Read Online The Storyteller of Marrakesh by Joydeep Roy-Bhattacharya - Free Book Online Page B

pretty in a cheap, fraudulent way, with the kind of make-up that can turn even unattractive women into mysterious, desirable creatures. In other words, there was nothing about either one of them that was remotely out of the ordinary, and my first instinct was to chase them away, but something about their haplessness arrested my intent. I noticed that she was crying soundlessly and that he was attempting, rather ineffectually but with obvious tenderness, to stem her tears with his hands. They seemed oblivious to the fact that they were trespassing. Indeed, it was as if the shrubbery within which they had taken shelter had been planted there just to offer them sanctuary.
    Chewing on an orange, its juice dribbling down his chin, he continued: At length, the woman’s tears ceased, and her companion, with evident relief, turned his attention to a worn leather wallet which he’d taken out of his pocket and now emptied of its contents, mostly coins and a few bills. He counted the money before turning to her and saying something which reduced her to tears again.
    I was about to offer my help when I recalled my responsibilities as caretaker and realized I ought to be telling them to clear out instead. Believe me when I tell you that I wasn’t looking forward to ordering them to leave. I detest confrontations, a shortcoming for which my father has often taken me to task. But Fortune was in my favour because, even before I could venture forth from the patio, they rose of their own volition and slipped out into the street.
    Laughing softly, Youssef went on with a casual dismissiveness:
    So there it is, my friends. A perfectly ordinary encounter, albeit pregnant with possibilities. They were tourists, plain and simple, obviously down on their luck, but to all purposes innocents abroad, and hardly justifying the dire attitude of our Tuareg friend.

‌ A Weight Lifted
    Youssef’s account seemed to have displeased Mohamed, the shopkeeper, even more than the Tuareg inaden ’s, because he stood up and left the circle sullenly and without a word. Meanwhile, Youssef seemed planted there, placidly chewing on his inexhaustible supply of oranges while darting quick glances here and there to gauge the effect of his contribution.
    I gathered my wits about me. Preparing to return my story to its intended course, I found myself interrupted once again as someone directed a terse question at Youssef.
    What did they look like?
    I thought I’d already described them, Youssef said, partly with irritation and partly with surprise.
    Give us details. Hair colour, eyes, height and so on.
    The interjections came from a short, swarthy, powerfully built young man, his hands jammed into his pockets. He had the appearance of a professional bodybuilder, his face shiny with sweat as if he’d just been engaged in some strenuous exertion.
    He planted himself in front of Youssef, who drew back a little.
    Why do you want to know? Youssef asked in a reed-thin voice.
    Because you only gave us the most general descriptions, the man answered.
    The woman was tall and slightly overweight, Youssef said, somewhat defensively. He ran his tongue over his lips before continuing: She was taller than the man. She had scraggly brown hair, grimy feet. He had on a frayed brown jacket. He wore rimless glasses. He was fair and clean-shaven.
    The bodybuilder grimaced and jammed his chin forward.
    Well, I think that’s nonsense, he spat out.
    What do you mean? the orange merchant’s son gasped.
    Your depiction contradicts all of the others we’ve heard so far. I think you’re making things up. You’re a liar.
    He pronounced the word liarrr , drawing it out as if to lend it additional emphasis.
    Youssef flinched and rose to his feet. Beside the hefty youth, he seemed like a sprig of straw. His face drained of blood, his lips pale, he looked terrible.
    You’ve got nerve questioning my veracity! he exclaimed. He glanced at me for