herding my sheep, I came to understand that we had
happened upon the most delicious liquid on the earth. Our
fathers and forefathers have spoken of it, but none has ever
tasted it. Not until now. Your Majesty, Your Magnificence, I
present you this, the Water of Paradise.'
Harun ar-Rachid clicked his fingers and a solid gold cup was
borne forth on a jewel-encrusted tray. He gave a nod towards the
water skin and a finely dressed servant snatched the skin and
poured a few drops into the royal cup. A bodyguard tasted the
liquid first and, when he did not fall to the ground, the goblet
was passed to the Caliph.
Harun pressed its rim to his lips, sniffed and then tasted the
Water of Paradise. The shepherd and all the courtiers leaned
forward in anxious anticipation. Harun ar-Rachid, the
Commander of Day and Night, said nothing. After several
minutes of silence, the grand vizier bowed until his mouth was a
fraction of an inch from the Caliph's ear.
'Shall we chop off his head, Your Magnificence?'
Harun stroked a hand over his chin.
He thanked the shepherd for the gift and whispered a secret
instruction to his vizier.
'Have him taken back to his flock under the cover of darkness,'
he said, 'and on the way neither let him see the mighty
Tigris River, nor taste the sweet water that we find so ordinary.
Then present him with a thousand pieces of gold, and tell him
that he and his progeny are appointed guardians of the Water of
Paradise.'
SEVEN
None learned the art of archery from me
Who did not make me, in the end, the target.
Saadi of Shiraz
MURAD THE STORYTELLER WAS DRESSED LIKE A DERVISH, IN A patched woollen jelaba and a strand of fraying calico wrapped
round his head. His eyes were frosted with cataracts, and his face
was quite flat, scarred, fatty on the cheeks. His fingers were so
long and tapered that I glanced down to inspect them more
closely.
As soon as Murad entered, the barber dropped a razor he was
holding and hunched down like a crow with a broken wing. The
two or three battered husbands taking refuge on filthy chairs
ducked their heads in subservience. Following their example, I
bowed and introduced myself.
The storyteller extended a bunch of tapered fingers and
waited for me to shake his hand.
' As-salam wa alaikum ,' he said in a low husky voice. He asked
if I had purchased anything at the Maison de Meknès. I sensed
he wasn't so interested in the Berber chest so much as the tale
attached to it. In any case, I found it a little odd that he hadn't
spotted the box on the floor.
'I bought the story of "The Horseman and the Snake",' I said.
Before I could bemoan its high price, Murad stepped forward
and touched my arm.
'Some things in this world are beyond value,' he said, 'and
that tale is such a thing. It is like a precious gem. Hold it to the
light, turn it and it shines like a ruby.'
At that moment, a group of henpecked husbands slunk into
the barber's, no doubt hiding from their wives. On seeing the
storyteller, they cowered a little lower and wished him peace.
'We shall find privacy,' Murad said darkly.
I picked up the Berber chest and the storyteller led me out
into the narrow lanes towards the green mosque. I followed the
patched hem of his jelaba as it jerked past stalls heaped with pink
nylon sweaters, cows' hooves and rice.
The passages of Marrakech are so packed with people,
animals and objects that you have to learn to move through them
in a new way. I found myself watching local Marrakchis who
have spent their lives roaming the medina. They don't walk so
much as glide, ready at any instant to dodge to the right or the
left to avoid a pile of oncoming hides, a blind beggar, or a
charging pack mule.
Murad the storyteller wasn't as nimble as he might once have
been. He ran a hand along the wall as he walked, steadying
himself.
I followed the jelaba hem in silence, wondering where its
owner was leading me. Suddenly, it slipped through a squat
doorway, framed in peeling paint, and along a
happened upon the most delicious liquid on the earth. Our
fathers and forefathers have spoken of it, but none has ever
tasted it. Not until now. Your Majesty, Your Magnificence, I
present you this, the Water of Paradise.'
Harun ar-Rachid clicked his fingers and a solid gold cup was
borne forth on a jewel-encrusted tray. He gave a nod towards the
water skin and a finely dressed servant snatched the skin and
poured a few drops into the royal cup. A bodyguard tasted the
liquid first and, when he did not fall to the ground, the goblet
was passed to the Caliph.
Harun pressed its rim to his lips, sniffed and then tasted the
Water of Paradise. The shepherd and all the courtiers leaned
forward in anxious anticipation. Harun ar-Rachid, the
Commander of Day and Night, said nothing. After several
minutes of silence, the grand vizier bowed until his mouth was a
fraction of an inch from the Caliph's ear.
'Shall we chop off his head, Your Magnificence?'
Harun stroked a hand over his chin.
He thanked the shepherd for the gift and whispered a secret
instruction to his vizier.
'Have him taken back to his flock under the cover of darkness,'
he said, 'and on the way neither let him see the mighty
Tigris River, nor taste the sweet water that we find so ordinary.
Then present him with a thousand pieces of gold, and tell him
that he and his progeny are appointed guardians of the Water of
Paradise.'
SEVEN
None learned the art of archery from me
Who did not make me, in the end, the target.
Saadi of Shiraz
MURAD THE STORYTELLER WAS DRESSED LIKE A DERVISH, IN A patched woollen jelaba and a strand of fraying calico wrapped
round his head. His eyes were frosted with cataracts, and his face
was quite flat, scarred, fatty on the cheeks. His fingers were so
long and tapered that I glanced down to inspect them more
closely.
As soon as Murad entered, the barber dropped a razor he was
holding and hunched down like a crow with a broken wing. The
two or three battered husbands taking refuge on filthy chairs
ducked their heads in subservience. Following their example, I
bowed and introduced myself.
The storyteller extended a bunch of tapered fingers and
waited for me to shake his hand.
' As-salam wa alaikum ,' he said in a low husky voice. He asked
if I had purchased anything at the Maison de Meknès. I sensed
he wasn't so interested in the Berber chest so much as the tale
attached to it. In any case, I found it a little odd that he hadn't
spotted the box on the floor.
'I bought the story of "The Horseman and the Snake",' I said.
Before I could bemoan its high price, Murad stepped forward
and touched my arm.
'Some things in this world are beyond value,' he said, 'and
that tale is such a thing. It is like a precious gem. Hold it to the
light, turn it and it shines like a ruby.'
At that moment, a group of henpecked husbands slunk into
the barber's, no doubt hiding from their wives. On seeing the
storyteller, they cowered a little lower and wished him peace.
'We shall find privacy,' Murad said darkly.
I picked up the Berber chest and the storyteller led me out
into the narrow lanes towards the green mosque. I followed the
patched hem of his jelaba as it jerked past stalls heaped with pink
nylon sweaters, cows' hooves and rice.
The passages of Marrakech are so packed with people,
animals and objects that you have to learn to move through them
in a new way. I found myself watching local Marrakchis who
have spent their lives roaming the medina. They don't walk so
much as glide, ready at any instant to dodge to the right or the
left to avoid a pile of oncoming hides, a blind beggar, or a
charging pack mule.
Murad the storyteller wasn't as nimble as he might once have
been. He ran a hand along the wall as he walked, steadying
himself.
I followed the jelaba hem in silence, wondering where its
owner was leading me. Suddenly, it slipped through a squat
doorway, framed in peeling paint, and along a
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