Tom Foran Clark

They entered the red city, Marrakech, on the Route Principale, passing through palm groves to the walls of the ancient ville, turning down the Rue de Bab el Khemis, through the gate into the Medina. Skip drove straight to the heart of the city, the Djemaa El Fna (The Gathering Place of the Departed). He parked in front of a refreshment stand on a shaded, palm-lined promenade. A silver-whiskered old man wearing a black armband on his gray djellaba came up presently to Skip’s window, smiling and holding out his hand. Skip handed over several centimes. "He’ll watch the car," Skip explained

As they stepped out of the car, several boys ran up, attaching themselves to us, crying out and pulling on their shirtsleeves. "Guides," Skip said, and spoke a few curt, sharp words and waved them away. "Urchins," Skip whispered in Emery's ear. "They say there’s a once-in-a-lifetime Berber auction going on in the souks. Let’s go see."

It was a sham -- a ruse. The two walked into the Medina just north of the Djemaa El Fna in search of the special Berber auction going on. There was no such auction. "That’s how the ‘guides’ get the tourists into the souks," Skip illuminated. "They say there’s a super, big-time Berber auction happening, then they grab their victims by their skirts and shirtsleeves and fling them into the souks -- to their fathers’ and their uncles’ shops. Hey, there’s not a minute goes by but there’s a Berber auction and a carnival and three-ring circus happening here!"

Around the periphery of the Medina swarmed mo-peds, bikes, horse-drawn carriages, and cars, clattering and sputtering. At its center was the crushing maze of shopkeepers hawking slippers, shoes, embroidered robes and gowns, bags, pouches, wallets, blankets, carpets, pottery, goblets, splendid engraved silver trays, hammered copper, brassware, kettles, daggers, sabers, wrought iron, jewelry, trinkets -- Arab and Berber merchants almost buried under their accumulations of this stuff.

Skip took Emery by the arm like one of the boy-guides. "C’mon," he said eagerly. They squeezed their way through the heavy throngs down a narrow souk lane, emerging back onto the triangular plaza of the Djemaa El Fna, which was swarming with further shuffling, ambling, idling, and meandering. It was a scene right out of The Arabian Nights: an old man, a snake charmer, sat, legs folded, blowing on a pipe, cheeks puffed out, while another man teased the serpents from their baskets -- cobras with fanned, wide necks -- even as a boy went into the encircling crowd, carrying a tambour upside-down, collecting money (especially from those taking pictures).

Also on the plaza were flame eaters, monkey trainers, barefoot dancers, Mauritanian acrobats, jugglers, cymbal players, drummers, spice sellers, acupuncturists, soothsayers, guides, and thieves. Emery was startled on first seeing one of the many red-clad water-sellers on the Djemaa El Fna, profusely decorated with glittering medallions, his face and neck swathed in towels, and on his head a lampshade. He carried a goatskin sack equipped with a polished golden faucet and brass cups that dangled, glistening, from both a broad shoulder belt and a broad belt around his waist. Rococo frill flew everywhere from the water-bearer’s garment, from his elaborately frilled hat down to the frilled garters on his knees.

"Now I’m thirsty,” Skip said. “Let’s get some beers and go over to the Hotel Marrakech and see if your pal Spike has left any messages. Then we’ll go to the American Express Office and see if you’ve got money waiting."

We wove our way back to the car and rolled west on the Avenue Mohammed V to the Place de la Liberté, where the Hotel was -- a big deluxe four-star palace. To Emery, it looked like a castle -- the infamous La Mamounia itself was rated only one star higher.

In one of the hundred or more cubby-holes behind the huge front desk of the hotel was a single envelope for Emery. It was postmarked "Lawrence, Massachusetts." Emery's hands were shaking now. He tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter.

"I will be eager to hear the story of your adventures since we parted," Pike had written. "My saga now includes the Moroccan police, who think it suspicious and amusing when you are robbed of both your passport and your money. It is good you did what you did! Ahmed changed his mind about the treasure. He only wanted immediate cash to keep his sacred Spanish Sahara rebels armed, and dressed, and fed -- in that order. He took everything I had -- except the map and book! I know you’d kick me for it, but I parted with these. I believe they’re safe! I met some very special people in Marrakech -- a couple of Americans traveling with a German. I gave them my Massachusetts address and entrusted Townsend’s papers to them -- in the nick of time! Ahmed talked some Moroccans into stealing my bike, camera, lenses, film, passport, papers, money. They took it all. They even took the St. James keepsake that I got in Rome. Everything -- gone. Then they turned me over to the police, who charged me not only with vagrancy but also for selling my passport and everything. I was walking around Marrakech barefoot, in rags, like the least beggar, searching for the German and the two Americans. The authorities grabbed me, put me in shackles, and threw me in a holding cell. Eight days later, they released me to the U.S. Embassy. I spent three days in a military hospital in southern Germany before being flown to Boston. I got eleven stitches in my forehead, four under my left eyelid, six on my chin, two on my right hand, and five on my left kneecap. A week ago I got, from the U.S. government, their bill. A very painful interlude. Don’t send money. I’m working in Lawrence at Carraway’s Drug Store. I intened to work here till Christmas. After I pay the government at the close of the year, I’ll catch a flight to Spain in January. Hold on to Townsend’s money for our pilgrimage. Pike.

“P.S. My friends in Marrakech promised to go to Madrid, put the map and diary in a bank safety deposit box, and send me detailed news of it and them. I trust I'll be seeing you there in Madrid in January. Write soon. Pike."

While Emery read the letter, Skip checked them into the hotel. “What’s up with Spike?” he asked, after thanking the desk clerk for the key.

“He’s in the States -- back in Massachusetts. He was robbed, jailed, and sent home.”

“Tough break,” Skip said simply. Emery walked behind him, weak-kneed, as he strode ahead boldly, in search of their room. They walked down long passages adorned in chandeliers, mirrors, ornate wallpapers, and lush, long, intricately woven Berber and Persian carpets. "Whew!" Emery whistled, impressed. His jaw was down and his mouth wide open.

"Rich, don’t worry," Skip assured him. "I can deduct it from my taxes."

Room service brought up their beers. Skip let Emery shower before him, while he enjoyed his drink. Then he took his turn, shaving and showering. Thus refreshed, the two went back into the ville.

It would have been easier to find the American Express office on the Rue Mauritania had they just walked there, but Skip had insisted the two go there "in style," of course, going over in his silver Mercedes. At the American Express window, a clerk retrieved a note with a check representing the other half of the money Emery had requested from his parents, who’d sold off everything he’d owned. Emery verified the amount. While the clerk transformed the promissory funds into bearable traveler's checks, Emery studied the note: "Hope you’re fine. Love, Mom and Dad."

"So, what’s up?" Skip inquired. Emery showed him the note. "Hey, not everybody’s big on writing letters," Skip commented. "Let’s go get more beers." He put his arm around Emery's shoulders, and steered him out of the American Express office toward a neighboring café. The two sat down at a corner table and got cold Flag Export beer, in bottles. Skip tried to get Emery to talk about his unlucky streak, but Emery didn’t have much to say. "Hey, I’m sorry about your friend," Skip offered, drinking up. "These things happen. Look on the bright side! It’s me and you now, buddy -- Skip and Rich in Marrakech."

They left the café and got in the car and drove back to the Djemaa El Fna. They got a parking space on the promenade very near where they’d parked earlier that day, and the same old guy took Skip’s centimes to guard the car. From his trunk Skip took out two clean beige djellabas. He put on one and bid Emery put on the other. "C’mon!" he said, gesturing toward the Medina. "I have something that will cheer you up."

Emery adjusted the oversized robe as he ran after Skip into the hubbub of the souks. Skip immediately set in, bargaining for a good deal. He was going to get himself a quality blanket, he said. One old merchant in a souk set out numerous beautiful blankets for wide-eyed Skip to look at. He studied each intently, then shook his head and walked away, leaving the merchant puzzled and, following after, pleading.

At the next souk in the aisle, Skip started all over again. The young merchant there, filling in, confessed to Skip in English that he did not know blankets very well. He would simply show Skip every blanket he had. One by one, Skip declined, until he’d gone through them all. Then he started to depart the souk, gesturing for Emery to follow.

"I shows you everything I have," the exasperated merchant implored. "You no likes this one. You no likes that one. You says you wanting koo-ahl-ee-tee. I shows you koo-ahl-ee-tee. You no likes paying the price." The merchant now had a new idea. "Un moment," he said, and retreated to the back of the stall and came back with a bleak looking old beige blanket. He knelt, brushed his hand over the front of it, then passed his long-nailed fingertips sensuously along the blanket’s edges.

Skip’s eyes sparkled. "How much?" he asked. The young man quoted Skip a price -- eighty dirhams. Skip took the blanket into his own hands, caressed it, folded it very neatly, and then handed it back to the merchant. "Non," he said.

"Okay, okay," the merchant said. "Seventy."

Skip turned his back to the merchant and slyly showed me he had thirty dirhams in his hand. Then he turned back to the merchant again. "Twenty," Skip said calmly.

The merchant rolled his eyes. He opened up the blanket again, and held it out for the gathering crowd to see. He extolled its virtues. He showed front and back, and again ran his long fingers along its sides. "I gives it to you, forty, bottom price. You steals it from me."

"Twenty," Skip said rigidly. "Look. It’s filthy. No Arab would pay you even five dirhams for this."

"Thirty-five."

"Twenty-five," Skip said, poker-faced.

"Thirty," the merchant sighed resignedly.

"Done," Skip closed.

"It’s a top-notch blanket," Skip said, pressing further down the corridor. "It was a steal, in fact." He said it was now Emery's turn -- Emery should get in there and do some wheeling and dealing too, in a different souk. Skip extended thirty dirhams to him, which he declined -- even as a red-garbed lampshade-hatted water-seller approached. Skip handed him the thirty dirhams and cheerfully walked on. "It’s beer for us!" he said.

Dusk approached. Lights flickered on. Medina merchants began withdrawing their goods, pulling down awls, closing doors. Back at the triangular plaza of the Djemaa El Fna, lighted by lanterns, more tents had gone up -- also long, festive tables decked with shish-kebab, kettles of soup, and bowls overflowing with assorted vegetables, fish, chicken, and mutton. They ate Tijane, a Moroccan Mulligatawny stew of hotly spiced fish, semolina, and a dozen different vegetables, then headed back to Skip’s car. "C’mon," he said, putting his blanket and the two djellabas in the trunk, "We’re going camping."

Skip drove right through the Place de la Liberté, past the Hotel Marrakech, and turned down the Avenue Moulay el-Hassan toward the campgrounds along the Avenue de France, pulling in among scattered tents, buses, vans, and trailers.

Stars were everywhere, sparkling in the inkblack sky. It was as if they’d arrived at an old-fashioned drive-in theater and the stars were the show. Skip got his blanket and the djellabas from the trunk of the Mercedes and brought them to the front seats, for cover. There they slept that night.

When they got up, the sun was already blazing. Birds were singing, twittering in the Eucalyptus shags and Cypresses. The muffled morning din of campers was in progress: it could have been a campground in Yosemite, Arcadia, or the Everglades. People were getting up in their own good time, stretching and yawning, pulling wide the tent flaps, banging doors, making breakfast, sipping coffee.

They left the campgrounds and had breakfast at the restaurant of the Hotel Foucauld on the Avenue el-Mouahidane, near the post office, where Emery sent out two postcards -- one to his folks and the other to Pike. ("Keep pedaling," Emery wrote, and signed it "Newton, Newton, Newton.")

They went back to their room at the Hotel Marrakech and shaved and showered. Then Skip went out "to conduct some private business." Emery stayed behind, washed some clothes, set or hung these around the room, and then ventured out. He was drawn like a magnet to the Djemaa El Fna -- the snake charmers, soothsayers, jugglers, flame eaters, and all the rest. A kaleidoscopic swirl of dancers looked quite gone, out of their minds, driven to near frenzy by the throbbing pulse of cymbals, drums, and tambours. Some, leaping impossibly high into the air, landed lightly on their feet again. Astonished, Emery was almost oblivious to the urchin guides all around him, yelling and tugging on his shirt, competing for his attention.

Emery returned to the hotel two hours after nightfall. There was no sign of Skip’s having returned. He waited up another hour, then turned in. Room service knocked at the door in the morning. Emery was served breakfast in bed. On the silver tray were orange juice, toast, jam, coffee, and the morning edition of The International Herald Tribune.

The skies over Marrakech were white. A light drizzle was falling. Emery stayed in bed till eleven, then shaved and showered, dressed, and went down to the registration desk to see if Skip had left a message, which he had. "Listen, Rich," Skip had written. "Sorry. Something’s come up. Pay the hotel bill (four hundred dirham enclosed, that’ll cover it) and I’ll see you in Agadir. I’ll be at the Hotel Restaurant les Palmiers on the Avenue Sidi Mohammed. Skip."

Emery didn’t waste a minute, settling the bill with the clerk on the spot. He went back up to the room for his things. He departed the hotel just before noon, stepping out even as the sun emerged from behind dispersing clouds. He walked from the Place de la Liberté right up Avenue Hassan II to the principal route turning southwest out of Marrakech toward the Spanish Sahara and Agadir.