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companions and then it was gone). A fortune-teller drowsed on one side of the gate, waiting for customers; on the other side, a blind storyteller sat in a patch of sun against the wall with a dozen children at his feet. The storyteller was too far away to hear, but still a voice seemed to murmur in my ears, in another language …
    Hebrew. In the square before the Water Gate … those who sit at the gate … at the threshing floor by the entrance to the Samarian gate … in the gateways of the city, Wisdom makes speech .
    I found myself smiling at this transferred image of city gates where, since time immemorial, the people of a town gathered, for news and flirtation, sanctuary and entertainment, food, drink, and the dispensation of justice, all under the close watch of the guard.
    And these guards were attentive, give them that. The soldiers eyed every person going in or out. Those with loads, on their heads or strapped to beasts, were examined more closely. A man with a donkey laden high with greenery from the fields—at least, I assumed there was a donkey beneath the green mountain, though all I could see were hooves and an ear—had to pull bits off before he was permitted to drive his beast onward. The only time the guards relented was when a weary and travel-stained family came to the gate: a pregnant woman, her mother, and a very old man, with three children, the oldest a boy of perhaps ten. The ancient man was balanced on a donkey that looked as old as he; the family’s worldly goods were carried in ragged bundles by even the youngest, a child no more than three. This group of travellers the guards treated gently, with a nod of respect for the ten-year-old head of the family, a pat on the head-scarf of the little girl. The family went by, their eyes locked into the faraway stare of those who have watched more than they could take in. Refugees?
    After a time, as I sat shelling and chewing and watching the crowds, I became aware of a nearby conversation in French. Four young men, Moroccans in European clothing, were drinking coffee outside a nearby café. Two of the three facing my direction bore on their foreheads the distinctive dark circle indicating regular prayer, but apart from that, their dress, their manufactured cigarettes, and their attitude of studied indolence declared them representatives of the local intellectual class. The hive drones, as it were. They did not care much for the French soldiers, although French writers, artists, and philosophers seemed to be acceptable. Short of joining them at their table, I could not overhear all they said, but I heard enough to suggest a degree of political turmoil, even anger, amongst the Fasi intelligentsia.
    The word reef (rif?) was used, the names Abd el-Krim and Lyautey, the Sherif and the Sultan: Lyautey was said with scorn (though lowered voices suggested a degree of authority there) and the Sultan with caution, while the Sherif and Abd el-Krim seemed equally divided between support and doubt.
    One of the quartet in particular was growing increasingly hot under the collar. It came to a head when one of the others said something I did not hear, and he slapped his glass down on the table and made a loud declaration in which the only clear word was Raisuni .
    The others instantly hushed him, glancing towards the gate. When they saw one of the soldiers looking their way, the four made haste to toss down some coins, and the little salon faded away into the city.
    Political intrigue amongst the Mediaeval stone-work.
    I finished my pistachios, and watched a trio of donkeys laden high with brightly coloured hides leave the city, as laden donkeys had been leaving cities for thousands of years. I studied the glimpse of land through the gate. There was no reason to believe that any French soldier cared a sou for my existence; on the other hand, walking through that carved archway might prove my final act as a free woman. Best to feel my way around the suq a while