The streets of the Medina were busy as usual, and Cai moved slowly through the throngs of people with practiced ease. This was her playing field. Average height and dressed in muted beige local attire, her face partially covered with a scarf, she was all but invisible. Local customs were second nature to her, particularly in Morocco, where she has spent so much time. It was Nadia’s hometown, after all, and they had spent many holidays from Northwestern here.

It was still morning, and the sun was creeping into the cloudless sky. May was a beautiful time of year in this part of the world. Warm and dry, without being oppressive. It would not be too long before summer came, however, and turned the land into a parched hellscape. As much as she loved the desert, he had to admit that she longed for the humidity of the jungles and rainforests of the world. The Congo, Southeast Asia, and Brazil. Those were some of her favorites.

But today she was in Marrakech, and she had a job to do. With focus and intent, Cai turned down a narrow alley and continued past the souks hawking rugs, pottery, and tourist trinkets. She shook her head at what some foreigners would believe were real artifacts or artwork. It didn’t take an expert to notice the exact same “Taureg” rugs or carved tent posts showing up in shops several blocks from each other. She knew they were cheap knockoffs made by slave labor in China or Bangladesh and shipped by the containerful.

She took another turn, and then another, and finally arrived at her destination. A small, hand-carved sign with faded and chipped paint hung crookedly above the doorway, reading simply “Tiɣawsiwin”, or “oddities” in the Berber Tamazight dialect. The usual woven prayer mats and travel bags hung around the door, and the sweet smell of incense and tobacco wafted from inside. Cai ducked her head and entered the small shop.

Inside the single-room shop, her eyes adjusted to the low light, the scent of cedar and resin filling her nostrils. Woven tapestries hung from the ceiling, creating a labyrinth of color and shadow. Ceramic masks peered down at her from crooked shelves, and jewelry, small carvings, and a few watercolor paintings were scattered haphazardly about. These were the genuine articles, she knew. All crafted by actual regional artisans, collected by the shopkeeper himself, and nothing looted or stolen. The prices reflected that, which was probably why the shop was usually empty. Real art - and real artifacts - were not cheap.

Cai wandered the small space examining some of the kaftans and takchitas on display, ranging from plain and utilitarian to elaborately embroidered and ceremonial. Maybe another time, she thought. She approached the counter and rang the small silver bell. A small man appeared from the back, popping out from between the curtains. He smiled widely when he saw Cai, his weathered brown face creasing around his eyes and mouth. He gave her a slight inclination of his head and spoke in English.

“You are not here for rugs.” It wasn’t a question.

Cai lowered her scarf and offered a respectful nod in return. “As-salamu alaykum. I am looking for information. A rare piece that you may have had at one time.”

The elderly man spread his hands and looked at her with feigned innocence. “I am sure I don’t know what you mean.” He brought his palms together and bowed his head. “I am a simple merchant.”

“Assafu Aït Taleb,” replied Cai. “Son of Omar, son of Moulay Ibrahim Aït Taleb.”

He leveled his gaze, all pretense gone. “Ah. So you’ve come not just for stories, but for ghosts.” Slowly, whether due to age or theatrics, he moved to a low wooden stool beside a shelf of dented tin lanterns. With a sigh, he sat and motioned at a second seat. “Please. Sit.” He fixed his gaze on her once again as she lowered herself onto the cushioned chair.

He sighed again. “You know, if you are going to name my family, and my father in particular, you could have at least brought wine. He always preferred to be remembered over something from the Rif. But you have the eyes of a student. A terribly dangerous breed.”

Cai nodded. “He was a remarkable man, your father. Educated in Cairo. Rome. Respected in Tangier, feared in Tunis. He smuggled knowledge while the rest of the world tried to smuggle power.”

Assafu raised his eyebrows and then laughed loudly. “You think flattery - or is that insult? - is currency I accept in my shop? Child, I have bartered with British diplomats, French spies, and even once a rather confused German who thought I was trying to buy his wife with a pack of camels. You’ll need far better coin.”

“I have something rarer. Truth.” Cai produced a folded document from inside her robe and laid it on the counter.

The man scoffed. “Truth? If I wanted ‘truth,’ I would have signed up for Professor Tyree’s philosophy class in University.” But he leaned in to examine the paper. Slowly, he raised one eyebrow. “So the archivists finally opened their precious drawers. Will wonders never cease? Is this genuine?”

Cai nodded. “I uncovered it myself in the archives at the National Museum, and have been following every piece of information and clue I could find. I assume you know what it is I am looking for. And I know that the last place it was seen was in Marrakech. And may very well have passed through your grandfather’s hands.”

Assafu chuckled. “‘May have,’ she says. Like a viper ‘may have’ venom and deadly fangs.” He stood up slowly. The mood in the shop had grown tense, as if the very items themselves were holding their breath. He shuffled to a tall, ornately carved wooden cabinet and produced an iron key from his pocket. He fitted it into the keyhole and turned it with a click.

“My grandfather did not simply ‘pass things through his hands’, Miss…?”

“Williams. Cai Williams.”

“Ah. Miss Williams.” He squinted at her, searching, as though seeing her for the first time. Then he shook his head. “Nope. I don’t see it. Anyway.” He opened the cabinet, ancient hinges creaking with disuse, and drew out a massive, leather-bound tome. He dropped it unceremoniously on the counter next to her document. It was ancient and beautiful, decorated in painstakingly crafted Arabic and Tamazight script. Assafu opened the book and began to thumb through the yellowed and fading pages.

Cai peered around him. It was a ledger. The script inside was a collection of different handwriting, different colors of ink, and even different languages. English, Farsi, Chinese. One page even had what looked suspiciously like cuneiform. The old shopkeeper finally stopped on a page and ran a bony finger over the script. Then stopped, tapping on an entry.

“You are correct. Your item was here. But not for sale. Looks like my grandfather took it from a man who didn’t know what he had, and then… well, this is odd.”

Cai stood and leaned over the book. “What is it?”

“Well, in most uncharacteristic fashion, it would appear he gave it - not sold it - to someone else.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Allegedly to be put in a museum. But it never made it. Simply disappeared.”

“So they stole it.”

“So it would appear.”

“Any suggestion of where it might have gone?”

The man grinned at her. “That is a very good question. And questions, Miss Williams, are expensive.”

Cai rolled her eyes. “Of course. Now we get down to it. How much?”

“Oh, you can’t afford it, my dear, I assure you. At least, not with money.”

“Then what?”

His grin widened, and Cai felt her stomach tighten. “You want answers? You must earn them. The Aït Taleb way.”

“And what does that even mean?”

“With patience, cunning, and a very, very good pair of walking shoes. There is someone you must meet. South of the city. He knows what was lost. But he plays chess with goats and once traded his sandals for a book of riddles. You’ll like him.”

“Sounds delightful.”

“Not remotely. He’s an insufferable donkey. But he remembers everything. He should be able to help us.”

“Us? I don’t need your help…”

“Apparently, you do, my dear. My family is just as tied up in this as yours is, am I right?” He stared at her. He knew. She swallowed and nodded wordlessly.

“Then let’s get moving. He’ll only be there until sundown, and that is not a part of town we want to be found in after dark.”

Buy Me a Kaftan