that was permanently fastened to his lips. The
third guardian was called Mohammed, but known by all as the
Bear. He was strong as an ox, had enormous hands, a hooked
nose and a nervous twitch.
Hamza, Osman and the Bear spent most of their time skulking
in the stables at the bottom of the garden, hoping that I
would forget about them. On the rare occasions that they ever
spoke to me, it was to remind me of the grave dilemma, the
predicament of the jinns.
In the West, a house that has been boarded up for years on end
might attract squatters. They can damage the place and be near
impossible to evict. But in Morocco there is the threat of a far
more turbulent force awaiting the unsuspecting. Leave your
home empty for more than a moment, and it could fill from the
floor to the rafters with an army of invisible spirits, called jinns.
The Qur'ān says that when God created Man from clay, he
fashioned a second form of life from 'smokeless fire'. They are
known by many names – genies, jnun, jinns – and they live all
round us in inanimate objects. Some jinns are good-natured, but
most are wicked, enraged by the discomfort they believe that
humanity has caused them.
We spent many months renovating the house and cleansing it
of the jinns. The guardians insisted they were lurking in the
water tanks, in the toilets and under the floor. Living with jinns
or, worse still, around people who believed in them caused
unimaginable stress.
Most of the time I was trapped in Casablanca. The days and
nights were filled with builders, artisans and an ever-expanding staff, all
of them fearful of the paranormal forces they said encased our lives. From
time to time I did manage to break free. I crisscrossed Morocco on the trail
of building supplies, craftsmen and exorcists capable of dispatching the wayward
jinns. It was easy to forget that out there, beyond the wilds of the shantytown,
there was a land ablaze with vitality, history and culture: a kingdom waiting
to be discovered.
One morning I found Osman sitting on an upturned bucket
staring out at the hibiscus hedge. It was early summer and
already far too hot to work, too hot even to think. I had taken the
guardian a cup of chilled orange juice, droplets of condensation
running down the side.
He smiled broadly, teeth glistening, thanked me, then God
and, after a long pause, he said,
'Monsieur Tahir, you have been here at Dar Khalifa for more
than three years.'
'It's gone fast,' I said.
The guardian gulped down the juice and turned slowly until
his watery brown eyes locked into mine.
'And what have you learned?'
'What do you mean?'
'About our kingdom . . . what do you know?'
I thought for a moment, considering the journeys I had made
in search of mosaics and exorcists, tortoises and cedarwood.
'I've seen a lot,' I said. 'I've travelled north to the Mediterranean,
right down south to the Sahara and all the way into the
High Atlas.'
Osman slid a sleeve under his nose. He kept my gaze.
'You don't know us,' he said sharply. 'You don't know
Morocco.'
A jab of disbelief pricked my stomach. What's he talking
about? I thought.
'I know Morocco as well as anyone who's lived here for as
long as I have.'
The guardian put his thumbs in his eyes and rubbed very
hard. Then he looked at me again.
'You have been blind,' he said.
'What?'
'Blind.'
I shrugged.
'Morocco may have passed under your feet, but you haven't
seen it.'
'I'm sure I have.'
'No, Monsieur Tahir, believe me. I can see it in your face.'
Many of my earliest memories are of listening to stories. Our
childhood home was filled with A Thousand and One Nights , or,
as they are more popularly known, The Arabian Nights . I would
sit there enthralled hour after hour at the exploits of Aladdin
and Ali Baba, of Sindbad, and the world of the Caliph Harun ar-Rachid.
There was always talk of chests overflowing with
treasure, of princesses, and handsome princes charging on
stallions liveried in gold, of ghouls and