In Arabian Nights Read Free Page B

employees like slaves.'
    The Bear appeared through the hibiscus hedge and the three
guardians fell into line, leering at me as menacingly as they
could. Relations had been strained between us since I had
implemented my brave new master plan. Unable any longer to
afford painters and gardeners, builders and handymen, I had
initiated a fresh regime, which involved the radical idea of
everyone on the payroll doing actual work. The scheme had
been unpopular from the start. As long as any of them had been
employed at the Caliph's House, the guardians were used to
lazing about down at the stables, swapping stories and fanning
the flames of their own supernatural belief. But with the
exorcism and the banishment of the jinns, a new era had been
ushered in. They never said it, but I could sense that the
guardians secretly longed for the old days, a time steeped in fear
of the spirits, when they had had the upper hand.
    Every Friday afternoon I would take a notebook and a newspaper
and walk down through the shantytown to my local café.
Sitting in a coffee shop is considered a waste of time in the West,
like watching daytime TV – a pursuit for the man who has no life
at all. But after a few months in Morocco I came to realize that
café life is the gateway into the clandestine world of Moroccan
men. No woman with any self-respect would ever venture to a
male-only café, a point that provides the clientele with unprecedented
pleasure, and with security from their dominating wives.
    To be valued as a member of masculine Moroccan society, a
man is expected to put in his time, sitting, thinking, talking, or
doing nothing at all.
    My friends came to know that on Friday afternoons I could be
found at the same table, and at the same seat, in Café Mabrook,
a ramshackle haunt perched at the end of the Corniche. As soon
as word spread that I frequented a male-only café, my standing
in society was raised immeasurably. Everyone, from my bank
manager to the guardians and the plumber, seemed to regard me
with genuine respect.
    Café Mabrook was like a down-at-heel gentlemen's club. The
walls were grey-black, and the air so smoky that if it were anywhere
else there would have been a health warning nailed to the
door. The chairs were all wobbly and broken, and the floor
permanently concealed by a thick layer of cigarette ends. The
only waiter, called Abdul Latif, was middle-aged, hunched over
and missing both his thumbs. The deformity made counting out
the change all the more difficult. He didn't take orders, but
instead slapped down a glass of syrupy black coffee and an ashtray
to anyone and everyone who walked through the door.
    From the first time I poked my head inside Café Mabrook, I
was hooked. There was an irresistible charm, a faded grandeur.
But to glimpse it, you had to look beyond what the eyes or the
other senses showed. You had to rely on your imagination. Take
a seat, inhale the nicotine smog, swill a mouthful of the pungent café noir , and pause . . . Allow the atmosphere to seep inside, and
you found yourself connected to generations of Moroccan
men who had sought salvation within the grey-black walls.
    Most of the clients were henpecked local men, all hiding from
    their wives. Their faces bore the same pained expression, the look of men
    hunted every waking hour. Their wives were all clones of the same alpha female,
    beefy and fearless, the kind of woman who preyed on the weak. But, thankfully,
    the henpecked husbands had come to learn that they were safe from persecution
    in the no man's land of Café Mabrook.
     
    Each Friday afternoon an assortment of downtrodden
characters would individually make their way to my table and
balance on a broken chair – retired professors and medical men,
librarians, police officers and postal clerks. Anyone who enters a
Moroccan café knows that there's no such thing as respecting
privacy. Your presence is a signal that you are ready and willing
and available to chat.
    Over the months, I