In Arabian Nights Read Online Free

came to meet a cross-section of
Casablanca's male society, most of them wrapped in fraying jelabas , feet pressed into tapered yellow slippers called baboush .
There was a sense of fraternity, a common bond reached
through their communal fear – fear of the women in their lives.
    Friday afternoons are a time when most of Casablanca's men
are cleansed, at ease and ready to relax. They have washed thoroughly,
prayed at the mosque and gorged themselves on platters
of couscous in their homes. When the feasting is over they are
tossed out of the house by their wives and ordered not to return
until the sun has dipped well below the Atlantic surf. With no
more than a few dirhams to spend, and no courage to ask for
more, they go in search of coffee and conversation.
    The henpecked husbands and I discussed all manner of
subjects on Friday afternoons – from Al-Qaeda and the state of
the Middle East, to the subtle flavour of argan oil and the ancient
code of honour that bonds all Arab men. Each week, I learned a
little more about Moroccan culture and each week it seemed as
if I was welcomed a little deeper into their fold.
    Of all those who patronized Café Mabrook, the best informed
was a calm retired surgeon named Dr Mehdi. Slim and dark-skinned,
he had a sharp jaw line that ended with a patch of
trimmed beard on the tip of his chin. He was a man adrift on an
ocean of self-confidence and was regarded as a kind of champion
by the other henpecked husbands. From time to time he would
clap his hands and order them all to stand up against their ferocious
wives at home.
    Dr Mehdi once told me he was eighty-two. His hands, though
flecked with liver spots, were as steady as they had been fifty
years before. 'A good pair of hands', he would say, 'can kill a man
or can save his life.'
    One afternoon I told him about the storytellers I had seen as a
child, crouching outside the city walls at Fès.
    He stared into his glass of café noir , narrowed his eyes and
said: 'They are the heart of Morocco.'
    'But hasn't the tradition been lost?' I asked. 'After all,
Morocco's becoming so modern.'
    Dr Mehdi cracked his knuckles once, then again.
    'You have to dig,' he said. 'If you want to find buried treasure,
you must buy a spade.'
    'Is the treasure still there, though, under the ground?'
    The doctor put the glass to his lips and took a sip.
    'You may not see them,' he said, 'but the stories are all around
us. They are in our bones.'
    I was surprised, as I assumed the tradition of storytelling had
been replaced by the tidal wave of Egyptian soap operas, which
has deluged most Arab lives. I must have looked disbelieving,
because the old surgeon jabbed his index finger towards me.
    'The stories make us what we are,' he said. 'They make us
Moroccan.' Dr Mehdi drained his café noir . 'The storytellers
keep the flame of our culture alive,' he said. 'They teach us about
our ancestors and give our children the values they will need – a
sense of honour and chivalry – and they teach what is right and
what is wrong.'
    It was as if my father was sitting before me again, preaching
to his children. Dr Mehdi touched his fingertips together in
thought. He closed his eyes for a moment, sucked in a chest full
of second-hand smoke, and said: 'The stories of Morocco are like
a mirror. They reflect society. You can live here a hundred years
and not understand what this country is about. But if you really
want to know us, then you have to root out the raconteurs and
listen to them. You see, it's they who guard the treasure. They
can teach you but only if you are ready. To hear them, you must
close your eyes and open up your heart.'

THREE

    An Arab horse speeds fast. The camel plods slowly, but it goes
by day and night.
    Saadi of Shiraz
     
    FIVE DAYS LATER I FOUND MYSELF STANDING IN JEMAA EL FNA ,
the vast central square in Marrakech whose name means 'Place
of Execution'. The medina's labyrinth of narrow covered alleys
stretched out behind in an endless honeycomb of