The Storyteller of Casablanca (34)

The road climbed and climbed some more, and the landscape changed again, the green fading to grey. The mountains were bleaker, made of blocks of bare rock, and I imagined the vulture would find all sorts of tasty snacks of carrion here as it seemed to be a place where nothing would survive for long. I hoped the car wouldn’t run out of water or gasoline and tried not to bite my nails. And then, around a couple of hairpin bends in the road, we got our first sight of Taza. The town is perched, like one of those black goats, on top of a mountain pass, and its high, forbidding walls tell anyone who approaches it that this is a serious fortress. The walls are made of ancient stones and seem almost to be part of the earth itself, as if the ground has grown upwards to protect the buildings within. We entered through a huge gateway and drove through narrow streets until we reached a square where our hotel stood in one corner. I was pretty glad to have got there safely. The Dodge Sedan seemed to be thankful too and it hissed and clicked a bit as we drew to a stop, as if it was breathing a sigh of relief.

The good thing about the hotel was that each of the bedrooms had its own small balcony where you could watch the comings and goings in the square. There were two bad things, though: the first was that Annette and I had to share a bed. Neither of us was very pleased about that, but one of us decided to make the best of it while the other one moaned for about an hour. No prizes for guessing which was which. The second was that a scorpion scuttled out from under the bed, which made us both shriek. I think Annette’s complaining probably disturbed it. It curled its evil-looking black stinger over its back and crept towards Annette, who just stood there, petrified. Almost without thinking, I grabbed a water glass from the bedside cabinet and put it right over the scorpion. It didn’t like that at all and kept jabbing crossly at the glass with its stinger, making tiny, cross, pinging sounds. Then Annette ran to fetch Papa and he disposed of it for us. It wasn’t a very big scorpion, but Papa said that the smaller ones can still be very poisonous. He then checked our room in case there were any more. But luckily there weren’t.

In the late afternoon we went for a walk around the ramparts. I thought about the day when I stood on the beach with Kenza and Nina, because here, too, it felt as if you could see for ever, and the mountains were like the waves of another vast ocean stretching away to the horizon. To the east was the beginning of the desert, which I imagined to be a different kind of ocean altogether – a sea of nothingness, although the war had even managed to make its presence felt there, as it had throughout the rest of the world.

We walked back to our hotel through the medina, which is at the very top of the town. It was very interesting to see that the women here – the Amazigh, as Nina had informed me – didn’t wear veils like they do in Casablanca and the other cities we’d visited on the way to Taza. Instead, their faces were covered with tattoos like the ones the dreamseller had. It made their eyes look very fierce somehow and at the same time very beautiful, a bit like the scenery of the mountains.

The call to prayer began from the minaret of the mosque. It looked very different to the pretty turquoise one in Meknes and the beautiful white ones in Fez as it was made of bare bricks. It was nestled in a corner of the ramparts, solid and businesslike, as if it was a stronghold built to defend the faith. I remembered what Gustave Reynier the artist had said about the light here and I saw that he was right – it’s somehow clearer and softer all at the same time and even though the town and the surrounding lands are very bleak and stern-looking, the light transforms them into something magical.

I kept a sharp eye out for people who might approach Papa, but no one did that evening, not even a red herring.



Next day we were back in the car, following a tourist circuit that was described in Papa’s guidebook. Papa reassured Maman that he’d refilled the canisters of water and gasoline so we wouldn’t run out and become stranded and turn into food for the vultures. Actually, Papa didn’t say that last bit, I just thought it.

We drove along a ridge to start with and admired the views of the mountain ranges. There were even still traces of snow on some of the highest peaks. Then we descended into a forest of cedar trees, which stretched their long branches towards us like arms, reaching out to embrace us and to pull us into the darkness beneath them. We were in a steep gorge and the rocky walls here were a deep red colour, quite different to the grey blocks on the road to Taza. Maman read from the guidebook that we were approaching the Caves of Chikker and Papa pulled off the road so that we could go and explore. Out of nowhere, it seemed, a man appeared and beckoned us to come to the mouth of a chasm in the rocks. I wondered if he might be a troglodyte and actually live in the cave, but Papa asked him and he said he actually lived in a house nearby and herded sheep in the hills. He wore white robes and had a big stick tucked into a belt around his waist. Papa asked him about the caves and the man said he would take Papa in to see them. He looked at Maman and Annette a bit doubtfully and they looked back at him equally doubtfully. Then Papa looked at me and raised his eyebrows, as if challenging me, to see if I was brave enough to venture inside. The gaping black entrance, surrounded by sharp stalactites like long, thin teeth, was a bit frightening. But the jagged fangs then made me think of Felix, who is not frightening at all. And I thought what if this man was the reason we’d come on this trip, and what if Papa needed me for camouflage at this point? So I nodded my head firmly, accepting the challenge.

The man lit two tin candle lanterns and handed one to Papa. Then he led the way into the blackness. The first cave was quite small, but the man took us to a narrow opening in the rock at the back of it and we found ourselves in a twisting tunnel, scrambling up and down over its rocky floor. Papa shone his lantern so that I could see where it was safe to put my feet and I was thankful for the light it cast. I was very aware of the vast weight of the mountain pressing down above our heads and the blackness beyond the small circle of lantern light, which seemed even darker than the darkest night.