curved corridor. I
hurried to keep up, weighed down with the Berber chest. At the
far end of the corridor we climbed a ladder and found ourselves
in a tall vaulted room. There was no furniture except for a
mattress and a pile of rags, which seemed to be used as a kind of
blanket.
Murad fluttered his fingers at the mattress and we sat at either
end.
'This is where I live,' he said. 'Let it be your home.'
We talked pleasantries for a moment or two, before I
launched into the reason I had come.
'My friend has a dream and that's why I am here,' I told him.
The storyteller touched the tips of his tapered fingers together
and listened. 'He wants you to come to Casablanca and tell
stories. You see, he believes that Morocco is losing its cultural
heart. He needs you to help in the war against television.'
Murad didn't reply at first. He just sat there on the edge of his
mattress, gently rocking back and forth, ruminating. Just as I
was wondering if he would say anything at all, he opened his
mouth a crack.
'Your friend is right,' he said, 'but he is also wrong.'
'About what?'
'About stories, about what they mean.'
The storyteller picked up a rag and fed it through his fingers.
'To know about stories you must know about people,' he said.
'The listeners are the key. Understand how they listen and you
will find you hold immense power in your grasp.'
'But television—'
'Forget about television,' Murad said, cutting in. 'It's worthless
because it enters through the eyes and suffocates the
imagination. Feed people something more tantalizing and they
will close their eyes and open their ears.'
Murad blinked. He sat still like a bronze Buddha, hands in his
lap, frosted eyes staring to the front. I said something, I can't
remember what. He didn't hear me anyway, for he was listening
to the call of the fish-seller down on the street.
At that moment I realized Murad was blind.
One night, a few weeks after he had come to stay at our home,
the red-headed man with the lisp gave me a matchbox. I slid its
drawer open and found a pebble inside. It was blue-grey with a
vein of brilliant white running down one edge. The red-headed
man, whom we had come to know as Slipper Feet, because he
never wore ordinary shoes, tapped it on to my palm. I put it to
my cheek and rubbed it up and down.
'It's so smooth,' I said.
Slipper Feet smiled. 'Of course it is,' he said gently, 'because
it's from the end of the world.'
I touched the pebble to my tongue.
'It tastes salty,' I said.
'That's because it's from the deepest depths of the greatest
ocean.'
I weighed it on my hand.
'It's heavy.'
'Yes, but when it's in the water it's light like a feather,' said
Slipper Feet.
'But it's just a pebble,' I said.
The red-headed man smiled from the corner of his mouth.
'To a fool it's a pebble,' he said.
Murad the storyteller told me he had never been able to see. He
could tell light from dark and could make out vague shapes, but
that was about all.
'I have never had eyesight to hold me back,' he said when
we met the next day at the Argana café on the main square.
I asked how he managed to get around without the power of
vision. The storyteller let out a croak of laughter.
'How do you survive in a world so limited by one sense?' he
replied. 'Close your eyes and your heart will open.'
The waiter brought cups of milky hot chocolate. It made a
change from the bitter café noir . We sat at the edge of the café
terrace, me peering down at the hubbub of Jemaa el Fna and
Murad listening to it all.
I told him that I wanted to find the story in my heart, that I
was searching but had no idea how to go about it. The storyteller
sipped his hot chocolate and sat in silent concentration.
'You have to trust yourself,' he said eventually. 'It's in there,
but you must believe that it really is . . .'
'Do you believe?'
Murad dabbed a finger to his eye.
'Of course, I believe,' he said.
'Have you ever searched for the story in your heart?'
The
hurried to keep up, weighed down with the Berber chest. At the
far end of the corridor we climbed a ladder and found ourselves
in a tall vaulted room. There was no furniture except for a
mattress and a pile of rags, which seemed to be used as a kind of
blanket.
Murad fluttered his fingers at the mattress and we sat at either
end.
'This is where I live,' he said. 'Let it be your home.'
We talked pleasantries for a moment or two, before I
launched into the reason I had come.
'My friend has a dream and that's why I am here,' I told him.
The storyteller touched the tips of his tapered fingers together
and listened. 'He wants you to come to Casablanca and tell
stories. You see, he believes that Morocco is losing its cultural
heart. He needs you to help in the war against television.'
Murad didn't reply at first. He just sat there on the edge of his
mattress, gently rocking back and forth, ruminating. Just as I
was wondering if he would say anything at all, he opened his
mouth a crack.
'Your friend is right,' he said, 'but he is also wrong.'
'About what?'
'About stories, about what they mean.'
The storyteller picked up a rag and fed it through his fingers.
'To know about stories you must know about people,' he said.
'The listeners are the key. Understand how they listen and you
will find you hold immense power in your grasp.'
'But television—'
'Forget about television,' Murad said, cutting in. 'It's worthless
because it enters through the eyes and suffocates the
imagination. Feed people something more tantalizing and they
will close their eyes and open their ears.'
Murad blinked. He sat still like a bronze Buddha, hands in his
lap, frosted eyes staring to the front. I said something, I can't
remember what. He didn't hear me anyway, for he was listening
to the call of the fish-seller down on the street.
At that moment I realized Murad was blind.
One night, a few weeks after he had come to stay at our home,
the red-headed man with the lisp gave me a matchbox. I slid its
drawer open and found a pebble inside. It was blue-grey with a
vein of brilliant white running down one edge. The red-headed
man, whom we had come to know as Slipper Feet, because he
never wore ordinary shoes, tapped it on to my palm. I put it to
my cheek and rubbed it up and down.
'It's so smooth,' I said.
Slipper Feet smiled. 'Of course it is,' he said gently, 'because
it's from the end of the world.'
I touched the pebble to my tongue.
'It tastes salty,' I said.
'That's because it's from the deepest depths of the greatest
ocean.'
I weighed it on my hand.
'It's heavy.'
'Yes, but when it's in the water it's light like a feather,' said
Slipper Feet.
'But it's just a pebble,' I said.
The red-headed man smiled from the corner of his mouth.
'To a fool it's a pebble,' he said.
Murad the storyteller told me he had never been able to see. He
could tell light from dark and could make out vague shapes, but
that was about all.
'I have never had eyesight to hold me back,' he said when
we met the next day at the Argana café on the main square.
I asked how he managed to get around without the power of
vision. The storyteller let out a croak of laughter.
'How do you survive in a world so limited by one sense?' he
replied. 'Close your eyes and your heart will open.'
The waiter brought cups of milky hot chocolate. It made a
change from the bitter café noir . We sat at the edge of the café
terrace, me peering down at the hubbub of Jemaa el Fna and
Murad listening to it all.
I told him that I wanted to find the story in my heart, that I
was searching but had no idea how to go about it. The storyteller
sipped his hot chocolate and sat in silent concentration.
'You have to trust yourself,' he said eventually. 'It's in there,
but you must believe that it really is . . .'
'Do you believe?'
Murad dabbed a finger to his eye.
'Of course, I believe,' he said.
'Have you ever searched for the story in your heart?'
The
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