William worked twelve- to fourteen-hour days, six days a week, all of which left me on my own a lot. On one of his rare off days we ventured into one of the world's largest souks, the Djemaa el-Fna. To learn precisely what this marketplace looks and sounds like, watch the aforementioned Hitchcock film The Man Who Knew Too Much, which features Jimmy Stewart and Doris Day. Shot in 1955, this movie captures exactly what the place feels like today.
Thousands of people, mostly men, wander among circuslike entertainers dangling silver pots, smoking cigarettes, twirling cobras around their necks or playing with monkeys on leashes. Fire-eaters and storytellers trick and dazzle onlookers for cash. The large, dusty square is surrounded by narrow passageways of tented storefronts packed floor-to-ceiling with mirrors edged in orange camel bone and etched silver, hand-woven rugs, brass lamps, animals carved in teak, glazed pottery tagines and crimson or sky-blue bowls designed intricately as Russian nesting eggs.
Reams of silk dyed in pink, turquoise and chartreuse hung to dry above skinny walkways. William and I passed apothecaries, their walls lined with thousands of bottles. Mysterious potions, dried lizards, crushed wildflowers and herbs all promised easy digestion, an end to headaches and toothaches and, of course, the ever-popular elixirs of love. The scent of rosewater competed with tangy spices...cumin, mustard and allspice.
In woven baskets, vividly colored vegetables waited for purchase next to large white tin bowls overflowing with olives, olives and more olives in various shades of green, brown and burgundy...shiny and marinated, perfect for evening cocktails in a Moroccan sunset.
Because it was early December it seemed the right time to shop for unique and authentic Christmas gifts. William stood aside as I rattled off queries in French, then proceeded to negotiate like a hardass in the kasbah. William couldn't speak a lick of French, which made impressing him a cinch. The salesmen, on the other hand, barely disguised their smirks at my rudimentary French, but nonetheless carried on the bartering as if I were fluent.
Of course, I ended my haggling with a look of dismay followed by a sad shake of my head, finishing up with a shrug and walking away. After a few moments I was sure to be chased down. The seller would beg and holler and in the end I gave in, a little, in order for a fellow to save face. William and I ended up with trinkets for home.
I don't even know you, William remarked as we left the market, arms filled.
Sure you do.
No, I don't. Who was that back there negotiating like a rum-runner for a couple of bowls and that mirror....Where are we going to put that mirror, by the way?
Okay, you're right. That was another me. The French-speaking, world-traveling, ready-to-strike-a-bargain-any-time-anywhere me.
I was ready to pay and walk after his first quote, William said.
But this is the game...it's a game for them and a game for the shopper.
You don't think it's possibly insulting?
It's insulting if you don't play the game, sure.
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