung to the side of the table by the apricot jam spread upon it, and he spoke through the food he was chewing.
“Then just say ‘To Hell with it!’ you old geeza! Christ, let’s go on a trek! You’ve been talking about the desert since you got here. Hell, besides that weekend in Essaouira, I don’t think you’ve gone more than five miles out!”
Alex finished rolling the second spliff and lit it with a long pull as he sat against the wall, eyes fixed on the Moorish tiles across the terrace.
“I think you’re right. I need a break. Other than coming here, I haven’t had one since Stephanie died.” He took another drag and watched the breeze blow patterns through the smoke. “Tonight’s the last of it. At this rate, I’ll be wearing a vest myself before long.” Laughing to himself, he started to cough.
“Well, I’m glad we’re mates then,” Abdul joked, taking the spliff from the table and sitting back with his breakfast finished.
Two hours later, he was hungry again.
“So, we’ve avoided the Peace Corps this long, what do you say we have some dinner and get things started?” Alex was sleeping, laid out across the cushions again, babouches on the floor beside him. They had both dozed off in the heat.
“Alex!”
His eyes opened quickly, but he did not jump.
“Abdul.”
“Let’s get supper before the Peace Corps shows up and wants to tag along.”
“Right.” Picking up the tobacco, papers and hash, Alex slid on his slippers and followed his friend down the stairs, through the alleys of the city below to the Djemma el Fna.
The vendors were already everywhere, setting up wares and building their stalls from the carts they carried or rode in on. The sun was hot and the air was filling with smoke.
Abdul led them to their usual spot—a large open dining hall off the square with bean soup and an old woman out front who sold heavy bread for two dirhams a loaf. They both ordered two of each and watched the city come to life.
“So, shall I set up our trek with Manar?”
“I think I’m convinced. When can we leave?”
“He’s probably with a group until Friday, so Sunday, I wager.”
“Sounds good.”
The two friends tore their loaves to dip in their bowls. When they finished the bread, they slurped their soups with wooden spoons and ate in silence. The sunset blanketed the Djemma el Fna with another call to prayer and they took to the street, walking through the dusk to their favorite orange juice stand—number 27—to see if Badri was working.
“Well, hello you two!” His eyes opened as wide as his smile. “Four orange juice?”
“Sounds great.”
“How is the day?” Badri cut twelve oranges in the time it took Alex to sneeze.
“As it’s my day off, I’d say it’s splendid! “ Abdul replied for them both.
“Weather is nice, yes? Very fine. Nights are feeling cooler.”
“It’s beautiful.” Alex didn’t like to speak over the song of the muezzin. It felt sacrilegious, and quietly offended him when others tried.
As the prayer finished and Badri handed them their juices, a shrouded woman and two stain-faced kids tugged on Alex’s shirt with one hand each to their mouths.
He smiled, giving away both his glasses and Abdul’s still on the counter.
“Two more?” Badri asked, reaching for the oranges.
“Why not?”
“So, Badri, how are your studies?” Abdul asked as he sipped his juice.
“Well. I am, uh, doing much reading.”
“Law, right?” Alex had been watching the woman and her children suck down the nectar, nodding at them when they clasped their hands in thanks.
“That is correct.”
“And what school is it you hope to attend, again?” Abdul finished his glass and let out a belch. “Excuse me.”
Badri laughed. “It is in Casablanca.”
Alex shot his gaze behind the counter.
“Did you hear about this morning?”
“I did.”
“Right. It’s terrible. What did you hear?”
Looking back to the juicer and pouring Alex’s second round, Badri spoke softly. “I know only that it was planned here. In Marrakech.”
“What in bloody Hell is going on in this country, Kilbourne?” Abdul turned to his friend. “I remember when it was a peaceful place, not five years ago. Now everyone’s blowing it up.”
Taking his first glass from the counter, Alex responded, “We live in a world of wrath and vengeance. Violence preys on peace, Abdul. These people are starving, and all they see all day are the fat bellies of tourists. Hell, they’ve taken over. The scale can’t tip like this forever.”
Badri started wiping down his stall.
“All I know is we have to get into the desert before things get any worse.”
“Amen to that,” Alex pounded his juice, raised the next to his lips, and started gulping. “Well, shall we?”
“We shall,” Abdul responded, turning back to Badri. “Have a good night, mate.”
“Take care, Badri,” Alex added as he returned his second empty glass to the counter.
The Fna had filled while they enjoyed their dessert, and the crowd was notably thicker.
Most of the day he was able to distract himself, but the hour after sunset was difficult. That’s why he started speaking.
They were his fondest memories. She loved the people and the way they shined when the city cooled off—singers with homemade guitars, circles of drummers, snake charmers, monkeys, mystics, storytellers, actors in plays, and men in abayas—she danced, listened to Berber folktales, and everyone loved her. People loved her everywhere she went.
He and Abdul made their way through the vendors and performers, contortionists and henna tattoo stands, to their usual space next to the dentist with no teeth. There was already a small crowd of men gathered, some holding hands, others arguing in Arabic.
“As-salaamu ‘ alaikum. As-salaamu ‘ alaikum,” he greeted all the hands held his way as he passed through them.
“Wa alaikum as-salam,” they responded.
When he got to the middle of the group, he looked around. There were more than ever before. A lot more.
Abdul nodded his direction, and he began.
“Good evening everyone. Let us take a moment to honor our brothers and sisters killed in Casablanca this morning.”
After Abdul’s translation, the crowd grew still, until a voice tore the silence.
“Death to America! Death to Isreal! Praise to Allah!”
“Al hamdu lilah wa shukru lillah!”
“I understand you are frustrated, brothers. We all are. But we must understand that our enemy is also frustrated, and to our advantage.”
Abdul translated and looked over his shoulder .
“Our enemy is weak, so we have become our own. Bombs rip through Casablanca every week, and we have to ask, ‘Is this the solution? Are we solving the problem by killing each other?’”
After Abdul repeated this in Arabic, the crowd stirred.
“Our enemy is you!” a voice cried out.
“No, my brother, our enemy is a lack of vision.” Alex cleared his throat and scanned the eyes around him. “While the U.S. imprisons and butchers our brothers and sisters in Iraq and Afghanistan, billions are starving! With so much wasted in the name of war, one is left to wonder, ‘How will it all end?’ Well, I’m here to tell you the end is near, my friends. The end is near!
“America is collapsing. Across the States, banks are closing, bridges and roads are rotting, the sick are dying, jobs are vanishing, and homes sit empty while the poor fill the streets! Americans are suffering. They’re hungry just like you, and soon they’ll join in destroying the shackles of wealth and power that imprison us all!”
Between the clamor of the crowd and conversation that followed, Alex noticed Abdul speaking to a gentleman outside the circle. They were very close, taking turns whispering into each other’s ears over the noise.
He worked his way toward them, ignoring the voices and bodies reaching for him along the way. When he reached Abdul, the man was gone.
“What did he say?”
Abdul hesitated. “He said his Imam has requested to see you.”
“What?”
“Ahmed Karim. He wants you to come alone. You’re to meet Mohammed Al-Fateh at the butcher shop near the square off el Fetouaki, and follow him from there.”
“Did he say when I should go?”
“Now. He’s waiting for you.”
The Djemma el Fna turned to one sound in the darkness—like a heartbeat—and his vision blurred as he walked through the Square de Foucauld. When he hit el Fetouaki, with Koutoubia alight before him, he turned left.
Carts pulled by men and mules passed as he searched for the red glow of the butcher shop. He found it spilling into the street after fifty paces, and saw a young man in sandals standing beside the entrails on display out front.
“Alex Kilbourne?” the man asked as he approached.
“Mohammed?”
“Surname?”
“What?”
A man with no legs walked on his hands between them.
“Surname. What is my surname, Alex?”
He tried to remember what Abdul had told him.
“Al-Fateh.”
“Yes. Come this way.”
The young man started at a brisk pace toward Koutoubia. After they walked past the mosque, he started speaking.
“So, Alex, you’re with The New York Times?”
He struggled to keep up. “I was. Before I came here.”
“And your wife, she works for the United Nations?”
“No. She’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
They entered a neighborhood crammed full of shacks and children playing in the street. There, the young man led Alex through a labyrinth of alleys.
“How do you like Marrakech?” he asked.
“I love it.”
“Wonderful.”
It felt like they had completed a circle when they came upon a series of homes much nicer than the others.
“Right this way.” The young man opened a gate at the side of the house in the middle.
Walking through the foliage that hid the home behind it, they discovered a table set for two, surrounded by torchlight. Fresh-cut flowers sat in a vase in the center of the tablecloth.
“Please, have a seat.” The young man pulled out the chair with its back to the house. “The Imam will be joining you shortly.”
Alex slowly sat. His fear morphed into a sublime sense of peace as his escort excused himself, leaving him alone in the courtyard with the songs of crickets and the rhythm of the Djemma el Fna in the distance.
Though he never closed his eyes, he felt like he was sleeping when he heard them approach. From behind his seat, three women carried two covered plates each to the table. Then, once the food was laid out, Mohammed returned and stood stoically at Alex’s side.
Moments later, Imam Ahmed Karim walked from the shadows of the home to the company of his guest. His robe was the brightest white Alex had ever seen—like an aura around the wise man’s skin the way it flowed with his every motion.
“Good evening, Alex.”
He stood and shook the Imam’s hand.
“Good evening.”
“Please.” Gesturing that they sit, the Imam smoothed his robe and sat down gracefully. “So, you found your way safely? I trust Mohammed has been good to you?”
“Absolutely. This is wonderful, but I have to be honest.”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to need some help getting back, because I have no idea how we got here.”
The Imam let out a gentle laugh and sat forward, folding his hands together on the table. “Come now,” his eyes flickered in the firelight, “I called you here, Alex, to make a proposition.”
Around them a cool wind whipped the flames of the torches, filling the night with the promise of solace and the sweet scent of roasted lamb.
Call to Prayer first appeared in Pearl Magazine #42, pp. 24-33, Spring/Summer 2010
Order a copy here: http://www.pearlmag.com/
“Seriously, this is ridiculous.”
“The hotels by the station looked modern.”
“They’re also tourist traps.”
“Yeah, but we could at least sit in the lobby—this is disgusting!”
He heard the voices coming up the stairwell from his cushion on the terrace, and hoped the people wouldn’t follow.
They did.
Two young men, one tall and one stubby, stepped into the Moroccan sun with a young lady, shielding their eyes.
“It’s so bright,” the girl whined.
“Yeah, but it’s cooler. Let’s go in the shade.”
As they walked his direction, Alex Kilbourne poured another cup of mint tea and stamped out his spliff. The tobacco was fresh with the hash like incense.
“What’s that smell?”
Her question came just as they stepped into the shade of the awning and saw him sitting in the comer, right leg up and foot flat on the seat beside him. They sat at the table farthest away.
“Do you think someone will come to us?”
“I didn’t see anyone when we walked up.”
“You think we have to order downstairs?”
“I’m gonna take a look around.”
The tall one stood up and locked eyes with Alex as he walked into the sun to explore the terrace. The others sat in silence.
“So what brings you to Marrakech?”
They jumped. His voice was warm, but commanded an answer.
“We’re here with the Peace Corps.”
Alex burst into laughter. The sound must have startled the tall guy, because he looked concerned when he returned to the shade.
“Hey, do you know if someone will come by with iced tea or anything?”
Still chuckling, Alex refocused.
“Take a seat, my friend, she’ll be right back. Only no iced tea. You want something hot. Raise your core temperature. That’s how we cool off around here,” he raised a steaming glass of sweet mint tea, “Moroccan whiskey,” offered a wink, and sat back smiling behind his beard.
On the table in front of him sat a silver pot of tea with a cloth wrapped around the handle to keep his hand from burning, a small blue glass, folded bag of tobacco, rolling papers, matches, and a clean-cut triangle of hash that looked like a piece of candy.
He spent every day the same way: smoking spliffs on the terrace of the hotel and waiting out the heat with the travelers passing through, chatting them up until nightfall. Like all of Marrakech, that’s what he lived for—the acrobats and dancers, magicians, medicine men, drums, flutes, tales by gaslight, and sweat with the smoke of lamb in the air—the call to prayer drew him nightly to the Djemaa el Fna to feel the fire of a city alive.
It was nothing like life in the States.
Different types of ghosts visit everyone. His were American. He left to forget, but came here to remember. This was where it all started. They came here on their honeymoon. Then the Congo. Kenya. Colombia. El Salvador. Iran. Iraq. In all their peace-work and travel, it was a walk home from a subway in Brooklyn that killed her. He couldn’t imagine people here doing the sort of things that happened to her that night.
It was his day off, so Abdul slept in and came lumbering up the stairs during the second call to prayer. Alex was lying in the same corner he sat in earlier, with his legs stretched out on the cushions encircling the terrace.
“Well don’t you look stressed?”
“I never get tired of it.”
“I’ll tell you what I’m tired of.” Abdul sat down, grabbing the tobacco and papers off the table in front of his friend. “Wet sheets. It’s hotter than a witch’s titty out here, mate!”
“It’s beautiful. Listen.”
“To what?” Abdul paused. The muezzin’s voice filled the air with a rhythm that made them both yawn. “That bloody geeza’s going to put me back to sleep.” He finished rolling his cigarette and lit it with a match as he continued. “So, how are our new flatmates? I heard them stomping around all bloody morning.”
When the prayer ended, Alex answered the question. “They’re Peace Corps,” and the two shared a laugh as a breeze blew across the rooftop.
“Now that’s nice,” Abdul added as he sat forward and tapped the ash off his cigarette.
“Yes it is.”
They sat there in silence until Tayri came slowly up the stairs.
“Good morning, my lady,” Abdul sat forward and smiled.
“Little late for morning.” She winked, lifting the teapot with a shake. “More tea?”
“Yes, please,” Alex replied with his head back.
“And if you don’t mind, might you take a look and see if you have any more bread and jam, my lady? You know, for breakfast?”
“I’ll have a look.” She dragged her left side with her hand on her hip as she turned the corner to the kitchen, and Alex sat up, folding his hands together on the table.
“Did you hear Casablanca was hit again this morning?”
“What the bloody—” The calm in the question took a moment to register. “You’ve got to be joking.” Abdul looked to his wrist for the watch he wasn’t wearing. “It’s only been two weeks.”
“It happened around nine o’clock. Pretty intricate stuff. They hit two hotels, two restaurants, and a community center, mostly Jewish and American owned.”
“Bloody Hell.”
“Right. Makes you wonder where the Peace Corps was, huh?” Alex chuckled and Abdul tried to smile. “Fucking pussies.”
“Here you are,” Taryi brought two pots of mint tea. The smell was divine.
“Wonderful.” Finishing his glass, Alex poured his next from a foot above, stretching a trail of tea in the air between.
“And here, for you,” she added, placing a plate in front of Abdul with half a baguette beside small dishes of fresh olive oil, butter, and jam.
“You’re brilliant, Taryi. Brilliant, I tell you.”
“Enjoy.”
As she went down the stairs, Alex continued, “Seriously though, I’ve been thinking about how to use it. People are tired of this. They want to do something, but they don’t know what.”
“What are you saying they ought to do, then?” Abdul asked as he tore off a piece of bread and smeared it with butter.
“Focus.” Alex picked up the hash and put the lighter to it. “I don’t know, but we’re getting somewhere. I can feel it.”
“The crowds keep getting bigger.” Mouth full, Abdul’s eyes followed his friend’s hands. “Mind rolling me one of those, mate?”
“Not at all. It’s just that, all this talk about the States, money, the war—I’m tired of it.” Hash crumbled before him, he picked out a paper and a pinch of tobacco. “Sure, it felt good at first—getting fired up—but I’m tired of defending my country .”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Explanation is the truest defense, critique is justified laziness. I want action, you know? Correction. Realization. I want to relate.”
Abdul put down his breakfast.
“What are you saying?”
Setting aside the spliff, Alex picked out another paper and pinch of tobacco.
“What I’m saying is that people are dying, and I’m just flapping my jaw. I came here to put shit behind me, and it’s clogging up the drain again. I don’t know how much longer I can do it.”
Abdul shook his head with a laugh and a piece of bread fell from his mouth. It clung to the side of the table by the apricot jam spread upon it, and he spoke through the food he was chewing.
“Then just say ‘To Hell with it!’ you old geeza! Christ, let’s go on a trek! You’ve been talking about the desert since you got here. Hell, besides that weekend in Essaouira, I don’t think you’ve gone more than five miles out!”
Alex finished rolling the second spliff and lit it with a long pull as he sat against the wall, eyes fixed on the Moorish tiles across the terrace.
“I think you’re right. I need a break. Other than coming here, I haven’t had one since Stephanie died.” He took another drag and watched the breeze blow patterns through the smoke. “Tonight’s the last of it. At this rate, I’ll be wearing a vest myself before long.” Laughing to himself, he started to cough.
“Well, I’m glad we’re mates then,” Abdul joked, taking the spliff from the table and sitting back with his breakfast finished.
Two hours later, he was hungry again.
“So, we’ve avoided the Peace Corps this long, what do you say we have some dinner and get things started?” Alex was sleeping, laid out across the cushions again, babouches on the floor beside him. They had both dozed off in the heat.
“Alex!”
His eyes opened quickly, but he did not jump.
“Abdul.”
“Let’s get supper before the Peace Corps shows up and wants to tag along.”
“Right.” Picking up the tobacco, papers and hash, Alex slid on his slippers and followed his friend down the stairs, through the alleys of the city below to the Djemma el Fna.
The vendors were already everywhere, setting up wares and building their stalls from the carts they carried or rode in on. The sun was hot and the air was filling with smoke.
Abdul led them to their usual spot—a large open dining hall off the square with bean soup and an old woman out front who sold heavy bread for two dirhams a loaf. They both ordered two of each and watched the city come to life.
“So, shall I set up our trek with Manar?”
“I think I’m convinced. When can we leave?”
“He’s probably with a group until Friday, so Sunday, I wager.”
“Sounds good.”
The two friends tore their loaves to dip in their bowls. When they finished the bread, they slurped their soups with wooden spoons and ate in silence. The sunset blanketed the Djemma el Fna with another call to prayer and they took to the street, walking through the dusk to their favorite orange juice stand—number 27—to see if Badri was working.
“Well, hello you two!” His eyes opened as wide as his smile. “Four orange juice?”
“Sounds great.”
“How is the day?” Badri cut twelve oranges in the time it took Alex to sneeze.
“As it’s my day off, I’d say it’s splendid! “ Abdul replied for them both.
“Weather is nice, yes? Very fine. Nights are feeling cooler.”
“It’s beautiful.” Alex didn’t like to speak over the song of the muezzin. It felt sacrilegious, and quietly offended him when others tried.
As the prayer finished and Badri handed them their juices, a shrouded woman and two stain-faced kids tugged on Alex’s shirt with one hand each to their mouths.
He smiled, giving away both his glasses and Abdul’s still on the counter.
“Two more?” Badri asked, reaching for the oranges.
“Why not?”
“So, Badri, how are your studies?” Abdul asked as he sipped his juice.
“Well. I am, uh, doing much reading.”
“Law, right?” Alex had been watching the woman and her children suck down the nectar, nodding at them when they clasped their hands in thanks.
“That is correct.”
“And what school is it you hope to attend, again?” Abdul finished his glass and let out a belch. “Excuse me.”
Badri laughed. “It is in Casablanca.”
Alex shot his gaze behind the counter.
“Did you hear about this morning?”
“I did.”
“Right. It’s terrible. What did you hear?”
Looking back to the juicer and pouring Alex’s second round, Badri spoke softly. “I know only that it was planned here. In Marrakech.”
“What in bloody Hell is going on in this country, Kilbourne?” Abdul turned to his friend. “I remember when it was a peaceful place, not five years ago. Now everyone’s blowing it up.”
Taking his first glass from the counter, Alex responded, “We live in a world of wrath and vengeance. Violence preys on peace, Abdul. These people are starving, and all they see all day are the fat bellies of tourists. Hell, they’ve taken over. The scale can’t tip like this forever.”
Badri started wiping down his stall.
“All I know is we have to get into the desert before things get any worse.”
“Amen to that,” Alex pounded his juice, raised the next to his lips, and started gulping. “Well, shall we?”
“We shall,” Abdul responded, turning back to Badri. “Have a good night, mate.”
“Take care, Badri,” Alex added as he returned his second empty glass to the counter.
The Fna had filled while they enjoyed their dessert, and the crowd was notably thicker.
Most of the day he was able to distract himself, but the hour after sunset was difficult. That’s why he started speaking.
They were his fondest memories. She loved the people and the way they shined when the city cooled off—singers with homemade guitars, circles of drummers, snake charmers, monkeys, mystics, storytellers, actors in plays, and men in abayas—she danced, listened to Berber folktales, and everyone loved her. People loved her everywhere she went.
He and Abdul made their way through the vendors and performers, contortionists and henna tattoo stands, to their usual space next to the dentist with no teeth. There was already a small crowd of men gathered, some holding hands, others arguing in Arabic.
“As-salaamu ‘ alaikum. As-salaamu ‘ alaikum,” he greeted all the hands held his way as he passed through them.
“Wa alaikum as-salam,” they responded.
When he got to the middle of the group, he looked around. There were more than ever before. A lot more.
Abdul nodded his direction, and he began.
“Good evening everyone. Let us take a moment to honor our brothers and sisters killed in Casablanca this morning.”
After Abdul’s translation, the crowd grew still, until a voice tore the silence.
“Death to America! Death to Isreal! Praise to Allah!”
“Al hamdu lilah wa shukru lillah!”
“I understand you are frustrated, brothers. We all are. But we must understand that our enemy is also frustrated, and to our advantage.”
Abdul translated and looked over his shoulder .
“Our enemy is weak, so we have become our own. Bombs rip through Casablanca every week, and we have to ask, ‘Is this the solution? Are we solving the problem by killing each other?’”
After Abdul repeated this in Arabic, the crowd stirred.
“Our enemy is you!” a voice cried out.
“No, my brother, our enemy is a lack of vision.” Alex cleared his throat and scanned the eyes around him. “While the U.S. imprisons and butchers our brothers and sisters in Iraq and Afghanistan, billions are starving! With so much wasted in the name of war, one is left to wonder, ‘How will it all end?’ Well, I’m here to tell you the end is near, my friends. The end is near!
“America is collapsing. Across the States, banks are closing, bridges and roads are rotting, the sick are dying, jobs are vanishing, and homes sit empty while the poor fill the streets! Americans are suffering. They’re hungry just like you, and soon they’ll join in destroying the shackles of wealth and power that imprison us all!”
Between the clamor of the crowd and conversation that followed, Alex noticed Abdul speaking to a gentleman outside the circle. They were very close, taking turns whispering into each other’s ears over the noise.
He worked his way toward them, ignoring the voices and bodies reaching for him along the way. When he reached Abdul, the man was gone.
“What did he say?”
Abdul hesitated. “He said his Imam has requested to see you.”
“What?”
“Ahmed Karim. He wants you to come alone. You’re to meet Mohammed Al-Fateh at the butcher shop near the square off el Fetouaki, and follow him from there.”
“Did he say when I should go?”
“Now. He’s waiting for you.”
The Djemma el Fna turned to one sound in the darkness—like a heartbeat—and his vision blurred as he walked through the Square de Foucauld. When he hit el Fetouaki, with Koutoubia alight before him, he turned left.
Carts pulled by men and mules passed as he searched for the red glow of the butcher shop. He found it spilling into the street after fifty paces, and saw a young man in sandals standing beside the entrails on display out front.
“Alex Kilbourne?” the man asked as he approached.
“Mohammed?”
“Surname?”
“What?”
A man with no legs walked on his hands between them.
“Surname. What is my surname, Alex?”
He tried to remember what Abdul had told him.
“Al-Fateh.”
“Yes. Come this way.”
The young man started at a brisk pace toward Koutoubia. After they walked past the mosque, he started speaking.
“So, Alex, you’re with The New York Times?”
He struggled to keep up. “I was. Before I came here.”
“And your wife, she works for the United Nations?”
“No. She’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
They entered a neighborhood crammed full of shacks and children playing in the street. There, the young man led Alex through a labyrinth of alleys.
“How do you like Marrakech?” he asked.
“I love it.”
“Wonderful.”
It felt like they had completed a circle when they came upon a series of homes much nicer than the others.
“Right this way.” The young man opened a gate at the side of the house in the middle.
Walking through the foliage that hid the home behind it, they discovered a table set for two, surrounded by torchlight. Fresh-cut flowers sat in a vase in the center of the tablecloth.
“Please, have a seat.” The young man pulled out the chair with its back to the house. “The Imam will be joining you shortly.”
Alex slowly sat. His fear morphed into a sublime sense of peace as his escort excused himself, leaving him alone in the courtyard with the songs of crickets and the rhythm of the Djemma el Fna in the distance.
Though he never closed his eyes, he felt like he was sleeping when he heard them approach. From behind his seat, three women carried two covered plates each to the table. Then, once the food was laid out, Mohammed returned and stood stoically at Alex’s side.
Moments later, Imam Ahmed Karim walked from the shadows of the home to the company of his guest. His robe was the brightest white Alex had ever seen—like an aura around the wise man’s skin the way it flowed with his every motion.
“Good evening, Alex.”
He stood and shook the Imam’s hand.
“Good evening.”
“Please.” Gesturing that they sit, the Imam smoothed his robe and sat down gracefully. “So, you found your way safely? I trust Mohammed has been good to you?”
“Absolutely. This is wonderful, but I have to be honest.”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to need some help getting back, because I have no idea how we got here.”
The Imam let out a gentle laugh and sat forward, folding his hands together on the table. “Come now,” his eyes flickered in the firelight, “I called you here, Alex, to make a proposition.”
Around them a cool wind whipped the flames of the torches, filling the night with the promise of solace and the sweet scent of roasted lamb.
Call to Prayer first appeared in Pearl Magazine #42, pp. 24-33, Spring/Summer 2010
Order a copy here: http://www.pearlmag.com/
