Smith’s eating an apple, walking through our apartment. He offers a bite to me.
“Oh, no thank you. I’m so tired that I have no appetite. Probably from the huge couscous lunch we had.” I made couscous in the traditional way with the steamer Hamid’d brought us.
“I’ve decided that couscous is too repetitious,” says Smith. “I’m going to call it just *cous*, or *cous-two*.”
“You gotta lotta ideas.”
“Hmm.. I like the way your traditional Moroccan shoes go with your traditional Moroccan socks,” he says. I’m wearing my Moroccan camel shoes with some striped socks I found in Croatia, and it looks weird.
“Well, I’ve never seen a live camel, but I’ve worn one,” I say.
We go up on the roof. It’s a little before sunset. The roof is crowded with satellite dishes.
“The Portuguese won the satellite…”
“The satellite dish war?”
“Yes,” he continues. “There are fourteen, then there’re one, two…” He walks among the satellites, taking inventory. “Ten of them are Gold Vision Portuguese satellites. I think there’re three brand names on the remaining four.”
“I never knew Portuguese were big satellite makers.”
“Yes, this is my first introduction to their line.”
We peer over the northwest side of the roof. A large construction site runs along the north side of our building. They’re erecting yet another salmon-colored apartment building. Over the past week they laid concrete blocks and poured concrete for the second floor. Next to the new building, a yard houses most of the materials for the remaining floors. A man is inside the yard, hammering a fence.
“Hmmm… it looks like he’s boarding it up for the night,” I speculate. “There’s quite a large shed down there. Do you think that’s an office or do you think someone lives there?”
“I think it’s a guard shack. There’s a lot of material to steal here. Maybe the guards live there.”
I climb on an overhang off the north side of the roof. It looks a bit precarious. I don’t understand what function it serves, but it’s fun to climb on it.
“Hmmm. You’re gonna break it off, aren’t ya?” Smith joins me.
“Don’t think I haven’t had that worry. There’s so much to watch here.” I take some photos, trying to capture the complexity of the scene in an understandable way. Smith crawls off the ledge. I pause to figure out how I’m going to get down. He stands in front of me, opens his arms. I hug him.
“Here… RRRRRRR… Your own personal elevator service.” He sets me on my feet, and I hold myself close to him for a long tender bearded kiss. It moves something warm inside me.
We start downstairs, but I see movement in the palmerie on the southwest side. A dark figure trails the uneven ground between the cocked palms. It’s reduced to the simplest human form by virtue of distance and dusk.
“Someone’s walking in the palmerie! First time I’ve seen that.”
I want to walk there. Examining the city from the roof makes it seem so accessible. I’m excited about our plans tomorrow. We’re going to go into the heart of the Medina without our guide.
Smith sits near the roof door, waiting for me. I watch a small bird fly in behind his shoulder, and then it gets larger, and larger, and before I have the chance to film it, it flies over our heads. It’s HUGE, and exotic.
“Big bird, BIG bird, Ohhh! Is that a stork?”
“Looks more like an egret or an ibis to me,” says Smith. “It’s a HUGE bird. And look past the medina. What I thought were clouds are mountains!”
“Oh my!”
“Yes, those are mountains. You can see the tops. Where it goes up and down I see snow.”
“You’re right… the mountains are greater than Koutoubia!” We noticed that none of the buildings in Marrakech are taller than six stories. The central Koutoubia mosque is thus viewable from everywhere in the city.
“We’re actually here at sunset,” I wist.
“Yeah. I’ve been wondering.”
The red sun slips into half sun, like it’s melting into a steel colored cloud, then we look away, and then it’s gone.
I hear a volley of different siren sounds. Children play on the streets. Their voices echo up to the roof. We go over the east side to watch them play in the fountain area in front of our building. On either side of the fountain, huge square planters. There’re no plants in the planters, and the fountain is mostly dry.
Two young boys run twenty feet through the middle of one planter. They aim to get enough speed to jump from it to the next planter, about six feet. But they lose courage and momentum before the end, and they can’t make it across.
One looks up. I wave. He looks away. He looks back up. I wave and smile. He smiles and then makes another attempt.
“He jumped from there over to the bench…” says Smith. “I’m glad I’m not a parent. I had stitches every summer.”
“Oh, soft little bones. Boys who think they can fly,” I say.
We return to our apartment. Smith lays his head on my lap. I pet his fuzzy new hair growth. He shaves his head once a week, and the stubble feels good against my fingers.
We still hear the boys outside. They’re singing now.
“Boy, the kids sure are active tonight.”
“Oh yes. At least they’re happy. I haven’t heard a harsh word.”
“It’s a community here. It’s healthy.”
“Yes, tribal,” he says. I remember one medina walk with Hamid. He tried to teach me the pronunciation of Arabic numbers one to ten. A ten year old joined us. Hamid and the boy sang a song about numbers as we walked along. I tried to repeat after them.
“So what are you thinking?” I ask Smith.
“Oh, nothing. I’m just paying attention to the head petting. My brainpan is empty.”