Then the singing-girls would come out from Marrakech,
squat round-faced young women heavily hennaed and
bejewelled, accompanied by gaunt musicians in bright
caftans; and for hours they would sing sentimental
or obscene ballads to the persistent maddening twang
of violin and flute and drum. Meanwhile fiery
brandy or sweet champagne would probably be passed
around between the steaming glasses of mint-tea which
the slaves perpetually refilled; or perhaps the sultry
air, the heavy meal, the scent of the garden and the
vertiginous repetition of the music would suffice
to plunge these sedentary worthies into the delicious
coma in which every festive evening in Morocco ends.
The next day would be spent in the same manner, except
that probably the Chleuh boys with sidelong eyes and
clean caftans would come instead of the singing-girls,
and weave the arabesque of their dance in place of
the runic pattern of the singing. But the result
would always be the same: a prolonged state of
obese ecstasy culminating in the collapse of huge
heaps of snoring muslin on the divans against the wall.
Finally at the week’s end the wool-merchant
and his friends would all ride back with dignity to
the bazaar.
V
ON THE ROOFS
“Should you like to see the Chleuh boys dance?”
some one asked.
“There they are,” another of our companions
added, pointing to a dense ring of spectators on one
side of the immense dusty square at the entrance of
the souks—the “Square of the
Dead” as it is called, in memory of the executions
that used to take place under one of its grim red
gates.
It is the square of the living now, the centre of
all the life, amusement and gossip of Marrakech, and
the spectators are so thickly packed about the story-tellers,
snake-charmers and dancers who frequent it that one
can guess what is going on within each circle only
by the wailing monologue or the persistent drum-beat
that proceeds from it.
Ah, yes—we should indeed like to see the
Chleuh boys dance, we who, since we had been in Morocco,
had seen no dancing, heard no singing, caught no single
glimpse of merry-making! But how were we to get
within sight of them?
On one side of the “Square of the Dead”
stands a large house, of European build, but modelled
on Oriental lines: the office of the French municipal
administration. The French Government no longer
allows its offices to be built within the walls of
Moroccan towns, and this house goes back to the epic
days of the Caid Sir Harry Maclean, to whom it was
presented by the fantastic Abd-el-Aziz when the Caid
was his favourite companion as well as his military
adviser.
