Hideous kinky - By Esther Freud Page 0,9

to do any tricks?’

‘Who?’ Bea said.

‘The doves, of course.’

They didn’t. It was the old man who did the tricks. He didn’t juggle or dance or swallow flaming swords, but somehow, by talking, mumbling, even praying, he held the crowd, grinning and transfixed, straining for his every word. The younger man seemed sometimes to be his loyal assistant and then, disappearing, would emerge on the side of the crowd, heckling and jibing from amongst them, and, just as tempers began to boil, would disclose himself, much to everyone’s delight, by leaping into the open and winking slyly all around. Bea, Khadija and I squatted close to the front, with the hard legs of men pressed against our backs.

After the young man had walked twice round the circle on his hands, and the old man had prayed to Allah on a pretend rug, the people seemed to know it was the end. They threw coins on to the carpet and drifted away. I saw my mother throw a coin, but she stayed standing where she was on the other side of the circle.

The Hadaoui’s assistant wandered about, stooping now and then to collect the money, which he placed in a leather pouch. He wore sandals and jeans that had once been white and a thin Moroccan shirt with tiny cotton buttons that ran halfway down the front. He had wavy black hair and was taller than Akari the Estate Agent and the other Moroccan men I knew. As the people dispersed, Khadija jumped up and ran on to the carpet where the old man still sat, quietly smoking. She took a red plastic flower from its pot and presented it to the man who was collecting coins. He looked at her for a moment. I held my breath. Then he smiled and bent down to accept it. Khadija ran about under my jealous stare, collecting flowers one by one and standing straight and still to present them, while the assistant, sharing her solemnity, accepted them with a ritual nod of his head. I hovered in my place, envying her bare feet as they padded over the carpet, until, unable to resist a moment longer, I slipped off my plastic sandals and skidded across to join her. The man smiled quizzically as I handed him my first flower. He looked over my head and I saw his eye meet my mother’s and so identify me as her child and a foreigner despite my caftan and dusty feet.

Khadija and I watched as the doves were collected one by one and replaced in their cardboard box. ‘We’ve got a pet,’ I said to her. ‘Not a dove. A hen.’ I pointed at the cooing boxes. ‘At home. Would you like to see?’

Khadija shook her head, but I could tell she didn’t understand. ‘Mum, Mum,’ I shouted as I ran towards her. ‘What’s Arabic for hen?’ But I stopped before I got there because she was deep in conversation with the magic man’s assistant. They were talking in a mixture of French and English and laughing. They turned to me as I ran up.

‘There you are,’ she said. ‘I saw you earlier on, helping Bilal.’

Bilal smiled at me. He had the most beautiful smile of all smiles and his dark eyes twinkled in a face smooth and without a trace of anything unfriendly. It was then that I noticed the necklace. It hung around his neck in a string of silver and gold beads.

‘Mum,’ I said, willing her to bend down so I could whisper in her ear, and when she finally did I pressed my face close to hers and said, ‘Is Bilal my Dad?’

She stood up and took my hand and patted it.

‘Goodbye,’ she said, a little abruptly, ‘maybe we’ll see you here tomorrow.’

‘Oh yes,’ Bilal answered. ‘Tomorrow. Inshallah. God willing.’ And he began to roll up the carpet.

The Hadaoui, Bilal and the white doves stayed in Marrakech for a week, attracting a large crowd every afternoon. Each day Khadija and I waited impatiently for the entertainment to end so we could take up our important role as official helpers to Bilal. The old man remained forever too full of mystery and magic to approach. I kept to the edges of the carpet and avoided meeting his eye.

‘When you’re old, will you turn into the Hadaoui?’ I asked Bilal on the afternoon of his last performance.

‘I am the Hadaoui. Now. You don’t believe me?’ he said in his funny broken English.

‘But you’re not magic,’