Chapter 15 - Welcome to Morocco (and Islam), 1968.

Ali wakes beside his sleeping wife and smiles as he finds that his palm is placed flat upon her pregnant belly. It's still dark but he guesses that morning isn't far away. His smile broadens out into a grin as he recalls the love-making of the night before. They exceeded the limits of their previous intimacy and perhaps finally abandoned their separate boats to leap into the awaiting vessel of their future. He had felt as upright and rooted as an oak, spine straight and firm as his penis as she rode upon him: Her hands and heels clasping around him in desperate, scratching, clawing desire, screaming with such ferocity that if they'd had any neighbours they'd have come running to break up the domestic violence.

She writhed and twisted in his lap, fingertips and tongue exploring and laying territorial claim to every possible avenue and orifice, demanding all the pleasure possible. The withholding of his satisfaction under the imploring pressure of her every kiss and caress held like a fuse, symbolic of all the potential they held together.

He remembers nothing more than that but thinks they may have actually fallen asleep in physical union, snug with their sticky bond. Recalling this, Ali gently separates his neck from his wife's flaying hair and slips out of the sheet of the floor mattress. He steps into the sandals waiting for him on the carpet and lifts up the flap of the canvas to walk through to the outer area of the tent. Ali had never conceived that tent living could be anything other than cramped and claustrophobic. He now appreciates how wrong he was. Their current abode stretches some six meters to the sides and three at the highest point. There are flaps and hooks and folds and seams of which he could never have imagined. The structure of their living quarters is limited only by their imaginations and every time he returns from his Friday prayers he discovers that his wife has rearranged the whole affair so that he gets lost in his own home whilst looking for the kitchen.

This morning, however, he finds his way and carries outside a large clay vase containing cool water for his morning ablutions. He steps outside and is compelled to freeze in spell-bound wonder as the beauty of the new day blows him away yet again. The breezes of the night have brushed clean the evidence of the previous day and have layered the sloping dunes of sand in pristine perfection right up to the edge of his tent where he stands. The whole of Creation is surely only about fifteen seconds old.

The grains of sand are a russet yellow and, as the sun peeks over the Eastern horizon behind him, they are silently preparing to assume the blinding brightness and heat of the day that will require everyone to wear sandals. The sand swoops down without footprints or spoor to a cliff edge that looks down twenty meters onto a gang of rocks in quiet conference with the lapping Atlantic.

With everything to be thankful for, Ali splashes water onto his face, ears and hands and rolls out his prayer mat to face the sun, kneeling down East in the direction of Mecca. He still slips up on some of the Arabic but knows that only the intention is of significance. Having re-established his position before the Eternal, Ali turns and strolls down to the cliff to listen to the sea. He is still overwhelmed as to how everything has fallen into their hands these past months. He could wish for nothing more than what they already have and has no worries for the future except that they might drown in the ceaseless blessing of their simple life.

From the very first moment of arrival at the Tangiers Gate everything unfolded without a flaw. In the mass of bright desert-inspired colours and raucous street sound, Ali instantly knew that he was part of this pace. The thread of the present had simply reunited with a deeper part of himself that had always resided here. He had shared history with every stone and had to restrain himself from kissing every face he saw as long-lost family.

He and Lucette were received for who they were and the sharks and hustlers didn't bother to assess their wealth and gullibility. Instead they were greeted by smiling Moroccans who seemed to have expected them. They were taken off at once to drink sweet mint tea and to be introduced. Their announced intention of study and a steady life in the country were taken entirely seriously and not for a moment were they simply considered to be tourists. Moreover, the people that they met took on board their circumstances as if they were their own.

Their every need was met without needing to be expressed. They were welcomed with open arms into a community that found it quite natural that this young couple from abroad might choose to adopt their way of life. And if they were accepted with ease then so too they slipped into the flow of tings with barely a ripple - Except for the astonished amusement when Ali would empty the host's sugar bowl when tea was served.

It was at the end of the second week that they were deemed to have settled enough to be introduced to the elders. Ali was ushered into the company of gaunt old men with still, lakeside eyes that appraised him for the potential he held within rather than upon his immediate appearance. If he was truly committed to this Way, it was suggested, then a symbolic rebirth would be appropriate: His long hair was a reaction to a society he had shed and so was no longer meaningful.

As to his questions about Sufism, it was explained that at least half of the people he had so far met belonged to one Sufi order or another. It should not be imagined that the esoteric teachings were something distant from the continuity of everyday life. He could never expect to be anything more than a dilettante writing postcards home as long as he stayed outside the ring - From the edge of things he could not expect to reach the heart.

"I am ready to engage myself in this." Ali had protested, "I've never been one to take half-doses of anything."

"Then why not become a Muslim?" They asked as if all the previous talk had led up to this make or break question. Muffled laughter came from the back of the room as someone wondered if Ali needed to be circumcised.

In the midst of these warm, spontaneous people who laughed or wept without a moment's consideration for appearances, it had barely occurred to Ali that he stood separated from them by a matter of Belief. The atmosphere rose to an excited buzz as he blurted out:

"Well, what do I need to do to become a Muslim?" The broad forehead of his main interrogator relaxed a little and with a smile he made Ali utter the assertion:

'I testify that there is no God but Allah and that Muhammed is his true Messenger'. He repeated the words three times, getting quicker with each run through.

"Okay, what's next?" he asked.

"That's it!" They laughed, "Welcome to the brotherhood of Islam!"

That was it? There were no torches to be carried a thousand times around the city? No Cyclops to be slain with a stout toothpick? No, that was it.

As he was already circumcised (much to the disappointment of the crowd) there only remained for his head to be shaved and a new name to be taken. He didn't miss either of the old items for a moment: In the heat a bare head was the only way to go and a more archetypal name of American dumbness could not be found than Terence.

Ali was the name of the Prophet's nephew, he learnt and was a title of great strength of which he might be in need. It was written in the sayings of Muhammed that Ali could fell the thick date trees with but one stroke of his axe. It was he, more than anyone else of Mohammed's companions, who established the basis of the Sufi traditions, many orders tracing their lineage back to him.

He learnt how to pray, how to wash beforehand and everyday his new friends fell over themselves to tell him all the important stories from the Qur'an. For his part, he finds that this 1400 year old religion is utterly psychedelic, surpassing in richness any revelation he had ever previously experienced. The entrancing art that adorns the central mosques in spiralling symmetry is surely a living breath of the Divine and, though he now understands the call to prayer, he pays little attention to the words. He's wholly occupied with the sound alone - Centuries of tradition rasp from the minaret and he feels the wail of the Qur'an as the perfect bridge between humans and God. It can be nothing short of a miracle. For Ali, the sound remedies the pain of a lonely Existence that all peoples have striven to cure since the first humans became conscious.

Ali stands on no pedestal to judge each aspect of Islam as he encounters them. He is not writing a review for the Journal of Comparative Religion. He simply takes on each new tenet as though he were being dressed in robes for the forthcoming ball.

Three months have now passed since Ali and Lucette arrived in Morocco and he can remember each day with perfect clarity - Not least the moment when his loved one announced her pregnancy. He had gazed into her eyes and reached out for something to hold onto as his world suddenly doubled in size. The stakes had been well and truly raised and there would be no leaving the poker table in search of a bathroom with a large enough window to squeeze out of.

Their story at once thickened and grew to banish from their lives all fringe details as now every word and action seemed to be an integral part of the prologue to a classic forthcoming saga to upstage all previous dramas. Within their very personal world they defined one another, worshipping each other's vices as well as the virtues and things could not possibly have been better.

Ali became possessed of a nervous energy that left him hammering out erratic fingertip rhythms upon the tables of friend's houses. So wired he found himself that he spent many nights in Lucette's arms only pretending to sleep as she nurtured a growing life inside her. Finally, one night when he was sure that his beloved slept soundly, he slipped out to step into a full moonlight that revealed the sands in their shimmering, nocturnal attire.

He had left the sword behind in Europe on Lucette's hint that he'd outgrown it but now he discovered that the blade was quite superfluous. The movement of his limbs alone were pregnant with expression. He let each part of his body fling out in whichever direction his instincts suggested, a communication began between hands and knees and hips and feet that coordinated an aimless path under the desert moon, spinning and wheeling and jumping for nothing less than joy. The twists of his elbows and wrists left invisible spoors in the air and he then pivoted on the spot to hunt them. Ali learnt how to dance.

Since then Ali has spent most of the small hours of each night exploring the contours of motion outside his tent, remaining in bed only when Lucette had trouble sleeping and then they'd whisper worries and reassurances through their insomnia. They draw closer through these holy nights, discarding the props of word and thought that stand between them. The vivid space of the days are when they try to materialize their intimacy but it's an art that still eludes them.

If possible, Lucette has begun to take life even more seriously and a small nagging part of her wonders if Ali will be able to meet the challenges of Fatherhood. His loving intentions she does not doubt for a moment but there are certain other practicalities of which he does not seem duly concerned...At any rate she doesn't suffer from lack of attention and spends most of each afternoon entertaining the local women who come to chat and give advice on her diet. No one comes without a small present of kitchenware or herbs or baby clothes and it's clear that the whole community shares their joy.

Lucette understands the nature of these people from the similar closeness of the Burmese during her childhood there, but for Ali it's nothing short of a revelation how anyone's business is everyone's business and only for compassionate ends. He discovered this when he went for the first time for the Friday prayers at the central mosque. As he joined the shuffling crowd making its way through the arched entrance the attendant on duty espied Ali's white face amidst the dark-skinned majority and came rushing out of his office, arms waving in frantic protest that an infidel should not despoil the holy occasion. Not for a moment did he entertain Ali's assertions that he was in fact a Muslim. There was nothing for Ali to do except return home in peace.

He could have returned with an official document that certified him as a member of the Faith but to do so would have offended Ali's taste in the spirit with which he took Islam - He was not about to be bicker over bureaucracy at the entrance to the House of God. In any case, the same afternoon, a delegation of three Moroccans, whom he'd never before met, walked the distance to his tent a mile outside town and expressly invited him to return the following Friday.

The next pray-day Ali obediently made his way to the grand mosque and followed the queue to the ornate entrance once more. Once again the attendant came dashing furiously out, his moustache curling with pique. But before the same ignominious scene could be repeated, Ali felt strong hands gripping him at his sides and before he could say anything he was hoisted up onto the shoulders of the men who had invited him. To the impotent horror of the clerk, Ali was borne in to pray like an emperor and when he was put back down his face was wet with emotion.

These memories bring tears to Ali's eyes even now as he dangles his legs over the cliff and wonders why he feels absolutely no urge to fish the teeming waters below him. Familiar fingers fall upon the nape of his neck and Lucette sits down beside him.

"Maybe if you ate more you'd sleep longer." She suggests with her usual subtle humour.

"I don't like chewing." Ali confesses and they sit quietly for a few minutes, arms around each other's waists.

"You know, Ali, I don't have any imminent inheritances on the horizon."

"Uh-huh."

"And our credit is becoming a little dubious at the shops.

"Ah."

"And so?" Her tone is not about to go away.

"I'll sort something out." He promises with not a little foreboding.

"Please do." She stands up by pushing down upon his shoulders and walks slowly back to the tent. Ali is left in no doubt that it's about time he pulled the weight that he's taken on. Of course he'd rather just pull the money out of his pocket without further thought but now his fingers just find bare linen and the odd cigarette. He decides to ask Ahmed.