Fes is a city in Morocco that the French quickly added to the UNESCO World Heritage list. Yes, the medina of the old cities in Morocco is unique. It features houses turned inside out, with windows facing inward and blank walls on the outside, narrow and extremely narrow streets, some covered by passages between buildings or extensions supported by lower structures, and others equipped with braces to prevent them from collapsing. You could easily get lost in Fes—there are three thousand streets, alleys, and dead ends to navigate. However, if you’re familiar with the theory of navigating mazes, getting lost is only worth it for the challenge of finding your way out, while brushing off various helpers who think they know what you’re looking for. Fes is situated on a hillside, so you always know where you’re going, even without seeing the sun in the sky.
Unfortunately, several “central” streets of Fez have turned into a market. The market sells all sorts of junk in the literal sense. It’s like a large, sprawling “Andreevsky Descent,” but ten times narrower, more hectic, and louder. If you’re looking for handmade products in the most direct (and poor) sense of the word, you need to go to Fez. Even the leather goods that Fez is famous for are made so poorly that you feel sorry for the cows and sheep that died for jackets and bags that look so bad you wouldn’t want to try them on. It’s even more pitiful for the people who work this leather by hand and foot in conditions that are hard to call acceptable, which have become a separate object of shock tourism.
Fez has many handmade items adorned with ornaments and patterns. Yes, they are asymmetrical, yes, they are unnecessary in the modern world, yes, they are beautiful, but… come on. Even a handmade lampshade made of brass with cut-out patterns is not suited for the modern world, as it simply doesn’t allow light to pass through without loss, illuminating the room in a way that makes it hard to see anything. The colorful and harsh shadows from the patterns are just a distraction. In Fez, workers still carve patterns into fresh plaster or paint doors and windows with designs. The lives of these people are wasted on creating patterns.
But even on the market streets, you can find surprises. You can peek through half-open doors of houses, discover abandoned places, climb onto flat roofs, jump from one roof to another, and descend in a different spot, puzzling either the residents or the workers in the workshops nearby. You can search for and find side streets, exploring dead ends and shooing away cats, all while trying not to faint from the stench of their urine and feces. Yes, there are a lot of cats in Fez. Too many. Because once, Muhammad said that cats are good, while dogs are bad. Being a dog in an Islamic country is a very harsh curse. Besides cats, you can also encounter Jews in Fez.
Historically, there were many Jews in Morocco. The history of Jews in the Maghreb is fascinating, but the fact is that there are almost none left. Similarly, Morocco is home to a lot of fossils that are 350 million years old, which can easily be found on your own, just by the roadside. Why is it similar? Because Moroccans regard Jewish heritage in the same way they do fossils: as interesting things that appeal to tourists. And, indeed, traces of Jews in Morocco are as widespread as fossils, from the sides of the roads to antique shops.
As we strolled through the medina, we stumbled upon a door with a mezuzah. Before I could draw my family’s attention to this artifact, a dark-skinned man who looked like a short Spaniard, around 50 years old, with black mustache and thin metal-framed glasses appeared from behind the door and began to speak: “Oh! Welcome! This is a Jewish shop. There used to be a synagogue here, and now I am the owner of this store. My name is Cohen, Isaac Cohen.” Even though he spoke in French, I could clearly hear that accent, those specific stresses, and the uniquely pronounced vowels in his words and the intonations in his sentences. He talked a lot. In just 30 seconds, he managed to tell us not only his name but also that there were only 23 Jews left in Fez and that he was leaving for Jerusalem in two months because there was no more normal life here.
I don’t know why, but Nastya said, “Aha, there he is – another Jew!” Monsieur Cohen looked at me, became even more flustered, led me to the mezuzah, offered me to touch it, I touched it, kissed my fingers afterward, and he hugged me as if we were relatives, miraculously surviving after the Holocaust, started to cry, and offered me tea. It was very touching. He didn’t have time to answer any of my questions because he just kept talking. But it seemed he didn’t know what “Cohen” meant.
Of course, this whole performance had a purpose. First, he said he was glad to see us. Then he mentioned that he was even happier to see us again because, you know, there’s a mafia here, it’s all mafia. The mafia – the riads (guesthouses turned inside out for tourists), the mafia – the guides, the mafia – the travel agencies, and the mafia – something else (he was counting on his fingers). And these goyim demand 50% (he straightened his fingers back, showing the number 5) from sales. That’s it! I’m leaving for Jerusalem! I’m fed up with all this. I’ll tell you a secret, you’re not the mafia. You came on your own. I love you. That’s why I have very special prices for you. L’chaim! And he raised his cup of tea, inviting everyone to join in drinking the poured beverage. Nastya whispered to me:
– Roma, now it’s your turn to figure it out.
– Why did you say that I’m Jewish?
Reflecting on the “special prices,” we looked around and saw the usual dusty old junk of the Fez market, but with Judaica instead of Islamic items. Feeling sentimental, I picked up a brass case for a small mezuzah and hit the mark.
– This is a mezuzah! It’s silver! Look, when I rub it, my fingers get dark! It’s very ancient! A great souvenir! You know, lately these <bad word – untranslatable Sephardic folklore> tourists haven’t been buying anything. They just come, look, and leave. I’m so tired of them! But you – you are different. I could tell right away that you are not like the others.
– How much does it cost?
– For you – 500 dirhams (50 euros).
– Okay, thank you.
– This money will go to support the Jewish community!
– That’s wonderful, but I don’t need it. We don’t need anything at all, and we sincerely wish you good luck in your business!
“Wait, that’s not how business is done! You’re Jewish, so name your price!”
— But I’m not interested!
– Just name the price! You’re hurting my feelings! This is an insult! As a Jew, you shouldn’t treat me this way!
“I won’t name my price because it would offend you, and I really don’t want that. I’m sorry.”
The arguments went through a few more rounds, and then Monsieur Ken shut down. He stood by the entrance, crossed his arms over his chest, raised his chin in indignation, and said, “You are not a Jew! Jews don’t behave like this, I am offended, goodbye!”
“Great!” we thought, as we made our way out of that semi-basement, discussing how we prefer to buy from sellers who genuinely love their products, but don’t pressure us or put on a show. Maybe he’ll have better luck in Jerusalem. Although, the story about his departure doesn’t hold up to scrutiny. Where will he, with such a bipolar approach, put all his goods in these two months?
Some time later, the thought occurred to me that perhaps this merchant, by ushering us out, had shown wisdom and compassion, sacrificing his image so that we could avoid the awkward situation of leaving without making a purchase after having enjoyed free tea.