Morocco, Its People and Places

by Edmondo De Amicis

Opposite to me at table sat Mohammed Ducali. For the first time I was able to observe him attentively. He was a true type of the wealthy Moor—supple, elegant, and obsequious; I say wealthy, because he possessed, it was said, more than thirty houses at Tangiers, although at that time his affairs were supposed to be in some confusion. He might have been about forty years of age, was tall of stature, with regular features, fair, and bearded; he wore a small turban, twisted in a caic of the finest of the fabrics of Fez, which fell down over a purple embroidered caftan; he smiled to show his teeth, spoke Spanish in a feminine voice, and had the languid air of a young lover. In former days he had been a merchant; had been in Italy, in Spain, London, and Paris, and had returned to Morocco with some ideas of European customs. He drank wine, smoked cigarettes, wore stockings, read romances, and related his gallant adventures. The principal reason for his going to Fez was a debt owed him by the Government, which he hoped to get paid through the good offices of the ambassador. He had brought with him his own tent, servants, and mules. His glance gave one to understand that he would have brought his wives also had that been possible, but upon my hazarding a question in that direction he modestly dropped his eyes, and made no reply.

After dinner I satisfied a desire which I had nourished ever since leaving Tangiers, and went out to see the camp at night. I waited until every one had entered his tent, wrapped myself in a white mantle, and went out. The sky was studded with stars; the lights were all out, except the lantern that was attached to the flag-staff; a profound silence reigned throughout the camp. Very quietly, and avoiding a stumble over the tent-cords, I moved to the left, and had not made ten steps when an unexpected sound stopped me short. Some one appeared to be tuning a guitar, in a closed tent that I had never visited, and which stood about thirty paces outside of the circle of the camp. I approached and listened. The guitar accompanied a soft and very sweet voice singing an Arab ditty full of melancholy. Could there be a woman in this mysterious tent? It was closed on every side, so I lay down on my face and tried to peep underneath. Almost at the same moment a soft voice beside me said, “Quien es?” (Who is there?) “Allah protect me!” I thought, “there is a woman here.” I answered, aloud, “An inquisitive person,” with the most pathetic voice I could assume at the moment. A laugh responded, and a male voice said in Spanish, “Bravo! Come in and take a cup of tea!” It was the voice of Mohammed Ducali. He opened a little door, and I found myself within the tent, which was hung with some rich flowered stuff, ornamented with small arched windows, lighted by a Moorish lantern, and perfumed in a way to do honor to the fairest odalisque of the Sultan’s harem. And there, luxuriously stretched upon a Persian carpet, with his head on a rich cushion, lay a young Arab servant lad, of gentle and pensive aspect, with a guitar in his hands. In the middle of the tent there was a tea-service, and on one side smoked a perfume-burner. I explained to Ducali how I came to be so near his tent, took a cup of tea, listened to an air sung by the Arab musician, and taking my leave, resumed my wanderings. Avoiding another tent where more of Ducali’s servants were sleeping, I turned toward that of the ambassador.

Before the door lay Selam, stretched on his blue mantle, with his sabre by his side. “If I wake him, and he does not recognize me at once,” I thought, “it is all over with me! Let me be prudent.” I advanced on tip-toe, and peeped into the tent. It was divided in the middle by a rich curtain; on one side was the reception-room, with a table covered with a cloth, and writing materials, and a few gilded chairs. On the other side slept the ambassador and his friend, the ex-minister from Spain. I thought I would leave my card on the table, and advanced a step, when a low growl arrested me. It was Diana, the ambassador’s dog. Almost at the same moment the master’s voice called out, “Who’s that?”

“An assassin!” answered I.

He knew my voice, and called out, “Strike!” I explained the motive of my visit, at which he laughed, and giving me his hand in the darkness, wished me success in my undertaking. Coming out I stumbled over something which proved to be a tortoise, and as I struck a match to examine him, I discovered a monstrous toad sitting looking at me. For a moment I thought I would give up my enterprise, but curiosity overcoming disgust, I went on.

I reached the tent of the intendant. As I bent down to listen, a tall, white figure rose between me and the door, and said in sepulchral accents, “He sleeps.” I started back as at the apparition of a phantom, but recovered myself immediately. It was an Arab servant of Morteo’s, who had been with him for several years, and spoke a little Italian, and who, in spite of my white hood, had recognized me instantly. Like Selam, he had been stretched before the door of his master’s tent, with his sabre by his side. I wished him good-night, and went on my way.

In the next tent were the doctor and Solomon the dragoman. An acute odor of drugs pervaded the neighborhood, and there was a light inside. The doctor was seated at his table, reading; the dragoman was asleep, This physician, young, highly cultivated, and of very gentleman-like manners and appearance, had a very singular peculiarity. Born in Algeria of French parents, he had lived many years in Italy, and had married a Spanish wife. Not only did he speak the languages of the three countries with equal facility, but he partook of the characteristics of the three nations, loved all three countries alike, and was, in short, a sort of Latin three in one, who was equally at home in Rome, in Madrid, and in Paris. He was, besides, gifted with a most delicate and acute sense of the ridiculous; so that, without speaking, with one furtive glance, or slight movement of the lip, he could throw into relief the ridiculous side of a person or thing in a way to make one burst with laughter. At the sight of me, he guessed at once the reason of my presence, offered me a glass of wine, and raising his arm, whispered, “Success to your expedition!” “With the aid of Allah!” I rejoined, and left him to his reading.

Passing before the empty dinner-tent, I turned to the left, came out of the circle of the encampment, walked between two long rows of sleeping horses, and found myself among the tents of the escort. Listening, I could hear the breathing of the soldiers as they slept. Guns, sabres, saddles, shoulder-belts, poniards, were scattered about before the tents, together with the banner of Mahomet. I looked abroad, across the country; not a soul was visible. Only the two groups of cabins appeared like black and formless blots.

I turned back, passed between the American consul’s tent and that of his servants, both close-shut and silent, crossed a little space of ground where the kitchen had been planted, and stepping over a barricade of pots and saucepans, reached the little tent of the cook. With him were the two Arabs who served him as scullions. All was black within; I put in my head and called, “Gioanin!”

The poor fellow, afflicted by the non-success of an omelet, and perhaps worried by the neighborhood of his two “savages,” was not asleep. “Is that you?” he asked. “It is I.”