The Storyteller of Casablanca (16)

There were so many extraordinary things to look at. A man was sitting cross-legged in front of a wicker basket and when we drew close he took the lid off to reveal a large snake. He played a tune on a strange-looking pipe and began to rock back and forth and the snake rose up to face him, swaying along in time to the music as it unfurled itself. The way the brown, scaly coils of its body slid over themselves so silently and effortlessly and its hood opened above eyes that were cold-looking and unblinking made my stomach twist with a feeling of sick fear. I was very relieved when the snake finally sank back down into its basket and the man put the lid back on, although my stomach still felt a bit queasy for quite a long time afterwards. When I put a few coins in the hat the man held out, I snatched my hand back quickly, thinking the snake might push its way out of that flimsy-looking basket at any moment and sink its fangs into me. After that, we moved on a bit and watched a juggler who could throw knives high in the air and catch them without cutting himself. My heart was in my mouth!

There was a storyteller too. Nina explained to me that in Moroccan culture they have special people who know all the old stories and it’s quite a performance when they tell them. Her auntie, the dreamseller, is too old nowadays to tell stories in public, so we would visit her in the privacy of her own home, which is Nina’s home too. But this storyteller was a very public one. First of all, a musician banged a drum to announce that the storyteller was there and the crowds started to gather. Then the story began to unfold, but the storyteller didn’t just sit quietly and say the words, he acted it out and had the whole crowd laughing uproariously or trembling in fear or gasping in amazement. I didn’t understand what he was saying as it was all in Darija, but that didn’t really matter because he was so good at expressing each of the characters that I found I could still follow the gist of it. There was a little boy and a powerful sultan and an evil djinn who was threatening everybody. The sultan and his army tried to overthrow the djinn, but in the end it was the little boy’s cunning that won the day. At the end of the story the crowd cheered and clapped and the musician came round with a hat for people to throw money into so I put in a couple of francs, which was most of the pocket money I had left, but the storyteller deserved it for his excellent and entertaining performance.

Then we went back to Kenza’s house for some refreshments and she left us playing in the courtyard while she went to get on with some cooking. That was our chance. Nina put a finger to her lips and led me to a staircase in one corner of the building. My heart was in my mouth in case Kenza came back and caught us as we climbed to the floor above the courtyard and crept along the tiled passageway to the door to the ancient auntie’s room. I felt a bit bad about disobeying her, but I really wanted to get some better dreams to help me sleep well. Nina knocked quietly on the door. I was excited and a bit nervous at the same time at the prospect of meeting the dreamseller. I only had a few sous left over from giving tips to the snake charmer and the juggler and the storyteller, but Nina said that should be enough to buy a good dream.

A soft voice called to us to come in and Nina pushed the door open. It was quite dark inside the room and it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust after the brightness of the whitewashed walls of the courtyard. The room smelled of incense and patchouli oil, and a small tin candle lantern cast the patterns of stars on to the walls. In the corner sat the dreamseller and Nina ushered me forward to sit on a pile of soft cushions at her feet. She drew back her shawl from over her hair, which was as white as snow, and peered at me with her bright eyes. Her face was very lined and also she had tattoos on her forehead and her chin. I asked Nina about the tattoos afterwards and she told me it was an old tribal custom but it’s frowned on in Islam because altering the creation of Allah is haram, which means forbidden, so people don’t really have it done so much any more.

The old lady reminded me a bit of a bird, putting her head on one side as she watched me. Her shawl was beautiful, covered with embroidered designs that Nina says tell the stories of her tribe. She lived in the desert before she came to be nearer her family in the medina. The dreamseller spoke in French and asked me to tell her who I was and why I’d come. I told her about the bad dreams and she nodded. All the time I was talking, her eyes never left my face. It was like she was listening to my words but taking in everything else about me too, hearing the things I wasn’t saying out loud as well as the ones I was. I felt as if she was reading the secrets of my innermost soul, which was a bit disconcerting, but at the same time I sensed this was someone I could trust completely. When I’d finished telling her about my dreams and how I was too afraid to go back to sleep sometimes after them, she reached out and took my hand in hers, which was like the claw of a bird too and painted with henna in patterns and swirls like the tattoos on her face. She closed her eyes for a few moments. And then she started to talk, telling me my own story. As far as I can remember, this is what she said:

‘The first part of your journey is over. The next part is only just beginning. You are going to find a new home in a land that is strange to you at first, but it will take you into its heart and you will be safe there. There are difficult times ahead, but your own heart is filled with courage and you are stronger and braver than you know.’

She stopped for a minute and looked at me again, with her head tipped to the other side. Then she smiled a very kind smile that softened the fierceness of her face, and said, ‘When the moon shines on one hundred bowls of water, no matter where they are, each bowl is filled with moonlight. Remember that when you wake in the night. The moon that shines on you here is a reminder that love is like the moon in those bowls of water – it is everywhere. Your bad dreams come from the fear and the sadness you carry with you. It’s now time to let them go. Love and courage are stronger than those things. It’s only when you let go of fear and grief, though, that you will find the freedom to be brave and to love fully.’