Ominous Morocco
What is it I’m sensing? Is it a warning sign?
I ‘m perched on a tiny three-legged stool in the corner of a rug merchant’s musty store in Fez, Morocco, like a bug trapped in a spider’s web. The merchant looms above me pouring a cup of mint tea, the liquid cascading down from his upheld arm, down, down to a tiny tea cup on a silver tray on the ground. He has done this hundreds of times for tourists, perfecting his pour. I am here to buy a rug, yet I am suddenly having second thoughts. What is it I’m sensing? Is it a warning sign? We sip the sweet tea as the merchant smiles and tells me how discerning I am in. Two teen boys appear at his side. He has somehow silently signaled for them. Come, come, he says, as I finish my tea.
The boys begin their coordinated performance. In unison, one on each side of the pile of rugs, they flip the top rug back and then another turn back upon itself, just enough to reveal the rug beneath it. This one? It is beautiful, no? No. Another flip, and another. I stand silently, but smiling, so as not to appear rude. I do not know what the conventions are for banter while being sold. I am a foreigner.
They flip another and another. The rugs begin to blur. Red, ocher, tan, red, ocher, tan. The rug pile is now below the boys’ shoulders. Now below their chests. The mound of flipped rejections towers behind them.
I hold up my hand. This one, I say. It is deep blue with a red diamond. Crudely woven, rough. No, that is no good, the merchant says. Not for you. I allow him that and the flipping continues.
No, that is no good, the merchant says. Not for you.
Out of guilt, I hold up my hand again. Choose. Just like another one, the distinctions lost to the senses — musty, close air, a riot of colors on the walls and the floor, stacks of rugs, rolls of rugs, everywhere. I haggle the price down. I cannot go below this price, the merchant says. I know he is lying. I shrug. He sighs. We agree. The merchant wraps the rug in brown paper. I will return tomorrow to arrange shipping. He apologizes for the inconvenience. He feigns graciousness. When I turn my back he is signaling something to his assistant. I am suspicious. But I must trust. I am the foreigner. This must be how it is done.
Outside, an unease. Again today. I’ve felt it since I arrived. In the air, the mu’azzin’s melancholy call to worship, the smell of clay and donkey dung. Donkeys push past, heads drooping, mint piled high on their carts.
And everywhere walls. High, white-washed walls, leaning in above me so only a slice of sky is visible when I look up. A maze of ever-shrinking alleys. Up above, reams of blue-dyed cloth hang on lines, drying, ripped and tangled yarn, a dead Mr. Snuffleupugus. And everywhere men.
Dark-eyed men, sipping coffee, tugging on the water pipes, hawking rugs and trinkets and pottery. Jostling, insistent men. Why do I feel so threatened, I wonder. Foreigner. Surrounded by the unknown.
Follow me, a man says. No, I say. Yes, yes, I show you. No. Firmer now. He begins walking ahead of me, always two steps ahead. I have no choice but to follow. I am going where he is going. At our destination, deeper into the medina, he demands payment. No, I say. He raises his voice. I don’t like the look in his eyes. I pay him. He says something I cannot understand and walks off.
The next day, I return to the rug merchant to arrange the shipping. He does not remember me. I describe the rug. Oh yes, he says. It is not expensive enough for him to offer me another cup of tea. I write out my address on a tiny postcard. I pay in advance. I will never see this rug, I realize. Or maybe I will. I have no choice.
Follow me, a man says. No, I say. Yes, yes, I show you.
Later, in the hot afternoon sun outside my hotel, I am met by a young man who will be driving me to Ouarzazate. He is smiling, kind. I relax. He asks me if I’d like to see his house. No, I demur, thank you, though. Do not worry, he says, my mother and sister are home. I do not want to seem rude. It is a custom to take tea I presume. And I will be with this man for a long ride to Ouarzazate. Okay, I say, show me.
We wind through the medina in an area I have not yet been. I begin to wonder how I will find my way back. Around another corner he stops in front of a massive wooden door, chipped and dinged. He heaves it open, and steps through into a courtyard. I follow. I will go no farther than the courtyard until I see women, I think. The courtyard is an oasis of green and cool. Mosaic tile mesmerizes the eyes. Soothes. Wait here, he says. I will get tea. I keep my hand within reach of the door.
My eyes adjust to the cool gloom. In the corner, in a curtained nook, his sister is watching television. I exhale. My friend returns with tea on a silver platter. He rolls his eyes at his younger sister. We drink. He is proud of his home. He has slowly built it out with the money he earns as a guide. We talk about America. I finish my tea and thank him for the hospitality. I leave through the heavy door. I feel his eyes on my back as I do.
I will be glad to be gone from here, I think as I retrace my steps to my hotel.
