The Caliph's House Read Online Free PDF Page B

years to ferry sheep carcasses from the slaughterhouse to the fly-smothered butcher’s stall.
    Sitting in it was like being strapped into a curious scientific experiment in which the passengers were the guinea pigs. The seats were encrusted with dead maggots, and the air around them alive with flies. No matter how many you killed, there were always more.
    After taking one look at the vehicle, I thanked the guardians, praised the butcher’s generosity, and politely refused the arrangement.
    â€œIt doesn’t have enough space,” I said.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” said the butcher. “You can fit ten dead sheep in there.” He thumbed to the rear seat. “There’s plenty of room for your entire family.”
    â€œI was hoping for a four-by-four.”
    â€œThis is far stronger than any four-by-four!” snarled the butcher.
    â€œIt has
baraka
,” said Osman. “It will bring you good luck.”
    I looked at the sordid heap of blood-splattered metal, with its cracked windscreen, smashed lights, and maggot-ridden seats.
    â€œGo on,” Osman whispered, “try it. For a few days only.”
    â€œAll right,” I said gruffly, “for a few days.”
    Only later did I begin to understand the game. It was a game I didn’t know I was playing, a game that everyone in Morocco—not only foreigners—is forced into by their family and friends. Moroccans see it as their duty to help those they are close to. Not being of assistance at all times can bring dishonor and disgrace on the family. This wonderful tradition has evolved into a state in which everyone tries desperately to get you to do what they think is best for you. I knew the system well from years spent in Asia. Had I rented a car from Avis, Budget, or Hertz, the guardians and their families would never have been able to live down the shame—the shame of not getting involved.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    LIKE ALMOST EVERY OTHER vehicle in Casablanca, the butcher’s wretched Toyota was dented on every side and was falling to bits. I hated it, but at the same time, I valued it for the veil of authentic camouflage it provided. When out driving, no one would take me for a foreigner, or so I thought.
    The moment I crept timidly into the ferocious stream of traffic, retching from the stench of rotting blood, I stood out like a pacifist on a battlefield. Moroccan traffic isn’t like normal traffic. It’s armed combat, a war of wills, in which only the very bravest have a chance to survive. Every driver, except for me, was an expert in swerving. You could veer sharply to the left or right without any warning and be quite certain that all the other cars would swerve out of the way.
    On the first day on the road, I realized that I had to find someone who could help get things done and act as a bridge between us and everyone else. The constant swerving was fraying my nerves. I called François and asked him for advice on how best to choose an assistant.
    â€œYou have to show your teeth,” he said. “It’s dog-eat-dog out there. A man with no teeth is swallowed in one gulp.”
    â€œI’ll be hard,” I said weakly. “I’ll ask tough questions. I’ll bare my teeth.”
    â€œThat’s not enough,” the Frenchman said frostily.
    â€œWhat else can I do?”
    â€œTell each applicant to bring their family tree to the interview.”
    â€œWhat good will that do?”
    François clicked his tongue at my ignorance. “Hire the person with the longest family tree,” he said. “They’ll have contacts. They’ll be survivors.”
    I thanked François, but he wasn’t listening.
    â€œTell me,” he said, “did you fire the first ten people who walked into your office?”
    â€œNo, not exactly, François. You see, I don’t have an office, and the only people I have working for me were inherited. I