Morocco, Its People and Places

by Edmondo De Amicis

He was silent a moment, and then turning restlessly on his bed exclaimed, “Ah, che pais!” (Ah, what a country!)

“Courage!” I said; “think that in ten days we shall be before the walls of the great city of Fez.”

He muttered some confused words in which I could only distinguish the name of his native city in Italy, and, respecting his grief, I silently withdrew.

In the adjoining tent were the two sailors—Ranni, the commandant’s orderly, and Luigi, from the Dora, a Neapolitan, and such a kind, pleasant, handy young fellow, that in two days he had gained the good-will of all. They had a light, and were busy eating something. Lending an ear, I could hear some portions of their dialogue, which was very curious. Luigi inquired for whom were intended the crayon sketches which the two artists made in their albums. “Why, for the king, of course,” said Ranni. “What, without any color, like that?” demanded the other. “Oh no! when they get back to Italy, first they will color them, and then they will send them.” “Who knows how much the king will pay for them!” “Oh, a great deal, of course! Perhaps as much as a scudo (five francs) a leaf. Kings think nothing of money.”

Once more I left the circle of the encampment, and wandered for a minute or two among long rows of horses and mules, among which I recognized with emotion the white companion of my journey, apparently sunk in profound contemplation; and I next found myself before the tent of M. Vincent, a Frenchman residing at Tangiers, one of those mysterious personages who have been all over the world, speak all tongues, and understand all trades—cook, merchant, hunter, interpreter, reader of ancient inscriptions,—and who, having, with his own tent and horse, attached himself to the Italian Embassy in the capacity of high director of the kitchen, was now going to Fez to sell to the Government French uniforms bought in Algeria.

I looked in at him through a crack. He was seated on a box, in a meditative attitude, with a great pipe in his mouth, by the light of a small candle stuck in a bottle. But what a strange figure! He reminded me of those old alchemists in the Dutch pictures, musing in their studies, their faces illuminated by the fire of an alembic. Meagre, bent, and bony, he looked as if every episode of his life had been written in the wrinkles of his visage and in the angles of his form. Who knows what he was thinking about? What memories of adventurous journeys, strange meetings, mad undertakings, and odd personages were mingling in his head? Perhaps, after all, he was only thinking of the price of a pair of Turco breeches, or about his scanty provision of tobacco. Just as I was going to speak he blew out his light with a puff, and vanished into the darkness like a magician.

A few paces further on were the tents of the commandant of the escort, that of his first officer, and that of the chief of the horsemen of Had-el-Garbia. I was in the act of looking into one of these when a light step came behind me, and a hand of steel closed upon my arm. I turned, and found myself face to face with the mulatto general. He withdrew his hand at once, and with a laugh, said, in a tone of apology, “Salamu alikum! salimu alikum!” (Peace be with you!) He had taken me for a thief. We shook hands in token of amity, and I went on.

In a few moments I saw before me what appeared to be a hooded figure seated on the ground with musket in hand, and concluded that this must be a sentinel. About fifty paces further on, there was another, and then a third; a chain of them all around the encampment. I learned later that this vigilance was from no fear of violence, but simply to guard the tents from thieves, who abound there, and are extremely clever at their trade, having much practice among the tribes who live in tents. Fortunately the frankness of my movements aroused no suspicion, and I was allowed to finish my excursion.

I passed by Malek and Saladin, the envoy’s two fiery steeds, stumbled over another tortoise, and stopped before the tent of the footmen. They were lying on a little straw, one upon the top of the other, and sleeping so profoundly that they seemed like a heap of corpses. The boy with the great black eyes lay with half his body outside of the tent, and I narrowly missed stepping on his face. I felt so sorry for him that, wishing to give him a little comfort in the morning when he should wake, I placed a piece of money in his hand that lay open on the grass, palm upward, as if begging charity from the spirits of the night.

A murmur of merry voices drew me away to a neighboring tent, where were the soldiers and servants of the Embassy; they appeared to be eating and drinking. I perceived the odor of kif, and recognized the voices of Selam the Second, Abd-el-Rhaman, and others; it was an Arab orgie in full swing. The poor fellows had well earned a little diversion after the fatigues of the day, and I passed on without disturbing their merriment by my presence. In a few moments I reached the artists’ tent, which completed the circle of the encampment, and my nocturnal excursion was over.