Even if I were more eloquent, even if my pen were more obedient, I would be incapable of describing the sensation when, after weeks of exhausting journeying, one’s eyes lashed by sandstorms, one’s mouth swollen with tepid salty water, one’s body burning, filthy, racked with a thousand aches, one finally sees the walls of Timbuktu. Indeed, after the desert, all cities are beautiful, all oases seem like the Garden of Eden. But nowhere else did life appear so agreeable to me as in Timbuktu.
We arrived there at sunset, welcomed by a troop of soldiers despatched by the ruler of the city. As it was too late for us to be received at the palace, we were escorted to the quarters which had been reserved for us, each according to his rank. My uncle was accommodated in a house near the mosque; I was given the use of a huge room there overlooking a lively square which gradually began to empty. That evening, after a bath and a light supper, I called Hiba, with Khali’s permission. It must have been ten o’clock at night. Sounds of tumult reached us from the street; a group of young people had gathered, playing music, singing and dancing on the square. I would soon get used to these strollers, who returned throughout my stay there. That night, I was so unaccustomed to the spectacle that I stood watching at the window without moving. Perhaps I was also filled with some trepidation at finding myself for the first time in a room with a woman who belonged to me.
She had made good the ravages of the road, and was as sweet, smiling and unveiled as she had been on the day she had been given to me. She came up to the window and began to watch the dancers like me, her shoulder pressing imperceptibly against my own. The night was cool, even chilly, but my face was burning.
‘Do you want me to dance like them?’
Without waiting for me to reply, she began to dance with her whole body, first slowly, then faster and faster, but without losing her gracefulness; her hands, her hair, her scarves flew around the room, carried by the breeze she created, her hips swaying to the rhythm of the negro music, her bare feet tracing arabesques on the floor. I drew away from the window to let the moonlight flood into the room.
It was only towards one o’clock in the morning, perhaps even later, that the street became silent once more. My dancer lay stretched out on the ground, exhausted and breathless. I pulled the curtain across the window, trying to find courage in the darkness.
Hiba. Even if the land of Africa had only offered me this gift, it would have earned my nostalgia for ever.
In the morning, as she lay asleep, my beloved had the same smile that I had imagined all night, and the same odour of ambergris. Bending over her smooth serene forehead, I covered her with silent tender promises. Noises came once more from the window, the gossiping of the market women, the crunching of straw, the ringing of copper, the cries of animals, and smells wafting on a light fresh wind which gently ruffled the curtain. I treasured everything, blessed everything, Heaven, the desert, the journey, Timbuktu, the lord of Ouarzazate, and even that painful sensation which was shooting discreetly through my body, the fruit of my first journey, eager and clumsy, into the unknown.
She opened her eyes, then closed them immediately, as if fearing to interrupt my reverie. I murmured:
‘We shall never part!’
She smiled doubtfully. I put my lips to hers, my hand slipping along her skin again to rekindle the memories of the night. But someone was already knocking on the door. I replied without opening it. It was a servant sent by my uncle to remind me that we were expected at the palace. I was to be present, in ceremonial dress, at the presentation of the letters of credence.
At the court of Timbuktu the ritual is exact and magnificent. When an ambassador obtains an interview with the master of the city, he must kneel before him, his face brushing against the ground, and then take some earth in his hand which he sprinkles over his head and shoulders. The subjects of the prince must do the same, but only on the first occasion on which they address him; in subsequent interviews the ceremonial becomes much simpler. The palace is not large, but of a very harmonious appearance; it was built nearly two centuries ago by an Andalusian architect known as Ishaq the Granadan.
Although he is the vassal of Askia Muhammad Touré, King of Gao, Mali and many other lands, the master of Timbuktu is an important individual, respected throughout the land of the Blacks. He has at his command three thousand cavalrymen and a vast number of footsoldiers, armed with bows and poisoned arrows. When he moves from one town to another, he rides on a camel, as do the people of his court, accompanied by horses led by the hand by attendants. If he encounters enemies and has to give battle, the prince and his soldiers jump on their horses, while the attendants hobble the camels. When the prince wins a victory, the entire population which has made war upon him is captured and sold, both adults and children. This is why, even in the more modest houses of the city, there are a large number of household slaves, male and female. Some masters use their female slaves to sell various products in the suqs. They can easily be recognized, for they are the only women in Timbuktu not to veil themselves. They control a good part of the retail trade, particularly foodstuffs and everything connected with that, which is a particularly lucrative activity as the inhabitants of the city eat well; cereals and stock can be found in abundance, and the consumption of milk and butter is extensive. The only rarity is salt, and rather than scattering it over food the inhabitants take pieces in their hands and lick them from time to time between mouthfuls.
Many of the citizens are rich, particularly the merchants, who are very numerous at Timbuktu. The prince treats them with respect even if they are not of the country; he has even given two of his daughters in marriage to two foreign merchants because of their wealth. All sorts of things are imported to Timbuktu, particularly European textiles which are sold far more dearly than at Fez. For commercial transactions minted money is not used, but little pieces of gold; smaller payments are made with cowries, shells from Persia or the Indies.
I passed my days wandering round the suqs, visiting the mosques, endeavouring to enter into conversation with anyone knowing a few words of Arabic, and sometimes in my room in the evenings noting down what I had observed, under the admiring gaze of Hiba. Our caravan should have stayed a week at Timbuktu, before making for Gao, the residence of Askia, on the last stage of our journey. But, most likely because of the exigencies of the journey, my uncle fell ill once more. The quartan fever seized him once more on the evening before we were due to depart. Once more I was at his bedside night and day, and I must say that more than once I lost hope that he would be cured. The lord of the city sent his own physician, a very old negro with a white beard around his face, who had read the works of the Orientals as well as those of the Andalusians. He prescribed a strict diet and prepared various concoctions of which I cannot say whether they were effective or simply harmless, since over a period of three weeks my uncle’s state of health exhibited neither permanent improvement nor fatal deterioration.
At the end of the month of Shawwal, although still extremely weak, Khali decided to return to Fez without delay; the summer heat was about to begin, which would prevent us from crossing the Sahara before the following year. When I tried to dissuade him, he explained that he could not stay away for two years on a mission which was supposed to have been accomplished in six months, that he had already spent all the money which he had been allotted as well as his own, and in any case, if the Most High had decided to call him unto Him, he would prefer to die among his own family than in a foreign land.