marriage Luna lived her life as a strict Muslim woman. She even stayed at home in Marrakech when Umbark travelled to Germany in the summer months to work as part of a human pyramid in the circus. By the time Luna finished her story the sun had almost set. The tables in our café and in the other cafés in the square were fast filling up and the waiters rushed about placing steaming bowls of harira in front of each customer.
‘It is traditional to break the fast each evening with a bowl of this soup,’ Luna told us.
So we ordered our harira and sat staring at it, waiting for night to officially descend. A silence settled over the square. Then as the sky turned red behind the Koutoubia a siren rang out and lamps were lit in the minarets of every mosque. The swollen voice of a holy man chanted the day’s end from the top tower, his voice drifting in and out of the breeze, and as the prayer tailed away a calm settled over the city.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Luna and Umbark lived in one small room in a street in the Mellah not far from our old house. Luna opened the door to us dressed in a plain white caftan and without her veil. Her face was round and golden white and her blue eyes watered when she smiled.
‘Come in, come in,’ she said, leaning down to kiss me.
There was nothing in the room except a mattress covered in woven rugs and a mijmar on which an iron pot bubbled and stewed, giving out the delicious smell of tajine.
‘Please, I am not expecting you to fast also.’ Luna glanced at the pot. ‘So I have made something for your lunch.’
Mum’s colour rose. ‘I should have told you, during Ramadan, I think… I have decided, I am also going to fast.’
‘And pray?’
Mum paused. ‘Yes, and pray. In fact I am very interested… how shall I say it? I want to become a Sufi.’
‘Does that mean I won’t be allowed to have lunch either?’ I wanted to know.
‘The Sufis do not pray five times a day like us,’ Luna warned, ‘they pray seven times.’
Luna set down a tray of tiny honey-filled pastries in front of me.
‘Where’s Umbark?’ I asked her.
‘He was called out to a woman who is sick.’
‘Is Umbark a doctor?’
‘All the Gnaoua have special healing powers that have been passed down through each generation,’ Luna said proudly. ‘They stay by the side of the sick and pray and play their drums. They burn incense in the mijmar until the sick one goes into a trance and then they beat the devil out.’
‘How long does it take?’ I crammed a pastry into my mouth.
‘That is never the same. Sometimes a few hours and sometimes days and days.’
‘And do they see the devil actually coming out?’
‘No, they just see the sick one becoming well again.’
‘Even if you get bitten by a scorpion?’
‘Especially if you get bitten by a scorpion. The Gnaoua have magic powers to draw the poison out.’
I wanted to ask more questions about scorpion bites and if there was a cure for dog ticks and whether or not you could die from body lice, but Mum wanted to talk to Luna about the Sufi. Luna said that Sufi was the unorthodox side of Islam. The mystical side.
‘During Ramadan the Sufis begin their prayers, like us, at sunset. They pray after dark, at sunrise, at midday, mid-afternoon and then again at sunset. And’ – Luna screwed up her eyes in concentration – ‘they perform a ritual washing of nose, ears and arms before each prayer and it is important to remove your shoes.’
‘Oh Mum, please…’ I was prepared to beg. ‘Please don’t be a Sufi.’
Mum took me with her when she went to buy her prayer mat. There were thousands to choose from, packed so tightly in multicoloured columns of wool that it seemed impossible to choose one without disturbing a whole tower. Mum was dressed in her haik, pulled halfway across her face for the occasion. As we passed down the lanes of carpet, the stallholders called to us, sliding the rugs expertly out and holding them up for our
‘It is traditional to break the fast each evening with a bowl of this soup,’ Luna told us.
So we ordered our harira and sat staring at it, waiting for night to officially descend. A silence settled over the square. Then as the sky turned red behind the Koutoubia a siren rang out and lamps were lit in the minarets of every mosque. The swollen voice of a holy man chanted the day’s end from the top tower, his voice drifting in and out of the breeze, and as the prayer tailed away a calm settled over the city.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Luna and Umbark lived in one small room in a street in the Mellah not far from our old house. Luna opened the door to us dressed in a plain white caftan and without her veil. Her face was round and golden white and her blue eyes watered when she smiled.
‘Come in, come in,’ she said, leaning down to kiss me.
There was nothing in the room except a mattress covered in woven rugs and a mijmar on which an iron pot bubbled and stewed, giving out the delicious smell of tajine.
‘Please, I am not expecting you to fast also.’ Luna glanced at the pot. ‘So I have made something for your lunch.’
Mum’s colour rose. ‘I should have told you, during Ramadan, I think… I have decided, I am also going to fast.’
‘And pray?’
Mum paused. ‘Yes, and pray. In fact I am very interested… how shall I say it? I want to become a Sufi.’
‘Does that mean I won’t be allowed to have lunch either?’ I wanted to know.
‘The Sufis do not pray five times a day like us,’ Luna warned, ‘they pray seven times.’
Luna set down a tray of tiny honey-filled pastries in front of me.
‘Where’s Umbark?’ I asked her.
‘He was called out to a woman who is sick.’
‘Is Umbark a doctor?’
‘All the Gnaoua have special healing powers that have been passed down through each generation,’ Luna said proudly. ‘They stay by the side of the sick and pray and play their drums. They burn incense in the mijmar until the sick one goes into a trance and then they beat the devil out.’
‘How long does it take?’ I crammed a pastry into my mouth.
‘That is never the same. Sometimes a few hours and sometimes days and days.’
‘And do they see the devil actually coming out?’
‘No, they just see the sick one becoming well again.’
‘Even if you get bitten by a scorpion?’
‘Especially if you get bitten by a scorpion. The Gnaoua have magic powers to draw the poison out.’
I wanted to ask more questions about scorpion bites and if there was a cure for dog ticks and whether or not you could die from body lice, but Mum wanted to talk to Luna about the Sufi. Luna said that Sufi was the unorthodox side of Islam. The mystical side.
‘During Ramadan the Sufis begin their prayers, like us, at sunset. They pray after dark, at sunrise, at midday, mid-afternoon and then again at sunset. And’ – Luna screwed up her eyes in concentration – ‘they perform a ritual washing of nose, ears and arms before each prayer and it is important to remove your shoes.’
‘Oh Mum, please…’ I was prepared to beg. ‘Please don’t be a Sufi.’
Mum took me with her when she went to buy her prayer mat. There were thousands to choose from, packed so tightly in multicoloured columns of wool that it seemed impossible to choose one without disturbing a whole tower. Mum was dressed in her haik, pulled halfway across her face for the occasion. As we passed down the lanes of carpet, the stallholders called to us, sliding the rugs expertly out and holding them up for our
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