The heat of the day died away in the square of Jemaa El Fna – in the foot hills of the Atlas Mountains darkness falls like a hawk – the water sellers faded into the wings, swallows gave way to bats and stall holders piled up their dishes of sizzling little fish; ready for the night's cast of sorcerers, fire-jugglers, fortune tellers, necromancers, storytelling lute-players, snake charmers and goggle-eyed wayfarers. On the balcony of the cafe, Moon on the Mountain, diners warmed their feet by terracotta bowls of burning charcoal, a last gust of desert breeze filled the air with the smell of coriander and mutton from the steaming tagines into which fat men dipped their bread and watched the night's spread of sellers, tellers and travellers.
Tashfin, the storyteller, picked up his lute, "I feel the cold in my bones," he said and pulled up the hood of his gown which had once been of many colours.
Almohad, the snake charmer, helped him to his feet.
"You're always complaining," Almohad's gown had always been the colour of the dirt in the square.
"I come from a hot land," said Tashfin.
"You've lived here all your life," Almohad said as they walked to the side of the cafe. They sat down on two empty drums of cooking-oil and lit a cheap little oil lamp.
"My ancestors came from Persia," said Tashfin.
"They were Gypsies."
"No, they were Dom."
"You never even knew your father."
"What would a thieving Berber know?"
"Berbers are not thieves. Long ago we were pirates, though."
"So what's a pirate doing here, miles from the sea?"
"A stopping place; Berbers are... like seeds carried by the breeze, falling and taking root .... wherever."
"Occasionally, amongst your constant stream of babble, by chance there's a droplet of truth. Berbers are seeds but the Dom are swallows; travelling the World until the approaching winter tells them it's time to go home.... I'll soon be going home."
"Save your dreams for your storytelling, Tashfin; you can never go back."
"I'm Dom, my future is promised."
"You'll die here.... probably of hunger, unless that murderous cutthroat Spaniard brings our food soon. Where is he?"
"I feel the winter's coming ... time to keep the promise."
"What promise is that, Tashfin?"
"Tell a thieving snake eater?"
"I told you I'm not a thief."
"You said you're a pirate."
"Tashfin, if I don't get some food soon, I might have to eat one of my snakes."
"They've been dead too long."
"They're not dead."
"So why don't they kill you?"
"Because they look into my eye and see an honest Berber."
"If anything gets close enough to look into your eye your bad breath will kill it. You fraud."
"You're the fraud."
"Me? Why?"
"Your stories are like donkey piss: go on forever and are worthless."
"Great poets have travelled from all over the world to listen to my stories."
"And cursed their wasted journeys. No one ever understands a word."
"My stories are told in Domari."
"That fire-eater spoke Domari, he couldn't understand you."
" The fire-eater was a fool. I speak an ancient dialect of Domari."
"What's the point of a story that no one understands?"
"I understand them."
"Remember what happened to that fire eater, Tashfin, poor man, burnt to a cinder..... Shall I put my head in the door and see if the food's on its way?"
"Stick your Berber head in the kitchen and the Spaniard will chop it off."
"Tell me your story, Tashfin, it might take my mind off my hunger but, please, not in Domari."
"Alright! But don't interrupt." Tashfin's old eyes sparkled into life.
"Once the mighty Bahram-Gur, seven great towers did build with storytellers and royal princesses; each for his nightly pleasures. Beneath the golden dome Tashfin-Dom spun turquoise tales, under the waxing moon to the touch of a golden lute. Night by night his stories conjured the princess into a web of trembling desire. Eventually, their love discovered, they fled on horseback following the setting sun. Through Palestine, Egypt and into the Great Desert, with Bahram-Gur's assassins close behind. Then, lost, their horses dead, their water gone, they sat under the crackling starlight and Tashfin-Dom sang of star-crossed love. Until over the princess's tear-streaked cheek fell a moon-shadow; cast not by Death's embrace but by the figure of a lion, and bright in the creature's eye shone hunger."
"Oh, you're making me hungry, Tashfin. Where's that food?"
The door opened, light flooded out into the alleyway and the Spaniard came out with a tin of stew and some half eaten bread.
"Peace be with you," said Almohad, eyes fixed on the tin.
"Seen any dogs around here?" asked the Spaniard.
"No! Not one," said Almohad.
"Must be you two I can smell. The old chef is soft in the head, if it were me.... I'd know what to do with two scrounging dogs...." the Spaniard drew his finger across his throat twice and dropped the food on the ground.
"Allah is merciful," said Almohad.
They ate the food and lit cigarettes.
"So?" asked Almohad.
"A little too much grit, but not bad."
"No, the story.... what happened... the lion?"
"Oh, Tashfin-Dom made a pact with the lion: if he spared them, one of their children would return every generation. The lion agreed, led them to water, they escaped and settled here."
"The lion's a symbol then?"
"I don't explain my stories."
"Yes, but was there a real lion or was it a dream?"
"Everyone meets a lion once in their lives."
"I've never met a lion."
"One day..."
"It's pretty unlikely, Tashfin, the most dangerous thing around here is the Spaniard. One day, I swear, he'll murder us in our sleep.
So that's it? The story you've been telling all these years? The one no one understands?
"Not for much longer. I must keep Tashfin-Dom's promise and return."
"What, to Egypt? You can't even walk to the square without your stick."
"I've money."
"Money! How much?"
"Quiet! The Spaniard has big ears."
"If you have money, Tashfin, you have choices. You're a Gypsy, I'm a Berber, but we're alike, shared many things over the years, we're not Bedouins, leave the desert to them. I have plans Tashfin, good plans.... but no money."
"You should have saved your money, my Berber friend."
"Listen, my son works for the customs in Paris, has a flat, a wife and children. We could go there together, I'll introduce you and he'll get us positions. Tashfin let's go forward not back."
"You're a stupid Berber with a couple of fangless snakes and I'm a Dom storyteller. What would we do in Paris?"
"My snakes aren't fangless."
"Then they'll kill your son's children."
"I'll leave the snakes here, Tashfin; I hate snakes anyway."
The two men climbed into a little lean-to by the back wall of the restaurant, lay down and put out the lamp.
"I hate the cold."
"Tomorrow the sun will shine."
In the morning Almohad stretched his aching limbs, warmed his back on a sunlit wall and watched his piss make spirals in the dirt.
"Hey, Tashfin wake up. There's a rich Frenchmen looking for a storyteller. Sweet, sweet honey. Hey! Tashfin."
He knelt down to shake Tashfin. But Tashfin couldn't be shaken, he was stiff.
Almohad stared, didn't know what to do, walked away a few paces, turned.... "Tashfin! Wake up."
He rolled Tashfin over. His arms were stiff. One hand was clutching something. Almohad prised open the stiff fingers, undid the string at the top of a leather bag. Money! Lots of money. Tashfin's travel money.
Almohad stared at it. He was not a thieving Berber; he would never rob a corpse, especially the corpse of a friend.
The train to Casablanca left at 7:30 that night, from there Almohad could get a ship to Marseille and a train to Paris. He'd bought some fish and bread, it tasted good. The carriage was warm and the seat was soft. He watched the farms slip by in the moonlight. The rhythm of the train sounded like Tashfin's lute playing. When he was younger Tashfin had played sweet music. Almohad wished he had told him that. The thieving Spaniard would have stolen Tashfin's lute the moment he'd found his body. Almohad had made a deal with Tashfin's corpse before he'd left: Tashfin's money for Almohad's snakes. Fair trade's no robbery. He'd slipped the snakes into Tashfin's money bag. They'd have been hot and angry by the time the Spaniard searched Tashfin.
Almohad gazed out under drooping eyelids, across the fields, beyond the hills and beyond the mountains. His eyes closed. There, in the Great desert, lay Tashfin. Under the moon and stars, his coat of many colours now bright and clean. His stick in his hand, lute by his side and a jug of water for his journey. Soon, the lion would come, stand and watch over Tashfin, the sleeping gypsy.
Part 2
The narrative point of view.
I chose the "Third person, objective author" Option. I wanted to show the place, then tell the story from dialogue. I wanted the POV to be somewhere between the two main characters for most of the story. As Tashfin is the stronger character it makes his death seem more of a surprise. In the last section the narrator becomes privy to Almohad's thoughts as he begins to fall asleep.
the tense,
I experimented with present tense but the last section did not work properly seeming very artificial and I did not want swap and change tenses in such a short piece.
any particular genre it might be written in
It was not intended to follow any particular genre although it is probably allied to historical romance and travel writing. It has a poetical/romantic storytelling section.
the point at which your story begins
The story of migrating gypsies begins some hundreds of years ago but I wanted to concentrate on the two main characters. I needed to set out the scene that a traveller might come across in Marrakech first and then tell the story from the dialogue. The history is told in a storytelling style by the "storyteller". I experimented with the Snake Charmer retelling the whole story whilst on the train but it became a different story. There is a time shift, which leaves the reader lingering over Almohad's dilemma about Tashfin's money which is resolved later on the train.
the particular emotion or overall mood you are trying to convey
I wanted to convey the love/hate relationship between the two characters who have different views on life and to recreate the wonder a visitor gets in exotic places. The story ends with a description of Rousseau's painting "The Sleeping Gypsy" which was the inspiration for the story.
