Tom Foran Clark

Intoxicated by the now clear sky, the brittle air, and the view to the majestic snowcapped Atlas Mountains, Emery walked out on the red and green plains, spinning and bobbing like the dancers he’d seen in Marrakech. This, obviously, was not the best way to flag down a ride. Emery stopped whirling and walked on for more than two hours. Finally an elegant fellow in French garb driving a pale blue Simca stopped for him -- Mohammed Bouthabis, a travel agent who spoke broken English with enthusiasm. He was only going as far as Chichaoua, he said, but he got to talking and the next thing Emery knew they’d come to the end of the road. It seemed high cranes and concrete mega-hotels were everywhere except out on the sparkling ocean. Rambling Mohammed had driven straight through to Agadir.

"The beaches here are perfect," Mohammed commented -- ever the travel agent. "Sea bathing is possible the year ‘round." He told Emery an earthquake had flattened Agadir in 1960, killing fifteen thousand people. The things before their eyes now -- the citadel, the harbor, the concrete mega-hotels -- had all been built since then. The two went up the Avenue Sidi Mohammed right to the hotel, but Emery asked Mohammed if he wouldn’t mind dropping him off down at the waterfront instead. Emery said he'd then walk up to the hotel from there. This Mohammed was glad to do, apologizing for not joining Emery in sea bathing, as he was already so late for his appointment in Chichaoua. Mohammed took Emery down to the beach by the port and Kasbah, dropped him off, and again apologized for being in a hurry -- "It is not the Moroccan way."

It was now dusk, and all the sea bathers had departed. The beach was vast -- and empty. Emery walked down and touched the water. It was a precious moment. He’d traversed North Africa -- from Tunis on the Mediterranean Sea to Agadir on the Atlantic Ocean. Emery sat at the water’s edge a long while. He was thinking he’d maybe shake off Skip and go up the coast or return directly to Taza in the morning. He thought of sleeping on the beach that night. There were lovely stands of palms all over, offering perfect shelter and comfort. But then he had the itch to go and meet up with Skip in fact, to tell him face to face of his intentions. Skip, of course, would order up Tijane and beers, then they’d probably come down to the beach and celebrate and camp by the palms -- and then, in the morning, Emery would hit the road.

Emery went back along the Boulevard Mohammed V and turned up the Avenue Sidi Mohammed into the enormous tumble of hotel complexes to find the Hotel Restaurant les Palmiers. There he asked the clerk at the desk to ring up to Skip Gallagher’s room, to announce Emery's arrival. The clerk drew a blank. He opened a huge black book in front of him on the counter, the Hotel Register, and ran his finger down a few pages. Then he slammed the book and again stared at Emery blankly. "No some guest," he said. Emery wrote the name out longhand for the clerk and asked him to check a second time, which got him the same outcome -- "No Skip Galaga."

"Well, Merci anyway," Emery said, turning now toward the busy restaurant to see if maybe Skip was in there. Flickering candles and the clinking of silverware and wine glasses gave the place a warm, inviting ambiance. Emery roamed through, on the lookout for Skip, thinking he’d maybe ordered beers and lingered awhile before checking in. But Skip wasn’t there.

Emery now figured he had two options: go back to the clerk and get a room for the night, regardless of whether Skip would show up or not; or go back down to the beach and sleep under the palms, stars, and moonlight. He decided on the beach. So long, Skip.

He was awoken in the morning by the beautiful sounds of breezes and the ocean’s lapping. Emery gathered his things together and walked down barefoot to the water to touch it again. Then he put on his socks and shoes and walked out of Agadir.

Emery had even less luck hitchhiking now than he’d had the day before. It wasn’t until around ten or so that he got a ride. He heard a rumble approaching behind him on the road and, as he turned to wave down the vehicle, he saw it was a bus. The driver pulled over. Emery paid the fare (Agadir to Essaoura) and boarded. It wasn’t very long before the bus pulled over again, making a pit stop in Tamri. The passengers were all deposited at a café where free tea and soda were served -- but not free dates, nuts, oranges, or bananas -- then they all re-boarded. They rolled down a spare and flat terrain to Essaoura, which the Spaniards had called Mogador, where forceful winds called chergui were howling.

The ocean waves at Mogador, bitter froth blown by winds, crashed on the rocks and battlements. Robes, gowns, scarves, and turbans were adjusted, and tightened as the riders ventured forth out of the bus. Emery went to the beach but it was just an onslaught there, a harsh sandblasting, so he retreated into the village and took a room at the Hotel Tafraout. He walked back down to the high stone walls in the evening, when the thrashing winds died down to lightly swirling breezes.

In the morning, under blue skies, the sun blazing, Emery took the bus north to El Jadida. After walking over the fortified ramparts, he went into the medieval town the Portuguese had called Mazagan, and sought out the legendary Cistern, an underground water storage area with twenty-five arched pillars vaulting over the broad pool, reflected amid the elegant, shimmering variances of liquid, sun, and shade. Two young Arabs, Abdelhak and Ali, abruptly broke his reverie. "Cigarette?" Ali offered, sitting right of Emery. Abdelhak sat down to his left. Students, they were full of questions.

After about ten or fifteen minutes, Abdelhak and Ali invited Emery to go meet a friend of theirs who spoke better English. Emery followed the two into the Cité maze. Abdelhak and Ali went to the home of their friend, Bouchaib, in whose tiny spartan room a hashish pipe was passed around. Emery confessed a congenital allergic condition called susceptibility. Just being in a room where there was hashish was more than sufficient for sending Emery's head spinning. The confession, and Emery's actually declining the pipe, sent them into uproarious laughter. Emery sat by Bouchaib’s glassless portmanteau window gulping in fresh air, keeping his head clear -- laughing right along. Then the four went out, heading for Abdelhak’s, where a spare room was available for Emery to stay in that night. Abdelhak and Emery stayed up till midnight, talking. In the morning the two walked to the bus station. Abdelhak put Emery on the bus to Casa -- Casablanca.

The terrain was farmland, gold and lime-green fields and pastures. The bus rolled in to the Casa outskirts, heaps of high-rise apartments reminiscent of Oran. Emery got out of the bus and boldly went up a ladder that had been let down from its roof. Thinking he’d go up and fetch his own pack, he suddenly found himself trapped on the ladder. A second bus had pulled in, extremely close to the bus Emery was on, pinioning him. As the bus he was on began to roll away, Emery realized he was about to be shorn or shred, tightly sandwiched between the buses. He screamed. The bus stopped. When they found Emery, he was trembling, clinging for dear life to the ladder, which was now horizontal to the side of the bus. Emery took this inauspicious entry into Casablanca to be a bad omen and caught the next bus out.

In Rabat, he got a room at the Hotel Scheherezade and, in the morning, went through the tidy Medina to the oceanfront, where the pure white froth of waves crashed nicely onto sands disturbed only by the tracks of white-eyed gulls, Oyster Catchers, Ringed Plovers, and tiny so-called Turnstone birds, turning over small stones, empty shells, and seaweed strands in search of worms. From their boats and on the shore, hauling nets, local fishermen brought in swordfish, hake, sole, skates, some bass, abundant tuna.

Adjoining the Medina, not far from the waterfront, was an expansive, sloping cemetery filled with a bounty of beautifully tiled, polished, freshly whitewashed gravestones -- all facing Mecca. Emery sat in this cemetery a long while, lulled by the song of the rolling ocean breakers, then he caught the bus going to the Institute Agronomique et Vetinairie Hassan II, where Emery asked an unlikely question of a student reading under the shade of an Eucalyptus tree, "Connais vous Khadija, Hamid, Omar, Hassan, et Ali?"

"Oui. Come, I take you to them."

"Ay yai yai yai yai yai yai yai yai," Hassan chirped when he opened the door, recognizing Emery instantly. "C’est ne pas possible."

"C’est possible," Emery submitted, and now Omar was on him, hugging him right along with Hassan. Then Omar ran off to fetch Ali. Hassan explained that Khadija and Hamid were away, photographing mountain flowers. Omar now came in with Ali, who threw his arms around Emery, singing "Row Row Row Your Boat" which, of course, Emery had taught him on The Rock, Azrou. Emery stayed there three nights and two days. On the morning of the third day Ali, Omar, and Hassan put Emery on the milk train rolling west through Salé, Kentra, Sidi-Slimane, Sidi-Kacem, and Moulay Idriss on its way to Meknes.

In Meknes, it was raining. Emery did not arrive at the main train station, far from the Medina, but rather at the El-Amir Abdelkader station, nearer to the old and new villes. From there, he made his way to the Mausoleum of Moulay Ismail. Immediately, two boys attached themselves to him -- "guides." Emery waved them off. "Two dirham, M’sieur. Just two dirham. We show."

"One dirham," Emery offered, "to take me to the Maison des Voyageurs after I come out from the Mausoleum."

Emery went in through a high gateway to the gardens and perused the intricate and lavish mosaics of the Mausoleum. When he emerged, only one boy remained. He was soaked through and through. He took Emery by the hand, saying "Come, I show you," and led Emery into a labyrinth of lanes that emerged onto wide streets of orange-roofed homes. "I take you to L’ Maison," he said, "to Madame Rose."

The two arrived even as Madame Rose was running toward the house, taking cover under the front verandah, accompanied by two Arabs in djellabas. All three carried black umbrellas. The guide introduced them, took Emery's dirham in hand, then ran back into the rain.

"It has been many days since we are having a vee-zee-tor," Madame Rose said, smiling, as she set down a fishnet bag filled with groceries on a table on the porch -- bread, green olives, oranges. "You are looking to be laying down tonight?"

"Oui.," Emery answered.

"Then you are having a good one. She is very nice room."

Madame Rose took Emery up wooden stairs. The room was clean and spacious, with a bedspread, freshly washed sheets, and a fluffy pillow. "Is nice?" she asked. Emery said it was very nice. "Now you must eat," Madame Rose said, her eyes twinkling.

Madame Rose was very pretty in the face, with pink cheeks, full lips, and lovely blue eyes. She was only perhaps five feet tall. Her two Arab escorts weren’t much taller, five-feet-two at most. The four of them went down to the table under the front verandah, where she set out oranges, bread, butter, knives, glasses, and bottled soda. The two Arabs, Abdeltif and Mohammed, joined Madame Rose and Emery for this repast.

"You are coming from America?" Madame Rose asked.

Emery sketched things in a little for her.

"I am coming from Paris," Madame Rose said. "Meknes has been becoming my home now." The house had been built by the French during the latter years of their occupation of Morocco. "It is a very big house and a very nice house," Madame Rose emphasized again.

"It is really nice," Emery said.

Madame Rose went over and linked her arm in his and had him stand. "Come," she said, "I am showing you a leetle from Meknes." She took two umbrellas from a shiny copper bin by the front door and off they went, arm-in-arm in the rain, across the soggy lawn of high, uncut grass toward the hill of the Medina, stacked in jumbled heaps.

In the Medina labyrinth, the shops were closed for the afternoon. Madame Rose led Emery down shrinking lanes to the carpet sellers, sitting in their souks with their colleagues, smoking hash and sipping tea. Exotic rugs and carpets lay everywhere. Madame Rose was stopped suddenly in this particular lane by a suave, handsome, curly-haired man in a burnouse, gray and black, who spoke with her in French. She introduced him to Emery. His -- Akmar’s -- speech and manner were graceful and seductive. It seemed he was wooing her, charming both with his savoir-faire and sweet talk.

Madame Rose suddenly excused herself for the purpose of going to a Turkish Bath. As the rain had let up, she closed the two umbrellas and took them in hand. Emery and Akmar accompanied her to the entry to the Bath, where Madame Rose whispered in Emery's ear, saying when and where they should next meet.

Akmar then took Emery to the outer periphery of the Medina, providing a tour of ancient gates -- the Bab el Jedid, the Bab Berrima, and the Bab el-Mansour. He showed Emery the lush Andalusian gardens of the Dar Jemai palace at the Place el-Hadim, and the Grand Mosque. Back at the carpet sellers’ souks, charming Akmar sat across from Emery on a large, exquisite, intricately woven rug and plied him with questions.

"Is she not beautiful, Madame Rose -- no?

"She is beautiful," Emery affirmed. "She shows the sacredness of women -- human and divine."

Now Akmar asked Emery, apparently without irony, "Please be telling me something else you are believing that is being real."

"From my travels?"

"From your life -- from your being in the world."

Emery pulled on his chin and stared into the pure blue sky. "There is almost overwhelming beauty in this world," he said.

"That is true," Akmar agreed. "C’est ca. But harshness, too -- it is also in this world. Does this not sometimes make it harsh in us, so that we cannot see beauty?"

"Yes. To see the beauty there is, it must also be inside -- in our souls."

"Oui, C’est ca," Akmar agreed. "That is all good, and I thank you, Merci," he said. "But now you must be going to find Madame Rose, no?"

Of course it was now past the time Emery had agreed to meet up with her. He stood up clumsily to go, apologizing. Emery felt terrible, having so enjoyed the ease and calm of their conversing. Now here he was, jumping up, in a hurry, his composure scattered.

"Madame Rose, she is showing you a good time," Akmar commented, which Emery affirmed, clasping Akmar's shoulders -- trying to convey the depth of his appreciation for him -- before leaping away. Emery hurried to the Café Hamounia on the Rue Rouamzine, but he was too late. There was no sign of Madame Rose, so he hurried on in the direction of L’ Maison des Voyageurs .

In the yard out front of the house lingered a girl in a gown of silky pale blue sashes and ribbons, with a matching scarf wrapped turbanlike around her head. Her pleasure in the sunshine showed, glowing in her face. Abdeltif emerged on the front porch, then stepped down to stand next to the girl who, at least with her turban on, was slightly taller than him. It was the first time Emery had heard Abdeltif speak. "Rachida," he announced, gesturing formally to her, as if presenting a princess or a queen. "Richard," he then said, gesturing to and similarly presenting Emery, as if he were a prince or king.

"Emery," Emery said, bowing to Rachida in as gracious a way as he knew how. Saying nothing, she smiled luxuriously, regarding Emery with tender, melting, dark brown eyes. Emery apologized, saying he was sorry to be panting, but he’d run to the Maison from the Medina, having missed his Café Hamounia appointment with Madame Rose. Rachida continued smiling pleasantly, as if Emery had said he’d just enjoyed a quart of vanilla yogurt or walked on clover in the yard.

"She does not hears you," Abdeltif said presently.

It was now dusk. Silvery clouds lay low on the shadowy mountains. Abdeltif gestured to the porch and front door. The three entered the house -- first Rachida, then Emery, then Abdeltif.

Madame Rose awaited them, sitting in a rocking chair in the front parlor. At the center of a low, circular brown table was an oil lantern, dispensing a soft, flickering light into the room. She asked Abdeltif to take Rachida to her room, and bid Emery sit across from her in a second rocking chair. She was wearing a very lovely, translucent silk blouse and baggy white trousers -- silky Andalusian style ballooning slacks, very exotic and amusing. On her feet were delicately embroidered slippers. She suggested Emery take off his shoes.

"I’m sorry I didn’t get to the Café Hamounia on time," Emery offered, removing shoes and socks.

"Oh, that is no matter," Madame Rose made light of it. "I know Akbar," she said, touching all her thumbs and fingers to her lips, "and how captivating he is being. You are to be glad of getting free from him at all!"

Emery laughed out loud, and began rocking vigorously in the chair. He could hear soft, exotic music playing in a distant room. It wafted in with an indistinct aroma, perhaps sandalwood incense.

"Are you hungering?" Madame Rose asked. Even as Emery began answering, she interrupted him, clapping her hands. Mohammed entered the room, carrying a basket of bread, swordfish, fruits, four glasses, and wine -- three bottles: white Gris de Boulaoune, rosé Oustalet, and red Vieux Pape. Mohammed set down the basket by the lantern, and uncorked and served the Gris de Boulaoune, filling all four glasses.

Madame Rose again clapped her hands, moving to a colorfully upholstered wicker love seat between the rocking chair she’d sat in and Emery's chair. Abdeltif then came in and sat at her left side; Mohammed sat down to her right.

They ate and drank, and Madame Rose put Emery into nearly a fit of laughter, making fun of herself, standing and parading, showing off her ballooning blowzy silk pantaloons. "You like?" she teased. She then got the idea that Emery might like to try them on himelf. She insisted, so Emery took off his trousers and put on these hilarious clown pants, which were actually a delight to handle, he thought -- very silken, very soft. Madame Rose was very pleased, asking Emery also to put aside his shirt, turn in a circle, and model this garb for her. She returned to her love seat, sitting between the two Arabs, who placed their hands on her now bare thighs. While Emery put on his fashion show, Madame Rose re-filled their glasses.

Emery drank more wine. He was feeling a little giddy. When Madame Rose came up with the idea that he should also adorn himself in a similarly silken garment, her blouse, which she extended to him, he at first declined. The next thing he knew, he was buttoning it carefully, enjoying the smell of it and the smoothness of it on his skin. He began turning, displaying his makeover, this new look, feeling happily exotic and, frankly, prince-like. He should have put aside the wine at once.

Emery saw that Abdeltif and Mohammed had now placed their hands on Madame Rose’s plump breasts, fondling them at their leisure. Her face was red and radiant. She smiled beatifically at Emery.

"These silks are suiting you," she commented. "You are feeling very nicely?"

"Very nicely," Emery agreed, his head swimming. He sat down in the rocker again. Mohammed uncorked the Oustalet and filled their glasses. Madame Rose clapped her hands and, in a moment, Rachida too was in the room. She was surrounded by a soft blue aura of shimmering light, still dressed in the powder blue gown and scarves she’d been wearing earlier.

"Perhaps Rachida is also enjoying seeing you?" Madame Rose asked. Emery stood and showed himself -- now as full of ardor and pride as clownish self-mocking. Rachida brought her fingertips to her lips, painted red. She’d also done something extra to her eyelashes. Her look was sultry and pouting. Then she grinned.

"She likes!" Madame Rose sang into the room, touching the thumbs and fingertips of her right hand together in a very particular way, as if making some mysterious signal or command. Rachida immediately began unraveling the scarves wound around her head, collecting the blue ribbons in her hands, then placing them on the table, by the basket. She looked at Emery, then to the floor, and gently pulled two strings at the neck of her gown, which magically fell around her feet. Here was Rachida, brown and smooth and ample.

"Richard likes!" Madame Rose sang. "Is she not lovely, Richard? Is Rachida not a lovely creature?"

Emery just stood there in the balloon pants. All the glasses were re-filled. The third wine bottle, the red Vieux Pape, was uncorked and passed to Rachida, who stepped lightly from the blue cloth at her feet and left the room with it. Emery closed his eyes. When he re-opened them, Mohammed was kneeling before Madame Rose, running his hands gently along her thighs. Abdeltif stood behind her, his hands massaging her breasts. "Why are you not following Rachida?" Madame Rose, herself approaching ecstasy, asked Emery.

"I don’t know what to say," he said sheepishly.

"You have need of saying nothing. Rachida is not speaking or hearing. But in her loving, she is very nice. Now you must go."

Emery had mixed feelings. But it was clear he couldn’t remain where he was. He left the parlor awkwardly, still wearing the blouse and pantaloons. He went up to his room slowly, as if to face an executioner and not the second most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Rachida, openly vulnerable atop the bed sheets, was clearly not shy. Her arms reached forth, beckoning Emery, who now could not move -- he could not put one foot in front of the other to proceed. Tenderly, Rachida got up from the bed, removed the frivolous silks from him, and took his hands in hers. She touched the raisins rising from the oceans of her aureoles to Emery's already overstimulated, panting chest. He feinted dead away: he crumpled; he dropped; he folded; he fell.

When Emery came to, Rachida, sitting on the floor, was nursing him like a baby, holding his face to her breasts -- oily and sweet smelling. Here was a joy he could handle, an occasion of a kind and size he could cope with. Here was the sacred feminine -- human and divine. Emery smiled up at Rachida in awe. She smiled back gently, saying nothing.

Nothing else happened, so far as Emery knew. Rocking him gently in her arms, Rachida tenderly moved his face from breast to breast. Finally, he settled his head in her lap and fell asleep. He dreamed he eased his head between her thighs then climbed the rest of the way in, resolving he’d never, ever emerge from her again.

Emery awoke in the morning alone in the bed. He went to where he’d secretly ensconced his passport and money. He found them apparently secure. He shaved, washed himself at the sink, got dressed in fresh clothes from his backpack, and paced back and forth in the room.

Downstairs, someone was busy sweeping floors, collecting glasses, moving furniture. Emery was overcome with timidity. Though he had a heavy, dull hangover, the organ in his pants rose up from him like permanent implanted bone. Cautiously, Emery opened the door a crack. His shirt and pants from the night before, neatly folded, were at the top of the stairs. He exchanged these with the Andalusian garments, returned to the room, and closed the door. Emery packed his things, hauled his rucksack onto his shoulder, gingerly opened the door again, and slipped out. He got halfway down the stairs when it hit him: he’d left his money and passport in the room. He slapped himself upside the head and turned back, retrieving these. Then he set his surreptitious escape from L’ Maison into motion all over again.

It was apparently a maid, a person unfamiliar to him, who was cleaning up downstairs. She had her back to Emery. He tiptoed by. When he reached the open front door, he sped up to pass through. His shoe caught on an exposed nail or something, and he stumbled forward on the porch -- and he just kept right on going. "Bon jour, M’sieur," the maid called after him.

Emery boarded the first bus he saw. Once seated and moving down the road, he had a look inside his passport and money pouch, just for safety’s sake. There was a note for him within from Madame Rose. "I am taking small liberty of having I am trusting not too much, not too little," she had written. "We are hoping you enjoy Meknes again. M.R."

He traded buses until he finally arrived at the bus station, where he boarded the bus to Moulay Idriss. They passed through a wondrous territory of broad valleys and rolling verdant farmlands, green and golden. Huddled against the side of low hills backed by mountains was this gem or showplace of the Middle Atlas, named for a revered great-grandson of the prophet Mohammed, Moulay Idriss, who’d established Morocco’s first imperial dynasty. For the life of him, Emery couldn’t shake this picture, in his mind’s eye, of the emperor going around in balloon pants and a silk blouse. The sight of drifting clouds, the sun, the sky -- all remarkable -- could not nudge this haunting image from his mind.

Emery walked from the palace of Moulay Idriss to the excavated ruins of Volubilis, down the road a little way. On the plain, moss and lichen grew luxuriously on the tumbled stones. From the shady olive groves along the Fertassa River to the public baths, the Forum, the Triumphal Arch, and the mosaics of the homes of Venus, Orpheus, and the Nereids, the place was nothing if not provocative. It was too much beauty, far too ruined. Emery sat down on a triangle of damp grass amid the fractured remnants of towering columns and caught his breath.

He rested fifteen or twenty minutes, collecting his thoughts. Then he walked back to Moulay Idriss, where he finagled a free ride on a tourist bus going east to Fez. There he boarded the train back to Taza, where lively young Abdallah Kethouna craved having Emery's bike.