"Thank you. Yes," said Chris. "And Sholamalekim, ah… thank you for saving me."

"Alhumdulillah," said the Berber (the praise is Allah's). "It is He who moved me, and you who came by."

"But I'm afraid, my friend, I cannot buy. I have no money."

"No problem, my friend. Who knows who gives what to whom? Besiege witch, you were sent. It is no accident that you are here."

The Berber clapped his hands. A boy hastened into the room, received instructions and left. "There are very few Hippies come now to Morocco with the death of grass," the Berber continued. "What brings you here?"

"The nirvanaleaf... I've come to see if I can help."

"What makes you think that you can help."

Chris hesitated. "I was here, up in the Rif, two years ago when the butterflies first appeared. And I'm interested."

The Berber nodded. "I am sorry there is only old rope left now to smoke in Maroc. When you pass this way again, inchallah (God willing)..."

"We needn't wait," said Chris, opening his fist to reveal the blim of Turkish delight that fate and Mohammed had placed in his hand. "The world is provident," he said.

"All is provident," the Berber corrected. The Berber's black silk turban extended to veil his head and face, leaving only his eyes. He stared at Chris. "Perhaps you will cut the hash with tobacco for the pipe," said the Berber. "Kif-kif kif."

In Arabic doubling up a sound gives one a new word. So "mish" means "cat", and "mish mish", apricot. "Kif" is a preparation of Nirvanaleaf, and actually means "good time", while "kif kif" means "same same". Kif kif kif: same as kif.

"Kif": a preparation of Nirvanaleaf. First the leaves are stripped, even to the smallest. Then the seeds are pinched out of the flowers. Now the flowers are taken from the twig. Only the flowers are used. The flowers are cut on a thin circular section of cedar. What seed is left is winnowed. The flowers are cut again with a fourth part of uncured tobacco. The tobacco is the salt of the kif, say the Magreb.

The Berber offered Chris a cedar board and a leaf of tobacco. "You carve?" he asked. Chris took out his knife. "Hmmm..." said the Berber. "Is the blade made from the bill of a bird?"

"Indeed, it is a beak," Chris replied.

"Then," said the Berber, "it is the beak of the Phoenix for it is recorded that the beak of the Phoenix is long. thin and hard, pierced like a flute with ninety nine apertures. Each of these holes sounds a particular note, and in each sound is a secret. Some say each notesounds one of the ninety nine named of the Beloved, and that all of the call is Allah. There is but one Phoenix," continued the Berber. "It lives high in the mountains at the edge of the world. But now you have its beak so it can be no more. Will you play for me this wonderful instrument?"

"No," said Chris.

"If one is too cautious," said the Berber, "the world may never touch one and one may never touch the world."

"Yes," said Chris, "but no."

"No matter," said the Berber disgruntled. "Cut the Turk," and Chris began to cut the Turkish hash and bacci together.

In a while, as he prepared the smoke, Chris looked up and enquired after the Berber’s name.

"I have many names. Here I am Syhed (footnote) and that you may call me. And I will call you Chris Pasha."

Chris Pasha finished preparing the smoke. "Did I tell him my name?" At the same time the tea arrived in an elegant squat silver pot on a bronze tray intaglioed with an intricate star motive. They smoked from a Moroccan pipe, or sebsi, with its long wooden stem and thimble-sized ceramic bowl. They sipped mint tea from nondescript tumblers: and relaxed.

"How do you find Moroccan tea?" Syhed the Berber asked.

"I like it very much. A lot of sugar in it though." Chris wagged a finger.

"Sugar is life energy of the Sun, yes no, processed through the green leaves," said Syhd.

"Aye," said Chris, "but refined and processed mechanically. It peaks the blood sugar level."

"Hmmm," Syid hummed ponderously. "Sweet sugar, the crystal sunshine… If one knows the secret one can free one's self from all these middle things, and live directly off the sun and other raw powers."

"Why cut corners?" crossed Chris.

"Eternity is for angels, young friend, not for men. If you wish, you need not sup sugar. But as for the empirical, and the judgement of the fruits, I have eaten sugar now a long, long time, and I feel quite fit."

Christopher pondered Syhed. His body seemed young, perhaps forty-five, but athletically lean. His eyes seemed old. "We cut corners," said Saad, "to make smooth the way. Power has its uses. There are those who can walk on water. Truly. There are those who can live on air. All things are possible with God."

"We know nothing of the ways..." said Chris

"You know nothing, maybe," said Sy.id. "I know some things. AUullah."

It was five or fifteen minutes, such spans being hard to judge, before the Berber spoke again. "Reality," he said." the existent, is deep and thin and fluid." Mischief twinkled in his black eyes. He reached out his hand, index finger touching the base of his empty glass. He drew his finger slowly up the outside of the glass, and as he did the glass filled of itself with yellow-green fluid. He lifted the glass and sipped half its contents. Then he offered the rest of it to Chris. Chris, dumbfounded, took the tumbler and tasted.

"But this isn't mint tea," Chris spluttered.

"No," laughed the Berber. "It is the tincture of Nirvana I have conjured. Drink."

Chris quaffed the glass and set it down. "Is that stuff real?" he asked. The Berber smiled. "Where did it come from?" Chris demanded.

"If we align ourselves with the will of the One then we can smooth the corners. All things are possible. It is as simple as riding a bicycle." He paused a moment. "My friend," he continued still staring at Christopher. "You have something for me." It was a statement.

For a moment Chris was stumped. "Oh," he said. "Of course, you mean the gypsy's crystal." Christopher reached into the bag and handed the red crystal ball to Syhed.

The Berber gazed into the crystal casually for a moment, as though reading the time. He nodded as at a simple confirmation, and placed it to one side. "Thank you my friend. Chokrane. Chokrane bazsef. And now I have a small present for you. Come."

They returned to the front of the premises, to the souk. The Berber hunted through the cornucopia of his shop, seizing upon a blue kaftan and some yellow babush. "Here. Put these on. We go now to the barber," said Sy.ed. "The bearded hippie who was chased in here must disappear. Then we will go to the hamam to bathe. And then, if God is willing to honour his humble servant, you will return here to my house to eat and sleep. Now put on this jelaba. Your cloak may be recognised in the souk." ("souk" means both the market (the Kasbah) itself and individual shops and stall within it.)

With the hood of his jelaba about his head Chris walked beside Sa.id the Berber to the Kasbah barber in the Tangier's night.



illustration by Sue Gibson