Floored by a Carpet Salesman by Susan Storm
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Villa Shayanne
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I'm completely lost down a dank dung-strewn alley, staggering under the deadweight of a carpet. I'd like to abandon it somewhere, except that it was made by a virgin Berber girl, deep in the Sahara, whose fingers bled in the process. And I'm being followed by an Arabic curse.
My teenage son and I had just arrived in Marrakech. We were negotiating our way across a muddy street crowded with donkey carts, bicycles, blanket clad pedestrians and ancient cars, when a man sidled up to us.
"Eye gham Mohamed,," he said through teeth clenched to resemble the jaw of a donkey struggling with a load of olives uphill, " yoor loyell hund geksperiensed gaid. You vant buy baboushkes, carpets, hashish, dates? Your boy vant gekserienced vooman?"
No, I said. No carpets, cousins, or, yanking my grinning son away from Mohamed's side, jiggie jiggie. We just want to go into the souks. And we want to be left alone. Thank you.
"Eye yam honly vanting to prektis Hinglieesh," sniffed Mohamed haughtily, shunting deeper into his djellaba, the hooded cloak that is the national uniform of Morocco, and that made him look as if he was an extra in Lord of the Rings.
Undeterred, our loyal and experienced guide followed us into the Djemaa el Fna, Marrakech's main square, where the scratchy impeachments of recorded muezzin's called the faithful to prayer, and the no-so faithful to the kitchens and the pool halls. Over the wail of motorbikes, the bray of donkeys, and the din of tortured string instruments, it's the place to be when the heavy, dusty sun sets behind the ancient, crumbling minarets. Then the bustling square comes alive with acrobats, snake charmers, medicine men, teeth pullers, pickpockets, kick boxers, fortune tellers, orange squeezers, date sellers, hashish representatives, transvestites - all the usual people you'd see on a Saturday evening stroll downtown.
Beyond the ornate, carved arch of the two thousand year old souk, the ancient walls are obliterated by hundreds of ceramic plates, brass tray tables, leather luggage, chess sets and candleholders. The muddy, narrow paths are blocked by multitudes of people carrying rolled up carpets, brass pots, live chickens and oranges.
Deeper and deeper we wandered, followed by a grinning Mohamed, who knew that the deeper we went, the less chance we'd have of finding our way out unaided, and his following would pay off.
People slipped behind heavy doors, carrying brass pots. Veiled women washed their hands at ornate fountains. There were impeachments to buy silver, pottery, glassware from every doorway. I had just sat down on a roll of carpets to rest my legs, when it's owner rushed up to me, but Mohammed was faster.
"Come!" he said, tugging on my arm. "Time for mint tea! I show you my brother!"
"Mint tea and brother okay, Mohamed, but please, no carpets!", I begged, but followed him down a laneway where a donkey laden with olives emptied its bladder on the stones and a woman in a white robe walked past with an iguana in a plastic bag.
"My brother!" announced Mohamed proudly at the entrance to two heavy carved doors that opened onto a gloriously coloured tomb. Assessing our financial worth by our sneakers and lack of American accents, Mohammed's brother scowled, but grabbed both our arms and yanked us inside.
"Mohamed!" I called to his fleeing back. "No carpets! You pro ...." But he was gone.
Mohamed's "brother" schmoozed up to us, glowering through narrowed eyes. "I gham Mohamed," he said, "Yes. You buy carpet. Very ship prise." The doors behind us slammed ominously.
He clicked his fingers and three male assistants came out, staggering under the weight of years of the work of nimble fingered small children and desert dwelling virgins.
"SIT!" he ordered, and we did, on a long bench under a cascade of carpets. A shuffling servant brought us sugared mint tea - a heady and delicious brew concocted by merchants of old to ensure that innocents and their cash part company with the greatest possible speed. Mohamed the Second's eyes narrowed even further as he waited for the narcotic effects of the ubiquituous brew to take effect. He barked in Arabic to his servants, an instruction which would probably translate as "Roll out the carpets, fool, we've got another two morons here."
"We're poor backpackers", I spluttered between sips of mint. "We're not interested in buying carpets, thankyou. We just want to look at them."
"Just looking? What ya mean, just looking? Today ... you coming buying!" He jaw set, a muscle in his cheek twitched and his assistant flung out more woollen beauties.
"This one - kilim from Rif Mountains." he snarled, curling the weave over his finger like worry beads. "See, many squares. This one soft like goat skin for prayer rug. This one good strong from Tuareg". They were quite, magnificently, beautiful.
"But Mr Mohamed , Sir," I said, as I stood and replaced the tea on the metal tray. "We're really not buying today. This tea is wonderful but we must leave now."
His face purpled. "SIT! You not going". You buying carpet.". My heart thumped in my chest and resonated like the skins in the tanneries being slapped on the dye vaults. Slowly, the mint began to work its way through my reasoning centre to render me as helpless, and hapless, as all the other tourists before me.
"Well, how small do they pack?" I squeaked. Immediately the assistant began to roll up the magnificent piece at my feet.
"No, no. I mean one like that little one over there". I pointed to an irregular, roughly woven rug, the colour of the dunes of the Sahara and a hot African sunset.
"Little one? You call that masterpiece little one?" His eyes burned with fury. "This one - wedding carpet of Berber girl." He fumed. "Vary rahr. Many months making in desert tent. Girl not to be married until good carpet maker."
"I give it you one thousand US dollars, ship," he snarled, throwing it onto the floor where it cowered under his fury. I laughed. I told him I wasn't interested, thanks for the demonstration, would he unbolt the door and find our guide?
He swore in Arabic, muttered in French, and cursed in English. He spluttered that because of my inability to make up my slow and stupid mind, his son wouldn't be able to go to university and overthrow all capitalist governments. His wife would go blind because he didn't have money for her cataract operation. His assistants would starve in their mud dwellings, because they depended on the generosity of people like us to keep them alive. He'd have to slaughter his camels, sell his virgin daughter to an (ugh!) American (here he faced Mecca and intoned the name of Allah) and there wouldn't be any lamb tonight for the annual pot of tagine. Quite obviously a sorry state of affairs, all round.
"I don't have enough money!" I protested.
"Credit card!" he glowered, coming so close to me that I could see the hairs in his nose twitching. "All you rich tourists have credit cards!"
"It's too heavy!" I complained.
"No. It weigh like your coat. Nothing." he said, picking at my parka as if it had been slept on by a camel. Your big son here," he sniffed contemptuously at my pride and joy, "he carry."
My son bristled. He knew we had weeks ahead of camel trekking through dunes, riding trucks through snowy passes, trains and public buses. The assistants had rolled up the other carpets and turned off most of the lights. Our tea had been whisked away. The little Berber bride's sampler lay forlornly on the floor. I moved towards the doors. Then I thought again about the worn fingers of the tired and hungry little girl who'd made it, how she'd probably traded her virginity to ensure it got across the desert to reside in this ancient residence ruled over by a tyrannical salesman.
"Okay, I sighed. I'll give you a hundred dollars," I said, hoping his disgust would facilitate our speedy exit.
He stood in front of me, chest to chest, his hands folded across the white folds of his finely woven djellaba. I could feel his rage like white heat.
"What you say?" he shrieked, as if I'd just asked to marry his daughter to my son.
"A hundred dollars." I giggled, fortified by the mint tea.
"A hundred YOO ESS dollars? For that masterpiece? That almost killed the young bride making it? That she GAVE AWAY so that you tourists could make us STARVE with your meanness?"
"Yes." I answered. "One hundred dollars".
He was livid. He came up to me and glowered right in my face, his eyes black as the wet leather in the tanneries. I could smell rosewater on his skin.
"One hundred dollars? You insult me madam. For this work of art that you take back to your country and forget with all your other souvenirs? I know your kind. You come here all the time and RIP US OFF. You KNOW NOT the value of this work." I backing off from his jabbing finger, protesting that I didn't want it anyway.
"WHAT! Now you not want this amazing piece! Now you change your mind. First you say you pay hundred dollars, now you say you don't want. Ai! You drive me crazy!" He held the carpet so close to my eyes it lost focus. "You see this thick border? That how many times she been sick. You see this pattern in the middle? That how many brothers she has. Seven, three dead. You see that thorn design in the corner? That where she comes from, right in the High Atlas. That black shape? Her mother dead. That red thing? Her father who beat her. This rough edge? If she doesn't sell this carpet she cannot ever be married!
"You give me one more price," he sighed defeatedly, "the carpet she is yours."
I was so upset I was ready to give this unknown little girl a home in Australia and a university education. My son would get used to the idea of being waited on by an Arabic beauty who mastered in belly dancing and was adept in male feet washing. But my financial situation was something else. I gave him his one last offer.
"One hundred," I said, drawing myself up as tall as I could, "and one AUSTRALIAN dollars!"
Mohamed looked as if I'd struck him. But he honoured his deal. He nodded. He spat. His assistant huffily rolled up the carpet and disappeared with it into a back room, reappearing a few minutes later with a package as large as a watermelon. He held out a beaten brass plate.
"Give your credit card, madam. For one hundred and one disgusting dollars."
I was stunned. The carpet was mine. With a pen left behind by a Swedish tourist, I signed away my right to travel light.Mohamed returned the credit card, holding it in his left hand as if it had been used for unhygenic practices. The lights went down, the bolts were lifted.
We fled the catacomb, bride's dowry in hand. Mohamed the first was waiting outside. "You want see tannery of my brother? " he asked, offering to carry my carpet.
My son, who'd listened carefully to the Arabic insults hurled at his mother, practised them on Mohamed. Which is why we're lost in a Moroccan souk, staggering under the emotional baggage of a little girl in the Sahara.