Down in the Djemaa el-Fna two young boys stumbled past the fruit vendors, lips rimed with silver paint, faces flushed, dizzy on fumes and poverty. On the far side of the square, near the snake charmers and herbalists, a little Berber girl posed for a photograph, her hand reaching for the offered coin before the shutter closed.
Yes, I thought, here was the sacrifice. And my own capacity for love? How would I know it? Would I put my hands to the rough wood, or would I give the boy instead? How would I know my own courage, my own cowardice? How would I know my own child?
From somewhere in the distance came the long slow call to midday prayer. Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar… Ashhadu an la Ilah ila Allah… Ashhadu an Mohammedan rasul Allah… Haya ala as-sala… Haya ala as-sala. In the name of Allah, Lord of the Worlds, the Beneficent, the Merciful. There is no God but the one God, and Mohammed is his messenger.
Would I feel it, I wondered, love, like a wound?
Down in the square a group of men had gathered around a common spigot and were drawing buckets of water to wash their hands and feet for their prayers. And in the desert, when there was no water, you washed yourself with sand. And when there was no sand, you went through the motions of ablution. How did I know that?
There was a commotion inside the café, a scuffle of some kind, and I turned my head in time to see three waiters converge on a small figure. It was a child, a beggar, it looked like, up from the square to use the bathroom. The men surrounded it as if it were a rat at a royal wedding banquet, hands grasping the frail limbs, and hustled it toward the stairs.
I peered over the railing and down toward the front door. After a few minutes the men emerged, half carrying, half pushing the boy in front of them. They shoved him out into the square, each spouting fierce Arabic, then headed back inside.
The boy paused a moment before turning his face up toward where I sat. It was the little Berber boy, the child of the woman who had hennaed my hands earlier. He made a motion toward me with one hand, then put the other hand to his eye, as if covering it deliberately with a patch. I stared down at him, and he went through his pantomime again. The woman with the bad eye, I thought. Had they taken me up on the twenty-dirham offer?
Nodding my understanding, I hastily paid my waiter, then headed down the stairs. The boy was waiting for me just outside the front door. He stepped forward when I emerged, holding up four dirty fingers. “Forty dirhams,” he said in thick French.
I shook my head. It wasn’t even four euros, but still, I felt like I was being played for a sucker.
“I take you to the woman with the broken eye,” he said.
“Twenty,” I insisted, “and it’s the boy I want to find.”
“Thirty,” he countered. “I take you now.”
I reached into my pocket, pulled out ten dirhams, and handed the money to him. “You can have the rest when we find him,” I said.
He looked petulantly at the money, then shoved it into the pocket of his pants and motioned for me to follow him.
It was cool in the medina. The thick honeycomb of walls held the morning’s air and kept the day’s heat at bay. The boy ducked around a corner like a rabbit going down a hole, and I plunged after him, deeper into the warren of alleys. Only a thin strip of blue sky was visible above our heads. I was lost now, and I knew it. Doubtless the boy knew as well. If he left me, I could wander here all day and night before I found my way out. I glanced down a covered side street and caught sight of a pile of filthy rags and a dirt-smeared face. Too sick or weak to speak, the person lifted a gaunt hand to us as we passed. I reached into my pocket for a coin, but the boy dashed on ahead. Afraid of losing my guide, I gave up on the coin and sped after him.
As we made our way farther into the Old City, my own foolishness became more and more apparent to me. I was entirely at the mercy of the child, and for all I knew, he meant to rob me, or worse. No doubt there was a much nastier surprise than the little thief waiting at the end of our journey. I’d left the Beretta in my locker at the hotel, thinking it the safest place for it, but I was beginning to wish I had it with me.
We turned down another alleyway, and the boy stopped abruptly, the sound of his plastic sandals on the cobbles falling silent. “Thirty dirhams,” he said, holding out his hand.
Catching my breath, I took a good look at my surroundings. The houses that faced the street were windowless, their facades stark except for their heavy wooden doors. There was not another person in sight.
“There,” the boy insisted, pointing toward the mouth of an even narrower alley. “My money now.”
I shook my head. “You bring me to the boy first.”
My guide sighed, exasperated. He crept forward to the mouth of the alley, and I trailed close behind. “There,” he said, pointing.
I followed his finger down along the canyonlike passageway. At the end of the little street was a knot of small bodies. “The boy,” he said.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the promised payment. “There’s ten more if you take me back.”
Not a chance in hell, I thought, watching him smile and nod.
He reached out and snatched the money. Then, quick as a cat, he turned and darted away, disappearing around a corner.
Leaning my back up against the cool plaster, I peered down the alley toward the group of children. They were playing a game, craps, or some version of it. I could hear the rattle of dice bouncing off the cobbles. There were six children in all, all boys, all close to the same age, poised between childhood and adolescence. And all, I reminded myself, with an intimate knowledge of this labyrinth.
But despite our uneven levels of expertise, and the advantage given them by their youth, I had a few things going for me. From where I stood, the alley the boys were playing in appeared to have no outlets: they’d have to come right by me on their way out. And there was the simple matter of size as welclass="underline" I far outweighed even the largest member of the group. Picking my little thief from the crowd, I made a rough plan of action, took a deep breath, and started forward.
Engrossed as they were in their game, the boys didn’t notice me at first. I was just a few meters away when the first of the group looked in my direction, regarding me with some confusion. I smiled broadly, turning on the charm, but he wasn’t having any of it. Nudging the boy next to him, he said something in Berber, and all heads turned my way. The pickpocket peered up at me, recognition clicking in.
He yelled, and the boys scattered, rushing past me like cockroaches trying to escape the sudden glare of light.
Keeping my eyes on the pickpocket, I stood my ground. As narrow as the alley was, I could almost touch the walls on either side. The boy came forward, ducking and lunging to avoid my grasp. I reached out and locked my hand on his wrist.
He cried out for help, but his friends were already gone. Working to free himself, he kicked me hard in the shins, then sank his teeth into my arm.
Wincing against the pain, I yanked my arm away and shifted my grip so that I had both of his wrists behind his back. “I’ll call for the police,” I warned.
A shadow passed across his face, the unmistakable look of sheer terror. He stopped struggling and glared up at me.
“My pack,” I said. “Who asked you to take it?”
He shook his head vehemently. “No one.” I could tell the way I held his arms was hurting him, but he wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of showing it. “I take for me,” he insisted.
As good a thief as he was, he was an equally poor liar. “I won’t hurt you,” I said, loosening my grip just slightly. “But I know someone paid you to steal it. Who was it?”